Friday night San Franciso

The title is also the name of one of my dessert island albums by guitarists Al Di Meola, John McLaughlin and Paco de Lucía. The B sides' Egberto Gismonti piece - Frevo Rasgado recorded in the year of my birth gave me rushes long before I ever heard of MDMA and still does.

I caught a ride up from Glendales to San Fran with Megan and Genevieve, friends I had made whilst waiting out the tropic storms in the Cook Islands. After a late start, frustrated further by incomplete directions that did not account for the one way system, meant we arrived later than planned. So far on this whole adventure I had not booked accommodation in advance, preferring to be spontaneous and having trust that it will work out. So far I have only had to sleep in city parks twice, and even then it was dry and I had my thermarest and a green bivibag to hide amongst the bushes in.

Friday night at eleven pm in the summer was pushing it a bit, but after wandering a few miles in the familiar city I found a cramped but friendly place in Chinatown – the biggest one in the US.

My Mum was very concerned that I had called my last blog entry “Swansea, do I judge thee to harshly”, somehow missing out the extra “o”, insisting I correct the mistake ASAP. I remembered while enthroned in the hostel restroom, I hate to sit down without something to read, at a push, I will read the ingredients of shampoo bottles. I had kept this compact laptop in my daysac along with other things of value, and attempted to correct the error.

The latch did not align properly with the door, and I was surprised by a girl who burst in. I heard her giggling up the hall - “He was sat there typing on his computer..” I cannot be the only one who gets inspired to creativity in these private moments. Fear not dear readers I am now typing from more salubrious surroundings.

The last time I was in San Fran, eighteen months ago I had stayed in a hostel between Union Square and the Tenderloin. The Tenderloin got its name for the cut of steak given at the end of a shift to police officers who were prepared to patrol this notorious downtown area. Here it is not in the least bit unusual to see a seventy year old transvestite arguing with a one legged prostitute, blatant drug deals or an old black man passed out in an alley wearing a full Father Christmas costume.

I called in to the same hostel and was warmly recognized by Nicola, the receptionist who had greated me on my last visit in mock sarcastic cockney “I suppose you want a room do ya?”

“How wonderful to hear some good British surliness” I replied, and asked where she was from. It transpired that we not only been at a party at the Center for Alternative Technology at the same time, but had mutual friends recently moved to the city. She had been the third person to suggest I visited Arcata in Northern California, a magically little town amongst the great redwoods where I left a large part of my heart.

By now you will not be surprised to hear it was that night I met two girls and a guy driving back to their homes there, who kindly gave me a ride, and put me up on their respective sofas. There began a whole other story, I could not help dwelling over, as I lay in the same bed I coincidentally been assigned on my last visit. Spooky huh!

On this occasion, Nicola had that previous night been at the same party as our mutual friends Jon and Amanda from the “Crusty Quarry” as CAT is affectionately called. Being part of the largest MSc course in the UK has its advantages, one being a network of hippy friends all over.

Since I saw them last John and Amanda had married and set up home in the Mission, or the Gaybourhood as it is known, in a recent survey 30 percent of its inhabitants had identified themselves as gay, bi or transgender, compared with 13 percent in San Fran as a whole.

I learned this little factoid on a walking tour the three of us joined, learning how to date the various architectural styles of the area and visiting sites connected with Harvey Milk, the free speech movement, and labour rights demonstrations. This being Sunday we passed a church whose largely male congregation walked hand in had to the stirring voices of Thomas Tallis motet Spem in Aelium - (Sing and Glorify)

I continued my walk to Haight Ashbury, the epicenter of the sixties counterculture, past the house where the Grateful Dead lived communally. Called into the Anarchist bookstore to pick up some zines and to ask after further references from the owner I had met on my previous visit. It was the occasion of the Haight Street fair, the atmosphere was electric, previously the staff and I were the only ones in the shop, drinking tea in the rain. He directed me to the next bookshop for titles I love, right on 1970's counterculture how to books. He warned me that the owner was a weirdo - too right! I sign inside read "no cameras - you will be asked to leave", and beneath in equally angry white letter "if you ask why you will be asked to leave"!

I continued along Grand, past Union square, through China gate, pausing at Ferlinghetti's' infamous City Lights bookstore next to the street renamed Jack Kerouac, through the museum of the beats, Through Chinatown to North Beach. I committed to memory the lines from the end of Kerouac's On the road, describing Neal Cassady hoping to be able to recite it my mind, when I reach New York and look back:-

"So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, and all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars'll be out, and don't you know that God is Pooh Bear? the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all the rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what's going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty...."

Santa Barbara - couchsurfing again

From my last posts you will know I decided to spend no time in LA, and headed straight to Santa Barbara. I was keen to be Couch Surfing again after the resort in the Cook Islands.

While in the Cooks I had been fortunate to get to know the mainly Fijian staff who were running the resort. They too of course were outsiders, though they showed me incredible hospitality, sharing food and kava in their homes.





Again and again I have been touched by the kindness of strangers. During my last few days in Rarotonga, recovering from a nasty throat infection I was was walking back from town when a guy car turned his car around to ask if I needed a lift. After spending the previous day in bed I was glad to be walking, but I knew he would be upset if I turned down the offer. While we chatted I learned he was a pastor who had recently returned from a meeting in California. I commented how strange it was that mopeds were so much cheaper to rent than bicycles. Given the choice I prefer to cycle, its so much more peaceful and you see more wildlife.

At this he turned of to his house to lend me his bicycle, asking only that I dropped it back when I left, no sermon just a good neighbor.

One might assume such hospitality was the preserve of a safe little island community, but this was not so. Through couch surfing I contacted Wes who had recently moved into a shared house after a year of motor cyling around South America.

---Rant Alert---

Lloyds TSB once again stopped my card, this has happened in almost every country I have visited, despite telling them over and over of my plans. It is generally only a quick phone call to get service again, but does cause a lot of worry. The worst is when the ATM swallowed the card after too many denials. One may have intended to pass through the town, so cannot wait till the branch opens to pick it up. Worse, is having to find an address to get a replacement sent to by an uncertain date, and somehow getting there without funds.

It is for this reason I have got into the habit of traveling with at five cards, and keep some cash in reserve. The banks are convinced such behavior is indicative of money laundering so will not allow me to open any more accounts. I have met other travelers who had the same issues with LloydsTSB. We both tried to transfer funds between our own accounts to ones that do not charge such extortionate rates to get at your own money. We both found our cards stopped,then had to wait days for the transfer to occur once it was finally sorted out, all the time collecting precious interest. Grrrr

---Rant over---

I had just finished a yin yoga class at the Santa Barbara yoga centre, and was feeling totally relaxed, and looking forward to choosing a bottle of wine and some honey to take to my couch surfing host.

He lived a little way out of town, and agreed to meet me along the road between downtown Santa Barbara and his place.I would have felt very bad if I had to borrow his phone to call the bank, and have to owe my contribution to the grocery bill before even getting to know one another. Thankfully I had enough to buy a calling card, and inbetween his calls to find out where I was, and to the call centre in South Wales, managed to get the thing working again.

My host was joined by another couchsurfer from Russia and quickly made us feel welcome. He introduced us to the pleasures of barbequed tri-tip steak, his freshy made piquant salsa and the local tramp fuel – Simpler times lager at 6 percent, and 2.99 USD for a six pack. One could imagine the advertising the product, a bum happily pissed reminiscing;- I used to have, a wife, a house and a car, now its Simpler Times...

Uni Santa Barbara, like many I have visited the university has a very open access policy, allowing me free internet access in the library. I was able to photocopy some great material for my book research and update the blog with the last seven weeks of adventures. Not easy to concentrate, as it seems hot pants never went out of fashion here, I wondered how much time the students had for lectures with all the effort they must have put into their fine physiques.

One diner nearby observed that Santa Barbara was at that sweet spot on the globe where the folks put in an great deal of effort in their appearance like those in LA, but were not completely vacuous. I was entertained by his misadventures as a ladies tennis coach in a nearby obscenely wealthy suburb nearby. This is the land of bored silicone filled trophy wives, botox mishaps, duodenal ulcers, thrombosis and erectile dysfunction...

Back at the house, We took turns in cooking, and enjoyed great conversation over wine, before crashing out on the sofa with in the large lounge shared with a lab, retriever and an old but spirited sausage dog – who was convinced he was bigger than the other two put together. Yet another great couchsurfing experience, a new friend, I really hope to return the favour should he or his housemates find themselves in Wales.

When I later sat in an organic wholefood cafe, and overheard two guys drinking herbal tea, discussing cleanses and their mens groups, I knew I was back in California for sure. These groups have become very popular here, with adverts all over for places to “be still with fellow men and discover your inner warrior”. Call me unevolved if you like, but whats wrong with the Pig and Whistle and real ale?

Swansea – do I judge thee too harshly?

Now in Santa Barbara, near LA

Back in the world of fast free internet I caught up with friends online, and enjoyed catching up on the gossip from home. A good friend thought, for those who do not know me well, it might seem that I have a downer on my home town, and the UK in general.

My friend, like me, is one who likes to play characters in jest, trusting that those around can see through those facades to the real person beneath. I recently discovered, it is a form of social play particularly developed in only children, like us. I have also learned that not everybody gets, or appreciates it – with some folks, what you see is really all you get.

I thought to write about home, from this sticky hot room in Santa Barbara some things to even the balance.

There is a Russian word I have heard, but cannot spell, which means “I love you, but I hate you right now”, just one word! It somes up feelings many people have towards their hometowns. One cannot live in any small town all ones life, without seeing both sides. I can see now, looking back how strangers may not know the love I do feel for the place.

Swansea's most famous son, Dylan Thomas - the fat poet with slim volumes, called it an ugly lovely town. He wrote some his most stirring poems of the town without getting overly sentimental, yet was known in temper to say “Land of my father's?, my fathers can keep it!”, and at the time I believe he meant it.

The UK is at least on a human scale, and the old town, Swansea is more human than most. If I wanted to reduce myself to a blubbing mess, there are two pieces that get me by yur every time. One is a quote from the fabulous Hunter S. Thompson describing San Fransisco in the middle sixties:-

"There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda. . . . You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. . . .

And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting—on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. . . ."

Though I was too young to experience the cultural ferment of those heady days, I have always been drawn to the movements and ideas that came out of the West Coast in that era, and hoped to refine its essential values.

They say the British have no idea of distance, and the Americans no idea of history. I did not stop in Los Angeles, I got on the first bus following the same 101 highway South, gazed in horror at the six lanes of traffic in either direction, the sprawling, smoggy, inhumanness. Though that first wave has long rolled back, new places are going through the same phases, so much of our modern world is the result of those inspired energetic people – who used the emerging technology to develop their beautiful visions.

The internet owes a massive debt to those countercultural luminaries, who saw the potential for switched networks to share tools necessary to implement those visions as books like the Whole Earth Catalogue had done in paper form.

The other piece that gets me "by yur" every time is Dylan's Return Journey, I have a crackly copy on tape, read aloud by a Richard Burton, his Welsh tones lilting defiantly over his trained BBC English. After touring America, Dylan comes home to hunt the ghost of his youth. He takes the listener on a walk through the city from the bombed out shops that are not there anymore, Ben Evans, down flat Gower street, the Kardoma cafe– then on High Street, the Three Lamps, and into some pubs I used to frequent, winding up to park bench in Cwmdonkin.

I cannot be the only one who called it Donkey Park as a little un?

Like the Russian word, there is one in Welsh that captures a feeling like no other. More than longing for homeland, more than nostalgia or yearning is hiraeth.

It describes a feeling I have not experienced so strongly since I heard a recording of Morrison Opheous choir singing appropriately “Swansea Town” in a tea shop in Gaiman, a small Welsh colony in the pampas of Patagonia.

On a sentimental mental journey from this stuffy downtown room full of sleep talkers and drunken Germans I have:-

Walked through Clyne Gardens in Spring,

Sat on the steps joining King Edward Road with Eaton Crescent, where post pub confidences are shared over secret smokes.

Re-climbed each of the Three Cliffs, Britains first area of outstanding natural beauty and first sight of special scientific interest. I maintain Gower has beautiful beaches to rival any I have seen in the world.

Mused that I can walk into any pub between Uplands Tav and the Queens hotel by the docks with its moth eaten bear and be sure of seeing somone I know, even if only to say “Orright!”

Visited The Grand theatre – the majesty of its boxes, set off by the reassuring dullness of their schedule.

Watched Shakespere by the rep theatre infront of Oystermouth Castle in the summer, blankets on knees with fish and chips from Covellis and wine

Flown, near sleep over the pointy self similar rows of houses Brynmill and the old friends living in them

I am not a nationalist, the whole world and stars are as much mine as anybody elses. Though given the scale I am more theirs than they are mine....

Like every county there are things I like and dislike about the UK. But I have ranted enough in other posts of things I dislike, so

Things I do like about Britain -

Sense of humour, the taboo against taking anything too seriously – which I am sure goes some way to keeping our society so peaceful.

Police brutality still shocks most people

Britain is far more tolerant of other cultures that anywhere else I have been

The BBC, especially Radio 4

Curry is available in the smallest of towns until very late

We do not go in for flag waiving much

No experience is legally required to put to sea on a boat

Good range of cheeses


ummm......

Cook Island Adventure

I had really got used to having a constant companion, so it felt strange sitting next to people on the plane who did not want to talk much. I was not much for talking either as these notes written soon after arriving show:-

Feeling a little like Jack Torrence in the Shining – the Stephen King film, in which a writer struggling with his alcoholic past seeks isolation overwintering a grand old hotel to complete his novel. Disastrous consequences for his young family and himself result when the spirits of the place are upset. The outside shots were filmed at the Timberline Hotel near Mount Hood in Oregon in the Pacific North West.

I had camped in the same National park two winters ago. The heavy snows of the weeks before had frozen to a hard packed crust. The low sun had melted the slight impressions our boots had made, but a heavy fall was forecast. The window afforded a beautiful soundless vista, the dark native conifers had a strangely computer generated feel. One of the early difficulties of creating believable virtual images of the natural world was giving distant objects a far away feel. Simulated mists or clouds would be added to the scene to give depth. Out here, the high air pressure clean air made the landscape seem almost too real to be real.

In the South Wales Valleys, the monotonous straight rows of forestry commission are as offensive to my eye as opencast, blotting out the light below, impoverishing the soil and burning fast with a spiting flame to acrid smoke.

In their native setting of dwarfing peaks and volcanic lakes, hanging heavily with old mans beard, these trees had the ethereal air of a painting by Thomas Kincaid. Unlike the paintings of that American master of light, I sensed a darkness there. In times of strife I have found great comfort in lowland British woodlands, surrounded by life one feels more alive, more at home here than a house, the plants like familiar faces. Out here in the boonies, nature felt harder, indifferent to our concerns, it just is.

Our typical explorers meal of hot smoked steelhead and grits was washed down with hot coffee and icy Laphroig whisky. The greasy plates wiped with more old mans beard and tossed into the frozen creek bed fire – for a few moments animating strange shapes deep in forest. The pair of us slept in our well used hammocks amongst the native conifers, just inside the forest, a little distance from where we had hung our food from bears, fifty miles from the nearest building which at that time of year would have been empty.

Like most of Stephen King's novels and films the Shining uses a supernatural mysterious force, the wendigo or a soured burial ground to draw the characters dark side towards expression. The terrifying aspects of denied subconscious forces, that may unwind their own narrative beneath the surface.

Socially unacceptable, personally undesirable leftover aspects of the personality that surface when the guard is let down, like the friendly old bachelor who becomes bitter and lecherous in drink, an argument with a loved one that cuts deeper than a stranger's ever could.


.........

Funny how after getting ill, one often feels better than one did before. I had a very nasty throat infection, possibly from the shared coconut cup. More likely I felt, that after truly relaxing the bugs took their chance to catch me. After four days where every swallow hurt, and my lips swelled up I finally admitted defeat and bought some amoxycillin, vit C and echinacia which licked it in a few days. Tea tree can only do so much!

The place I am writing from now could not be more different. I am looking upon banana palms barely moving, framing a postcard scene of a turquoise sea meeting a powder blue early morning sky. A few long thin strips of cloud, perfectly parallel the ship less horizon. Six or seven puffs of cloud have hugged the same quarter of the sky since my last cup of coffee.

Rarotonga is at the same latitude as two places I have still have a yearning to visit, Madagascar, the Chilean dessert and the Great Barrier Reef. The Islands occupy a sea area of over 2 million square kilometers, though Cook never set foot here on this largest of the Archipelago. Unlike other places on this global wander the island is as hassle free as one could imagine a tropical New Zealand dependent in the South Pacific could be. There are no poisonous snakes, sharks, or dangerous mammals, the people friendly and laid back. The dogs that roam around the island bark half heartedly a menace only to to moped drivers.

The hillstation where I was to spend the two weeks was like the rest of t island in this current crisis almost totally empty. In a place which could easily accomodate thirty five, there were three of us. The big kitchen still had plenty of food left over from other guests, just as well, as the prices in the shops were pretty high. I had wrongly put the remains of my NZ Manuka honey in the amnesty box at the airport grrr.

The other guests were an Irish chap and an older guy from Middlesborough. He had visited the Islands two years before, and had helped the maid escape from a landlord who was expecting her to clean and cook for him besides paying rent.



She invided the older guy and myself to drink kava with them at the house she was now living in. Kava is a bre native to Fiji. It is the ground root of the plant piper methsycum, which is drunk from coconut shells in rounds. I was unexpectedly given the speak of honour, next to the server, who stirred the fine powder through a cloth in a large bowl to made the muddy tasting liquid.

It is drunk in one go, otherwise the tongue goes numb and very slowly, very gently produces a pleasant lucid, relaxing state. In no way intoxicating, though we drank it steadily through the evening the effect was similar in effect to camomile tea. The gentle and friendly manner of these Fijian emigrees touched us greatly. We were encouraged to drink a beer at the end to wash the kava away. Though we had brought several cans with us, they gave us beer and a delicious chicken, taro and cocoanut curry to take away. They did warn us however, that the next day we would be more than lazy.

Fourteen hours sleep lazy infact – I awoke, aware I had been dreaming a lot, but felt very well rested. I eased myself into a gentle yoga practice. This spot seemed the perfect place to rest, write and plan the next stage of the trip.

I took this time to get back into yoga practice, it is a lot easier to do when somewhere warm. Yoga on the deck beside the pool is always preferable to a cramped hotel room, glad of the extra warmth of the possum hair blanket I picked up in NZ.

Over the two weeks I met a couple from the UK, Ant and Pavela who regularly visted Threecliffs having relations in Linkside, and enjoyed singalongs with the guitar. Ant was another ex-IT person, taking time out, and a great musician, composing a song about the beef curry I was making with the few ingrediants we could find left by previous guests!

I could not resist wandering into the university, and after mentioning my intrest in improvisation, and local ingenuity I was introduced to the director who showed a keen interest, and helpfuly pointed me in the direction of some appropriate literature.

Too soon, Ant and Pavela were to leave, we went out for a few drinks and met Ralph, at 6'7” the smallest of seven brothers. His sister at 6'5” holds the current olympic gold for shot put. Though he claimed to be getting drunk for the second time that day, he gave me a fascinating account of the migration routes, and navigation methods of his forebears. He described a coconut shell, filled with oil, and having very acurrately bored holes to get a transit line from the southern cross.

The hillstation was now home to three of us, two younger lads on their first big trip. So nice to meet people of that age who are not getting drunk every night on their parents money. The food available in the supermarkets was not great, but we shared making some great meals from the abundant coconuts, star fruit, bananas growing nearby and canned tuna. My little axe was a great help getting through the tough fibrous shells of the coconuts, and the juice delicious. The guys were amateur boxers and really took to yoga, joining me for sessions every day, I am looking forward to hearing how they find home, when they make it back in a few short weeks.

I decided to look up the titles I had been recommended by Ralph and the director of the university. I fell into conversation with the owner of the bookshop who recommended one title. He thought it was totally appropriate to my endevour to live the principles of improvisation I had been exploring. He doubted I would find a copy though, as it was long out of print, and not well known.

The title was “Confessions of a Supertramp by W.H. Davies”, published in 1908 describing six years intermittently working, and begging across America and Canada by a poetic soul yearning for peace and struggling for self-expression. He was from Pill Newport, South Wales.

I had that very title in my backpack! My lovely writing friend had bought me a copy in a booksale in a one horse town back in New Zealand! It was right next to the biography of Margaret Meads I had bought for her.

New Zealand retrospective Part II

I certainly had a lot to think about on those first days in Christchurch,NZ. I arrived from Sydney the day before Anzac day and spent the first few nights in a Base Backpackers, I try to avoid these more popular ones, they are loud, expensive and do not allow alcohol. Of course this made me want to drink – the easiest way to make me do something is to tell me I am not allowed.

The first thing I noticed about New Zealand was the change of pace, even in the city the traffic was pretty slow and sedate, the architecture more British. The Irish bar around the corner from the hostel contained a couple of old guys who I joined them to hear re-tellings of their fathers stories from Galipoli. A close cropped thick set bloke approached our group, and asked if I was a marine, apparently Buffallo tops like the one I was wearing are hard to get, but considered good kit as I have found them to be.

The Cathedral in Christchurch held an early remembrance service, I was sorry to have slept through , arriving in time to see young Cadets salute the cenotaph solemnly, placing a poppy – then giggling and chatting moments later.

On my second day of wandering I called into an antiques shop, amazed to see in the window two Doulton figurines, a cottage shaped butter lid and silver soap dish I knew from my Grandmothers house. When coincidences start like this it tends to be a catalyst for more – probably selective attention, but thats not the whole story.

The next shop was a book store in the window I saw five books from my own collection, two by authors I had met in person. The lady in charge was very helpful in my quest to find books on Kiwi ingenuity and put some titles by for me, including one I had not spotted from the Centre for Alternative Technology and a great volume of personally influential environmental essays I had never found bound together before.

Walking back to the hostel with my bundle I called into a map to plan my trip and got talking to the owner, a former marine who also remarked on my top. He had been camping in Three Cliffs Bay, Gower, where I work often, only two weeks before bivvying in the exact spot I had spent many formative nights as a young teenager!

Back at the hostel I met Nicholas, a thoughtful Argentina guy from Cordoba, a city I had visited on my first solo trip, and was interested to hear how the experiences of living there in the current downturn compared with those of difficult years after their economic crash. We became friends and I was happy to have someone to listen to on the drive down to Queenstown.

My transport was a Toyota Sprinter with a suspicious stain above the passenger seat, which could have been blood or coffee, I was never quite sure. We stopped en route at Lake Takapo to camp out under a tarp, it had been too long coming, I needed an uninterrupted view of the sky and camp fire. We cooked pork and beef steaks planked beside the fire and made a great sauce with tomatoes, chillis, anchovies and herby cream cheese triangles. With my Buffallo, wool cap, bergen and his parka we looked like we were on our way to Goose Green. Being sympatico we drank toasts of cheap red wine to our shared heroes including Che Guevara, George Borges and John Lennon until the box was empty.

Queenstown is the place to go if you want to jump off, or slide down something very high or fast relatively cheaply. My folks will be pleased to hear I did none of those things, content to enjoy the jaw dropping scenery and local characters.

One memorable encounter was with a huge kiwi who had walked from Auckland to Queenstown over the previous three months wearing a Swandri shirt (A long heavyweight woolen top, normally worn by farmers), board shorts full of strong beers and flip flops.

He was bit of a handful around the bars with his unique brand of humour. In the first bar, he asked the barmaid her favorite animal.

She said “An otter”,

He replied that an “an otter is a poor choice, it has very small ears and smells of fish ...” his favourite, appropriately, an elephant, was far better.

“Well I like otters, with their little hands!” she replied. The kiwi maintained that an elephant was far more impressive, could lift logs with its nose, and has much better ears, while the queue was getting deeper and impatient. He then confounded us by conversing at length with others in fluent Spanish and Japanese!

The hostel was pleasant enough, but not being much of a drinker or keen to do anything “extreme” with a 100 percent safety record I dropped off the Argentinian guy at his bus, and drove West across the Island to Dunedin to visit an old uni friend who since I last saw him had settled there, marrying a lovely kiwi girl Michelle and had a two week old son Alfie. They were so welcoming, even though the little fella was feeding every one and a half hours. It was wonderful to catch up, having not seen one other for six years, and though so many things had happened, we were still the same in many ways. Sitting down to the first sunday roast in six months was such a treat, as were the friends and family invited to join us, thanks guys!

I then headed back to Christchurch, excitedly awaiting the arrival the special lady writer who made leaving Newcastle so hard. The hotel by the airport came as a deal including breakfast and free drinks, but we were too late coming down. After explaining about the delayed flight and how we were so looking forward to catching the Hot Springs at Hanmer before dark, the staff relented, and made us a special picnic that really made the day.

The hot pools were much appreciated after the long drive and our log cabin very cosy, but next morning I could not find my camera – containing the shots of camping at Takapo, my visit to Gregs little family and other precious moments. Worse, I still had on the camera photos of bank cards I had not got around to encrypting. It was a terrible feeling driving back to our picnic spot, I remembered putting it down on the boot, but not what happened next, I did not expect to see it again.

Amazingly, after giving up on the park we drove off, but spied it beside the road on the grassy verge ofter a corner. A little damp, but otherwise unharmed by its travels and night out– we picked up a hitchhiker in the rain in an attempt to pass our good luck on, and it was....

Takaka – a hippy village at the top of the South Island was a very chilled place to spend a few days, with great organic meals, good coffee, and the best and cheapest accommodation so far. By this point my new friend had heard many of my silly stories, including my homemade orange wine named matchmaker for its resemblance to the chocolate orange confection, and the several couples who got together through loosing all inhibitions after drinking it.

Over breakfast in the hippy hostel I saw a familiar face, but I could not remember where from. It was she who remembered first, “Second year! Aberystwyth Uni, you used to have a big beard and kept squirrels in the fridge, there was a party, we got devastatingly drunk on orange wine!” We asked after mutual friends from those heady student days and shook our heads in disbelief, small world indeed.

Over the next few weeks we shared an amazing time visiting sights and having a very touristy time of it, whilst covering a lot of ground, rarely staying more than one night in any place.

New Zealand retrospective Part I

I had not blogged my adventures in New Zealand at the time, and confined my last communications from Australia to sparse emails to a few close friends and family. The irony is, the more that happens the less one blogs about it. The best parts of this adventure may never be told, they are jewels I want to keep for myself. Now in the Cooks Islands there is no excuse not to catch up with the blog.

It was a sad time leaving friends old and new in Newcastle, New South Wales. To make the most of my last few days I traveled through the night to make my flight rather than spending the day before in my departure city. Sometimes its better to be busy rather than having time to brood.

The first few days in a new country I tend to walk about do not socialize much, some fruit in my rucksack, a map sometimes, and a book if I want to hide away, but mostly follow my nose. It is such a luxury of solo travel to do this, for me an essential stage in bedding down the experiences of the past, and leveling space for the next adventure.

Hostels can be such tiresome places, people often talk about where they have been, and where they are going, rarely where they are at. One can travel the well worn path through Asia and onto Australia and New Zealand in a safe but expensive bubble, polishing tales for better reception. I do not blame the people who do this, I am sure if I had started this adventure at twenty I would have done pretty much the same, recalling the strange, lost feelings of my first solo trip, when arriving in a new city without a reservation seemed daring. When seeing a group of Westerners I would want to be part of it, like a lonely island dog.

There may be no new frontier, but one can go always go deeper. If the sights tire, then one can always look to the infinite landscape inside – thats where the real journey begins. If one always seek the comfort of others one can only go so far. There are so much more to ask than “Where did you go?”, “Where did you drink?”, “Did you get sick?”

Something vital is lost when a journey becomes anecdotes. With new people only really wants to share the highlights – the parts that shock or make people laugh incredulous. But it is the darker times really transform, the losses or burning of naive illusions that allow the spirit to ascend. A lonesome walk though an industrial landscape may have an inner quality, one could never have in natural beauty.

If one moves rapidly between countries while connecting deeply with the people and landscape, there must be a time to reflect alone, knowing that even in a group the experiences are the product of one's own previous experiences and combinations of feelings you alone have felt, making travel the loneliest pursuit.

Sydney, Newcastle - friends and reminiscences

yndey was beginning to feel like any other big city, not like I expected it to be at all which I put down to us so often seen aerial shot, when on the ground it looks like any other Western port city, was I becoming jaded?

I was looking forward to catching up with Nicola and Craig, friends from the UK I had not seen in almost three years. It would be lovely to see them both – Nicola and I had taught together on some really memorable bushcraft adventures. Craig had been through the same vipassa course I had followed in India. Though I knew him less well – we had a lot in common through our experience, even though one is very much alone with ones thoughts.

This mood was soon lifted by a message Janelle, a travel companion from Cambodia, and program exec for MTV. I'm not sure what she does really, but it includes deciding when programs go on air and seeing lots of gigs. We caught over a duck and hoisin pizza, a new one to me, aove the harbour bridge. She had another gig that night, and after the guy fitting in the room, I needed to catch up on sleep.

We later spent a lovely day seeing the sights of Bondi and North Sydney. Not like I imagined either, Bondi reminded me a little of Langland. At her flat I had used google earth to find Nicolas house, and walked there from the Train Station at Newcastle. She was away, but had left a key on a seat occupied my Maude the tortoiseshell cat who shared her house with two other girls.

Nicola, had invited me to stay at her flat in Newcastle a few hours outside Sydney, I was excited to see a familiar face and also to catch up with Aimelee a fellow South Walian I had met on a rainforest adventure in Borneo. Aimeelee had recently moved to town from up north, where she had been working as a psychiatric nurse with the aboriginal community, having felt stifled at home!

The key would not open the door, I had not found the other entrance to the flat on the other side of the house. Carefully moving the mirror, bottles of perfume and tooth glasses from the shelf, I was able to climb in through the window without spilling anything. The cat was upset at my presence, but sluttishly rubbed around my legs when I filled her bowls and stopped mewling, though she did not like to be stoked much.

Nicola had left instructions to help myself from her cupboard and to sleep in her room while she was away hangliding, and I took great pleasure relaxing, stretching and reading the great collection of books in the living room – so many familiar from my own shelves. Some expected counter culutre heroes: - Chomsky, Nietzche, Lao Tzu and some self help books, one on tarot another on neo-tantra.

Dawson Street is full of pretentious cafes with names like zinc and three monkeys, though at least here the yuppies had not totally taken over, and there was still an edge to the city. The industry was giving way to tourism in the same way as Swansea, and like my home town was struggling with its identity.

Craig took me out for several days whitewater canoing at the centre where he has been instructing. Through 11ks I was blown away by the scenery, drank lots of river water and learned not to grap at branches! By the second day on the river I had got better control. A sit on top this time – very similar to the one I used at home. Even so I got wet, the only one to stay dry was a child, on their first time – so much for experience.

Craig and I We camped out that night, I cooked potatoes in the fire had an interesting chat with other campers, teachers ans students of a Christian resilance course. On the third day we were sat on a hill after meditation, enjoying a meal of pasta and putanesca sauce, overlooking a beautiful area, soon to become an opencast mine if plans go ahead.

I returned to Nicola's, glad to rest my muscles and met her housemates. We got really well, sharing stories, explored the coast, and had some memorable free meals. Its amazing what supermarkets through away, when a new delivery arrives it seems the existing stock is thrown, no matter what its condition. We scored a mountain of lemons, eggs, melons, potatoes – several weeks worth from the bins. We dined well, drank gin and saw an inspirational but disturbing gothic puppet show.

Craig invited to call around before I left, we went out for lunch, and were walking back, when I saw a sign for the Austrailian Institute of Celtic studies. The institute was closed, but over the course of my telephone enquiry the directors, a husband and wife invited me out to dinner at their club. Real Bob Hope Country, and an interesting conversation that touched on many aspects of Celtic identity and the experiences of the early settlers.

Though I had planned to leave for Sydney that morning, I made a lovely new friend who convinced me to stay a while longer....

Two Countries behind, what happened?

A lot, thats what! I have a load of notes and pictures ready nearly ready to post. While in Asia it was a lot easier to post, anonymous people and the cultural differences were the experience. Now back in the West, it is real, identifiable, people who take up most of my thoughts.

In my next post, I will post my notes organised into a rough chronology. I am now in Santa Barbara having passed LA by without looking back, having flown ten hours from the Cook Islands. I could eat a scabby horse, but will post soon I promise.

Jim x