The latest and greatest (and only) catch up post

So, as many of you know that read this blog, there has been NOTHING to read for the past three months. What happened, you ask? You used to document and satire the shit out of goings on on the last trip, not only as a journal relief to yourself but also the people who care about you but don't know where you are half the time. It's an update, it's a outlet, it's a story, it's EASY. So why so many blank pages?

The real answer is, I sat down one day in mexico and read through some of the posts from long ago, some honest, some naive, some overly sanctimonious...and I really didn't feel like the same guy who wrote those. Wether it's hitting some sort of imaginary age frontier or working in a job that boasts cruel reality instead of frivolous freedom, the stuff I read from twenty three year old josh greatly differed from the stuff I wanted to write from his senior. However, just because the old posts were wordy and full of attempts to be clever, it's no excuse to bail out on a blog that may one day remind me of how naive twenty five year old josh is. So, with enough self absorbed excuses masking laziness, let's start the blog again!

It's been too long of a trip with too many stops to strum up any sort of detail, so i figured a recollect of the highlights would suffice.

MEXICO

Every day with Edgar! 

First and foremost, this Papa polar bear was my host, teacher, connection and cook for about two months, never saying boo about moving on or being a couch surfing nuisance. Without this guy my spanish would be 1/4 of what it is, I would be in the financial tubes for accommodation, I would have never got to know the real mexico or tasted some of the best food I've ever had. I mentioned Edgar in a post from Australia almost a year ago, saying how he lived in a van, made his was by odd jobs and didn't even have a visa to be there. The Edgar I met in Mexico still had the same business attitude and aptitude, but with the actual means to turn it into something amazing. The ability this guy has to connect, interact and make people function has no equal. He will honestly turn nothing into a 'fantastico' contract just by whipping out his iPad and smooth talking (in Spanish of course, which is pretty smooth to begin with).  I owe this guy a lot, and I hope I can repay the favour when he comes up to the snowy motherland.

4 Wheeling trip in San Louis Potosi & Tolantonga

I'm going to go out on a limb and assume these two places were in the same state, although you can take that with a whole shaker of salt. For the 4 wheeling trip, with the little spanish I could grasp, I realized we were going on a some sort of trip, although totally lacking the details (where, when, how, what, who etc) *As a side note, before i picked up a bit of spanish, this was pretty much everyday in mexico.*

As it turns out, about 20 dirt bikes, 4 wheelers and  Polaris' rallied in a gas station parking lot with the only the yours truly gringo walking around saying 'hola' and 'que paso' to the majority of these strangers. The plan was to take a two day trip into the jungle/desert/ravine, smashing through rivers, rocks, culverts, trees and anything else that stood in the path. The drive down, sitting shotgun in the Polaris, was more than thrilling but we were also the ones carrying most of the supplies, we were responsible for stopping for any breakdowns and as tough as they thought their mexican muchacho machines were, happened often. Left up to me in 35 degree heat with no water or cigarettes, I would have left the stalled bike in the bushes and walked away, but after 2 hours of deliberation and mexican elbow grease we had it running again. The last leg of the journey flew by in a flurry of jungle leaves and splashing water, which took us at these A-frame cabanas. The site alone was incredible and I have nothing but good things to say about, but the course of the night left a pretty bitter taste in my mouth (and it wasn't just the gallon of tequila). Over estimating my savvy with said tequila, I over indulged and ran though a thorn field into the shallow but raging river. Of course, this was all recollected to me the next day, as I had no memory of such

Beer, goggles, dune buggy. Listo.

foolishness and wept over my shredded legs. As we packed up to leave that morning, I realized that everything that was in my pockets for my impromptu swim had washed away, including a bank card and about 25$ in pesos. That really put a damper on my day, so I took the highway back, which turned out to be about half as safe as the jungle. At the end of the day though, minus some cash, wits, and debit card, I had seen a piece of Mexico that no tourist would ever get to go on, as well feeling like the baddest ass mofo in the state cruising around a river valley in a buggy with a pack of crazy Mexicanos.

Tolantongo

This one I couldn't spell then, or now, but happily agreed to hop on board. It was about a 6 hour drive from Irapuato, in the dead of night...which had us turning up early morning, sun shining, hot pools sparkling and incrediblyt tired. Of course nothing kicks off a sleepy day like a refreshing Michelada, which is basically a litre of beer with a splash of tomato juice and hot sauce, little salt on the rim, love and a squeeze of lime. Most of the first day was spent floating in these amazing turquoise pools falling asleep and waking up only long enough to have a swig of your Michelada, although there a good 2 hours of warding off the advances of a mid-30s woman who kept inexplicably floating towards me. When a pack of wild mexican children came running up to the pool with dirty diapers and runny noses shouting 'Mama, mama' she looks at me and says 'Those aren't my kids'. Well played mexican predator.
The rest of the trip was filled with making some great friends, jungle hikes, incredible mexican barbecue and, of course, significant amounts of cheap tequila and late night pool swims (which eventually led the Mexican version of Walker the Texas ranger to kick our gringo asses out). Big shout out to English Paul for the invite and Pitt Harper for setting it up!

Waterfall trip in San Cristobal

J-Team!

This little trip was a great one, mainly due to the new amigos I had made back in Oaxaca. Julija, Jessie and Josh (me, duh)...or J-team as we became known to ourselves and few others, rolled up to San Cristobal with that touristy twinkle in our eye. The city itself was a wonder, cheap, easily walkable and had some fantastic restaurants and little dive bars. We had a few options for packaged tours, ranging from canyons, jungles, lakes or waterfalls. We headed out for the waterfall option, which included the ride there and back, entrance to the falls and a few really pleasant lakes. The lakes were beautiful, but the real kicker was this water fall.

I'm writing this four months later so unfortunately I can't recall the name, but there was loads of water and it was falling, so we weren't disappointed. We agreed with our driver and tour group that we had two hours at the falls, at which time J-team broke off to go talk about whatever white people talk about. We hit the main viewing point after a forty minute ascend where we cooled down, drank a beer and considered wether a zipline over the falls was worth thirty bucks (it wasn't). On the way back down, one of the guys running the rest area said you can go even higher then the lookout if you veer left and climb a 90 degree footpath. How could we pass that up? So we doubled back and hit the VERY top another forty-five minutes later, where we got some excellent photo opportunities and had the whole place to ourselves. Now, if you're keeping up with the math, forty minutes up, plus another forty-five minutes higher, plus another forty minutes down goes a bit beyond the two hour mark. So, after a sweaty descend we fount out that our driver, allegedly in a bit of a huff, had left without us. In the jungle, in mexico, alone... score one J-team. Fortunately another tour group had just enough room to pile our tardy butts in, and we met up with our slightly displeased original group for lunch later on in the day. No harm, no foul, just another great day in Mexico!

GUATEMALA & HONDURAS

Five minutes into the volcano hike

Guatemala was an amazing country that I just didn't give enough time to! It's cheap, it's easy to get around and as dangerous as everyone says it is, everyone I talked to was more than pleased to help you out. The majority of my time was spent in San Pedro on Lago Atitlan, which is easily one of the most beautiful vistas I've ever had the pleasure to look on. The hostel room I was in led out to a deck lined with hammocks overlooking this incredible lake that was backdropped by mountains and volcanoes. Yes, it was as amazing as it sounds. The funny part of it was, straddled along side all this natural beauty is a thriving piss pot town full of drunk backpackers and cheap drugs. Win win right! Anyways, one of the aforementioned volcanos had the pleasure of kicking my ass as I climbed up it, but underneath the wheezing and sweat it was a definite highlight!

Hiking San Pedro Volcano

Hiking a volcano, somewhere and at sometime, had been on my trip-list before I even left. I didn't know what country, but I knew if I found myself in the volcano area, which is almost any of them down here, I had to strap on my hiking shoes and make it my bitch. Of course given cheap packs of cigarettes and barely an iota  of exercise in the past...year...two? the volcano did most of the bitch making. I met a very adventurous spirit named Anja on the boat ride to San Pedro town, so having a mutual interest in self torture both signed up for the hike. Now by most standards it wasn't an overly challenging climb, and the volcano was dormant so the risk of getting covered in lava was pretty minimal, but with full backpacks and the lungs of a 90 year old woman, it was still a mighty chore. After about 3 hours, inclusive of many winded breaks, we made it to the little graffiti covered cabana near the top. Covered in dust, lewd pictures and insects and spiders of all sizes...this would be our camp for the night. We ditched the bags and went the further twenty minutes to the summit for a breathtaking, awe-inspiring...wait for it!!..sky full of clouds. Not only could we not see the crater, nor lake,  nor surrounding town and or pretty much anything more than ten feet away was shrouded in a heavy cloud cover. Certainly not the triumphant finish we were expecting, but like any tough physical exertion, being done was sweet enough. We set up shop in the creepy little cabin, just as the sky opened up in a crack of thunder and lightning.

It pissed down rain all night and the uncomfortable and chilly sleep was pretty much constantly interrupted by fruit falling on the roof, massive booms of thunder and things scurrying around your head. There was leftover pizza for breakfast, but unfortunately whatever creatures we were sharing the abode with got to it first. We went to the summit again right before we started down, hoping for a better view than the day before, and weren't disappointed. The nights storm and clouds had settled off into a perfectly clear morning with a spectacular view of beautiful Lago Atitlan, the neighbouring volcanos and the tiny little ant-hill of a town we had come from. In a word, magnifico. The rest of the morning was a very thirsty and hungry descent back to town, where I checked into the lap of luxury, which was a rat free bed and running water. It's been about a month and a half since that hike, so i can confidently say I'm well rested for the next volcano trek, at which point I will have reached my strenuous activity quota for the year.

Tikal

Right off the bat, let me say I'm not much of a ruin person. I mean, at times I'm a wreck, but as for centuries old dust blocks in the middle of jungles, I'll take the beach and a margarita any day. However, there are certain sites in the world that you would be a complete fool to be near, and not have a visit. Angkor Wat was one of these back in cambodia, and if it had a rival in the Americas, Tikal would be it. Being one of the largest Mayan ruins known, it was politically and economically one of the most important sites out of all the Meso-American cities. It's situated right in the centre of other large and strategically placed Mayan cities, being sort of a 'economical hub' in the Mayan society. It approximately dates back to 200AD and had a steep population decline by 1000AD, probably because some badder ass mofos' conquered it, but no one's really sure. History lesson aside, it was a phenomenal hike through one of the most popular and culturally rich places going, a big part of the experience owed to our tour guide Rueben. He had all the answers, as well as adding a few perks that you wouldn't find on your own, including tarantulas, Mayan astronomy and the truth behind '2012, the end of the world'. (For the record, it's just the beginning of a new calendar according to the original Mayan estimates, kind of like tearing off the December page of your 2011 muscle car edition hanging on the fridge, so don't go selling all your shit or building a bomb shelter.)

I climbed the main temple with a Swiss guy who was biking through central America visiting all the ruins on his way. He informed me that some people just like coming to the most popular ruins and don't actually care about the history as long as they can snap a good photo. I feigned shock at this, of course being the exact human being he was describing. The whole hike took about three hours, but was luckily interspersed with tiny canteens where you could a get a wonderfully refreshing beer and stare at fat tourists fighting off heart attacks after climbing the stairs. Something like eighty percent of Tikal is yet to be excavated, so the rest of the tour was spent gazing at these small mounds that we're hiding hundreds of buried temples. Pretty cool. Reuben and I went to the 'Tikal Bar' outside the park to smash some very cold beers and talk about anything else but ruins, which we were both pretty tired of by then. Big thanks to Reuben and all the dead Mayans for a great day!


Utila

Although getting to this little Caribbean island was an absolute pain in the ass (roughly 35 hours from Guatemala on buses and boats) it was the ultimate-caribbean-laid-back-drug-induced-scuba factory that everyone had told me about. Getting off the ferry you're immediately accosted by dozens of island dwellers donning their 'Such and Such Diving Co.' singlets, touting the various benefits and bonuses of their shop. I ended up following one of these people to Parrots Diving, a fairly new but extremely popular outfit with a smattering of trans-national dive masters and bright eyed newbies. I hadn't dived in over a year, the last time being a quick fun dive in Australia

and the only opportunity before that had been my actual diving courses two years prior. Picking up on a customer with a dusty dive certificate, as well as a less than adequate memory of hand signals and equipment usage, I was sold on a 35$ 'tune-up course'. Major thumbs down on this one as it was a 30 minute lesson on basic skills that you could remember over breakfast by watching a 30 second youtube. It did however put me right back into diving mode, and the next day we went out for a few fun dives off some of the more popular reefs, although the north side of the island was apparently 'too cloudy' so we missed the always promised but rarely seen whale sharks. On these dives we did get to meet a nurse shark, turtle, seahorses, some kind of eel and an assortment of other tropical aquatic critters. Overall it was a fantastic couple days on the water, but if I'm ever again presented with the 'cheapest' and 'best' diving in x island or y coast, I will be passing. For upwards of a hundred dollars, once you've seen a reef and the various colourful fishies it's depths have to offer, they all start to look the same. If the whale sharks or manta rays were guaranteed, I'd be the first one on the boat, but diving has become too expensive and the sightings of such creatures too sporadic to be worth it for me. Next time I hope it won't be the 'best diving on the island', but 'the best diving on the continent'.

That being said the island itself had an incredible bundle of bars and restaurants on offer, giving way to more variety I had seen thus far. My first hour had me sitting in front of a massive plate of nachos and a mojito followed by a walk down the only main street on the island planning the inevitable pub crawl. It was a fantastic couple days of being submerged in the ocean and Salvador beers, meeting lots of different and interesting people and getting a great preview to the caribbean lifestyle that was coming up. Gracias Paradise Diver's and Mama's Restaurant for a delicious, fun and fiesta full week!

She's a tough ol life on the rigs by's

Trust me when I say, this will be the only time I delve deeply and nostalgically in the wonderful world of roughnecking, but it needs to be discussed and dis and cuss it I will (so F'ing lame josh!)

Last October, my dear friend Ethan and I set sail for the wild wild west just like so many goofie newfies before us seeking fame and fortune. We found neither obviously, as none have you have seen us in the paper, television or Forbes magazine...but like my ol' friend Donnie Dunphy would say, we had a time.

We lasted about two weeks in Edmonton, which turned out to be an alright city at the end of the day, and we thoroughly enjoyed the sights and sounds while putting a gratuitous amount of effort into job hunting (karaokeing and getting drunk in a hostel)

 Ethan, the clever and fully qualified salty old sea dog he is, managed to hammer down a job, or career as the big kids call it, at a engineering firm in Calgary. So with heavy hearts and huge sigh of relief to be out of each others' presence, Ethan went southerly and yours truly headed up to the bunked out waste that is northern Alberta for some good down home oil rigging.

Das Da Rig's By's

Two days of those circa 90's training videos and some congenial chit chat about things I didn't understand whatsoever, and I was off to Slave Lake, Alberta. You may have heard about it last year as the little town that mostly burned up by wildfires. It was very strange to drive through this place with the left hand side of the street gone up in flames and the other side untouched. But I digress.

They shack you up in a hotel for the duration of your employment, and my first experience checking in was 'Oh, tell him sorry, I know he didn't want a roommate'. Awesome, good start. So I crash down on the bed, throw a six pack in the bar fridge, and await my first meeting of my rigging-bros. 'You're on my side, get the fuck out!'. I make it sound angry, but it was all in good fun...we talk a bit about what's in store for my first stint in the patch, and then, of course, the party starts! It was some kids nineteenth birthday, so the whiskey was flowing and so too did the karaoke. In the back of my mind, as I'm just crushing a Billy Idol song, I think 'don't you have to work your first day in a job you know nothing about and have heard pretty terrible things about?'. Oh yes Josh, you do.

Que first day, 6:00 am, head pounding, nerves jumping, I climb into the truck and we head out. 

'Got any experience kid?'

'No I don't.'

'Fuck why do they keep sending us these guys?'

'Well he can sing karaoke'

'Ohhh so you were out getting liquored on your first day eh?'

I really wanted to puke at this point, but I held it back to avoid further admonishment.

Breakfast. Lunch. And Dinner.

When you get to the site, which takes anywhere from twenty minutes to hours, the crew piles into the 'doghouse' which isn't actually like Snoopy's little pad or anything, but a big industrial trailer where you get changed, eat, rip on whoever did something stupid that day (usually me) and everything else that isn't freezing your balls off outside. I gave my name and a little background information, after congratulating myself when they told me I 'didn't look as stupid as the rest of them', they all figured out I knew nothing about mechanics, lifting things, hunting, trucks or fishing. Aka fresh blood.

After a couple of hours of running around like a headless chicken, getting yelled at and made fun for just about everything, scrubbing oil and mud from every little crevice possible, I'm shaking my head asking what I've got myself into. Ah grasshopper, it was just the beginning.

I didn't hear my own name for about four months, throughout that time it progressed something like this.

'Where'd you work before this?'

'I was in australia working at the dockyard'

'Ya probably on a fucking gay cruise!'

'Hey gay cruise, make some more coffee!'

'Bruce get me a clevice!'

'What's a clevice!?'

'It's a shackle numbnuts!'

'What's a shackle?'

'Ahhh you fuckin' newfie!'

aka Fuckin' Bruce

I found out that Bruce was pretty much a regional term for a fairly dumb or sub-standard worker, and it pretty much stuck for the duration of my employment, which in a twisted way became kind of endearing!

After Bruce, I became 'maggot'.

'Climb up there you little maggot, you shouldn't even be allowed to do sweet jobs like this' (the sweet job was propping two wrenches against your sides in -30 degrees with no gloves on trying to pry these little fluorescent tags into a giant piece of cable...complicated I know, which is why it was such an honour)

'Maggot'

After maggot came Puddy, which was a misspell and as close as I would ever come to hearing Purdy, so naturally I was stoked!

We met a few rig pigs in Edmonton while staying at the hostel, and the general consensus was, even if you're hating it, give it three weeks and it will get better. In my case, exclusive or no, it lasted about three months. The tricks, insults and curses seemed limitless, even impressive at times but in all honestly it was probably the lowest point of happiness and self confidence in my life (not to be melodramatic or anything). There were a few days when I was a breath away from sprinting out of there as fast as I could and never looking back, but those pay checks that had started to fill my empty bank account kept my sorry ass there.

One of my favourite jobs came in November before we got the luxury of a heated bathroom. Of course on a crew of five guys in the middle of the woods, the outhouse piles up pretty quickly. At -15 it all turns into quite a little shit-berg too.

'Bruce, we need you to grab the steam wand and melt this shit pile down while this guys sucks it out'

Finally, I've found my higher calling.

It was actually kind of fun until the toilet paper plugged this guy's suction hose and the outhouse filled with a thick steam-shit cloud, sending us both reeling and gagging backwards. That was one of those days where I said..'Wasn't I in australia or something a few months ago?'

Top of the world

So, long story short, October to December was an absolute hell, as the temperatures dipped lower and lower, I seemed to be making no headway with these guys, hadn't had a day off in 70 days and lived in a one horse town in a two man room. Les Miserable to be sure. 

But a funny thing happened after Christmas holidays. I knew what things we're called. We had new workers, and although I was still the greenest and dumbest roughneck there, I had seniority. I went out with the guys, drinks, parties, friendships. What's happening I thought? And as more people quit, as they're wont to do in this awesome industry, I became somewhat of an asset instead of this east coast, dumb ass kid who didn't know what a pipe wrench was. In a twisted way, after all the grief and sweat and all around rough times, I started to appreciate these guys and at times even enjoy the work a little bit. It was weird.

Another fun story was breaking my finger. We we're finishing up for the day, always at the end instead of the beginning so you already worked, and these big ass things called tongs come swinging at me. Thinking the steel is more precious than my bones I put my hand out to try and slow them down, only to be rebuffed straight into a piece of piece pipe behind me, hand still trying to slow this 1 ton piece of crap down. It turns into a little ring finger sandwich, followed by a few choice curse words. It hurt quite a bit, obviously, but I thought it was just a bad little pinch...until it turned every shade of black and purple you can name (not many?). The best part about the whole ordeal was the dire concern I got for 2 months after!  Not from my coworkers, who eat broken bones for breakfast I guess, but from the office in edmonton, the nurse in calgary and everyone in-between. The worry, I suppose, is the whole liability factor on their part, although it healed up nicely, who's to say I won't come back and demand recompense when I can't find a wedding ring that will fit...come to think of it that's not a bad idea. They we're prepared to do plastic surgery and have me on compensation for four weeks, which would have been the remainder of my employment...and I turned it down. Why? We do silly things sometimes I guess. The last week there I got two black fingers to match...there goes my career as a hand model.

Should have amputated

But this is what I've taken away from oil rigging, other than a fat finger and a few bucks...no matter how big of a pile of crap a situation is, given time, most things turn around on themselves. Living up there with no friends, girls or much of a life F'ING SUCKED!!...true...but there are at least a dozen more hairs on my chest, I can probably do an oil change for you, can lift TWO full pales of diesel (more when I had my moustache) and have the confidence to approach almost anything full on, content in knowing it can only be so bad. The bar of shittiness has been set, and I hope to live under it for as long as possible, but like so many before me, would not turn my nose at a few more months on the rigs, if for nothing else than to come to Mexico for a new surfing blog picture.

DO YOU WANT TO WORK ON THE RIGS?! (why the hell?)

Here's a quick rundown of how it all works out there, for anyone who is interested...bare in mind I was on a service rig the whole time which is quite different from a drilling rig, I'll explain.

Geologists, using science or magic or both, determine where these underground pools or channels of oil should be. Seismic testers go out on ATV's setting off chunks of C4 to determine if they we're right and if it all looks good they level out a large chunk of land called the 'lease'. The drilling rig then comes in and drills constantly day and night, anywhere from a couple hundred meters to a few kilometres. Once they're done drilling they put in a 'casing' which is the steel tubing lining the hole so it won't cave in on itself, and then put the 'wellhead' on, which is just the like the cap on a pop bottle.

Pumpjack

The drilling rig peaces out, and that's when a service rig comes in. Service rigs do all the work that isn't drilling the hole. When the service rig get's to the wellhead, they're just dealing with a really deep cemented hole. Kinda useless eh? It's up to them to get the well producing oil and get it ready for a pumpjack (one of those up and down thingies you see in texan movies) or another means of extraction. They also abandon the well when it's out of oil (because you can't just bail on it...ya know, greenpeace and all that), repair wells that still have oil and aren't working and tons of other stuff! Excited? No...k whatever.

Service Rig Derrick (a la rainbow)

Service rigs don't use the casing left behind by the drilling rigs to work on the well, they have their own pipe. This is smaller pipe that they put down the hole...I say 'small', the ones we usually worked with we're 9ish meters long and weighed about 200lbs each. They are delivered on a big rack in bundles, so it's up to the lowman roughneck to hoist them onto his shoulder and slide them up a ramp to a place where the rig can latch onto it. Try it 150 times in a row....it's a hoot.

Single rigs can put one pipe down the hole at a time, doubles two pipes at a time (doubles are just higher than singles, thus allowing more clearance for more length). The pipe is connected to each other by 'tongs'  , but very unlike salad tongs, so don't even go there. The pipe is held in place while it goes down the hole by 'elevators', which is a just a big heavy ass latch that needs to be able to hold hundreds of tons, no biggie.

Tongs

Once all this pipe is in the hole, you have to clean out all the mud and water left by the drilling rig,  and you do this by swabbing. I was picturing a Q-tip when they first told me about it, but it's more like a cleverly shaped cup that goes down the pipe on the end of a cable, submerses itself in the excess fluid, and then keeps the fluid above it as it's pulled back up to ground level. It's actually kind of neat the whole process...until you change these cups out thirty or forty times a day.

How's this army arranged anyways?

Consultant - This dude, usually fatter than high hell and richer than god, calls all the shots on the lease, taking his orders from big wigs in calgary. He works for the oil company, not the rig.

Toolpush - This is the boss of the service rig, who makes what the consultant wants, happen. He tells the driller what needs to happen and figures out the best way to go about it.

Driller - This is the ground level boss, who listens to the tool push, tells the low guys what's to do, and works the controls of the rigs

Derrickman - This guy climbs all the way to the top of the derrick (which is VERY high) and puts the standing pipe into the elevators...you stand pipe vertically so you don't have to do that shitty picking up and down thing every time. The derrickman also works another piece of equipment called the 'pump truck' which is used to pump fluid up and down the well

Roughneck - My bread and butter. Basically everyone higher's up bitch, runs the tongs, listens to commands and makes coffee...this is where all the other guys started.

That's the gist of it, wether drilling or service rigs, I can personally say you don't need to know much to get out there and do it...it's all learn as you go, but fair warning, it's absolutely trial by fire...no one holds your hand along the way, and it can be really tough, mentally and physically. That being said there are loads of days when nothing is going on and you pretend to sweep, shoot the shit and eat sandwiches (my favourite). 

I'll miss you frigid temperatures, long hours, lacking social life, tough work and early mornings. Oh, and you pay checks, I'll miss you the most. Ciao.

A whole world of stories...

I'm writing this in the comfort of my parents home in New Brunswick. It's a little strange to be back here after so long, not because anything has changed, but because it hasn't. I could have very well left last weekend, like slipping on an old pair of sweat pants you find buried in the back of the closet. This is why we love home. The never shifting, stable, grounded territory where we can unwind, see loved faces and swat away mosquitoes.

This time last week I was rolling out of my dingy hostel bed and greeting the humid Malaysian day with an Indian curry followed by some mango slices. Right now, I'm drinking an Alpine as a hot summer breeze is turning into a rolling thunderstorm. Australia is 18,000 kilometers away, even though it still feels 'close as' in my head. Like most trips of this size, there were a few interesting anecdotes that occurred on the way home, which I'd like to share now.

Perth to Kuala Lumpur


I've realized a few things in my travels, and one is how to fly. Aside from typing in the wrong airport, which was my border-line retarded move last year, I feel I'm pretty good at finding cheap flights and pinching pennies when I take to the air. Perth, the most isolated major city in the world, is certainly not your airport of choice for leaving Oz, but frankly, what choice do you have? So, as I search and type and ponder aloud, I realize I can get to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia for about $300, which is a pretty major South East Asian airport, and from there can bounce my way back to Canada. The thing with cheap airlines, as my seat mates so readily pointed out, is this: Obviously the frills and bobbles are absent, but it also means that any Joe-Schmoe boards for a dime, and doesn't really give a hoot about who they piss off. These guys were, of course, sitting next to me!

For a brief moment there were about nine seats in my vicinity that were unoccupied, including the two beside me. I mentally high fived myself on my luck, until the last travelers boarded the plane in a cattle-like drove. In an airplane full of tiny Asians, it would make sense that I ended up wedged against the window by two obese Australians, revved up and liquor fueled from the airport bar. Now, normally I'm all for raucous behaviour, being a main instigator myself most times, but the timing was just a bit off this night. Grief stricken and mentally sapped from all the tough goodbyes leaving Oz, the last thing I wanted to do was make cordial conversation with these monkeys.

My silence didn't last long though, as they noticed my Canadian flag bookmark and started yelling 'Hey Canuck! How's Gretzky?' He's good mate, real good. Eventually I bowed under the pressure and started conversing with the guy beside me. His name was Andy and he was actually from Sheffield, England. He had moved to Australia 20 years ago as a bricklayer, but now worked in insurance, namely the claims process. One of his latest endeavours was to go to New Zealand and tell people how much they were entitled to after there house was shaken to dust by this years earthquake. Good times Andy.

All nine of them were going on a 'golf trip' in Vietnam, although they told me they only had a couple sets of clubs between them. Something was giving me a bit of deja vu at this point, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Then, as Andy and I talked about the merits of a strong currency in a place like Vietnam, as well as the the 'hospitality' of the local female population, it hit me. On my connecting flight last year, Alaska to Taiwan, I met four American guys doing the exact same thing, only going to Thailand. I can't remember the guy's name next to me, probably Buck or Hank or something, but he blatantly offered up that they were going, not so much for golf, but for whatever ulterior Thai hole in ones they could score, wink wink, nudge nudge.

After a little further chatting, yes indeed this is what my surrounding seat mates were going for, as places like Thailand had already been 'golfed' in previous years. Now your first instinct is to admonish these guys for their immorality, but as I looked around at this mid 50's group, red in the face from some late night drinking and smiling the whole way, I really couldn't pass any judgement. Other than grossing young people out, age really has no bearing on who or where you 'golf'`.

About half way through the flight, my seat mates were informed the plane was out of beer. Not wanting to crumple under tragedy, they ordered a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black, at god knows how much money. 'Hey Canuck, want some whisky?!'. Why not. At 36,000 feet, straight scotch does it's magic pretty quick. In a matter of minutes, we were laughing, sharing stories and having a grand time. This is, however, a red eye flight and the immediate seats in front weren't really enjoying the posterior socializing. After some polite requests to quiet down, met with rather pointed rebuttals from my golfing friends, this Chinese woman braces herself and yells 'Pees shut up! You shut up! You bully me cause I small, an you big, My chidwen sweeping!` followed by immediate applause from the rest of the plane.

Andy, in that somewhat comical English drawl goes `Luv, it`s boodget air-lyyyne, take a betta plane next time`. Somehow, my quiet and sombre plane ride had turned into a drunken Chinese face off. It only wound down when I noticed Andy`s eye glaze over and he stopped talking so much. In a word, pickled. Shortly after that, the announcement that we were preparing for descent, please buckle up, came on. Obviously Andy misinterpreted this, stood up, grabbed his carry on and started walking towards the front of the plane, ready to step off. Although I`m sure a few passengers would have been more than happy to see this happen, he had to be ushered back to his seat. `Thut we had lannend` he said grinning.

We finally touch down in Singapore, where we shakily stumbled off the plane and went through customs, surprisingly with no problems (other than a small child puking on the floor beside me...what a weakling, I thought to myself). I shook hands with my new friends, and Andy whispered `Jus rememba son, bein`a wanka is universal`. Too true.

Enjoy the golfing boys

                                                               

Kuala Lumpur


Let me say this, Kuala Lumpur is a very cool city. Although the actual tourist attractions are pretty minimal, it seems to have a metro-energy that constantly pulsates as you walk through it. Of course this could be said of many highly populated SE Asian cities, but KL has the added benefit of relative safety and a broad encompassing knowledge of the English language.

Not to mention this guy!

                                                                 

I was staying in a very discreet hostel that was recommended by a friend, and although a little quieter than what I'm used to, it served as an excellent home base as I trekked through the sights and sounds of KL. Now for any avid readers of this blog you may recall a story from the beginning of the trip where I was trudging through the damp streets of Manhattan, accommodation-less, when a more than friendly young chap invited me to 'crash' in his hotel room with his other friend. In a brilliance of naivety, I accepted, only to realize my host's true intentions as he climbed onto the bed and started stroking my forearm with some heavy breathing thrown in. Cue sprint out of hotel.

Now, I always reckoned it was the wrong time and place kind of situation, or possibly just a freak encounter within the late of night, never to be repeated. Almost never to be repeated. As I set out from my hostel, always using my powers of intuition as oppose to a map, I scampered down busy streets and alleyways hoping to come across something interesting. In my peripheral I notice a very small Chinese fellow maintaining about ten feet of distance, but most certainly tailing me. After about two blocks, I pull an about face, and ask him if there's anything I can help him out with.

*Nervously* 'I want to ask you a question'
'Yes my man what's up?
'Will you have some sex with me?'
'HAHA! No I'm sorry my friend, not today!'
'Uhhhh, okay, okay... bye bye'

This was one hour after I got off the plane. So it's clear to me now, wearing my fisherman pants and beer singlet with flip flops, that I give off some sort of homo-pheromone, inviting unabashed invitations for day time coitus with other men. Well, shit. He quickly shuffles off to the other side of the road as I'm left pondering how many aspects of this trip have come full circle, and what exactly his next move would have been had I had a more agreeable answer. Luckily this was the only time that week that this happened, and my hosts at the hostel assured me it was not the norm. My next move? Grow a beard and get a forehead tattoo to prevent further confusion.

Everyone wants a piece of the wolf shirt

                                                   

The American Dream


Being back on North American turf, with loud and over-enunciated consonants ringing in me ear, was for the first hour or so, very comforting. Times square bill boards flashing ads for Gap and Lexus, people casting their heads down or hiding behind their dripping umbrellas as they sashayed to their various appointments, this was almost the motherland! Then the realization that my trip was over started sinking in, and for the hundredth time on my extensive transit I missed the things I had left behind 'down unda'. And how does the modern man alleviate feelings of want and despair? Happy hour coronas, of course. After three of these, my jet lagged and red eyed brain was overcome with a soggy fatigue, where I soon found myself sleeping through 'The Green Lantern', then boarding my bus.

We meet again, Times Square

The thing I enjoy about long distance bus rides is that you get all sorts of personalities aboard. Age, race, weight,  background, temperament...all these attributes are stuffed into a steel box and forced to endure one another for hours at a time. On this particular trip, I was seated next to two geriatric Russian ladies, who were more than keen to swap stories about their fascinating time in NYC attending a hook rugging conference. Wow, I said, what better place to congregate and discuss the latest techniques than the Big Apple! Light sarcasm is usually lost on the elderly.

There was a forewarning before we departed that went something like this:

'Now listen up! No drinkin', no smokin', an no weapons! If you get stuck in the bathroom, then lord have mercy, cuz you stayin' in there for the rest of the trip'

I smirked at the unlikely, but no less comic, thought of someone spending six hours in that tiny stall, with various waste products and blue toilet water sloshing about over every bump. So what do you think happened thirty minutes later? A very 'robust' lady waddled her way to the bathroom as the bus snoozed on in relative peacefulness and I chatted away with my Russian ladies on the merits of coming from a country with eight months of winter (very few). I excused myself, and headed to the back to relieve my own expanding bladder, only to realize that the handle is being frantically pulled from the inside and this women is banging on the door 'I'm stuck! Let me out!'.

After ten minutes of pulling, pushing, kicking and one excitable fellow snapping off the outside handle, the bus driver was made aware of the situation. But hey, we've been warned haven't we? Before the bus even started movin'? Ya think I was playin'?

Eventually he's convinced, mostly by the complaints of the smell leaking from the new hole where the handle used to be, to pull into a McDonald's parking lot and further assess the situation. I get out, stretch my legs, run off for what is, at this point, a very much needed piss, and return to find a whole section of the bus panelling being removed to expose our poor privy prisoner. Of course, being on the upside of three hundred pounds, it took a small army of American home-boys to hoist her down, amid the applause and cell phone filming of the crowd. Luckily it was too early in the trip for the toilet to exude too much of it's contents, so she emerged relatively unscathed.

We re-board the bus, as most of the excitement boils down to just a few chuckles, when one of my Russian women tells the driver to turn the air conditioning off. This does not go down well with the bus's almost fully African American passengers, who tell the old ladies to 'can it' and 'put on a jacket Grams'. The bus driver eventually turns the A/C back on, where the second lady says 'You nee' ta make us happy, you are za boos driver', where he replies, (and I need to mention I really liked this guys style) 'Haha, woman! If you're not happy after seventy-five years, ain't nuttin' I can do 'bout that!'

As we roll into Boston four or five hours later, my Russian ladies say a quick goodbye and 'God bless you, safe travels'. Thank you old ladies! They turn to the bus driver as they're stepping off and say 'Go to hell, and don't be well'. God Bless America!

thanks for reading!

Bye bye Australia :(

I'm never usually one to use smilies or sad faces while writing, but of course this is one of those posts that warrants it. July 1st, otherwise known as Canada day to a few maple syrup slurping, beaver skinning, flag waving individuals, was my last day in Australia. After almost a year spent working, travelling and merry-making in this vast land, it was finally time to say goodbye. Of course saying goodbye to Australia the country is not the hard part. It's saying goodbye to the life you've built around you.

I showed up in Melbourne with little reservations or expectations, a burnt out, broke, wandering soul coming from a few months of down and dirty backpacking. In the space of a year, although it may not seem like it, I've learned so much about so many things. Love, friendship, money, travel, responsibility (not too much of this though) and a zest for life that could have very well gone untouched had I not left home. The friendships, however fleeting, stay with you and shape you in a way you don't really notice, but of course keep with you in your proverbial breast pocket of life.

Julie, my 60 year old boss at the restaurant, taught me there's no time limit or rules as to what you do with your life. After the restaurant closes this month, she's finishing her degree in early childhood studies and has an opportunity lined up in a preschool after that. She made a great manager of childish backpackers, but will be an even better mentor to actual children.

Chris, my coworker and friend, taught me that even though it sucks to wake up at 5:30 in the morning, a good 7/11 coffee and meat pie will always set you right. Putting a goal in your head, working hard at it and making tough decisions, whether in England or Australia or anywhere, is one of those parts of life that everyone has to come to eventually, and this is what Chris was faced with this year. He left a lot of sad faces in his wake, but needed to be true to himself, however challenging that was. He's back in sunny England (joke) progressing his career and being closer to his family.

Edgar, my Mexicano Amigo, taught me you don't always have to go by the books to make it work out. He rocked up to Australia without a working visa, bought a van and built it up to take him around the country and did odd jobs here and there, eventually leaving with a taco-load of good stories, and a profit! He left home, child and business in Mexico to carve out his own adventure, because that's what he needed to do, and made it work every step of the way.

Caballo, my first roommate from Ecuador, taught me to just keep smiling in the face of adversity. He spent thousands on tuition for audio engineering school, even after realizing you needed to know people who know people to get a job in his field, especially if you're from out of country. He got detained in Thailand because the school defaulted on his visa, eventually spending 3 months instead of the original 3 weeks he was planning. Of course, he missed the semester due to this, fighting tooth and nail to re-enrol for the next one, only to learn a few days after that he had to fly back to Ecuador for a family illness. But still smiling!

Roy and Isabelle, our Dutch roommates, taught me that even if you have everything going for you at home, it's okay to pack up and make a new adventure. Roy ran a pretty high end clothing shop in Amsterdam, with only an upward career ahead, and Isabelle managed a prolific water-front restaurant. Six months later, they're living in a van, working at a souvenir shop, pruning plants and cleaning public toilets. And why? Because what's comfortable and current, isn't always where it's at. They're currently taking their van around the circumference of Australia, hanging out on beaches and sipping cold Australian beer with the money they saved.

German Nick reiterated the sheer joy of travel for me. He left Germany, flew to Mexico, America, Canada, Fiji then Australia where we met him and his girlfriend Linda. He overflows with passion for meeting new people, having incredible stories and getting yourself in situations you would never dream of in a million years (Harpoon to the chest in Fiji, tropical gale storm on a 20 foot catamaran in Mexico etc) He maintains a really good blog, is open for any new adventure and can weave quite the tale in your choice of German or English. He's currently in Thailand hammering out some more of these stories with Linda.

Patty taught me that even if it's tough, sad, gross or full of spiders just keep at it. I'm sure there were many times, while I knew her, that she could have said 'F THIS! I'm going back to safe, easy USA' But she didn't. She roughed it with the best of us, even when the going was extra tough on her, and made it work out through sheer tenacity. She ended up working at a famous micro brewery, made loads of friends and is now basking in the Queensland sunshine for the fruits of her efforts with her best friends.

Emily taught me that even if it looks like you have everything you need, only you can decide that. With a job, relationship, money and a car disappearing in her rear view mirror, she came to Australia ready to greet whatever came her way, which ended up being many things. She didn't step off the plane into her dream job, far from it, but gravitated so many people towards her into a tornado of fun and friends, that it didn't matter. She also taught me that, try as you might, you can't help falling in love. You can push away and shake your head and say it's not for me, but when the right stars line up over the right people, it's too late anyway.
<3

Of course I will miss Australia. It's sunny, the people are hilarious, the sand is white and kangaroos make great wrestling partners, but it's the people, the tiny little fractions of interactions that make any trip what it is. I'll miss you guys! Bye Bye Australia!

The not so original aboriginals.

So there was a bit of show down last Friday night. As is the case with most show downs, there were two sides.

The North American corner, consisting of E Meyers and J Purdy, trudging back home after a night of work and a cheap wine. Combined height of 11'4, weight 280lbs, quick on the feet and naive to a fault.

In the other corner, 15 'indigenous australians' aged 16-20. Combined height of 60ft+, 800lbs, underage, drunk and already scraping the dredges of societies underbelly, without much room for improvement.

As we climb on the bus, always a new surprise bundle of sketch bags waiting, we find to our delight tonight's attendants fill the back of the public bus, cursing, staggering, swigging and overall making everyone uncomfortable. Uncomfortable is a pretty loose term here, as we soon find out.

We get off at our stop, just like every other time, but guess who we share it with tonight? Of course! The drunken adolescent bastards in all their aboriginal glory. Emily, in her infinite American skepticism and wisdom, whispers 'Let's walk on the other side of the street'. Before that sentence was even out of her mouth, one of our small little competitors makes a grab for her purse, initiating a pretty intense tug of war, which, luckily she was able to win.

We all like to think we would react swiftly and bravely in these situations, and I'll be the first to admit I had no idea what was going on. Maybe he tripped? Or is playing a funny joke? Get real Josh. Emily took care of the most important part by hanging on to her bag, and after realizing he wasn't cashing in tonight, he let go. I certainly couldn't abide by just letting him run off, so we started what must have been a pretty funny looking cat and mouse chase. I almost had him in my grasp for a good 'down home' thumping, when I get a roundhouse to the head by his hefty comrade. The funny part is, I was till thinking he might be swinging for his friend and ready to apologize for all the trouble. What planet have I been living on? Aboriginal-less one, for certain.

So I cop a punch to the head, look around at the numbers, shake my head, and go to retrieve my fallen wine bottle and walk off. The fun doesn't stop here though folks! In our little chase, I've garnered quite a distance between Emily and myself and this is when the real brunt of this teen force comes out... the females! They give Emily chase saying 'Come hee sis', come hee', and, as is no surprise at this point, not to apologize. I yell 'Leave her alone!!'...probably adding a bit more stress to the situation, but I don't think I've ever seen Em run faster than this night. As the rest of the rag tag gang falls behind, there is only one girl left giving chase. I eventually catch up with this fleet of foot chick, throw her into a nearby car and ask her 'What the fuck are you doing this for?!' Still looking for an answer for there behaviour. Clearly I would be better off chatting it up to a pack of hyenas.

Em runs home, shouting and hyperventilating at the same time, and sends my Dutch roommate Roy out to join the fun. I'm on my way home now, as our little aboriginal friends pass our street onto what every primordial sludge of a night they have planned. Bolstered by a team mate, Roy and I turn foot and give chase. At first, with our heavy yells and truly threatening big kid voices, they run away from us as fast as they can. This is when I throw my wine bottle, already poured down most of my shirt, into their crowd. Luckily I didn't hit anyone, that would have been a much bloodier and probably tragic story.

Realizing there are only two in pursuit, they turn around and square off at us. I'm not sure what kind of military tactic it's called, but most likely an aboriginal one passed down through the generations. The girls stayed up front cursing us as 'white dogs' as they punch away with their tiny fists of fury while the guys stayed safely behind them. tossing rocks and whatever sticks they could find. No boomerangs, luckily.

Adrenaline pulsed and the rain came down, but it was over in two minutes, possibly less. I dialed 911, which is nowhere close to the proper number in Australia (000), but luckily there were already about three people with the same idea. The teen hyena pack get away just as the first and second squad cars rip up the street, blending in to the dark of night (just being poetic, not racist)

All in, there were no severe injuries or thefts, just another peg in the never ending sketchiness of our 'hood'. We went back, had a drink, and spent the rest of the night calming down. Well done Hilton House, another story to take with you wherever you go. The morale of the story? Depends who you ask...our landlord said 'take a cab mate'. The Australians said 'F'ing abos, they wonder why they have a bad name'. The cops said 'Ahh ya the little bastards, this happens all the time'

I'm thinking two things 'Fanny packs aren't all that bad' and 'Sometimes, in just the right circumstances, if you're getting robbed and punched and pummeled with rocks, it's okay to hit a girl'. Here's hoping there won't be a next time so I have to follow through.


Ciao!

Flipping through the Book of Life

Chapter 23: Wrapping up the wallet story


The fall out of my wallet theft was a few dark weeks in this sunny country. After the initial shock of getting robbed in plain daylight, having the perpetrator in my grasp, then releasing her into the sea of degenerates from which she was spawned, I was of course a bit dejected. A wallet, in it's entirety, is a pretty crazy concept. We stroll through our day holding any number of rather important articles in a 2x2 square of leather neatly pocketed and organized, taking it out and replacing it hundreds of times a week. While snuggly living in our pants pocket, the life of a wallet is secure, comfortable and wholly expectant of what it's duties are. Hold my money, carry my cards, just be there for me, and you can live beside my ass for as long as your stitching holds out. When released from this agreement however, all hell breaks loose.
With the wallet gone, and swallowing my anger, I accepted the situation as a result of my own carelessness/others maliciousness. Done. You can imagine my surprise then, when I went to withdraw some pocket money to get me through the week while me new bank card was being sent, when $550 was missing from my account! What's this! A clerical error? Some sort of problem with decimal points you silly australian banks! No. Of course not.

It goes like this. After the chick got away with the wallet, she called her homies, got a lift about 15 kms outside the city and and hit up an IGA, which is the ever prominent express grocery store out this way. Taking her time, she swiped my card for $20 in the pharmacy (for what I'm hoping was ointment for an incurable STD), then realizing that this particular stolen wallet was ripe for the picking bought herself two $200 gift cards, $50 of phone credit, and $50 worth of cigarettes. This really pissed me off, because at no point in Oz have had the financial standing to buy $50 worth of phone credit OR cigarettes.

Of course I didn't realize any of this while standing at the teller as she's telling me my account balance has been chopped in half in one fell swoop. The fraudulent purchase paperwork took about 45 minutes, and was capped with the cheerful smile of the bank lady telling me it can take 'up to six weeks' for a refund.

Never one to enjoy a dull day, my mexican amigo Edgar, Emily and myself drove down to the particular IGA to enquire over my lucrative spending habits. After a bit of receipt searching, marked by a wavy, girly J Purdy, they said 'Sorry Joshua, this was the one she used your card at'. Thank god Emily was there, because always the congenial Canadian, I said 'Thanks for your help, Eh!'. Her advice was a little more American 'don't take it lying down' oriented, so I politely asked them how a 5'3 black woman could spend $500 at some second rate grocery store in the ghetto, with a bank card that said Joshua D Purdy and a signature that was about as far away from mine as you could come.

'Sometimes Josh can be a girl's name'

Hmm. Thanks for your help, mate. I did get a phone number from the grocery store that was apparently used to purchase the phone credit, so after compiling receipts, bank statements, descriptions and a phone number I turn it all over to the police. When I call a week later I'm told;

'Ahhh, I can't find it in the computer, the officer you filed with is only part time, she'll be back in 2 weeks'

Hmmm. Thanks for your help mate.

After almost 3 weeks of listening to the banks 'musak' on the phone, I eventually got through to a nice chap who, with a click of a few keyboard taps, had the money back in my account. This was after I told the poor Indian girl that answered it would be a cold day in New Delhi before I hung up the phone and she got me somebody to sort this out, please.

I called the number attached to phone credit a few weeks ago. It belonged to girl called Rosalin who sounded uncannily similar to the woman who snagged my wallet, but who can tell with the australian accent? When I told her I knew she was the woman who stole my wallet, and the diligent Aussie police force was after her, she said 'I don't steal wallets mate! Awww fuck off!'

The feeling was mutual.


Chapter 37: The Birthday


I had a birthday this year! Surprised? Me too!

June 3 marked another 365 days of debauchery, moving aboot, treading/sinking in the career pool and hair growth! I swear to god I thought I was done sprouting chest hair, but at the rate it's going I could probably weave a throw rug that will cover a medium sized living area by 2017. Score!

The pre celebrations commenced at about 11pm June 2nd. As per usual the goon was flowing and the people were merry. Our Dutch roomates Roy & Isabelle showered me with gifts a plenty, including a dried kangaroo scrotum and the real-deal boomarang! Can it get better? We'll see. Champagne, cake and speeches quickly followed.



The day of birth opened better than any down and out backpackers, living in a dusty house with scarce commodities, could imagine. My wonderful little partner in crime girlfriend walked up to the IGA (not the same one I might add) and started my new birthday year off with avocado, chocolate chip pancakes and champagne. Now normally I'm not one for the bubbly before noon, but seeing as how we don't wake up until noon it was okay! After polishing off this delight, and garnering a few B-day high fives, the second part of Em's present found us at the 'Whisper Wine Bar'. For once we could dress and act a little classier than we are, and I don't want to say the clouds parted strictly for me, but I have a sneaking suspicion.

Not-Goon wine! Unbelievable.

As the sun went down, so did various kinds of liquor. We're big fans of wine under 10$ so that was our opening bid, followed by rum & coke, shotgunned beers and god knows what else. All I can say with affirmation is that we were denied access to the hot-spot brewery for lack of passports or ID (see stolen wallet) as well as lack of discrepancy as we shot gunned beers in the parking lot. After this I left half of my clothing on the patio in the next bar, where some opportunistic Canadian girl donned it as her night-life gear, much to everyone's confusion.

The Shirt Stealing Culprit

This is where the lights start to go out in my noggin, but of course just because your memories stop, the fun doesn't. We made our way back to El Casa al Sketchy aka Our House where we played 'Dutch Games' late into the night, bobbing about for cake on a stick, wedging screws into a wine bottle with anything but our hands or mouth or feet and seeing how many cupcakes can fit into our mouths. Not so surprisingly, just a few. A great night, celebrated with a great group of friends and the tell tale cake crumbs and wine bottles scattered about.

As my peers who read this, what's your thoughts on 24 years old? Certainly you're no spring chicken anymore, but have not brokered through the invisible barrier that is your late 20's. I greet this limbo age with open arms, welcoming the minute amounts of wisdom it brings, as well nodding appreciatively at fact that mid 20's somethings buy houses, climb the career ladder, get married, and have babies. Another year older, but another year full of joy, adventure and good people. You as well? This is good.


Chapter 19: Dumpster Diving


You really can't extrapolate the meaning of this chapter much I'm afraid. Part of my favorite past times in Australia was balking at the heinous prices of pretty basic commodities like bananas, meat and booze. Unfortunately there's not much I can do about a $50 two-four of beer, but surely I can cheap out on that annoying and pricey past time of eating? While in Melbourne I didn't too bad. Taking cues from the Balinese before I landed, I sustained myself on Raman noodles and basically anything that could be chewed on, packaged and chewed on again. This is fine, but of course you have to stem the flow of funds going into restaurant dinners, MacDonald's and late night snacks to really cut out this 'eating' bill.

Luckily, the solution was waiting for us one night while crab fishing in Fremantle. And before you guess, it was not living off crabs.  Nick is one of the 20 somethings wanderlust dudes from Germany, another good soul crammed into our little abode down under (I'll introduce some interesting people in another chapter). As we finish off boiling the crabs, he slides open his van door, which he lives in of course, and has baskets full of carrots, pineapples, fruits, chips and steaks. Pretty basic grocery order for most people reading, but with banana's at $14.99 a kilo, we're wondering which lottery this guy has won?

As we sit, tearing crab meet and sipping beer as the cold harbor wind whips through the sail boats bow lines....okay it wasn't this intense, but still...he told of us of how he hasn't spent a dime on groceries in months. Every day, at different intervals, stores must throw away TONS of food either expired, expiring, or unsellable in some way. Dented can? Toss it. Best before yesterday? No way. No room for the new grapefruits? Chuck the old ones.

Trust me when I say, the idea was a bit far fetched, even for a guy who ate deep fried scorpions and snake heart. But after gazing upon the mounds of seemingly perfect produce and various snacks in Nick's van, I though I'd give it a try. No one will ever know anyway right? (This means you. Shhhh)

Edgar and I go out, covered by the dark of night, skulking about in work boots and pants with flashlights in hand. We quietly approach the rear of the store and shut the lights off on the van. Breathe deeply. Collect our thoughts. Come to terms with who, or what, we've become. And go.

CHRISTMAS!!!!!! Whatever trepidations I had when we left the house quickly vanished as we filled 3 boxes full of frozen french fries, chickens, watermelon, apples, kangaroo steak, hungarian sausage and god knows what other junk I can't quite recall. Literal junk I mean. Of course this idea didn't quite grab a full foot hold for a week or two, until we tallied up that our dumpster dives had produced $1300 worth of grub.

Are we taking stuff of the garbage? Yes.
Is it weird? Very.
Will you die if you eat the food? Quite the opposite, not only will you survive, but THRIVE!!

It is now a pretty regular past time to go out on a little dumpster dive. Roy and I found 24 wrapped up pizzas the other day. That's a pizza for every hour of the day! I can't quite explain it, but the thrill of finding all this food, possibly getting yelled at, and then having a massive cook out, enriches my soul.

The previously mentioned birthday also brought me a superb team T-Shirt via Miss Patty Duffey reading 'Dumpster Diving Fo' Life' with all my fellow troops listed on the back. I should feel ashamed for digging through bins, as well as implicating my accomplices, but we're just too busy making barbecue chicken and corn on the cob.


My new motto: You are what you eat, except if you eat dumpster food. Then you're just awesome!

my brain and fingers are sore. Thanks for reading!