Caught in-between Nick Harper and Dave Graney and other Tricks of the Mind, London June 2011

Unless you’ve been asleep somewhere for the last century, you’d know that London is probably the pre-eminent centre for music, arts, fashion, and entertainment in the Western world. Yes, I know you scream, what about Milan for Fashion, New York for Broadway, LA for film, Paris for art? But, London has everything, it may not be at the top of each art discipline, but I would put it forward as the centre that is the best of all things.

For me though, you can have your Art Galleries, your Philharmonic concert halls, your Grande Ballet  pavilions, your Opera houses, and your “walking coat-hanger” Cat Walks....Rock Music is my thing!

And London has been the place for popular music for over 50 years. This town has an appreciation for talent and has given birth or life to most of the greatest sounds heard on the airwaves. Jimi Hendrix was a nobody in the USA, and London embraced him, gave him a band, a manager, and immortality. The Beatles, the Stones, Led Zepplin, Pink Floyd, The Clash, Radiohead and countless others( who do deserve to be named, but I don’t have the space, but, ok then two of my all-time favourites; Yes and King Crimson and Emerson, Lake and Palmer...ok, so that’s three!).

London is like a melting pot of sounds and possibilities. So much of this music comes from the North and the West of the country, but it all seems to gravitate to London eventually. This is where the money and the people, the venues, and the influential rock magazines all co-exist and together create “the scene”.

So, it was with great expectations that I arrived back in London, and, on a cool Sunday night in Camden with Team KW in tow, saw Nick Harper, a singer-songwriter, acoustic guitar genius, and innovator; I had discovered him in a round-about way some years ago. His father, Roy Harper, is an absolute legend in this country. It is coming up to his 70^th Birthday this year and he has sold out the Royal Albert Hall in advance for the occasion. Roy sang the lead on Pink Floyd’s “Have a Cigar”; the only time (to my knowledge) that Dave Gilmour didn’t on a Floyd song ( and I know you are going to say “Great Gig in the Sky”, but that doesn’t count for obvious reasons!). Nick grew up with the likes of Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd members popping around for tea and scones, and many of the greats of this time played on Dad’s albums for free under assumed names to avoid contractual obligations; such is the esteem Roy Harper is held in.

Nick has trodden his own path, and developed his own style and his own following. He is a guitarist’s guitarist, and has developed a unique tuning/re-tuning technique during songs, refitting his guitar with banjo string winders with stops. His music moves from traditional folk influences to rock and classical; Frank Zappa to Elvis and Led Zeppelin. He is a joker, a communicator and a bit of a showman when he’s on stage. He takes the stage tonight and has the audience in fits immediately as he teases a woman about her need for a “bum cushion” to get through the show. I’m hoping he breaks a guitar string; I’ve seen footage of him breaking a string, and changing and retuning it without missing a beat during a song. He does, but its right at the end of a song and we miss out. The people standing behind us are waiting to see the same thing, so we all swap stories about Nick’s antics when he takes a break and Kate brings back more beer.

He runs through the songs familiar to most of the sold out crowd: Two Way Thing, Aeroplane, and Blood Song. He does the “Guitar Man”,” Whole Lotta Love” combo, complete with screams and heavy, distorted guitar....not bad for a solo, acoustic performer. So, Nick rocks the house, finishes to a standing ovation, and the gig ends. I am determined to meet him; why, I’ve come from Australia just to see him for Christ’s sake, and I’ve set my guitar up the same as his.

We wait as everyone files out. Some stop to buy CD’s or enquire after Roy’s health, and eventually I get to meet him. Nick is as congenial as he looks, and before you know it we’ve missed the last train home, our conversation goes on for so long. We really hit it off, Kate takes a few photos of us together, and he hits me with a bombshell. “Do you know Dave Graney? I think I’m his biggest fan”.

What? The Rock-Noir comedic, smooth singer from my home state, South Australia. Well, yeah, I know him, or of him; in fact, I said hello to him last year when he played a gig in Adelaide, so does that qualify?

The man from Harper-Space has a dream; to go on tour with Dave Graney around Australia. Dave Graney was massive in Australia in the mid-90’s. He had a big hit with “Rock and Roll is where I Hide” and Nick intersperses our conversation with quotes from Dave’s songs.....”my shtick is bigger than your shtick”, “an undercover man, maybe a spy”. Things are getting spooky for me, I wonder if this guy is possessed by a misunderstood Demon- from-Downunder. He asks me with a hoarse whisper before we go “could you contact Dave Graney for me”?

So I chased Dave Graney down. He has a web-site but no email. He has no manager or phone number. But I found his Blog. And I wrote on it, you know, in the comments section. Dave Graney probably thinks it’s a deranged former Spice Girls fan who got lost and mistook him for David Beckham (you’d have to have eyesight problems as well).  But Dave Graney..you’re on notice!

Two nights later, the Team drag me along to The Roundhouse, to see indie-pop band Belle and Sebastian. I admit I wasn’t all that enthusiastic, but the crowd and the love and happiness  they exuded enveloped me,  and overwhelmed my BS state-of-denial. I admit it, I think I fell in love with Belle and Sebastian that Tuesday night, that is, until I found out their names are Stuart and Stuart and they are from Glasgow, not Provence.

 A late drink, a Byron Burger, and home to bed.

I wake up the next morning in a pool of sweat, and spend the next two weeks trying to recover from a bout of very strange ‘flu. Just a raging temperature, and the feeling a wire brush has torn out half my lungs and larynx. At least this gives my liver some time to recover.

It’s freezing in London and I’m sick. So, I play a trick of the mind on Team KW and introduce them to Derren Brown. I show them replays of his shows until they are hooked and hypnotised and guess what? Derren Brown has a live show at the Shaftsbury theatre while I am here! The magician, misdirectionist, author, showman, artist and skeptic is not all that well known outside of the UK, but he’s a big crowd puller in London, and I’m a big fan.

Derren doesn’t disappoint. He has the audience write down their most embarrassing secret, and randomly draws some from a bowl. He scans the audience after reading the secret out and is able to pick out the young lady who has” sexy dreams about animals” much to the audiences delight. He randomly hypnotises, reads body language and inner thoughts. Kate is having an anxiety attack thinking  she may be called on stage after Wayne and I tell her we have written her secret and sent it to the front whilst she has gone to the toilet . But it’s all a tease, poor Kate!

It’s coming to the end of my London sojourn, and we catch the train to Leeds. It’s a Saturday night and Nick Harper has put tickets on the door for us at his Headingly Stadium gig. There’s more space here, and people seem a lot more relaxed than London. There is far less ethnicity apparent, but when we to go a local pub for dinner, the food is very average and we are accosted by a roly-poly bumble-bee and an ostrich; and a host of Oompa-Loompas, superwomen,  and spidermen seemingly all with muffin tops. It’s an annual pub crawl for the Leeds Saturday night faithful the bumble-bee informs us; after apologising for looking at us-we must really look out of place here!

16 pubs in one night with a double shot or 2 drinks at each swilling station. They are about half-way there when we happen upon them, both in pubs and blood alcohol levels, and I can see the penultimate pub, the aptly named “Dry Dock” will literally be pouring punters out on to the streets at closing time.

We head down to the gig, the crowd is light tonight, it seems all of Leeds are out with the Oopa-Lumpas tonight. We say hi to Nick and have a chat before the show. Tonight is cosier and more intimate, he knows just about everyone by name, and he plays a couple of my requests, in particular “Like a Vampire”. It’s a great show, I don’t think this guy would ever disappoint. He plays Dave Graney’s “Rock and Roll is Where I Hide” as his closing encore song. We chat for a while after the gig, and the promoter shares stories of other UK rock legends that he has worked with. It seems Ian Hunter, of 70’s band Mott the Hoople and a massive solo career, has finally hit the jackpot after being out in the music and financial wilderness for 30 years. Barry Manilow recorded his song “Ships” on a very early album nearly 40 years ago, before he was really known. Everyone has forgotten about it except Barry, who has included it on his recently released “Greatest Hits” album. The album sold something like 5 million copies in the first week of release giving Ian Hunter his greatest success at the ripe old age of 72. It just goes to show, persistence pays off, well, eventually.

And it’s never too late.

A quick trip to York the next day, then back to London on the train. My time here is almost done, but I must finish by saying;

Do yourself a favour and check out Nick Harper; www.harperspace.com

And Dave Graney, if I don’t hear from you, Derren Brown will hypnotise you from this side of the world, and you may awaken to find yourself doing the chicken dance onstage at your next gig!

Dunker Wel Den Haag! June 1st 2011

The next 5 days go by fast in a swirl of activity.

We visit Delft, a quaint old-worldy Dutch town, kept in the traditions of the 1500’s when, going by the dates on the bridges over the canals, it was built. Cobblestones, twisted, leaning renaissance houses and towers and magnificent church architecture; all on a day when the sun shines brightly enough to make you believe that Holland will have a summer this year!

Eddy takes me back to Sheveningen Beach to meet his friends, Lenny and Ramon, at Ramon’s house.

Lenny is a trainee pilot, who hopes to get a job with an airline in the next year. He and Eddy grew up together, and they recall nostalgically some of their adolescent exploits.

Ramon has studied in Australia, works in film production and editing, and relates his surfing experience at idyllic Byron Bay on Australia’s east coast. New to the sport, and not feeling well the morning after an Aussie drinking session, he paddles out not realising that the surf is huge, and soon is swept dangerously close to rocks and a bleak end. So, with great determination he uses the last of his strength to paddle out to sea, and sits there in peace, trying to pull himself back together again before another paddling attempt  to shore and safety. Pretty soon though, the coastline begins to fade into the distance as the currents push him further and further out into the Pacific Ocean; next stop South America if you miss Fiji! Luckily, someone had raised the alarm, and a Coast Watch light plane sights him, buzzes him and guides a rescue boat to him, where he is gratefully taken on board.

The afternoon is dying quickly and, with a clear sky, the temperature drops to freezing. That is, for me, the other guys are sitting around in t-shirts. They are talking of going to Woosers, a nightclub on the beach. I can only think of a snow party, it’s that cold. So we walk to the beach; it’s deserted and it’s colder with another of those North Sea breezes that turns a man’s genitals blue, if you can still find them! But no, the boys  insist we need to march on, and we do, down onto the beach and a concrete walkway; we go past the bars and restaurants that are hastily put up along the beach to take advantage of the brief summer. It is dark and if it’s possible, it gets colder. The beach is deserted and I’m beginning to wonder if Lenny and Ramon are planning to murder Eddy and I, it’s the perfect setting. But Lenny is a funny guy, he jokes and fools around and unbelievably, after 20 minutes of walking we come to Woosers; it’s packed and pumping, the drum and bass reverberating the timber and glass structure. It’s warmer inside but even the Dutch feel this cold and keep their coats on till they heat up with the energy the bodies in this place release. So we drink beer, jig around, take turns in silly dancing competitions, try flirting with the Dutch ice queens and have a bloody good time. All things come to an end, however, and we find ourselves, at 2am, ordering patats (french fries) with curry sauce and mayonnaise from a man who looks like a brown Sumo wrestler. Work the next day is not looking so good for our beach party hosts.

Most days I travel by bus to the library in the city centre to write, do some day trading, and get internet access. The library is large and extensive, with books and resources on many subjects in several languages. Almost everyone in Holland is multi-lingual, and they speak English well. The edges of the library rooms have single desks, for private study, and this is where mainly Muslim students, young men and women, come to interact with those of the opposite sex. It is a place away from prying eyes, no parents or brothers to enforce the strict protocol that these girls are forced to live with. They wear minimal habibs or none at all. At almost every desk there is a boy and a girl of the same culture furtively holding hands and lovelornly staring into each other’s eyes. It is very cute to witness this, but I realise the how little freedom these young women have when I overhear one say to her boy, “careful, do not leave any marks on my wrists, my mother will check them”. I am filled with a kind of hope, that this generation is taking the first steps towards a freer, more accepting version of their belief system; one that may benefit their children and others. Holland has had some trouble with extremists; a politician and a film director were both murdered for speaking out against certain religious practices. Unfortunately, it is one of the most pressing issues of this time in Europe, and France has recently moved to ban the burqa entirely in public.

Den Haag has the feel of a place I could easily slip into and lose myself in. The people are friendly but reserved, and they are extremely tolerant with a laid-back nature. Most days I run in the beech forest that surrounds the Queens residence. It is the oldest forest in Holland, but it still has the feel of something created by man, such is the Dutch penchant for remaking the landscape. The soft trails wind past small lakes, and bridges cross canals as locals walk their dogs and themselves through this enchanting forest.

 I am invited to a going away party held for Eddy at his sister’s house. There I meet the Filipino side of his family, his mother and sister, and all the aunts and uncles and cousins. It is an amusing and raucous occasion, with Uncle Lito playing the clown and an amazing array of traditional Filipino food on offer. Eddy’s sister is heavily pregnant, and trades ribald jokes with the best of the men. I am touched by the hospitality that these people show to me; their offers to stay with them should I return here, which after 8 days I am already feeling nostalgic about. I thank them all, and we take our leave and go into Den Haag again, it is my last night and Eddy feels we should finish with a couple of quiet drinks and then home, as I have an early flight to catch. At around 4.30am we stagger into the flat at Mariahoven. Eddy’s insistence that I chat to the group of women from the small village near Utrecht that have come for a weekend to “celebrate life” has dragged on far too long. They and the Dutch beer take their toll, and, 2 hours later I am up and ready to take the train back to Amsterdam and the flight back to London.

I have really enjoyed Den Haag, thanks to Eddy and Thor, Lenny, Ramon, Eddy’s family, the girls at the Arts Centre cafe and so many others. I will return here; but I feel  8 days doesn’t qualify this laid-back city as a “home” in my scheme of things. So, it’s back to London to finish off my experience there.

Sunday Morning- Den Haag

I need a converter.

You know, something to plug your foreign plug into that then plugs into a local electrical socket. My lap-top, phone and MP3 play were all dead or dying and, if I couldn't recharge them I would lose contact with the outside world.

I made my way into Den Haag as people had told me I would find a converter there. But the shops did not open till 12. So I strode across the square to seek shelter out of the cold. I was not dressed for the weather and felt out of place in the chill wind that came from somewhere in the North Sea and had made its way into Den Haag like the Germans must have when they swept all before them in the blitzkrieg invasion of 1940.

The cafe’s lived inside the shopfronts surrounding the square. The tables and chairs that filled the square were empty of people and even birds this Sunday morning. I sought shelter out of the cold inside a Bier Huis and ordered cafe au lait. Women in groups told their stories to each other before they manned the department store counters. Well-dressed and beautiful to my eyes, they talked the way women do everywhere; debriefing, repairing bruised hearts and souls, rejoicing in some small, sweet gesture or milestone or plan, and offering sisterly support and sympathy. They talked and gestured and smiled; dabbed an eye, then laughed raucously- this world that men can never understand or enter, the mysterious covens that have been suspiciously and enviously viewed by outsiders and given rise to dark rumours of spells and poisoned potions and witchcraft by those who could not join or understand them.

Men sat mainly alone; some read papers, novels, or just stared blankly, lost in some reverie, drinking their coffee, waiting for 12 when their day would begin.

I thought of someone I had been close to, and wondered if she was at the Sunday markets with her trolley picking out bunches of herbs and flowers in a place where the weather was kinder than this place. But that was half a world away, and deep into the night, and wondering what may or may not be was a melancholy, useless exercise.

The women were all talked out and left in unison as if a signal had been given.

The sun shone through the leadlight windows illuminating the brown brick walls and grey cobblestones of the interior, and promised a better day.

A young waitress with a butterfly tattoo on her shoulder brought me more coffee and said “there you go” in perfect English, sensing I was not from here.

The next shifts of women were arriving. I finished my coffee and left the Bier Huis for the electrical store, to get myself reconnected to the world.

8 Daze in Den Haag, Holland May 2011

Eddy is a true citizen of the world.

The product of Dutch and Filipino parentage, he was born in Singapore, spent his early years in Australia, moved to the USA, then spent his teenage years in Holland with regular sojourns in the Philippines; and  then another move, back to Australia in his early twenties ,where he now lives in Sydney.

It is there that he met my wandering sons, Chris and Jon, who, after spending far too much time in Byron Bay surfing and contemplating their navels, decided a job in Sydney may just alleviate their cash-flow problems .Eddy became good friends with them, and I have had the pleasure of knowing him for several years now.

By chance, Eddy happens to be in London, and we meet up. He offers me a place to stay in The Hague, his home town; his mother has an empty flat. So, on a Friday evening in May, myself and Team KW (Kate and Wayne) take the train to Stanstead Airport and fly into Amsterdam Schipol Airport. We take the Sneltrain (fast train) to Den Haag; about 30 minutes.

“God made the Earth, the Dutch made Holland”, so goes the Netherland proverb. The flattest and lowest  country on earth slips past the train in unending manicured lines of trees, hedges and fields. There are no wild places here, and I doubt there is one square meter of earth not touched by human hand.

Eddy greets us at the train station and we hop on a tram to Mariahoven where I will base myself for the next 8 days. Everything is well ordered here. The streets are straight lines crossing at right angles. Cycle lanes are everywhere, in fact your are not considered Dutch unless you own a deadly treadly; cars must give way to cycles, although the Dutch are such gentle drivers I hardly imagine there are too many collisions. Public transport will take you everywhere here; bus, tram or train you are never more than 2 or 3 minutes walk from a stop or a station.  

We take a bus to Den Haag Central. The night is cold and there are few people on the streets of this city of half a million. A university city, it is also the seat of Government for Holland, the home of the International Court of Justice, oh, and the Queen lives here too!

Eddy takes us through winding cobblestone streets of renaissance and baroque shops with living quarters above them. We come to Cremers, a cafe’ in the true Dutch sense. Here they will serve you a herbal tea, or a beer or something stronger should the mood take you. But everyone is here for the weed or the hash, which comes in various quantities and qualities. It is a jovial place in a truly laid back way. But, they are health conscious here, smoking cigarettes is not allowed, you have to go outside to smoke, past the retail shop which sells sweet dreams to passers by.

After sampling the local product, we make our way to a number of small bars and clubs. Time seems to stand still. Much Dutch beer is drunk and all of a sudden it’s 3am and time for sleeping.

Next day we take a tram to the beach. I eat pickled herring with raw onion and broodjes with smoked salmon and remoulade sauce. Bon Appetit!  It’s a beautiful day, the best I’ve had in Europe so far. We sample the sand and more food and head back to Den Haag. Team KW leave me and head off to Amsterdam. They have to be back in London for work on Monday so they leave me to my own devices. I run to a local supermarket pick up some food and milk, and jog back to eat and sleep and recover from the last 2 nights.

All is quiet and still apart from the occasional empty Saturday night bus which cruises by. I crash out and dream of pickled herrings and broodjes and giant spliffs that go to work in suits.

London Calling May 8th to 21st 2011

Eleven and a half hours flying time from Bangkok sees me in Heathrow Airport retrieving my bag from the wrong baggage carousel....I think we are destined to be apart!

Navigating the London Tube system when a little lagged and disorientated at 7am is a fun way to start the day. Fortunately, I make it to Holborn station where Kate and Wayne are waiting for me, and they help me carry my stuff through a few more tunnels and up and down several hundred stairs and voila! I have arrived at their place at Limehouse, The Isle of Dogs, East London.

I haven’t seen my Daughter for 14 months, and it’s really great to be here, I’ve missed her. Wayne and I have been good friends for a long time now, and it’s good to see him again and catch up with their lives. They live in a 1 bedroom apartment that fronts the Limehouse Basin, a safe harbour off the Thames, with a lock system to that leads into Regents Canal. It’s a picturesque outlook from their window, with moored yachts that double as homes for many owners.

Wayne has scored a great job with an investment bank as a quantitative analyst, and Kate has been sought after as a teacher at various schools, and has just been offered a permanent job; but they need to secure a residents visa which is very difficult now, the new coalition government has turned protectionist and anti-immigration.

The mighty Thames lies nearby, and I am immediately taken by the power of the tidal surge. The tide is rising and the water is a labyrinth of cross currents and rips. Wayne says that people regularly try to swim across, but invariably drown due to the freezing water, the severe currents, and the fact that they are usually exceptionally drunk. There is a story in the news the week I arrive. A homeless Somalian refugee sees an English woman jump into the Thames attempting suicide. He takes his clothes off and leaves his bag with some meagre possessions on the wharf, and plunges into the icy torrent. He is a strong swimmer and manages to save the woman, who has changed her mind and now chooses life and a hot bath over a muddy grave. He is a hero, but someone has stolen his clothes and all his worldy possessions while he was risking his life in the swirling surge. The great Australian swimmer Ian Thorpe is in town to present him with the British Swimming Association’s “Swimmer of the Year” award. The former vagrant now has a flat, and the promise of a job as a lifeguard once he finishes the training course the BSA are putting him through.

Kate & Wayne take me to Brick Lane, a narrow street of wall-to-wall Indian restaurants, with a Sunday market scattered in alcoves and closed off streets. I am in culture shock here. The masses of people, are mainly young 20-35 something’s. This is a cool place to be seen.  But I’m not used to the madding crowd and the constant sidestepping to avoid a human collision.

 I am struck by the young men, who, in their struggle to assert their individuality, have ended up in the same uniform. They are soft, almost effeminate. They wear fake reading glasses with black frames, skinny black jeans tucked into Dock Martins, coiffed hair brushed to one side with a lot of height in the centre and held there (obviously) with spray or product. They then accessorize with scarf and bracelet, ring and necklet. They are soft spoken and soft looking: this is the “nerd look” and this is the “new thing”. I’m sure it will make its way somewhere from here.

I settle into a routine again. Kate & Wayne go off to work; I check the markets and keep up with family and friends. I shop, and I cook Thai food as I find the blandness of the British food like a depressant to my palate.

Nights are social. London has the greatest concentration of pubs and bars of any city in the world. They love to drink here and drink often. There is no drink driving problem here, only a drunken commuting problem. You can buy alcohol everywhere. The local “off-licence” general store, the supermarket, hell even the Mexican takeaway joint will sell you a Corona or pina colada to wash down your burrito. I tag along to works drink nights, friends drink nights and even go out on my own for a drink. In a place where space is at a premium, people are jammed and crammed together and stuck inside most of the time, because, frankly, the weather is terrible. It’s understandable that cabin fever is an epidemic here, and pubs, bars and clubs offer an escape.

We go to Favela Chic, a club in Shoreditch. It’s small, it’s packed, it’s Tuesday night. A couple of interesting bands play. I spot a middle aged guy at the bar dressed in just an apron, with a naked torso obvious. Kate thinks he’s come from the kitchen and I muse about food preparation laws in this country. But, no, next thing we know he’s on a podium playing air guitar and he’s let the apron fall down revealing a chest that needs a bit of work before the next Mr Olympia contest. He’s the DJ.

Charlotte is a patent attorney specialising in construction patents. I thought everything had been covered since the Greeks and Romans invented a building design that has rarely changed for 2000 years. She says of her job “it’s really boring”. She’s catching up with her friend Laura, who is a stage producer in the West End. I ask Charlotte if she is feeling ok, as she has massive black rings around her eyes and is noticeably unsteady on her feet. 5 minutes later she’s off to the toilet, and when she gets back she goes home. Laura gives it to her “oh, you are rubbish”. But she goes, and we stay and drink a bottle of Pinot Grigio in her honour.

 I walk home along the Thames. A stiff, freezing wind pushes through me even though summer is about to begin. The lights reflect off the water with a cold beauty, and, in the distance I can see The City, where giant phalanx-like buildings thrust upwards into the sky in tribute to the Gods of Finance that have lured so many to this place. This country has been in financial trouble now for four years, and things really aren’t getting any better for most people. Financial power is moving from the West to the East. I wonder if the London has seen its halcyon days and an era is complete.

Tomorrow, I’m off to The Hague, Holland for 8 days.

Nai Harn Scorecard May 7th 2001

Three weeks can go rather quickly when you are enjoying yourself.

During my stay at Nai Harn Beach I didn’t;

Miss one day swimming or body surfing at the beach

Eat any European food

Feel any need to leave this rather sleepy Thai village

The guys at the bar in Patong bet me 100 baht that I’d get bored and wouldn’t last a week in Nai Harn. I had to go back there before I left Thailand to pick up some shirts from a Burmese tailor and I collected the money from them.

As a potential home I would have to rate Nai Harn as follows;

Environment (the beach, the lake, the jungle the mountains)                  8

Food (spicy, healthy, low fat, varied, extremely delicious and cheap)      9

Social (friendliness, helpfulness, welcoming, social opportunities)           8

Security (trustworthy, physical safety)                                                 7.5

Weather                                                                                              8

Accommodation (quality, comfort, cost)                                               8

Value for Money (living costs, entertainment)                                      7.5

Visa (availability and cost)                                                                     8

Total                                                                                               64/80    82%

A pretty good scorecard!

I really did enjoy my stay here, leaving was not easy. I had made some good friends. I was always in a good frame of mind here, the attitude of the Thai people is infectious. There were always things to do or other places I could go if I felt like it. The scuba diving is amazing and cheap.  Phuket is an hour from Singapore or Kuala Lumpur, and Air Asia has good inexpensive flights everywhere from here. With an exchange rate of 31 baht to the Aussie Dollar you can live quite well on a limited budget. The language is a difficult one, tonal in the way of other Asian tongues. The word “mai” means  ‘no ‘ in its most popular usage, but there are 5 other meanings if you use different tones, and reading Thai is almost impossible without making a study of it. But, fortunately, many Thai’s speak English, everyone wants to learn it, so if you can master the basic greetings and requests, and return the respect you are shown, it is relatively easy to get by.

Visa’s are not available for working except for Teachers (mainly English), Diving Instructors, or Real Estate Salespeople (time share mainly, but it seems the government’s tolerance of some dodgy practices in this industry has run out. There are signs warning tourists of unscrupulous operators). Many of these people do a “visa run” over the Burma or Malaysian border once a month to get a renewal. Otherwise, if you are a business owner you can get a 12 month visa, or if you are over 50 you can get a retirement visa for 12 months.

There’s plenty else to say, but I’ll leave that for another time.

I am actually wondering if I’ve found my perfect abode here, in Nai Harn, Phuket, Thailand, first up.

But, I must be off to the airport and the long flight to London and the next home on my journey!

Nai Harn Dreams April/May 2011

My routine in paradise is now fairly well established and I am getting to know people here.

The guys at the Rasta Bar are now used to me walking or running past their bar/workshop/ganja joint. 2 older men sit out near the roadside by a thatch hut and make leather boots for sale. The younger men have been busy putting up a sign “Black Moon Party Saturday Night”. One of them has a large curved knife he is using to notch the coconut palm trunk so that the rope will sit there and hold up the sign. He sees me, and in mock anger runs at me brandishing the thing above his head giving some kind of Thai war cry. I play along and take up a martial arts fighting stance to defend myself. We have a bit of a standoff then fall about laughing as the traffic is stopping to watch, curious that this farang might be about to be butchered.

Tim and I have developed a platonic friendship of sorts. She is usually in the water when I get there around dusk at 6, and we chat in a 2 language way, and I go off and do some swimming. She usually gives me a ride back on her motorbike and a couple of times she has taken me to Rawai Beach to eat seafood on the water where the fishing boats tie up. It is busier there than Nai Harn, and it’s the other side of the island  even though it’s only a 10 minute ride. There’s some bars and restaurants, mechanical workshops and travel agents. It faces the mainland and mangroves are dotted around the bay. The fish comes big and steamed or deep fried with whatever spices and sauces you wish. There are banana prawns as big as a small child’s arm and strange, small conical shellfish that are new to me. The water laps beneath a bamboo matted platform, and sends small waves beneath the floor when boats cruise past. Siamese cats brush against me, purring enthusiastically but aren’t interested in the scraps I offer.

Saturday comes and I am invited to the Muay Thai fight night on the island in the lake. I arrive to find that farang tickets cost  1,000 baht whilst a Thai pays only 200. I question this and am told “farang have more munnee”.

The ring is set up inside a circle of chairs, and a makeshift wooden stand is already full of local Thai men. I see the Rasta Bar owner, his dreadlocks tied up so they don’t trail on the ground, and some other locals I know from the beach or the running track. There is barbecued chicken and satays and phad thai noodles to be washed down with cold Chang beer taken from the big plastic tubs full of ice. It’s a warm night, and most Thai’s are showing some perspiration, but they still wear jeans and shoes and dress themselves up for the occasion. Local dignitaries, police, businessmen and government representatives are given a podium seat next to the ring. Groups of Australians and British who have come to Phuket to train in this kickboxing fighting art sit together in groups to yell support for their fighting gym. I sit with Thai’s who, when they are not smoking , argue the merits of each fighter on the program. Betting is the main reason they have come, the fighting is secondary.

The fights begin with small boys, who look like they should be home in bed, climbing into the ring with the help of their handlers. They glisten in the hot lights, their brown skin oiled to make gripping them difficult. There is the blue corner and the red corner. They do their strange dance within the ring, rocking to the music played by wooden flutes and drums in an ancient modal improvisation, and jog  to each corner where they bow their wai to the corner and the crowd, and then wai to the trainers and the judges. Their discipline reeks of tradition and respect.

There are 3 or 4 of these fights, with the larger boy having the strength advantage winning  the fight.

Then come the young men.

They look like warriors must have looked, when the Kings of Thailand sent their armies against the Kampuchean, Burmese, and Chinese invaders, riding war elephants into battle, centuries before Christ walked the earth. They wear traditional braided headbands, and battle each other with kicks to thighs, and knees into the ribs as they grapple and are pushed apart by the referee and tap their dominant leg to the rhythm of the music before the next assault on their opponent.

The crowd around the ring are buoyed and ebullient with excitement. Every knee or elbow that connects is greeted with a large “oi,oi” from the supporters of the blue or the red. It is the knee and elbow that is scored the highest in Muay Thai boxing, rather than a punch or a takedown. Men stand and shake fistfuls of baht notes above their heads calling out “blue, blue” or “red, red” looking for someone to take the other side of their wager. A woman in front of me bets aggressively with the men on every fight and I count only one win out of eight. She leaves without much to show for her night. There is one fight that the farangs have come to see, a Danish woman fighting an Australian woman. The Dane has her blonde hair plaited as is the way in that country. She is stocky, heavily muscled in the thighs and calves and looks to be fitter and more confident. The Australian has red hair cropped short in the fashion of a man, she looks softer, and less defined than the Dane, but is big and solid just the same. I think the Dane has the edge here, and I’m right for the first two rounds, the Aussie just keeps taking punishment but won’t go down. Then, in the last round the Dane runs out of puff. She takes a hit on the nose and the blood runs freely. The Australians in the crowd are urging the red head on to finish it, but she can’t, and when the bell sounds the Thai judges make it a diplomatic draw.

The last bets are settled and the children are sleeping on their mother’s laps. A fight between two rival gyms breaks out, but it is brief. Everyone slowly walks back across the bridge.

A girl I met at the beach offers me a lift on her motorbike. We leave the lake for the Rasta Bar, which is full of drunk, stoned farangs with back moon t-shirts; some dancing to the trance music blaring from the speakers, and others crashed out on couches and the floor. An American yells political slogans into my ear and looks agitated and reeks of ganja and wants me to go to a party somewhere and discuss world issues. I go home, this place seems too far away from the rest of the world to have those conversations tonight.

1st Home; Nai Harn Beach, Phuket, Thailand April 23rd 2011

It’s time to leave Kalim Bay and travel south to Nai Harn Beach where I will stay for almost 3 weeks.

The new credit card has arrived from Australia and I finally have some cash again. I have a local taxi driver Adisak, nickname “E”, collect me and off we go in his souped-up, lowered, re-engineered Honda for the 40 minute journey. E dresses fashionably, has the sharp-angled hairstyle over one eye that is common with the Justin Beiber generation. His car doors have been modified so that they lift vertically and bizarrely above the car roof, not out and away from the car as is standard. It reminds me of the ill-fated Kerkorian car of the 80’s. You have to squeeze through the small gap when the doors are lifted, careful not to scratch the duco. The roads have seen better days in many cases and E navigates his machine through short-cuts and long-cuts in order that there is no bottoming out, or fender or tyre damage. He is 26 years old, his father bought the car so that he would have a job, and he puts all of his earnings into this re-invention. He’s quiet, well-mannered and has the passive nature of most Thai males. I want to practice my Thai, he wants to practice his English, so the conversation goes back and forth between two very poor proponents of each.

We travel the winding coast road. Past Karon Beach, then Kata Noi, then over the jungled hills, past the elephant camp, then we leave the main road and come into Nai Harn. I had found a place here, a reasonable sized apartment with views to the green mountains of the west. It is about 1mile from the beach; a walk around a lake which is the local running track and down to the stunning white sand.

My new home is in fact quite new. Tiled floors, aircon, kitchen, king-size bed and large ensuite; it is perfect. Cleaned daily, new linen and towels, bottled water and tea/coffee supplied. It has a small kitchen with a sink, microwave and large fridge. There is a sitting room with chairs and cable tv and wi-fi internet. The cost? 800 baht per day, or roughly $25...everything included.

And guess what?

Today the airline found my lost luggage! The day they had to write it off and pay compensation, they found it. I had to do a 2 hr round trip to Phuket Airport to pick it up at a cost of $60 taxi fare though.

Thanks Qantas/Jetstar.

So, I begin my life here.

I slip into a routine of rising around 9am, checking emails, composing letters and talking to family and friends in different time zones. I then look at the financial markets and do some day trading and try to make some money. I may wander down to the beach at 12 and buy some fresh fruit; mango, pineapple, banana, watermelon and other exotic fruit cousins. Around 5pm the sun is disappearing over the hills and the temperature is dropping a little. Most days it is 30-35, dropping to 25 at night.

I change into my running shorts and shoes and jog down to the lake where I join others in the endless pursuit of physical perfection through exercise. It’s too hot to wear a shirt, but at least the sun is gone, so sunburn is not a problem. The lake circuit is about 2.2km and is a footpath that runs next to the road which is also used by some people training on road bikes. Traffic is light and the mainly Thai locals with the occasional farang (European) smile and nod when you pass them. The heat and humidity are stifling and, even though I’ve acclimatised through a week’s running on the beach from Kalim Bay, it’s very difficult to do much more than 20 minutes so close to the equator. My body overheats, and unable to cool down I head to the beach, throw my shoes on the sand, and plunge into the lukewarm surf. I then do some swimming up and down the beach and gradually cool down.

Head-high sets of waves hit the outside sandbars and I revel in a bodysurfing session....ah, this is living! I really feel alive here.

Nai Harn is a little gem. The Buddhist monastery owns the beach, so apart from a small development on the headland nothing else can be built here. Europeans mainly holiday here in family groups and spend their days soaking up the tropical sun. Every day I see someone badly burnt, but no one seems to mind, such is the craving those from northern climes have for solar rays. There are a few open air restaurants under the she-oaks on the flat above the beach, there are lifeguards here, and regular drownings; such is strength of the rips that can run up and down this beach. Surfers inhabit the break at the south where the river mouth seems to hold the waves up a little longer so that they can barrel briefly and completely cover a rider who has sought that inner sanctuary. There are some bamboo frames which hold some thatch and shade a couple of platforms open to air and the sea and everyone on the beach. There you can have a matronly Thai lady pull apart your joints and pound your muscles till you reach that state of nirvana-like relaxation that only a good masseur can bring you to. And for 400 baht ($12) you can afford this regularly.

A big set lines up on the horizon. I dolphin dive through the first wave and come up to see the next setting up perfectly. I turn and kick and pull myself into it and feel that amazing sensation of freefalling down the face of the wave and then feeling it pick me up at the hips and hurtle me towards the beach with just my head out of and ahead of it and the beach rushing towards me like I’m on a London train and then I’m under and it’s passing over me and I can feel the sand again beneath my feet. My face breaks the surface and I must be grinning like a Cheshire cat because I see a girl, a woman, watching me from in the water with a kind of quizzical amused look.

Unusual, because she’s Thai. Thai’s generally can’t or don’t swim, there are no learn-to-swim schools here like I had as a kid. Whilst this isn’t the wildest beach by any means, there are still regular drownings here. And many of the Europeans that come here are alien to the power of the sea.

I smile and give the universal greeting “sawadee krap”. She returns a “sawdee kha”. Krap is masculine, kha is feminine and it relates to the speaker, not the subject.

“I see you come from water, you.....” and she imitates what my face must have looked like with a big cheesy grin.

Her name is Tim in the anglicised nickname way of Thai women. Men don’t seem to do it to the same extent, and women will often take a celestial nom-de-plume like moon or earth, or a fruit like som (orange) or sometimes just Nancy! But Tim in the world’s number 1 country for transgender surgery is, well, interesting?

It turns out she has left her 2 sons with her parents and has come to Phuket to take over her sister’s massage platform on the beach, “good munnee, munnee mak mak can send to Mama take care famillee”. This is a familiar story in a country where there are no child alimony laws; couples separate and the women are left to bring up the children any way they can.

She is from the country north of Bangkok, but does not want it to be Isaan, the poor north-east, for the stigma attached to that place would reflect on her badly.

I offer to teach her to swim but she declines with a shake of her wet hair and, with a wave, walks from the shallow surf and up the beach to her work.

The waning sun is pressing gold and crimson against the horizon, the beach is darkening. I stroke out to where it is deep and tread water and see the scores of camera flashes breaking up the thickening darkness to capture the spectacular sunset from the top of Promthep Cape. The lifeguards are whistling for everyone to leave the water before it is truly dark, so one last wave and I collect my runners and begin the walk back.

The candles are being lit and put out on the tables beneath the she-oaks, the lights glittering in the breeze. The smells of Thai spices cooking add to the ambience of this place and I begin to think of dinner. The fruit lady has packed up and gone and so have the motorbike taxis. A man sets up a stall with a large flat steel plate that he will turn out crepes from filled with banana and mango and chocolate. I reach the lake, and the island with the small bridge is lit too and seems like a fairyland with the orange oriental roofs of the few buildings there. A motorbike goes past in the dark and stops up ahead. A woman’s face turns, “where you go”? It is Tim.

“You have motorbike? Why you walking walking”?

It seems strange I don’t have a bike. Most farangs hire one as soon as they get here and 1 in 3 end up in hospital or worse. Driving in Thailand is not the same as home.

I hop on the back behind her and we go past the Rasta Bar that is having a black moon party next weekend and she stops.

 “kawp koon krap”

“kha”

She rides off into the night with her black hair caught up in the breeze.  I head for a shower and then across the road to the restaurant of the seven sisters and eat Tom Yum soup and Gaeng Pah with rice, sweating with the heat of the night and the heat of the chillies and gingers and lemongrass  and drink cold Singha beer and play dominos with the young sisters till midnight when I head back to my room to sleep.

Thai Tales April 2011

Phuket is the largest island in the Kingdom of Thailand.

The ”Pearl of the Andaman” is about as far west as you can go before the sea beckons you to join the ancient shipping routes to India and the Spice Islands that traders and pirates lost in the mists of time once sailed.

The Thais are very proud of their heritage. They have their own language, culture, and calendar. And they are the only country in Indo-China that was never colonised. This has enabled them to keep most of their Buddhist traditions and culture intact and authentic.

There is a 543 year difference between the western Gregorian calendar and that of the Land of Smiles. 2011 is the year 2554 in Thai time.

It’s another warm. balmy night. The Muslim women have their street food stalls on the edge of the road by the sea wall across from where I am staying in Kalim Bay. At high tide the waves collide with the rocks below and spray their habibs with foam. They barbeque chicken, and in woks they deep fry fish cakes and stir fry Phad Thai noodles. It costs $2-$3 for a meal here, you sit on plastic chairs on the roadside or choose the sea wall if the swell is small.

I walk the winding coast road 5km to Patong Beach. This is the main destination for tourists here, and Bangla Road is the epicentre of this party town. This street of wall to wall bars and clubs stretches about 400 metres from the beach and is closed to traffic from about 6pm each evening. The area was almost completely devastated in the tsunami of 2004 when an earthquake thousands of miles away in the Indian Ocean sent a series of tidal waves smashing into this coast. They claimed more than 5,000 lives from this and surrounding areas.

The street throngs with tourists; English, Scandinavians, Russians and Australians openly gape at the Ladyboys dancing on the table at the entrance to one of the soi’s. They are amongst some of the most beautiful women a man will ever set eyes on; except they’re not women. They flirt with the crowd, soaking up the attention with an ever vigilant eye out for any “farang” who has become mesmerised and transfixed by these ersatz sirens and has the smell of easy money about them.

Couples on honeymoon, families, groups of girls or guys on holiday for the sun and fun this place offers all promenade up and down Bangla Road. T-shirt touts, ping-pong show vendors and buy one-get-one free drink voucher in-your hand thrusters all vie for attention. Bar girls grab young men’s arms and try to entice them into the small drinking places where they will persuade them to buy “lady drinks”, tip them, and perhaps take them back to their hotel.

“Andy” we’ll call him, is an Australian guy, mid 50’s, used to run pubs and nightclubs back home. He retired here, tried trading the markets, then internet gambling, and finally settled on a career as a bar owner “to give myself an interest and to get cheap beer”. He lost his leg several years ago in a bizarre accident, whereby he came off his motorbike coming down a steep hill careening off into the jungle where he lay for 3 days severely injured until a Thai man riding an elephant happened to pass by (as you do). He was hauled off to the local hospital, whereby it was discovered he had an infection from a rare bacteria that there was no cure for. They shipped him off to Bangkok because they didn’t want him. Bangkok didn’t want him either; the risk of infection for other patients was too high. So, he tried to get back to Australia, but no airline would take him. He wasn’t being well looked after, but he couldn’t get anywhere for treatment being, literally a medical persona-non-grata.

An Australian friend managed to bribe someone in an airline to the tune of $100,000AUD, and, finally he was flown to Sydney in an extremely weak state. The major Sydney hospital freaked when they discovered his infection, and they, to get rid of him, and because he was originally from the state of Tasmania, chartered a plane just for him, and flew him to the Hobart hospital. They freaked as well, but in Australia we have universal health care, so they were forced to set up a special ward to house just him. For over a year he was here on his own, no-one could visit him and staff could only attend him in full isolation suited garb. His left leg was removed because the infection was that bad, however, when the doctors came and told him they wanted to remove his right leg, he refused and checked himself out of the hospital. He looks pretty healthy these days drinking a cold beer and relating stories of his sailing adventures in many exotic places. The infection is still there in his right ankle, but as long as it stays there he is fine. You come to Andy’s bar and you meet banker’s, programmers and accountants. The conversations are intellectual and jovial until the later hours and the beers begin to take their toll. I wander back to Kalim Bay in what’s left of a balmy night, avoiding the ladyboys that call to me from darkened doorways and sleep in dreams of surfing elephants and dancing coconut palms....

Broke and Busted in Bangkok April 2011

Starting from Tuesday 12/4/11 when my son Chris dropped me off at the Sydney airport I had the 24 hours from hell.

Checked my luggage in and waited for the boarding call. The flight to Melb left over 40 minutes late and after a Stawell Gift run from the domestic to the international terminal, I just made the flight to Bangkok.

I' d checked my baggage through from Sydney, otherwise I wouldn't have made it.

The 9 hour 30 min flight went fine...I hadn't realised how exhausted I was from the last month or so, and I slept for most of the way.

Arrive Bangkok 9pm, and whilst waiting for my luggage I'm approached by airport staff to say (in Thai) " we;ve lost your luggage, we think it went to Singapore"

Great, all my clothes and toiletries are in there, for London as well, everything.

They give me a report, ask me to call them tomorrow and they'll deliver it to my hotel.

So, I get outside, it's getting late and I'm going to take the shuttle bus to Kao San Rd....the touts are telling me it's not running, heard that one before, and.....it's not running.

So I think, "what the hell" and take an overpriced unmetered taxi. This young guy takes off, we get onto the cloverleaf type bridge and he weaving in and out of the traffic like a madman. I tell him to slow down but he just say's " yes Kao San Rd"...I see he's doing 150 km in a 60 zone!

So, after taking me on dirt roads and shortcuts through building sites to get around the Bangkok gridlock we arrive.

He pulls over, everywhere are people blocking the road, thousands of them. I deduce from my map that Kao San Rd is somewhere through this crowd and we aint going to get there any other way but by foot.

So, I climb out with my laptop in one hand and my carry on bag in the other, put my head down and enter the combat zone.

It's Song Kran, the Thai New Year, the water Festival. The road is packed with young Thais, and to a lesser degree, mainly English Backpackers, all with buckets of water, giant water pistols and a gooey mixture of flour and water which is promptly pasted on to my bald head.

There is no way I can fight it as I struggle into Kao San Rd. Mike suggested I stay at D&D's aprox 100 metres down the road, I make the 100 metres but no sign of D&D's, and in a desparate attempt to save my laptop from drowning and my self from a prison sentence for GBH against several thousand thai's, I duck into an alley way, out of the madness and into a peaceful courtyard with a guest hotel.

They have only one room, you guessed it, a bed like concrete with hardiplank walls and a shared toilet and shower way down the hall.

I take stock, it's steamy hot here, and all I've got to wear is a pair of jeans, boots and a t-shirt. I go to the front desk to ask where the ubiquitous clothing stalls are, he meets my eyes with a blank stare...."elvry one close for Song Kran"

Great, I'm saturated and covered in this flour mixture...can't get into the shower, so I resolve to get something to eat. I duck through a lane way to the next street. It's just as crazy but up ahead I see traffic and make my way into a square that they've cordoned off from the revellers. I get some street food, think about what's going on and head back to my room and another drenching.

I completely forgot that in 2007 I caught gastro in Chang Mai, missed the last bus to Laos, and was stuck there for 6 more days.....everything stops for the New Year celebrations.
I am regretting coming here already, it hasn't felt right since I got off the plane and I really want to get out, I don't like it.

Well, back at the room I fall into a fitfull, exhausted sleep, even though the ceiling fan sounds like a 'Nam chopper and the bass from a club somewhere cuts through the bare thin walls and rattles my teeth until 5am.

I get up at 7, and hit the streets determined to find some clothes....2 hours later I've got a pair of thongs, a pair of shorts and 2 t-shirts. I head back and call the airport,,,they have no idea where my luggage is. Im determined not to stay in this hotel another night so I go hotel knocking and find one who may have a room available at 12.

The revelry is starting up again, as, bags in hand I try to stay on the sidewalk to get to my new home, but, they have no room.

I sit down and try to think this through, in fact I sit there for about 30 minutes as the storm rages just outside on the street. British boys and girls, all still tanked from the night before, are drinking already and the hordes are literally pouring into the street, there are thousands.

I know if I go out there everything will get saturated and floured again, but I can't stay here any longer.

I try and bust the crowd open like a rugby scrum but they just gobble me up. People are shouting at me, everyone's throwing water and flour and within 30 seconds I'm completely saturated again.

I'm trying to protect my laptop, I've got a bag in each hand and I'm pushing, twisting, head-butting ; anything to get out of here. I run into the biggest crush yet as 2 Lady boys have gotton on the top of a table and are grinding away to Thai pop that everyone seems to know but me. I almost can't get through but somehow manage.

I finally make it out to the street against the thousands that still pour into the precinct. It's taken me nearly half an hour to go 200 meters.

There's no taxi's around, so I grab the first guy on a motor bike, and,hanging onto my bags we head off to the Skytrain that will take me to the airport.

5 minutes down the road I suddenly know something is terribly wrong.

I can't feel my wallet in my bottom pocket. I yell at the guy to stop, I get off the bike.....my wallet with $4500 and all my credit cards...gone. The buttons undone....in that freakin' crowd!

So, here I am 1 week later in a peaceful Muslim area of Phuket called Kalim beach. It's about 4km from Patong beach but very quiet.

There's a surf break out front that I regularly see boardriders trying their luck, over a shallow coral reef. I found out that this is where the sewerage from Patong is pumped, so I don't fancy a swim here.

I'm still trying to get something out of Qantas/Jetstar. When I can get through to them (rare) they don't call back, they don't answer emails. They say if it isn't found by tomorrow, they will have to compensate me.

Thankfully, both Wayne and Jonathan sent me some money via Western Union as I was almost skint. You don't realise how much you depend on your credit cards till they are gone.
I can't access any cash, or my internet banking until my new card arrives, hopefully on Thursday.

Visa International were no help at all...I used up so much of my precious few baht I had left calling them and going through their complete process and they havn't even sent an email to me.

Try emailing an airline.....you can't.

So, I'm not doing very much as I need to keep as much money as I can in case the new card doesn't show up in 2 days...you could say I'm not particularly confident!

So, I've done a mountain of technical reading and thought and analysis.

I have developed a new system to take to London, and am working on a couple others.

I have come up with some pretty intersting stuff re Cycles/Lunar cycles and their effect on Human psychology.

It's been good, but I'm starting to get a little bored with little socialising going on.

I've found a place at Nai Harn Beach to stay for a week or so, just to give it a test run. It's beautiful down there...a 2k walk around a lake to the stunning beach. Had a body surf there Sunday.

I bought a really cheap pair of running shoes and am running daily and going to the gym 2 times a week....that's my budget!

So, at least my fitness is good and I can feel my muscles thickening....I don't know if it's the weather, the food or what but physically I seem to thrive in this climate.

So, I'll sign off for now....

Email to my Daughter-about to board the Plane 12/04/11

Hi Kate,

I'm at Sydney Airport about to board the plane to Melbourne...then to Bangkok arriving at 8.30 tonight.

It was great staying in Sydney with Chris and Cat...they are doing really well and were completely gorgeous to put me up and all.

The settlement went through whilst I was in the air...arrived Syd to frantic messages etc but they sorted it all out.
Everything has gone relatively smoothly...had giant garage sale last Sunday made $1300!

I'm down to 30kg of total possessions and my bank account..that's the sum of me now!
Flying to Phuket Saturday, will check out apartment in Nai Harn etc for later in the year.

Nothing has sunk in yet.

I've been so busy and trying to cover every detail..just about done it all I think.
I'm keeping a journal...thinking of writing a book...quite a few people I don't know all that well want to follow my travels and progress.
Maybe a travel blog, if I can make it interesting and compelling, could make me a little money as well..but I'll wait until I get somewhere I have internet access in room till I spend some time on that.

Actually, I'm glad to be leaving here for a while...watching the news last night with the pathetic dramas that captivate our country, and the amazing level of petty bureaucracy we have come to accept that seeks to control our lives on a minute by minute basis.

Well, I had better go, ..flight leaving soon and internet running out.
Can't wait to get there and see you.
I'll skype you from Thailand.
Lots of Love,
Dad

Loose Ends-April 2011

I had many things to do in order to leave Adelaide and Australia.
You don't realise how tied down you are by bureaucracy and  conventions until you try and leave. Cancel this, cancel that, notify this department etc etc.
Cancel the gym membership and you lose 6 months of payments (I pay yearly-no refunds)
Cancelling the phone turned into a nightmare.
Landline, Internet, Cable TV all-in-one contract.
I called Telstra (phone company) 2weeks before I had to get out of my house.
They said they couldn't do anything in advance, you had to call on the day and they'd cancel everything within 2 hours. It took a 40 minute wait to find that out.
So, they day before settlement I called, and waited in the queue for 20 minutes, spoke to a girl for 10 minutes, she decided I should talk to someone else, transfer and wait, then a young guy comes on and suggests that, to save the new owner connection costs and to guarantee ADSL for them, I should do a transfer to them. He assured me everything would be fine, he would look after the entire account change. I gave him the new owners phone number and left him with it, secure in the knowledge that I had sorted out one more thing on my list.
I phoned the new owner to give him the good news that I had saved him some money and secured his internet connection and that Telstra would be in touch with him in the next 24 hours.
All good, so far.
So, 7 days later, I'm boarding the flight from Melbourne to Bangkok. I'm leaving. I go to turn my phone off and a message comes through from the new owners "have not been contacted by Telstra".
It's too late to do anything, and anyway, I kind of don't care anymore. The new owners will have to sort their own account out, I can't be expected to do much more than I have already done. I had spent about 6 hours with them going over the property, how the pumps worked and the pool and everything else. The Real Estate agent had been slightly aghast at me doing this, it was unprecedented in his experience and he felt it could lead to them changing their mind and not settling on time. Maybe I'm a little too generous, but I felt it was the right thing to do, so I went out of my way to help them, and the phone transfer was just another thing.
How wrong I was.
Nearly 2 months later, I'm in The Hague, Holland. My son Jon calls me to tell me Telstra have contacted him and that my account is still in service, they haven't cancelled or transferred it, and the new owners have been using my account since I have left. I am being charged for everything, and Telstra have no record of me arranging an account termination. I won't bore you with the details, but I was pretty miffed about the whole thing.
So, it's now June. I have just received a final account. But, I am being charged for all the services I didn't use.
You get so tired of this.
So, I will go through another round of contacting, waiting, replying and hopefully after 6 trys, I won't have a phone account anymore.
But the thing that irks me the most is being treated like I have done something wrong.
I followed their sage advice. I did what they said. Every time the phone company didn't follow through on their commitment to me, I had to get back to them and start again with someone new.
It's cost me money and time.
Makes you not want to take out a contract with a utility company ever again.

The Leaving- April 2011

The rain washed across the valley in chill sheets, blown by the westerly wind.

I stood on the patio that surrounded the pool and gazed out across the space below me that was

framed by eucalyptus hills to the horizon.

It was beautiful, and it was the view I had drunk from every day for the last 20 years.

I had just sold my house.

This house had raised my 3 children.

This acre of land had seen dogs cats chickens geese goats koalas snakes and kangaroos come and go.

This place had seen to the end of my marriage and witnessed some significant relationships begin

and end.

I felt winter coming early again, as it often does in the Adelaide Hills in South Australia, even though

it was only March but the summer had just fizzled out like my relationship with the woman I had

loved the most..

I was tired.

Tired of owning lawnmowers and cars.

Tired of cleaning gutters and fixing pumps and leaky roofs.

Tired of paying property taxes and council taxes and income taxes.

Tired of seeing my life savings run out the door to sustain the life of this house.

It was time to move on.

Property prices had dropped as people fixed with fear and less able to get bank finance had

withdrawn from the market. The earthquakes in Japan and Christchurch and the devastating floods

and cyclones in Queensland were still raw memories, and overseas hedge funds were selling down

Australian banking stocks as a way of making money on one of the most overpriced real estate

markets on earth. So the day I sold the house I probably lost $200,000 from what I could have

achieved 2 years before.

My savings had depleted as I had not worked for several years.

So I sold everything except my guitar which I left with my youngest son Jon. He was the only one left

in Adelaide and had recently moved out of home for the second time at the age of 23.

I booked tickets to London via Sydney and Bangkok. My son Chris lived in Sydney and I really wanted

to spend some time with him before I went overseas. My daughter Kate lived in London. I hadn’t

seen her for over a year, and I was going to stay with her and her partner Wayne for 6 weeks, after

which there were no real plans except that I would move on to my next experience.

I packed up my favourite books and Family photos and left them in the safekeeping of my best friend

Michael. Like me, he had a longing to travel to places less seen and experience people and cultures

less known. He, like me, was less into material wealth and we had many many great philosophical

discussions and an awful lot of laughs at our Saturday morning “therapy sessions” at the Organic

Markets Cafe in nearby Stirling. Whilst my children had grown up and left the nest, his were still at

school and he vowed to follow me in 3 years time when they were adults.

I felt it was time to become attuned again to life, and the things which were real. To break out of the

cocoon that most of us in the Western world spend our life in. Although I felt I had lived a fairly full

life up to now, I realised it wasn’t enough; that I wanted to live authentically and creatively, to break

the mould I had been cast in for once and for all.

To explore, to experience, to live truly in the moment.

The journey of the last 20 years or so had been about preparing myself for this, ultimately.

In some ways I felt I had been on a sleeper carriage on a train that was transporting me from my old

Life into the future.

That journey was almost done.

The awakening begun.

I would leave my mistakes where they lived and treat the past as one would treat a favourite novel-

put it on the shelf and occasionally pick it up to nostalgically rifle through the pages.

Any skills or wisdom I had gained I would take with me, along with what money I had left.

The material possessions I sold or gave away- I knew they were useless, in fact worse than useless.

They had tied me down, tied me to them.

Things.

Things that asserted a gravitational pull on me- that forced me to return to take care of them.

A house, a car, a sofa, a juicer, a phone, a big screen TV- did I own them or did they own me?

They need dusting and cleaning and regular maintenance.

They sucked a regular stream of income for taxes, rates, power and space.

Once they became mine they bonded to me and became as needy as a child.

But they were all dead or dying; inanimate things which wore out, depreciated, and then needed

Replacing. They became outmoded out of fashion and out techqued.

I left these things for others to care for and would not be enslaved by them again- when the train

stopped and I emerged from the sleeper, it would be alone and without this baggage that had

weighed me down.

I would be free.

I had done my time.