Way, way back in January, I wrote a post on this blog about how I was beset with endless choices about what I wanted to do while in Australia. I had just arrived, and was overwhelmed with the amount of amazing (and expensive) tours that were available to me. There was one tour, however, that stuck out above all the rest in terms of sheer awesomeness: a 5 day Learn-to-Dive course on the Great Barrier Reef that included a 3 day live aboard dive cruise. I knew from the get go that I wouldn’t leave Australia before taking part in this adventure. No matter where I went, the tour was always in the back of my mind, and when I left Fraser Island with a little over a week to spare in my Australian excursion, I knew exactly where I was headed.
It’s a good thing I followed my instincts, because it was fucking awesome.
My first stop was the city of Cairns, gateway to the Great Barrier Reef. It took me a bus ride, a boat ride, another bus ride, a train, a plane, and over 24 hours of travel to make it there, but I would do it again in a heartbeat. My fist two days were spent learning how to dive in the pool at the Pro-Dive training center in Cairns with my instructor Al, who, despite being fairly serious and at times scary, could do nothing to subdue my enthusiasm that holy shit I am breathing UNDERWATER. The pool training was so exciting to me that I was worried that I’d have an aneurysm as soon as I set fin in the reef.
The on-reef program consisted of 4 guided training dives to complete my open water certification, and then 5 independent dives, including an optional guided night dive. From the first time I hit the water to my last slow and gradual surface ascent, my mouth was wide open, and not just because I had a regulator in it for breathing. I may not have had an aneurysm, but I’m pretty sure I wet myself when I saw my first turtle, nonchalantly munching on coral while groups of divers swam next to him taking pictures. It’s a good thing that you can’t speak or make noise underwater, because I pretty much spent every dive making loud surprised noises whenever I saw anything even remotely interesting.
It would take me days to write out a complete synopsis of the trip, but thankfully I was smart enough to rent an underwater camera for the duration of the cruise. I was able to take a few decent pictures, including not only the turtle, but also the clown fish the coral the stingrays the THREE different kinds of sharks found on ONE dive the….
You get the point.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Day 134: We're Very Close to the End
My, how time has flown.
I arrived on Fraser Island seven weeks ago, unsure of what I was getting myself into, as usual, and not knowing what to expect. It seems like I’m still trying to learn all of my co-worker’s names (to be fair, 70% of my co-workers are Korean immigrants who speak limited English) and yet I’ll be heading off the island tomorrow. All in all, I’d give the whole experience good marks. I’ve got a pretty decent cash wad stored up in my aussie bank account, and I’ve made some pretty good friends here, but I can’t say that I’m going to miss the Fraser Island locale terribly. Maybe it’s because of my impending return to the states, which has me about as excited as a crack addict on a multi day bender, or maybe its because backpackers aren’t meant to be chained to one spot for too long. All I know is that my feet are itching to tread new ground.
Cleaning out my tiny cell block (I won’t bother calling it an apartment) I realized that I’d be repacking my bags for the last time tomorrow. I’ll be back to living out of my suitcase for my last 10 days in Australia before coming home to a permanent room once again. I’ve got a pretty awesome adventure planned for my last week in Australia, hence my leaving Fraser island before June 3rd. I’m a big believer in going out with a bang, and this upcoming escapade definitely qualifies as a bang.
I arrived on Fraser Island seven weeks ago, unsure of what I was getting myself into, as usual, and not knowing what to expect. It seems like I’m still trying to learn all of my co-worker’s names (to be fair, 70% of my co-workers are Korean immigrants who speak limited English) and yet I’ll be heading off the island tomorrow. All in all, I’d give the whole experience good marks. I’ve got a pretty decent cash wad stored up in my aussie bank account, and I’ve made some pretty good friends here, but I can’t say that I’m going to miss the Fraser Island locale terribly. Maybe it’s because of my impending return to the states, which has me about as excited as a crack addict on a multi day bender, or maybe its because backpackers aren’t meant to be chained to one spot for too long. All I know is that my feet are itching to tread new ground.
Cleaning out my tiny cell block (I won’t bother calling it an apartment) I realized that I’d be repacking my bags for the last time tomorrow. I’ll be back to living out of my suitcase for my last 10 days in Australia before coming home to a permanent room once again. I’ve got a pretty awesome adventure planned for my last week in Australia, hence my leaving Fraser island before June 3rd. I’m a big believer in going out with a bang, and this upcoming escapade definitely qualifies as a bang.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Day 107: Stories From Fraser Island
Life on Fraser Island is pretty secluded. With one bakery, one general store, and some scattered housing, I imagine it is fairly similar to the American mid-west. Nothing has happened here that deserves its own blog post, but there are a few amusing anecdotes to share:
1. The wildlife here is pretty crazy. Lizards ranging from 2 inches to 2 feet have been seen running across the grass in front of my building, plus the other night I saw a snake that I’m fairly sure was a Death Adder (one of the top five most poisonous snakes in the world). Today in my room, however, I noticed one of the aforementioned 2-inch lizards stuck between my bathroom window and the outer screen. Not wanting him to starve and die, I moved the window around, trying to let him free. He ended up in my bathroom, and when I grabbed him by the tail to pick him up, he fell to the floor and I was left with a twitching lizard tail in my hand.
2. I was serving dinner one night in the restaurant, clearing plates off tables, when a girl on one of the tours waved me over. She said that she didn’t want to seem weird, but said she recognized me and asked if I was from Canada. Being bored, I said that I was. She then asked if I had arrived in Sydney around the middle of January. That was indeed when I arrived, so I continued playing 20 questions with her. Her next question: “Were you ever hanging out with a guy named Clarke?” Wow, that’s awkward, I guess she did recognize me. Turns out she remembered me from one night I spent hanging out with her while I was still in Sydney. Small world.
3. Fraser Island is famous for having the last population of purebred dingoes in all of Australia. I wasn’t really impressed, until someone told me that the dingoes of Fraser Island are also famous for eating babies and other small children, and that they hunted like the velociraptors from Jurassic Park, with velociraptor flanking maneuvers and everything. With that in mind, you can imagine my surprise when a pair of dingoes came upon me on the beach one night. I jumped up and instantly checked over my shoulder, but luckily my size intimidated them and they kept moving, no doubt looking for an unguarded baby.
4. There is also a bar on the resort, where employees and overnight tour groups can go to party. A few nights ago, a pair of American girls were down at the bar and were causing quite a stir among the male staff members. I assumed that my being from America would give me an edge over my co-workers, so I went to talk to them. Everything was going fine, until I got up to order drinks at the bar with one of them. Before our drinks arrived, in the middle of conversation, the girl I am talking to yells out “IT SMELLS LIKE BIGFOOTS DICK IN HERE!”
That was my cue to give up, and possibly go home and put on more deoderant.
1. The wildlife here is pretty crazy. Lizards ranging from 2 inches to 2 feet have been seen running across the grass in front of my building, plus the other night I saw a snake that I’m fairly sure was a Death Adder (one of the top five most poisonous snakes in the world). Today in my room, however, I noticed one of the aforementioned 2-inch lizards stuck between my bathroom window and the outer screen. Not wanting him to starve and die, I moved the window around, trying to let him free. He ended up in my bathroom, and when I grabbed him by the tail to pick him up, he fell to the floor and I was left with a twitching lizard tail in my hand.
2. I was serving dinner one night in the restaurant, clearing plates off tables, when a girl on one of the tours waved me over. She said that she didn’t want to seem weird, but said she recognized me and asked if I was from Canada. Being bored, I said that I was. She then asked if I had arrived in Sydney around the middle of January. That was indeed when I arrived, so I continued playing 20 questions with her. Her next question: “Were you ever hanging out with a guy named Clarke?” Wow, that’s awkward, I guess she did recognize me. Turns out she remembered me from one night I spent hanging out with her while I was still in Sydney. Small world.
3. Fraser Island is famous for having the last population of purebred dingoes in all of Australia. I wasn’t really impressed, until someone told me that the dingoes of Fraser Island are also famous for eating babies and other small children, and that they hunted like the velociraptors from Jurassic Park, with velociraptor flanking maneuvers and everything. With that in mind, you can imagine my surprise when a pair of dingoes came upon me on the beach one night. I jumped up and instantly checked over my shoulder, but luckily my size intimidated them and they kept moving, no doubt looking for an unguarded baby.
4. There is also a bar on the resort, where employees and overnight tour groups can go to party. A few nights ago, a pair of American girls were down at the bar and were causing quite a stir among the male staff members. I assumed that my being from America would give me an edge over my co-workers, so I went to talk to them. Everything was going fine, until I got up to order drinks at the bar with one of them. Before our drinks arrived, in the middle of conversation, the girl I am talking to yells out “IT SMELLS LIKE BIGFOOTS DICK IN HERE!”
That was my cue to give up, and possibly go home and put on more deoderant.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Day 91: Surprise!
I'm no longer living in Melbourne! After working at the Melbourne Grand Prix, I decided to pack up my things and continue to drift aimlessly throughout Australia. As comfortable as I was living in Melbourne, during my last few weeks I started getting a travelers itch, a desire to move and see new places, so I returned to Sydney to plan the next stage of my trip.
Double surprise! I'm no longer in Sydney either.
I returned to Sydney right at the end of March, and spent a few days in the city as I had planned. I talked to some travel agents, spent some time at the offices of my job service, and was busy deciding what to do next when I experienced some good fortune. As I was surfing the internet at the Work and Travel Company offices, one of the job consultants came and asked me if I had any restaurant experience, and said the four magic words every traveler wants to hear: "Interested in resort work?"
Two days of bus and plane travel later I arrived on Fraser Island, a 75 mile long all-sand island off the coast of Queensland. The island is covered by a sub-tropical rain forest, with a small beach-side resort situated on the eastern coast. The resort is a tourism hub, serving as a base for people exploring the island's many bright blue freshwater lakes, and white sand beaches from the comfort of their SUVs.
The resort has one large restaurant area, and does buffet service at lunch and dinner, as well as some regular sit down meals in the evening. My average day starts at around 10, setting up for the lunch service. I work to just after 2, mostly busing tables, and then I have anywhere from 2 to 4 hours off before dinner starts, where I'm free to explore the island, or simply lie on the beach. After relaxing all afternoon, I work the restaurant during dinner, waiting the occasional table and acting as the host. I have my own room, including bathroom, and 3 meals a day provided by the restaurant.
Can I get a "Hell Yeah!"?
Double surprise! I'm no longer in Sydney either.
I returned to Sydney right at the end of March, and spent a few days in the city as I had planned. I talked to some travel agents, spent some time at the offices of my job service, and was busy deciding what to do next when I experienced some good fortune. As I was surfing the internet at the Work and Travel Company offices, one of the job consultants came and asked me if I had any restaurant experience, and said the four magic words every traveler wants to hear: "Interested in resort work?"
Two days of bus and plane travel later I arrived on Fraser Island, a 75 mile long all-sand island off the coast of Queensland. The island is covered by a sub-tropical rain forest, with a small beach-side resort situated on the eastern coast. The resort is a tourism hub, serving as a base for people exploring the island's many bright blue freshwater lakes, and white sand beaches from the comfort of their SUVs.
The resort has one large restaurant area, and does buffet service at lunch and dinner, as well as some regular sit down meals in the evening. My average day starts at around 10, setting up for the lunch service. I work to just after 2, mostly busing tables, and then I have anywhere from 2 to 4 hours off before dinner starts, where I'm free to explore the island, or simply lie on the beach. After relaxing all afternoon, I work the restaurant during dinner, waiting the occasional table and acting as the host. I have my own room, including bathroom, and 3 meals a day provided by the restaurant.
Can I get a "Hell Yeah!"?
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Day 79: This ain't no Mario Kart
It seems like forever ago that I packed up my bags and moved to Melbourne with promises of wonderful employment ringing in my ears. Despite the fact that those promises turned out to be false, I stuck around Melbourne because of my awesome apartment and managed to salvage the situation to a certain degree. I had a comfortable existence with food, entertainment, and at least one decent house mate. I soon forgot why I came to Melbourne in the first place, so you can imagine my surprise when the Melbourne Grand Prix rolled around, and I was contacted as a potential worker by the company that brought me to Melbourne in the first place. Not being one to turn down money and free entertainment, I reported for duty on the first day of the Melbourne Grand Prix.
I've never spent any time in the southern United States, or followed NASCAR at all, but if there are any similarities to the Formula 1 Grand Prix, then count me out. Even without the huge redneck stigma racing carries in the states, the Australian racing scene is much of the same: a very repetitive "sport" made more interesting by copious consumption of beer. The festival that surrounds the event, however, was at least mildly entertaining. The highlights:
1. Entertaining crashes: I happened to be standing around doing nothing during one of the more interesting moments of the weekend. One of several side-event races had just begun, consisting of luxury sports cars turned in to speed machines, when one of the drivers had to swerve to avoid a stalled car. He went off the road, smashed in to the wall and rebounded back on to the track directly into the middle of the pack of cars beginning the race. Nothing cures boredom like a literal 20 car pile-up of BMW's, Ferrari's, and Vipers.
2. Kangaroo Men: The festival surrounding the Grand Prix bares some resemblance to Seafair, including the bizarrely dressed performers, and without a doubt the most eye-catching of these performers were two men dressed as kangaroos, complete with spring loaded stilts. The stilts were disguised by enormous fake furry legs and feet, part of an ensemble that included tan body suits, furry kangaroo abs, a giant furry tale, and giant furry kangaroo balls... Thats right. The costumes were so detailed that they even included detachable furry balls.
I ran to get my camera as soon as I saw them, completely abandoning my work, but was crushed when I returned to find that they had moved on. Without a doubt, the most disappointing moment of the weekend.
I've never spent any time in the southern United States, or followed NASCAR at all, but if there are any similarities to the Formula 1 Grand Prix, then count me out. Even without the huge redneck stigma racing carries in the states, the Australian racing scene is much of the same: a very repetitive "sport" made more interesting by copious consumption of beer. The festival that surrounds the event, however, was at least mildly entertaining. The highlights:
1. Entertaining crashes: I happened to be standing around doing nothing during one of the more interesting moments of the weekend. One of several side-event races had just begun, consisting of luxury sports cars turned in to speed machines, when one of the drivers had to swerve to avoid a stalled car. He went off the road, smashed in to the wall and rebounded back on to the track directly into the middle of the pack of cars beginning the race. Nothing cures boredom like a literal 20 car pile-up of BMW's, Ferrari's, and Vipers.
2. Kangaroo Men: The festival surrounding the Grand Prix bares some resemblance to Seafair, including the bizarrely dressed performers, and without a doubt the most eye-catching of these performers were two men dressed as kangaroos, complete with spring loaded stilts. The stilts were disguised by enormous fake furry legs and feet, part of an ensemble that included tan body suits, furry kangaroo abs, a giant furry tale, and giant furry kangaroo balls... Thats right. The costumes were so detailed that they even included detachable furry balls.
I ran to get my camera as soon as I saw them, completely abandoning my work, but was crushed when I returned to find that they had moved on. Without a doubt, the most disappointing moment of the weekend.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Day 71: Important Life Lessons Halfway Through my Trip
It’s been awhile since I’ve written something up here, but in my defense not much has been happening. I’ll be doing an update more geared towards my future plans after the weekend, but for now I want to talk about an issue near and dear to my heart. Having Roommates.
Having a roommate in college is something I am now very much prepared for. I will go so far as to say that, for whoever is stuck sharing a room with me next year, the phrase “hosing lottery” will suddenly make a great deal of sense. I’m not saying that I am some perfect, godlike human being who is both smart and fun to hang out with, but I am saying that I have learned several things that make having me as a roommate, metaphorically, a prize. All of the following lessons I have learned from my wonderful French housemate Chris:
1. For starters, I will never use another person’s toiletries, because I am not a smelly Frenchman.
2. I will never leave the scraps of an entire roast chicken sitting out over night, and then giggle like a stupid Frenchman when confronted about my mess the next morning.I won’t simply ignore the horde of tiny flies that take up residence in our kitchen after said chicken incident, simply because I am French and used to wallowing in filth.
3. I won’t simply ignore the horde of tiny flies that take up residence in our kitchen after said chicken incident, simply because I am French and used to wallowing in filth.
4. I will let you know if I happen to have a lady friend over at night, instead of letting you walk in on us, because I am courteous and not some rude French person.
5. Most importantly, I will never, ever, ever, be French.
These lessons may seem oddly specific, but I find that they are incredibly important rules to follow for anyone wishing to be a good roommate for another person
(Authors Note: I am in no way shape or form seriously disparaging the French people as a whole, merely one person who happens to be French, and somehow meets every single stereotype of the French I as an American have ever known)
Having a roommate in college is something I am now very much prepared for. I will go so far as to say that, for whoever is stuck sharing a room with me next year, the phrase “hosing lottery” will suddenly make a great deal of sense. I’m not saying that I am some perfect, godlike human being who is both smart and fun to hang out with, but I am saying that I have learned several things that make having me as a roommate, metaphorically, a prize. All of the following lessons I have learned from my wonderful French housemate Chris:
1. For starters, I will never use another person’s toiletries, because I am not a smelly Frenchman.
2. I will never leave the scraps of an entire roast chicken sitting out over night, and then giggle like a stupid Frenchman when confronted about my mess the next morning.I won’t simply ignore the horde of tiny flies that take up residence in our kitchen after said chicken incident, simply because I am French and used to wallowing in filth.
3. I won’t simply ignore the horde of tiny flies that take up residence in our kitchen after said chicken incident, simply because I am French and used to wallowing in filth.
4. I will let you know if I happen to have a lady friend over at night, instead of letting you walk in on us, because I am courteous and not some rude French person.
5. Most importantly, I will never, ever, ever, be French.
These lessons may seem oddly specific, but I find that they are incredibly important rules to follow for anyone wishing to be a good roommate for another person
(Authors Note: I am in no way shape or form seriously disparaging the French people as a whole, merely one person who happens to be French, and somehow meets every single stereotype of the French I as an American have ever known)
Monday, March 1, 2010
Day 51: On Striking Gold
It may have taken a little longer than expected, but my luck has finally turned 12 days after finding that magical $50 lying in the street.
My new roommate Kashka may be the cleverest functional retard I have ever met. No matter how much he puts his foot in his mouth or how often he seems completely confused by simple tasks, underneath it all he is a genius. Case in point: after being taught poker by Clarke and I last week, and making some of the dumbest bets I’ve ever seen while learning, the three of us went to the casino last Friday night, but he was the only one of us who came out with more money than he entered with. So when he recommended that I go looking for work on Smith Street a few blocks from the apartment, I took his advice.
It was like finding treasure buried in my backyard.
As it turns out, I’m living within walking distance of the factory outlet of every major athletic and outdoor clothing retailer in the greater Melbourne area. Adidas, Nike, Converse, and half a dozen other major clothing retailers now have my resume, and almost all of them told me they were currently hiring in some capacity or another. Not surprising, seeing as how university students are returning to classes tomorrow, but hearing the phrase “why yes, we are hiring” so many times in the same day made my heart sing. For the first time since starting my job search, I saw a business with a help wanted sign, which was truly a sight for sore eyes.
The best part of the whole experience was when I asked Kashka if he knew that so many brand name clothing companies had clearance stores right next to each other. His eyes got all wide with interest and he said “Really? I may have to go there soon.” Priceless.
My first interview is this Thursday morning. Hopefully none of these places care that all the retail experience I told them I had is completely fictional.
My new roommate Kashka may be the cleverest functional retard I have ever met. No matter how much he puts his foot in his mouth or how often he seems completely confused by simple tasks, underneath it all he is a genius. Case in point: after being taught poker by Clarke and I last week, and making some of the dumbest bets I’ve ever seen while learning, the three of us went to the casino last Friday night, but he was the only one of us who came out with more money than he entered with. So when he recommended that I go looking for work on Smith Street a few blocks from the apartment, I took his advice.
It was like finding treasure buried in my backyard.
As it turns out, I’m living within walking distance of the factory outlet of every major athletic and outdoor clothing retailer in the greater Melbourne area. Adidas, Nike, Converse, and half a dozen other major clothing retailers now have my resume, and almost all of them told me they were currently hiring in some capacity or another. Not surprising, seeing as how university students are returning to classes tomorrow, but hearing the phrase “why yes, we are hiring” so many times in the same day made my heart sing. For the first time since starting my job search, I saw a business with a help wanted sign, which was truly a sight for sore eyes.
The best part of the whole experience was when I asked Kashka if he knew that so many brand name clothing companies had clearance stores right next to each other. His eyes got all wide with interest and he said “Really? I may have to go there soon.” Priceless.
My first interview is this Thursday morning. Hopefully none of these places care that all the retail experience I told them I had is completely fictional.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Day 39: I Guess the Joke is on Me
Well shit.
As you may recall, I spoke in my last post about an event-staffing job that I had been signed up for by my friends at the Work and Travel Company. They listed the job as lasting from the end of February till the middle of April. I got an apartment in preparation for the two months of work I was about to embark on, only to find out at my job induction that the total amount of work I would be doing was only about two weeks, not two months….
As I mentioned before, plans have changed.
At first, I wasn’t worried. “I can find a job,” I said to myself, “I am living next to a street full of restaurants and I have restaurant experience.” Then my roommates informed me that Lygon street (Melbourne’s Ave) is a dodgy neighborhood, and most businesses are run by Italians who are fans of The Godfather. “Alright, well then I’ll just peace out of Melbourne and go pick fruit.” My back up plan seemed so flawless, until I was directed to the obvious flaw: minimum rent in my apartment is two months, and if I left before then there was a strong chance I would lose my $500 deposit. So there I was, stuck in the city with virtually no job, unable to leave for fear of crippling my already bleak financial situation.
Picture yourselves in that situation. Imagine every plan you concoct being foiled, and feeling trapped.
I bet none of you would be as happy as I am right now.
This is why I am here. This is my first real test at standing on my own, and being a real adult, and I’m excited. Sure, having the event-staffing job work out the way it should have would’ve been nice, and I suppose I still would have been working to earn rent like any normal adult, but this new wrinkle makes my challenge that much greater, which makes the experience far more rewarding.
I won’t say that I haven’t had help. I consulted with my parents, and I received a not-altogether-insignificant loan to assure that I didn’t become homeless, but the money isn’t free. In fact, it puts more pressure on me to find a job, because I can’t stand being in debt to my parents, and if I’m ever going to pay them off I need to sort my self out as fast as possible.
In other news, I found a $50 bill in the street today. Clearly my luck is turning.
As you may recall, I spoke in my last post about an event-staffing job that I had been signed up for by my friends at the Work and Travel Company. They listed the job as lasting from the end of February till the middle of April. I got an apartment in preparation for the two months of work I was about to embark on, only to find out at my job induction that the total amount of work I would be doing was only about two weeks, not two months….
As I mentioned before, plans have changed.
At first, I wasn’t worried. “I can find a job,” I said to myself, “I am living next to a street full of restaurants and I have restaurant experience.” Then my roommates informed me that Lygon street (Melbourne’s Ave) is a dodgy neighborhood, and most businesses are run by Italians who are fans of The Godfather. “Alright, well then I’ll just peace out of Melbourne and go pick fruit.” My back up plan seemed so flawless, until I was directed to the obvious flaw: minimum rent in my apartment is two months, and if I left before then there was a strong chance I would lose my $500 deposit. So there I was, stuck in the city with virtually no job, unable to leave for fear of crippling my already bleak financial situation.
Picture yourselves in that situation. Imagine every plan you concoct being foiled, and feeling trapped.
I bet none of you would be as happy as I am right now.
This is why I am here. This is my first real test at standing on my own, and being a real adult, and I’m excited. Sure, having the event-staffing job work out the way it should have would’ve been nice, and I suppose I still would have been working to earn rent like any normal adult, but this new wrinkle makes my challenge that much greater, which makes the experience far more rewarding.
I won’t say that I haven’t had help. I consulted with my parents, and I received a not-altogether-insignificant loan to assure that I didn’t become homeless, but the money isn’t free. In fact, it puts more pressure on me to find a job, because I can’t stand being in debt to my parents, and if I’m ever going to pay them off I need to sort my self out as fast as possible.
In other news, I found a $50 bill in the street today. Clearly my luck is turning.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Day 33: There's Been a Change of Plans
When I first spoke to the representatives of the Work and Travel Company, the people organizing this grand endeavor of mine, their pitch was very much like what I head read in their literature back in the states. “Be flexible, your plans will change, be open to new things blah blah blah blah.” Being a willful and stubborn (read: stupid) person, I thought to myself before coming to Australia that once I had set myself on a path that it would just magically work out for me, and that I would have no need to change my plans.
False.
When I signed myself up for Surf Camp in an attempt to gather some stability, a ramshackle plan quickly fell into place behind it. I would return from Surf Camp, ready to buckle down and be a serious adult, and begin heading up the eastern coast of Australia, where the majority of their major cities are kept, looking for work. My first stop was Collaroy, a place that apparently spent all of their advertising dollars painting themselves as a workers’ paradise.
False.
When my first attempt at finding a permanent job yielded no results, I began to wonder if simply changing my location would make the tedious process of blitzing all the businesses in one area with resumes any more fruitful. So I changed my mind, changed my direction, and high-tailed it back down the eastern coast to Sydney, and then kept moving down on to Melbourne. Work and Travel Company had a job posting for a company in Melbourne that required several dozen event staff, and since many of the friends I made in my first week in Australia were already down in Melbourne waiting for the job to start, heading towards guaranteed work was a no brainer.
In a short 24 hours from my arrival, I managed to find a place that was renting out a bedroom thanks to the help of my friend Clarke Miller. My new apartment (it feels pretty cool to be able to say that) is in a north of downtown Melbourne, just of few blocks away from Melbourne University. The most direct route to the city involves traveling down Lygon St., where there are an abundance of cheap restaurants and stores etc. I realized this morning that I’m basically living next to Melbourne’s equivalent of The Ave, which is ironic but also very cool.
False.
When I signed myself up for Surf Camp in an attempt to gather some stability, a ramshackle plan quickly fell into place behind it. I would return from Surf Camp, ready to buckle down and be a serious adult, and begin heading up the eastern coast of Australia, where the majority of their major cities are kept, looking for work. My first stop was Collaroy, a place that apparently spent all of their advertising dollars painting themselves as a workers’ paradise.
False.
When my first attempt at finding a permanent job yielded no results, I began to wonder if simply changing my location would make the tedious process of blitzing all the businesses in one area with resumes any more fruitful. So I changed my mind, changed my direction, and high-tailed it back down the eastern coast to Sydney, and then kept moving down on to Melbourne. Work and Travel Company had a job posting for a company in Melbourne that required several dozen event staff, and since many of the friends I made in my first week in Australia were already down in Melbourne waiting for the job to start, heading towards guaranteed work was a no brainer.
In a short 24 hours from my arrival, I managed to find a place that was renting out a bedroom thanks to the help of my friend Clarke Miller. My new apartment (it feels pretty cool to be able to say that) is in a north of downtown Melbourne, just of few blocks away from Melbourne University. The most direct route to the city involves traveling down Lygon St., where there are an abundance of cheap restaurants and stores etc. I realized this morning that I’m basically living next to Melbourne’s equivalent of The Ave, which is ironic but also very cool.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Day 23: Let's Get Down to Business
Having spent the better part of the last three weeks in Sydney screwing around and being a tourist, I decided that it was time to exercise the “work” part of my “working holiday visa.” On Monday I left the city and moved to a suburb about an hour away called Collaroy, a very small town located on a beach favored by the locals. The hostel in the area advertised as being a great place to find work, ranging from full time jobs to cash-in-hand one day work, and considering the fact that I’ve blown through over 50% of my life savings already, I was ready for any job I could find.
My first two days in Collaroy were spent distributing resumes. In those two days, I visited two major malls, three separate towns, and inquired at close to 50 stores, and by the end of the day, I had only three good leads (good in that they had made vague comments about looking for new hires in the near future). I returned to my hostel after the second day, finally understanding the meaning of the word “recession,” to find a posting asking for one laborer for the next day. I immediately jumped on the phone, and spoke with Michael, a man with his own landscaping business. He was looking for someone to put in one full days work, and was offering $120 in cash. Despite a pick up time of 6:30 am, I was more than happy to accept.
When Michael first rolled up in his truck, I began having second thoughts. He was a fairly serious, quiet guy upon first appraisal, with a shaved head, several tattoos, and an ear piercing. The 45 minute car ride to the rural house he was landscaping for passed almost in silence as I wondered what I had gotten myself in to. Despite my fear of skinheads however, I was still willing to do gardening work for $15 an hour, and in retrospect, it was the right choice. Mike was quiet, but generally friendly, and didn’t seem too interested in Hitler or white power based on my brief conversations with him. I spent half of the day weeding a tediously large section of his client’s garden, and the other half un-potting and planting new plants.
The highlight of the day came in the middle of the mourning, as we were digging holes for the new plants. Mike, being the quiet man that he is, nearly neglected to tell me that he had accidentally dug into the burrow of a funnel web spider. As a self-admitted arachnophobe, being two feet from the worlds most lethal spider was slightly uncomfortable, especially when Mike decided to simply release the spider on the other side of the street instead of killing it.
At the end of the day, I returned to my hostel covered in dirt, smelling like manure, and feeling $120 richer. My introduction to working life in Australia had been about as unglamorous as it gets, but on the bright side, I had a new skill to add to my resume.
My first two days in Collaroy were spent distributing resumes. In those two days, I visited two major malls, three separate towns, and inquired at close to 50 stores, and by the end of the day, I had only three good leads (good in that they had made vague comments about looking for new hires in the near future). I returned to my hostel after the second day, finally understanding the meaning of the word “recession,” to find a posting asking for one laborer for the next day. I immediately jumped on the phone, and spoke with Michael, a man with his own landscaping business. He was looking for someone to put in one full days work, and was offering $120 in cash. Despite a pick up time of 6:30 am, I was more than happy to accept.
When Michael first rolled up in his truck, I began having second thoughts. He was a fairly serious, quiet guy upon first appraisal, with a shaved head, several tattoos, and an ear piercing. The 45 minute car ride to the rural house he was landscaping for passed almost in silence as I wondered what I had gotten myself in to. Despite my fear of skinheads however, I was still willing to do gardening work for $15 an hour, and in retrospect, it was the right choice. Mike was quiet, but generally friendly, and didn’t seem too interested in Hitler or white power based on my brief conversations with him. I spent half of the day weeding a tediously large section of his client’s garden, and the other half un-potting and planting new plants.
The highlight of the day came in the middle of the mourning, as we were digging holes for the new plants. Mike, being the quiet man that he is, nearly neglected to tell me that he had accidentally dug into the burrow of a funnel web spider. As a self-admitted arachnophobe, being two feet from the worlds most lethal spider was slightly uncomfortable, especially when Mike decided to simply release the spider on the other side of the street instead of killing it.
At the end of the day, I returned to my hostel covered in dirt, smelling like manure, and feeling $120 richer. My introduction to working life in Australia had been about as unglamorous as it gets, but on the bright side, I had a new skill to add to my resume.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Day 19: Australia Day Highlights
I promised I would write about Australia day in my previous post, but because I don’t fully remember how I spent my first Australia day, I’ll give a rundown of the highlights that stuck in my mind:
1. Australia makes it so easy to buy alcohol; they practically give it to you. The pub near Surf Camp had, I kid you not, a drive-through window. Only in America is alcoholism considered a disease apparently.
2. The Surf Camp instructors were not about to let their jobs get in the way of their Australia Day celebration. One instructor even encouraged students to partake in the celebration by bringing out Snorkie, a common plastic snorkel that he had creatively taped a funnel to the top of. Somewhere, buried deep in the bowels of facebook, there are pictures of me chugging beer out of a snorkel. I hope these pictures never see the light of day.
3. Because it was a celebration, there were plenty of games to be played. I learned several new drinking games from all over Europe and Australia, but my proudest moment of the night was when I taught 50 complete strangers the joys of Beer Pong. Earlier in the day, one of the chefs had produced a pack of ping-pong balls from his bag. Later that night I somehow managed to remember this fact, and quickly put together a ramshackle set-up. With the help of, no joke, my own surf instructor, I defended America’s beer pong honor against the British.
4. At some point in the night the party moved down to the beach, and since bonfires were not allowed, the next logical course of action was obviously to go skinny-dipping. Once again, the instructors were not shy about celebrating, and in fact led the plunge into the ocean.
If only there were more camps like this in the States.
1. Australia makes it so easy to buy alcohol; they practically give it to you. The pub near Surf Camp had, I kid you not, a drive-through window. Only in America is alcoholism considered a disease apparently.
2. The Surf Camp instructors were not about to let their jobs get in the way of their Australia Day celebration. One instructor even encouraged students to partake in the celebration by bringing out Snorkie, a common plastic snorkel that he had creatively taped a funnel to the top of. Somewhere, buried deep in the bowels of facebook, there are pictures of me chugging beer out of a snorkel. I hope these pictures never see the light of day.
3. Because it was a celebration, there were plenty of games to be played. I learned several new drinking games from all over Europe and Australia, but my proudest moment of the night was when I taught 50 complete strangers the joys of Beer Pong. Earlier in the day, one of the chefs had produced a pack of ping-pong balls from his bag. Later that night I somehow managed to remember this fact, and quickly put together a ramshackle set-up. With the help of, no joke, my own surf instructor, I defended America’s beer pong honor against the British.
4. At some point in the night the party moved down to the beach, and since bonfires were not allowed, the next logical course of action was obviously to go skinny-dipping. Once again, the instructors were not shy about celebrating, and in fact led the plunge into the ocean.
If only there were more camps like this in the States.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Day 16: Duuuuuuuuuude...
On my third day in Sydney, I was still feeling very lost when it came to my plans for my stay in Australia. I craved a sense of stability, or any sort of plan or event that I could base my first few weeks around, and so in an impulse move, I dropped $470 on a four-day learn-to-surf-camp, departing from Sydney on the 25th and returning on the 28th. I now had a set time when I would be leaving Sydney, which helped me plan what I wanted to do with the interim before my departure.
As far as my goals and desires for my time in Oz went, learning to surf was never really on my list, but in my typical ‘Why not?” fashion, when I was presented with a screaming deal ($75 off the normal price), I couldn’t resist asking myself “why not learn to surf?” Yet another instance in my life where that simple, two-word question has been incredibly rewarding.
Picture paradise, then add surfboards, and you’ll roughly know where I have been the last four days. Located about 3 hours south of Sydney, Seven Mile Beach is Australia’s premier learn-to-surf spot, and located only 10 minutes walk from said incredibly long beach is the Rip Curl surf camp, a collection of small cabins grouped around an outdoor common area. The food was plentiful, the company was new and exciting, and of course, the surfing was excellent…braah.
The regiment was simple: two, 2 hours lessons every day, with a lunch break in between. Wetsuits and boards were assigned on the first day, and the fifty-person group was divided into three teams, each with two instructors. New skills were taught in the morning lessons, and practiced in the arvo (Aussie slang for afternoon). Our first day was spent learning the basics of positioning, standing, and riding the wave, and I am happy to say that I was riding with some consistency by the end of the first day.
Our second day happened to fall on Australia day, a holiday akin to July 4th in spirit and method of celebration. After a day of learning speed control, a massive barbeque was held at our site, and was followed by a night that I promise to go more in to depth about in another post. I will say, however, that getting up the next morning for our first lesson was almost impossible, and that riding a unicycle after getting a lobotomy would be easier than surfing with a hangover.
The third day’s lessons were devoted to learning to turn our boards in the water, and to catching larger, more difficult waves, all so that we would be prepared for the surf sessions on our last day. After a beautiful 7 am surf which was well worth the early wake up, our final outing was a free-for-all surf where our instructors finally joined us on boards and showed us how it was done. While I couldn’t manage any of the fancy tricks that they were doing, I still felt like a pretty accomplished surfer, considering the duration of my surfing career.
It may not be a skill I get the chance to show off very often, but learning to surf sets the standard for my future Australian adventured high in terms of enjoyment.
As far as my goals and desires for my time in Oz went, learning to surf was never really on my list, but in my typical ‘Why not?” fashion, when I was presented with a screaming deal ($75 off the normal price), I couldn’t resist asking myself “why not learn to surf?” Yet another instance in my life where that simple, two-word question has been incredibly rewarding.
Picture paradise, then add surfboards, and you’ll roughly know where I have been the last four days. Located about 3 hours south of Sydney, Seven Mile Beach is Australia’s premier learn-to-surf spot, and located only 10 minutes walk from said incredibly long beach is the Rip Curl surf camp, a collection of small cabins grouped around an outdoor common area. The food was plentiful, the company was new and exciting, and of course, the surfing was excellent…braah.
The regiment was simple: two, 2 hours lessons every day, with a lunch break in between. Wetsuits and boards were assigned on the first day, and the fifty-person group was divided into three teams, each with two instructors. New skills were taught in the morning lessons, and practiced in the arvo (Aussie slang for afternoon). Our first day was spent learning the basics of positioning, standing, and riding the wave, and I am happy to say that I was riding with some consistency by the end of the first day.
Our second day happened to fall on Australia day, a holiday akin to July 4th in spirit and method of celebration. After a day of learning speed control, a massive barbeque was held at our site, and was followed by a night that I promise to go more in to depth about in another post. I will say, however, that getting up the next morning for our first lesson was almost impossible, and that riding a unicycle after getting a lobotomy would be easier than surfing with a hangover.
The third day’s lessons were devoted to learning to turn our boards in the water, and to catching larger, more difficult waves, all so that we would be prepared for the surf sessions on our last day. After a beautiful 7 am surf which was well worth the early wake up, our final outing was a free-for-all surf where our instructors finally joined us on boards and showed us how it was done. While I couldn’t manage any of the fancy tricks that they were doing, I still felt like a pretty accomplished surfer, considering the duration of my surfing career.
It may not be a skill I get the chance to show off very often, but learning to surf sets the standard for my future Australian adventured high in terms of enjoyment.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Day 7: Raising the Bar
Contrary to what some of you may think, the lowered drinking age of Australia was not a factor in my decision to come here. It was, however, the definition of “added bonus.” To commemorate my first night out drinking legally, I’ll summarize the night, in the style of my favorite author, to the best of my ability. I had met a 23-year-old guy from Portland before the weekend named Clarke, a fellow member of the Work and Travel Company, who has been my first good friend while in Australia. We decided to go out Monday night and see what the bar scene was like.
7:00 pm: I meet Clarke on the roof of the hostel where they are having a barbeque. For $5 I get a burger (a kangaroo burger) and a beer.
7:03 pm: I have finished my “roo” burger. It was delicious. I consider the possibility of importing kangaroo meat back to the states.
7:10 pm: Clarke and I have struck up a conversation with a British guy who has been in Sydney for 4 hours. He is too jetlagged to pick up on the fact that he has mustard on his chin, and that Clarke is making fun of him for his poor hygiene.
7:30 pm: We are sitting in an establishment called the “Side Bar,” drinking beers and talking with the one decent looking bartender. She is from Vancouver, a fact I exploit by asking her if she has ever been to Seattle.
8:05 pm: There is little happening in the Side Bar. A private party somehow managed to get free wine, but I am told that it isn’t for me. Frustrated with the lack of people and unfair distribution of free alcohol, Clarke and I leave.
8:15 pm: We end up at “Scubar”. The place is packed and incredibly loud, but they are having “World Famous Crab Races” tonight and I insist that we stay.
8:20 pm: In an attempt to get a table, we start up a conversation with two British girls. They are drinking some bright red drink from a pitcher, which they refer to as “snake bite.” Fascinated, Clarke and I decide to split a pitcher.
8:30 pm: It turns out snake bite is just a mix of beer and grenadine syrup, and that the bartenders at Scubar are very slow. Not even the heart shaped foam pattern made by the grenadine amuses me, probably because of the level of attractiveness of the bartender (tiger-mauling-victim level).
8:45 pm: I elbow my way through the crowd to sign up for the next crab race. For a dollar, I register crab #17, dubbing him “Dinner” on the sign up sheet.
8:49 pm: Dinner crawls inside his shell and refuses to move at the start of the race. I curse my horrible luck and vow never to return to Scubar.
8:51 pm: There is a line to get into Scubar that goes around the street corner. I loudly inform everyone in the line that it is not worth it, and that the crab races are rigged.
8:55 pm: A group of British people who Clarke knows decides to leave the line and join us instead. We head back to Side Bar in hopes that it has gotten more interesting.
Unfortunately, it didn’t get more interesting. Except for a random trip to KFC, which happened lord knows when, the rest of the night was a bore. I was back in my room by midnight and asleep not much later. All in all, my first bar hoping experience was a bit of a let down, but thankfully I’ll be here for another 4 months.
7:00 pm: I meet Clarke on the roof of the hostel where they are having a barbeque. For $5 I get a burger (a kangaroo burger) and a beer.
7:03 pm: I have finished my “roo” burger. It was delicious. I consider the possibility of importing kangaroo meat back to the states.
7:10 pm: Clarke and I have struck up a conversation with a British guy who has been in Sydney for 4 hours. He is too jetlagged to pick up on the fact that he has mustard on his chin, and that Clarke is making fun of him for his poor hygiene.
7:30 pm: We are sitting in an establishment called the “Side Bar,” drinking beers and talking with the one decent looking bartender. She is from Vancouver, a fact I exploit by asking her if she has ever been to Seattle.
8:05 pm: There is little happening in the Side Bar. A private party somehow managed to get free wine, but I am told that it isn’t for me. Frustrated with the lack of people and unfair distribution of free alcohol, Clarke and I leave.
8:15 pm: We end up at “Scubar”. The place is packed and incredibly loud, but they are having “World Famous Crab Races” tonight and I insist that we stay.
8:20 pm: In an attempt to get a table, we start up a conversation with two British girls. They are drinking some bright red drink from a pitcher, which they refer to as “snake bite.” Fascinated, Clarke and I decide to split a pitcher.
8:30 pm: It turns out snake bite is just a mix of beer and grenadine syrup, and that the bartenders at Scubar are very slow. Not even the heart shaped foam pattern made by the grenadine amuses me, probably because of the level of attractiveness of the bartender (tiger-mauling-victim level).
8:45 pm: I elbow my way through the crowd to sign up for the next crab race. For a dollar, I register crab #17, dubbing him “Dinner” on the sign up sheet.
8:49 pm: Dinner crawls inside his shell and refuses to move at the start of the race. I curse my horrible luck and vow never to return to Scubar.
8:51 pm: There is a line to get into Scubar that goes around the street corner. I loudly inform everyone in the line that it is not worth it, and that the crab races are rigged.
8:55 pm: A group of British people who Clarke knows decides to leave the line and join us instead. We head back to Side Bar in hopes that it has gotten more interesting.
Unfortunately, it didn’t get more interesting. Except for a random trip to KFC, which happened lord knows when, the rest of the night was a bore. I was back in my room by midnight and asleep not much later. All in all, my first bar hoping experience was a bit of a let down, but thankfully I’ll be here for another 4 months.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Day 5: One big happy family
Family is a peculiar thing. When my dad first started his genealogy research, the whole subject bored me to tears. If he began talking about it at dinner, I’d start snoring after about a sentence, and rub my eyes and yawn when he finished talking. His obsession didn’t wane over the years, and neither did my boredom with the subject, but my methods of ignoring him became subtler and less rude. It wasn’t until the last few days, however, when I began to appreciate just how much work he put into his research.
As I write this, I am lying in a queen-sized bed in my own room. I had fresh cooked waffles for breakfast, and delicious meatballs for dinner last night. I may have been gone less than a week, but I know that this is practically paradise for a backpacker who is used to shard rooms and cereal every morning, and as much as I hate to admit it, I owe it all to my fathers genealogy research.
I spent my first weekend in Australia staying in the home of Mark and Lisa Paterson, who live on a river not far from the town of Nowra. I met their daughter Georgia in Sydney, and took the train with her out to the countryside on Friday. I was fortunate enough to spend Saturday with them in their boat on the river, learning how to water-ski (side note: being dragged along the water on your ass before standing is MURDER on your balls). As it turns out, Mark’s mother Isobel has been in contact with my father for the past two years, as they are both interested in family history, and happen to share a common ancestor. Before I left Seattle, my dad gave me her contact information and urged me to look her up once I arrived. I was hesitant at first, but all in all it wasn’t a half bad way to spend my first weekend abroad.
As I write this, I am lying in a queen-sized bed in my own room. I had fresh cooked waffles for breakfast, and delicious meatballs for dinner last night. I may have been gone less than a week, but I know that this is practically paradise for a backpacker who is used to shard rooms and cereal every morning, and as much as I hate to admit it, I owe it all to my fathers genealogy research.
I spent my first weekend in Australia staying in the home of Mark and Lisa Paterson, who live on a river not far from the town of Nowra. I met their daughter Georgia in Sydney, and took the train with her out to the countryside on Friday. I was fortunate enough to spend Saturday with them in their boat on the river, learning how to water-ski (side note: being dragged along the water on your ass before standing is MURDER on your balls). As it turns out, Mark’s mother Isobel has been in contact with my father for the past two years, as they are both interested in family history, and happen to share a common ancestor. Before I left Seattle, my dad gave me her contact information and urged me to look her up once I arrived. I was hesitant at first, but all in all it wasn’t a half bad way to spend my first weekend abroad.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Day 1: Here fishy fishy fishy
I wish I had more fucking money.
At the end of my first day in Australia, I feel as though I have accomplished nothing, yet want to do everything and cannot make up my mind. I have been bombarded with choices ever since I landed, and every time a decision is made, more choices arise for me to ponder over. There are thousands of tours, hundreds of day trips, and dozens of multi-day sight seeing adventures at my finger tips, thanks to the travel desk at the hostel where I am staying, and as much as I want to tackle every single excursion, I cannot.
Because I don’t have enough fucking money.
Would you like to join a four wheel drive tour of the outback? Yes. Go to a five day surfing camp? You bet. Learn to scuba dive in the great barrier reef? Hell yes! Well than, fork over your entire life savings and we’ll have you back in Sydney next week! Screw the fact that you’ll be broke for the last four months of your trip and have a good time!
I expect most of these quandaries will pass once I get more settled and adjusted to my new life. Finding a job will provide some much needed stability, not to mention the income to make these grand adventures possible, but even finding a job is tricky. Do I find a place to settle in and then hit the job search, or do I prioritize shelter before income? What if I have to leave Sydney to find work? Imagine being a goldfish, living in a tiny bowl swimming in circles all day. Now imagine being that goldfish, and being dropped in the ocean one day. You’re stuck in your circle swimming mindset, but there’s a shark with dollar signs in his eyes who is watching you swim in circles, waiting nearby so he can eat your bitch ass.
At the end of my first day in Australia, I feel as though I have accomplished nothing, yet want to do everything and cannot make up my mind. I have been bombarded with choices ever since I landed, and every time a decision is made, more choices arise for me to ponder over. There are thousands of tours, hundreds of day trips, and dozens of multi-day sight seeing adventures at my finger tips, thanks to the travel desk at the hostel where I am staying, and as much as I want to tackle every single excursion, I cannot.
Because I don’t have enough fucking money.
Would you like to join a four wheel drive tour of the outback? Yes. Go to a five day surfing camp? You bet. Learn to scuba dive in the great barrier reef? Hell yes! Well than, fork over your entire life savings and we’ll have you back in Sydney next week! Screw the fact that you’ll be broke for the last four months of your trip and have a good time!
I expect most of these quandaries will pass once I get more settled and adjusted to my new life. Finding a job will provide some much needed stability, not to mention the income to make these grand adventures possible, but even finding a job is tricky. Do I find a place to settle in and then hit the job search, or do I prioritize shelter before income? What if I have to leave Sydney to find work? Imagine being a goldfish, living in a tiny bowl swimming in circles all day. Now imagine being that goldfish, and being dropped in the ocean one day. You’re stuck in your circle swimming mindset, but there’s a shark with dollar signs in his eyes who is watching you swim in circles, waiting nearby so he can eat your bitch ass.
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