After ten days in the amazing northern islands, we (as in Dee and I) were spending the night on Manta Ray Beach Resort, drinking funny named cocktails and trying to ignore the tropical storm around us. All of a sudden, her glass empty, Dee stood up and went to bed; I wished her goodnight with my glass of Manta Ray Island Ice Tea still half full, adding “Just the time to finish the cocktail, and I’ll go to bed too!”
It was almost midnight and little I knew…
So, here I am fighting with the remnants of the cocktail, observing a bunch of people shotgunning beer, when drunk Irish Pauline approaches me, sits on my lap, puts her arm around my neck and starts talking in my ear, too joyful and cute for me to ignore… And all of a sudden I find myself sitting at the table with her and 3 others -her Irish friend, an Aussie guy and a totally drunk American octopus-, the glass left empty on the bench, a cold can of beer in my hands. If we all, every now and then, get very silly ideas, when drunk and abroad these very silly ideas tend to assume an extremely cool appearance and like an aura of inevitability. And so it starts as a shy whisper and ends with the 5 of us walking on the beach, heavy wind blowing, and heavy rain pissing down. And from there, it is an instant and you could see these terrestrial mammals floating on the stormy ocean half naked, a show as unnatural and against any survival instinct as it would be the one of fish that keep their breath and jump on the rock to get sun tanned… Anyway, time and beer go by in between the black ocean and the freezing beach, and I wake up in bed the morning after, sand all over, the tropical storm still knocking on the window, the bones and the brain still wet and creaky. And then it was a dull morning, trying somehow to get dry amidst an almost horizontal rain, getting ready to jump on the boat and start the descent toward South Sea Island; hoping to leave the bad weather in Manta Ray.
Alas, little I knew…
In the Mamanucas and Yasawas, due to the small size of the islands, the lack of proper docks and, above all, the presence of miles and miles of shallow reefs, the big boat (or catamaran that is) can’t get ashore, having to stop well before the coast. And so, it is routine in these islands to board small boats that will eventually get you to the big one. So, in this case we’ve got two small boats full of holidaymakers and one small boat full with the holidaymakers’ bags… A little digression: as soon as I arrived in Fiji, partly because of the amazing scenery (green, volcanic mountains surrounded by the ocean, and all over lush tropical vegetation), partly because of the weather, hot and often humid, partly because of the importance of kava in these islands life, I instantly understood the real meaning of what the natives proudly call “Fiji time”: it looks like these islands float in a dimension were hurry is not an option, time is so stretched that an hour can fluctuate from 15 up to 180 minutes. And so, here we are in these boats, the holidaymakers and the bags, just off the reef (less than 30 meters off the coast), cats and dogs raining from the sky, waiting for the catamaran to pick us up. After an hour or so, the bags and the holidaymakers totally soaked, we can finally see it approaching. Fuck, just get on board, find a sit and get some warm, comfortable sleep.
But little I knew of what was laying ahead…
The journey starts, the ocean is rough, the catamaran parts the waves amidst the excitement of the people, laughing at all this bouncing. It feels like being on the roller coaster, people laughing and screaming, as they are aware that this is only entertainment, safety is obviously paramount and there’s nothing to worry about. Then, at some point, the bouncing gets heavier and heavier, the crests get higher and higher, people still laugh and scream, but you can hear some of these laughs start having a hysterical nuance. Anyway, the fun goes on for five more minutes, taken to a sudden halt the moment that the catamaran bounces, lands on the water and the following wave (or preceding that is) is so big that smashes on the windows of the lower deck, for a second fully obstructing the view of the outside world. Few people still try and see the funny side of the situation but you can feel that panic is slowly taking over. The hostess, who has already seen all this, smiling moves around the deck providing people with paper bags… The captain takes the mike to announce that “we have very rough conditions and the journey will be extremely uncomfortable throughout the Yasawa.” (yeah, thanks for letting us know!) Five minutes of more and more extreme bouncing and you can hear distressed voices on the lower deck asking the captain, who anyway can’t hear them as he’s staying in the upper deck, to slow down. Then the catamaran hits yet another wave, the splashing is so powerful that not only hits the windows, but also water begins entering the lower deck. At this point, no one laughs anymore, there are few people screaming, but they are screaming out of fear… As for us (as in Dee, Meghan and myself), we cope with it pretty well, no puking, no panic, but it’s difficult to ignore the negative karma that is spreading around (not to mention the smell of vomit…); there’s a woman next to us that is crying, desperate, there’s another that at some point faints, I’m observing the faces of the hostesses and of the few Fijian people on board. They look all right, so I just close my eyes and try and forget the bad feeling that is inevitably moving around my stomach. After a while, in the middle of this big storm in the open ocean, the catamaran stops the engine and all the crewmembers (including the captain, apart from the hostesses) go outdoor to fix something on the bow, totally exposed to the violence of the sea (I was told afterwards that they were tightening the lifeboats to the catamaran…). In this very moment, it’s as if the deck freezes and holds its breath, hence no more talking, screaming, or vomiting. After ten very uncomfortable minutes, the crew begins re-entering the deck, totally soaked. When it comes to the captain, a longhaired, Polynesian featured and tattooed sea dog, people break the tense silence and start clapping, as if they want to convince themselves that all got fixed. Eventually all gets fixed and the engine is ready to roar again! However, the water keeps on coming in, defying the “watertight” door and the efforts of the hostess trying to properly lock it. The smell of vomit gets more and more pungent, the karma around is so negative that you would think that, after the trip, the catamaran will be in need for an exorcist; people start going to the outdoor upper deck, desperately trying to avoid sea sickness. It is impossible to get an exact idea of time in such a situation (and without a watch), but after few hours of this evil’s deed, the catamaran finally leaves behind the Yasawa group and the stormy weather and begins accelerating, trying to make up for the lost time. Smile gets back on people faces, everyone feels relieved and a bit more relaxed; and Beach Comber Island gets closer and closer. Just a little longer and we’ll be ashore!
That’s what we all thought, but alas little we knew…
All happens very suddenly, a Fijian guy whispering “Where are we going?” and then a bang, a bruising noise, and…
For some (in particular for the people that had to catch a plane the same day and the ones that got very sick and took the bumpy journey a bit too “personally”) that was the so-called “last straw that broke the camel’s back”, transforming a bad adventure into a nightmare. As for us, and everyone that managed to keep the cool during the bumpy journey (minus the people too sensitive about environmental matters), such an ending twisted the story; from a memory to share with people when the subject is “adventurous journey by sea”, it became an anecdote to talk about under the header “surreal experiences of life”… As for me, after the night I had before the journey, these will also be remembered as the most humid 24 hours of my life so far…
Friday
Animals
CAUCASIAN EYES
The shy possum
The defiant parrot
The collared dog
ABORIGINAL EYES
The flying pig
The arboreal dragon
The ancient turtle
The shy possum
The defiant parrot
The collared dog
ABORIGINAL EYES
The flying pig
The arboreal dragon
The ancient turtle
Sunday
Learning curve
LESSON #1: THE GOON
(A word is enough to the wise)
Picture:
Definition (taken from the dictionary):
Cask wine is also known as "goon" in Australia ("goon" is diminutive slang for flagon, the large bottles used before casks)
Definition (the Australian “urban legend”):
It's Aboriginal word for "pillow" because when you open the box of wine, it's actually a pouch that you can re-inflate into a pillow.
I’ve heard the word goon for the first time last week, while I was travelling down south (more details on my journey will be posted soon-ish). When I’ve been told its supposed Aboriginal origin, I thought that, sadly, this was perfect to summarize the conditions of native Australians, totally alienated in their own land, drinking terrible, cheap wine as a way to escape from their own demons. As soon as I got back to Perth, I went on Internet and did some research on the word and, quite surprisingly, I found out that its etymology has nothing to do with Aboriginal language. And so, doubly sad, I got to the conclusion that not only the goon is a perfect example to depict the conditions of the natives, but also it perfectly explains the way they are perceived by the big white galah…
LESSON #2: THE ART OF JUGGLING
(And the credit crunch)
Now, to cheer up a bit, while travelling down south I also had a vision ;)
Eventually, it all came up thanks to the wilderness of Australia and to the idea of survival in conditions that are not the ones I’m used to… Anyway, to make a long story short, I thought of Einstein quote, “I do not know how the third World War will be fought, but I can tell you what they will use in the Fourth… rocks!” and thought that maybe this is the Third World War and that the weapon being used is money. In any case, regardless of the Third, I think that Einstein was totally right about the Fourth World War and the way it will be fought. And so I thought I should start getting ready for it, you never know ;)
And so
I'm a thinkin' and thinkin', 'til there's nothin' I ain't thunk
And I came to the conclusion that, should we get to a “Fist of the North Star”-like scenario (or “Ken il guerriero” if you are Italian, “Hokuto no Ken” its original title, in any case, a post-atomic war scenario…), or should we get back to Medieval behaviors, beliefs and technology, well, then with my skills I’d be totally screwed up. Not brutal enough and too sensitive to go to war, too sincere and intellectually honest to get power (whether it’s religion or politics), too urban and totally unaware of what real physical exertion is to live according to nature, I’d be hopelessly screwed up.
And so
I'm a thinkin' and thinkin', 'til there's nothin' I ain't thunk
And I realized that people would not refuse to give some hot food and a shelter to a minstrel… Unfortunately I’m not a musician, but I’m sort of confident on the fact that I could tell stories and entertain people with them. However, that alone is not enough in rough times: words can be dangerous and a storyteller must put a mask of foolishness if he wants to survive.
And so
I'm a thinkin' and thinkin', 'til there's nothin' I ain't thunk
And here you are the results of all this bloody thinking ;)
(A word is enough to the wise)
Picture:
Definition (taken from the dictionary):
Cask wine is also known as "goon" in Australia ("goon" is diminutive slang for flagon, the large bottles used before casks)
Definition (the Australian “urban legend”):
It's Aboriginal word for "pillow" because when you open the box of wine, it's actually a pouch that you can re-inflate into a pillow.
I’ve heard the word goon for the first time last week, while I was travelling down south (more details on my journey will be posted soon-ish). When I’ve been told its supposed Aboriginal origin, I thought that, sadly, this was perfect to summarize the conditions of native Australians, totally alienated in their own land, drinking terrible, cheap wine as a way to escape from their own demons. As soon as I got back to Perth, I went on Internet and did some research on the word and, quite surprisingly, I found out that its etymology has nothing to do with Aboriginal language. And so, doubly sad, I got to the conclusion that not only the goon is a perfect example to depict the conditions of the natives, but also it perfectly explains the way they are perceived by the big white galah…
LESSON #2: THE ART OF JUGGLING
(And the credit crunch)
Now, to cheer up a bit, while travelling down south I also had a vision ;)
Eventually, it all came up thanks to the wilderness of Australia and to the idea of survival in conditions that are not the ones I’m used to… Anyway, to make a long story short, I thought of Einstein quote, “I do not know how the third World War will be fought, but I can tell you what they will use in the Fourth… rocks!” and thought that maybe this is the Third World War and that the weapon being used is money. In any case, regardless of the Third, I think that Einstein was totally right about the Fourth World War and the way it will be fought. And so I thought I should start getting ready for it, you never know ;)
And so
I'm a thinkin' and thinkin', 'til there's nothin' I ain't thunk
And I came to the conclusion that, should we get to a “Fist of the North Star”-like scenario (or “Ken il guerriero” if you are Italian, “Hokuto no Ken” its original title, in any case, a post-atomic war scenario…), or should we get back to Medieval behaviors, beliefs and technology, well, then with my skills I’d be totally screwed up. Not brutal enough and too sensitive to go to war, too sincere and intellectually honest to get power (whether it’s religion or politics), too urban and totally unaware of what real physical exertion is to live according to nature, I’d be hopelessly screwed up.
And so
I'm a thinkin' and thinkin', 'til there's nothin' I ain't thunk
And I realized that people would not refuse to give some hot food and a shelter to a minstrel… Unfortunately I’m not a musician, but I’m sort of confident on the fact that I could tell stories and entertain people with them. However, that alone is not enough in rough times: words can be dangerous and a storyteller must put a mask of foolishness if he wants to survive.
And so
I'm a thinkin' and thinkin', 'til there's nothin' I ain't thunk
And here you are the results of all this bloody thinking ;)
Wednesday
I had a dream
I fall asleep and I am in Brighton, my adopted city, walking on the seafront.
As you would expect from a dream, the reality is warped, reshaped by the subconscious according to the current state of the dreamer.
And so, here I am in Brighton, walking on the seafront, a sweet smell filling the air, the scent of palm and agave basking in the sun. The shouts of seagulls rent the air. In the dream, they are as aggressive as you would expect, their dull, glassy eyes observing you, as if they were waiting for a reaction. All in all, it’s only their size that does not match reality.
Not far, on a dry strip of land, the number one enemy of seagull is pecking: it is the pigeon, also known as “the flying rat”. But in this dream things look smoother and friendlier. And so, for the sake of aesthetics, the colors are swapped: the body and the head are pink, and the claws are gray. You would think this is a lovely bird; eventually you could say that it is a parrot.
Next detail getting my attention is a shop serving fish and chips, the glorious fast food of the British Empire. Everything looks real in this dream, the only funny thing being the name of the shop: “Brighton Fish’n’Chips”. Why would you name your shop after the city it’s in? But, although I’m sleeping, somehow I’m aware of the fact that this is not reality, and so the name makes a lot of sense: it’s like a sign that the subconscious puts in the dream, to confirm that I’m really walking on Brighton seafront.
Ok, time to approach the beach. It’s there that I fully understand that this is lucid dreaming and I laugh at the tricks of the mind: a sign reading “Brighton beach”, mixing Brighton reality (Strong Currents), Australian cliché (Large Waves and Snakes), and unknown elements (what the f&*k are Sandbars, I wonder… probably just a word that I heard/read somewhere before falling asleep).
Sometimes I wonder how you feel when you are dead (assuming you can feel anything) and how different is that state compared to the condition of being asleep. Clearly I don’t know the answer, and it’s not the purpose of this blog to give one, but rationally there is one thing that I’m sure of: if you are asleep you always wake up… And often, the passage between dream and reality is smooth, with the two melting together, probably in order to make less bitter the feeling of being awake yet again (sorry, some emo thinking emerging from my adolescence…): and so the kid that is pissing in bed dreams of water, the worker that set up an alarm in the evening dreams of lousy and annoying noises.
And so, in this lucid dreaming, a car sounds the horn and laughing, in my dream, I think: “Ok, worker, it’s time to wake up! Bloody alarm is ringing…” And what a surprise when I open my eyes and I realize that all this was not a dream, but a crazy walk underneath the Australian sun ended with me fainting in the middle of Brighton road…
As you would expect from a dream, the reality is warped, reshaped by the subconscious according to the current state of the dreamer.
And so, here I am in Brighton, walking on the seafront, a sweet smell filling the air, the scent of palm and agave basking in the sun. The shouts of seagulls rent the air. In the dream, they are as aggressive as you would expect, their dull, glassy eyes observing you, as if they were waiting for a reaction. All in all, it’s only their size that does not match reality.
Not far, on a dry strip of land, the number one enemy of seagull is pecking: it is the pigeon, also known as “the flying rat”. But in this dream things look smoother and friendlier. And so, for the sake of aesthetics, the colors are swapped: the body and the head are pink, and the claws are gray. You would think this is a lovely bird; eventually you could say that it is a parrot.
Next detail getting my attention is a shop serving fish and chips, the glorious fast food of the British Empire. Everything looks real in this dream, the only funny thing being the name of the shop: “Brighton Fish’n’Chips”. Why would you name your shop after the city it’s in? But, although I’m sleeping, somehow I’m aware of the fact that this is not reality, and so the name makes a lot of sense: it’s like a sign that the subconscious puts in the dream, to confirm that I’m really walking on Brighton seafront.
Ok, time to approach the beach. It’s there that I fully understand that this is lucid dreaming and I laugh at the tricks of the mind: a sign reading “Brighton beach”, mixing Brighton reality (Strong Currents), Australian cliché (Large Waves and Snakes), and unknown elements (what the f&*k are Sandbars, I wonder… probably just a word that I heard/read somewhere before falling asleep).
Sometimes I wonder how you feel when you are dead (assuming you can feel anything) and how different is that state compared to the condition of being asleep. Clearly I don’t know the answer, and it’s not the purpose of this blog to give one, but rationally there is one thing that I’m sure of: if you are asleep you always wake up… And often, the passage between dream and reality is smooth, with the two melting together, probably in order to make less bitter the feeling of being awake yet again (sorry, some emo thinking emerging from my adolescence…): and so the kid that is pissing in bed dreams of water, the worker that set up an alarm in the evening dreams of lousy and annoying noises.
And so, in this lucid dreaming, a car sounds the horn and laughing, in my dream, I think: “Ok, worker, it’s time to wake up! Bloody alarm is ringing…” And what a surprise when I open my eyes and I realize that all this was not a dream, but a crazy walk underneath the Australian sun ended with me fainting in the middle of Brighton road…
The kangaroo, the laughing bird and the mystery of jet lag
Day two
Perth 8am 24°C
Sitting on the patio, pink flowers and blue sky above my head, a hammock is laying next to me, just waiting to get hooked to the tree. Far too hot for a wannabe pommy…
Full on day, yesterday, I learned a new word (pommy or POM or Prisoner of Mother England), met a few lovely people (4 French guys, 1 Japanese girl and a German woman living in Thailand; no Aussies so far), and got a glimpse of the Australian way…
Here you are few tips: 1. Always wear sunscreen (30+), sunglasses and a hat; 2. Don’t worry if the notes look fake, they are not trying to rip you off; it’s waterproof money… 3. Beware of red-back spiders; they are not necessarily lethal, just make sure that, in case they bite you, you faint on a fluffy surface, avoiding banging your head against the pavement…
Full on day, yesterday, I also had a close encounter with kangaroos and kookaburras (or laughing birds). In case you are wondering, I haven’t had to zoom in to take the pictures, at least not for the kangaroos’ ones; and no, it is not a park, it is a cemetery, the gravestones being plates stuck on the ground, ashes buried underneath, no real flowers allowed (as they might poison the animals).
10.43am 30°C
Time to get going, another full on day ahead and 2 goals: try the Aussie beer and get some info on kite surfing.
And a mystery to solve… Since I arrived here (i.e. less than 36 hours ago) I’ve been waking up at 8am (11pm GMT) and I’ve been getting really sleepy at 8pm (11am GMT). Am I jet lagged? Clearly, the answer is “No, I’m not”. But that’s a bit of a superficial answer… In fact, assuming my body got accustomed to Australian time zone so quickly, how it comes that me, little vampire, lover of darkness, I’m going to bed with chickens and getting up with the sun still low on the horizon? What’s the mystery behind all this? Weave, weaver of the wind…
Time to get going, the sun is taking over the patio, the words are losing the meaning.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)