Ascending Auckland

"JUST hang on to both the poles."

A simple enough instruction were it not for the fact that a) said poles were just slightly too far apart for me to even reach, and b) said poles were at the edge of a platform that was 192 metres above Auckland's Federal Street.

I was about to SkyJump off the SkyTower.


AUCKLAND, New Zealand is very similar to Sydney, Australia: both cities have a harbour with a famous bridge crossing it, have a big tower in the centre of town, and despite both being their country's largest and best-known cities, neither is the capital.

There are some hefty differences as well though, with Auckland covering the isthmus that links the main part of the North Island with the north-western peninsula. According to Wikipedia Auckland is also the "only city in the world built on a basaltic volcanic field that is still active", something I only found out for the first time at the excellent Auckland War Memorial Museum at the top of the Auckland Domain. A trip here can take a large chunk out of your day, with exhibitions ranging from New Zealand native flora and fauna to cultures of the Pacific Islands to an exhibition on volcanoes and just what would happen if Auckland suddenly erupted.

In a vain attempt to get this cheery thought out of my head (the museum is actually built at the top of its own volcano, Pukekawa) I went upstairs for a look at the War Memorial section. As the brother, son and nephew of Defence personnel I always find these places quite moving. Auckland's War Memorial included details of New Zealand's military involvements over the years (including the Boer War, World War I and World War II), while the Scars on the Heart exhibition showed the human cost of armed conflict.

The rest of the Auckland Domain is well worth a look. Near the War Memorial Museum are the Wintergardens, two glasshouses that contain a wide range of temperate and tropical plants; other highlights include the cherry groves and the walking paths throughout the parklands.

Good food in Auckland can still be quite cheap. The area around Fort Street has some quality cheap eats; if you're after something with a little more class then the Viaduct not only has some America's Cup winning yachts, but also a number of bars and restaurants that fulfil the base needs at reasonable prices. The Britomart area between Customs Street and the harbour is also being redeveloped with a number of boutique stores and restaurants already in operation. If you're after a dessert meal, Giapo on Queen Street is expensive and often has a line-up - but if you want something unique and tasty, go no further. Not for here the regular two scoops in a regular cone; instead even the cones are a work of art.

For budget accommodation there are a number of backpacker hostels on Fort Street as well as the apartment-style offerings of Auckland Harbour Oaks; head over the other side of Queen Street for the Stamford Plaza and the Crowne Plaza. There's also the SkyCity Hotel if you want to stay at the Southern Hemisphere's tallest structure or be close to the SkyCity Casino.

It's here then that I find myself grasping wildly for a pole on my left while trying not to fall off down to the street below. The instructor eventually gets me to hold onto another rope, which rather than reassuring me feels about as useful as a chocolate bar while drowning.

I'm told that at the count of three to let go and jump off. I'm not sure how I'm still standing, how I talked myself into this in the first place when I'm scared of heights, when the countdown begins.

"3, 2, 1, GO!"

Somehow I jump and am rewarded with a controlled descent to ground level, landing safely on the big red target at the bottom. A few deep breaths and loosening of the harness and it's time to look up again - the two that "volunteered" me to go first now have to jump. This should be fun...

Manners please.

HELLO, my name's Stuart, and for the last eight years I've worked in tourism. Sometimes it's been voluntary, sometimes it's been to ensure that I fulfil my graduation promise to myself that I'd never set foot in Centrelink ever again.

During that time I've worked for three different tour companies, two backpacker hostels, a five-star London hotel and now at a couple of serviced apartment complexes. Throughout I've always tried to get a laugh or smile out of a guest to try and brighten up their day, add a bit of personality etc etc, a massive spray recently from a couple of people who didn't seem to think extra charges applied to them left me pretty shaken up and disillusioned.

As such, in the interests of tourism workers everywhere I'd like to share a few points with y'all about how get the most out of your tourism experience.

Do your research
Seriously. So many people are quick to jump onto Tripadvisor (more about that later) and complain about facilities (or lack thereof), extra parking charges, credit card authorisations etc. This is actually where Tripadvisor can come into its own: while there's nearly always one person per page that thinks your establishment is where Beezlebub himself controls his evil empire of reality shows, what you'll generally find are helpful comments about facilities (or lack thereof), extra parking charges, credit card authorisations etc. And if you don't trust Tripadvisor, every booking website I've come across has a reviews section from people who've actually paid and stayed. This would have saved one couple, who when told they had to leave a credit card pre-authorisation decided to punch the manager in the head.
Then, failing all that, just read the fucking terms and conditions when you make a booking. Trust me, everything you need to know is generally there.

Listen to staff
One place I worked at had a slightly convoluted way to get to the carpark, ie there were more than three steps to it. So what we'd do on check-in was hand them a piece of paper with the instructions, then go through each step individually, stressing certain aspects about where they could and couldn't park. Now while this was plenty for most people one lady in particular sticks in my mind. She came to check in, I went through each step with her, stressing one lift was for residents and the other for our guests. Ten minutes later she stormed across from the residential lifts, complaining that I hadn't properly explained where she had to go. A couple of days later she called to complain about something else, then claimed I'd left her waiting for over an hour before I'd checked her in. She also reckoned that while I'd given her the instruction paper, I didn't explain that she had to read it.
Now in this situation you're doing all you can to not call her an idiot and hang up the phone. She complained to the manager, although his comment afterwards was along the lines of "I feel stupider for having spoken to her", so I wasn't in any trouble there. Likewise the girl who had a bag stolen in Barcelona on one tour. I'd spent about 10 minutes explaining that Barcelona was notorious for pickpockets and thieves, that you only had to lose sight of your bag for a second, and that on average one person on every coach had their stuff nicked. Soon enough she came up to me in tears saying her bag had been stolen but she'd "only turned around for a second". This was part of a horror stretch where four punters had bags stolen in Florence, Nice and Barcelona; two of them later came up and said they wished they'd heeded my warnings a little better.

Staff are people too
On a ferry over to Fraser Island I overheard two people discuss how rude/abrupt the ferry captain was to them. One of them commented that maybe that's just how he was; the other said that people like that shouldn't be in tourism and that you should be happy all the time.
They're right - but only so far as your default setting should be approachable/friendly. But sometimes you've had a rubbish night's sleep, sometimes you're going through relationship issues, sometimes you've just received a massive spray for saying parking was $25. The last couple of people who've decided to share their anger issues with me have all had people standing right behind them - stepping out back to have a cry/punch holes in walls isn't an option. It takes a fucking lot to be happy and bubbly after someone's tried to tear you a new one because they didn't want to pay for parking.
That's not to say you can't fairly criticise. The worst tour I ever took had some ridiculous feedback (one review had me as the worst tour guide, but I knew my stuff, was well organised and brought the group together), but also some fair stuff like how I was being "smug" when answering questions. I took it on board and the very next tour was one of my very best - wouldn't have happened had I not received that criticism.

Things go wrong. Control yourself
One of the best sprays I've ever witnessed was a German businessman in London abusing the night manager because his swipe key didn't work. Never mind that he was blind drunk and probably doing it wrong: we were the worst fucking place in the world and the worst fucking staff and etc etc etc. Next day he received a note under his door from the hotel manager politely informing him he would no longer be welcome to stay with us.
Ever hear the phrase "you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar"? It's true - especially when you want something fixed. Looking back on a couple of sprays people have given me I know for a fact I could have handled it better, but for whatever reason didn't. Part of that reason is that when someone is yelling at you, cutting you off and saying "YOU stuffed up our check-in and YOU didn't do this and YOU didn't do that", you don't really want to help them, you want to tell them to fuck off. Your blood pressure rises, you want to shout back, but you can't because you're a professional.
There's another saying: "do unto others as you would have others do unto you". Do you like being shouted at at work by people you've never met before?
Didn't think so.

Problem? See staff straight away
Once upon a time a Scottish woman checked into a hostel I ran. This lady had a persona that screamed "I hate people" - I never once saw her socialise, never once saw her smile. But every time she walked past I'd make sure I addressed her by name, asked how she was and offer advice where needed. When she checked out I felt I'd put in the hard yards to make her stay memorable.
That was until she submitted her review. Turned out the hostel was just awful, service was bad and that there were so many things wrong with it that she wouldn't recommend us to her worst enemy etc. This annoyed me - not because those issues didn't need fixing, but because in all the time I'd been saying hello how are you she never once mentioned these.
Likewise a review I saw on Tripadvisor for a place I'm staying at in January. Just about every review is 4 or 5 stars (hence why I've booked it), except for one. Once again there was one person who ripped the place to shreds, saying the room was rubbish and that they had to ask for fresh towels. What I love about this review is that the owners responded back, asking why if these guests were having such a terrible time did they not mention anything when, you know, sitting by the fireplace chatting with the owners.
 If something's wrong with your accommodation, I want to fix it. When you're on my tour bus/in my ho(s)tel, I want you to enjoy your experience and rave about us to your friends. Making you happy makes me happy. Telling me on check-out the lights didn't work, but that you didn't want to call reception because it was late so you showered in the dark is really quite stupid. Tell us and we don't fix it, then by all means slag us off online. Tell us after the event and I'm afraid there's not much we can do.


So that's just a few tips. I'm sure there's many more; I'm sure there are some that would consider that just a rant from someone better suited to an office job. And that's fine: just be polite about it, ok? Remember, everyone wants you to have a good time.

SAJ Travel Podcast August 2, 2013

SAJ Travel Podcast August 2, 2013

Turn Around: The Tour After That Tour

OWEN and I looked at each other as the first few piano notes came through the speakers.

Turn around

 Every now and then I get bit a little lonely and you're never coming round

As befitted a loud tour guide and Welsh coach driver, we were already singing along.

Turn around

Every now and then I get a little bit tired of listening to the sounds of my tears

We're heading through the Croatian countryside down to the Dalmatian town of Split. We've got maybe an hours worth of driving left, then dinner & drinks before everyone goes their separate ways. Some will head with Owen back up to Prague; some will join me and fifty of my closest friends on boat tours down to Dubrovnik and back. Some will make their own way to Dubrovnik; one couple not just to sightsee but to become man and wife.

Turn around

Every now and then I get a little bit nervous that the best of all the years have gone by

As Owen and I get into our spontaneous karaoke, another voice joins in behind us. Then another, and another.

Turn around

Every now and then I get a little bit terrified and then I see the look in your eyes

It's not long before the first two rows have assumed choral duties.

Turn around, bright eyes

Every now and then I fall apart

Turn around, bright eyes

Every now and then I fall apart

We're all singing along, and for me it's pretty amazing: for most of the previous two weeks I was about to fall apart.

TWO weeks earlier I couldn't have been happier. That 2009 European summer had started well as I felt I'd finally cracked the secret behind good Greek Island tours, balancing telling people a little about where they visiting with the inevitable excessive alcohol consumption. Towards the end of my two-month stint there I'd started to get tired and was pretty happy to head to new pastures. And this was well and truly new pastures: I was heading to Eastern Europe on an itinerary that read Split-Prague-Split-Dubrovnik-Split over four weeks; the final two weeks on-board boats where "work" was attending breakfasts, small walking tours and making sure no-one was arrested. Living the dream, eh?

It started well enough. The stretch from Split-Prague went fairly well, with the driver a useful ally as I travelled many of the sectors for the first time. The group had a good dynamic and I got to jump off a 12m bridge.

Coming out of Prague we changed drivers and dynamics. Heading into Budapest I'd nearly lost some of the passengers by not knowing enough about what to do in the Polish mountain town of Zakopane, before complete and utter disaster hit. I woke up the first morning covered in bed-bug bites, with respite only coming after someone kindly passed on some anti-histamines. That night I met two people joining the tour; the next morning I downloaded our manifest and discovered we had five people joining the tour. 

And two vacant seats.

I handled things pretty badly from here. The next hour was spent playing phone tag with two different bosses and trying to placate three angry passengers. I eventually had to leave them to deal with the bosses directly so the rest could start to head down. When I got on-board I asked how everyone was, when someone asked back how I was. I snapped: "Well, I've got bed-bug bites, and just had to leave three people behind. I'm going to sit up the front and sulk". Which is pretty much what I did, and pretty much where I lost the tour. Matters weren't helped when a Plitvice barbecue turned into an opportunity for the driver to try and fill his pockets, charging people five Euros each for 4 small sausages, some bread, lettuce... and that's it. Of course I was the one that had to tell people this and collect the money.

I snapped: "Well, I've got bed-bug bites, and just had to leave three people behind. I'm going to sit up the front and sulk".

Which is pretty much what I did, and pretty much where I lost the tour. 

ONTO Croatia then and things didn't get better. My first tour was a combination of people who wanted to chill and a pack of fucking idiots. By now I'd decided to try raise money for charity by staying off the booze, something extremely difficult when you're on a boat and all there is to do is eat, swim and drink to excess. Coming back from Dubrovnik was a lot better with a more relaxed group; however I still felt like I was being wasted there. I'd always considered storytelling and relating history my tour-guiding strengths, yet here the focus was more on socialising - something I'd always struggled with. I told the boss as such and she agreed, changing my sequence from another pair of sailing tours to the Split-Prague-Split tours.

Naturally, I was pretty happy. Coming into Split I was disappointed to find the man making way for me was someone I very much respected as a guide, someone that continually received great reviews from clients. Nonetheless I met a couple of girls on the tour and it seemed like we'd be in for a good tour.

I lost the tour again.

This time the driver really didn't help. A great tour driver isn't just someone who gets you from A to B without crashing or getting lost along the way, but someone that helps out in the smooth running of the tour. In this case the driver spent all his time with the pretty girls, meaning that I ended up spending most of my time with everyone else lest they feel they were a couple of cup sizes short of getting our attention. Despite this, I didn't realise how badly I'd lost the tour until I overheard one girl at the final dinner loudly exclaim how she'd sent a complaint letter to the company about me.

ANOTHER day, another tour. The drivers changed again and I couldn't have been happier - I knew that Owen was a true professional and a man who could easily have slipped behind the microphone if he wasn't so damn good behind the wheel. We did the introductions coming out of Prague before pulling up at Kutna Hora for the "bone church". While everyone went and had a look at the artfully arranged skeletons I had a look at the review forms the old driver had reluctantly handed over. Every single one of those feedback forms wanted the other guide; not one of those people had felt comfortable in handing their form back to me lest I throw them straight in the bin.

Leaving Kutna Hora I decided to do a talk on the revolutions of 1989. I'd done one the day before to find everyone drifting off to sleep; this time I decided that if I was going to go out, if this was how I would leave four years of tour guiding, then I'd bloody well do it with style. I don't think I ever did a better speech than I did that day, taking 40 people through the calamitous events of that year from Solidarity in Poland to the Czechoslovak Velvet Revolution; from the fall of the Berlin Wall to the fall of Ceausescu. When I finished there was stunned silence; hanging up the microphone Owen turned around and nodded his head in a "well done" gesture and I breathed out and let all the tension flow out. Soon after the man I'd picked as being the hardest to impress came up the front to have a chat.

I'd won the tour.

I don't think I ever did a better speech than I did that day, taking 40 people through the calamitous events of that year from Solidarity in Poland to the Czechoslovak Velvet Revolution; from the fall of the Berlin Wall to the fall of Ceausescu.

It still wasn't easy. I was still off the booze - that would end at midnight on the tour's final night - and once again Zakopane almost proved my undoing. During the day one of the bosses had called to discuss the seriously shit reviews, leaving me with a sense that he didn't really rate me. Then another boss (the one who'd changed my tours on request) called with news none of us had expected: the woman who ran the hostel bar in Athens had died. Owen came out of the shower to find on the edge of the bed, head in hands at the loss of a friend. If ever I needed a drink it was now; luckily everyone on tour was pretty keen on seeing me push through and finish the four weeks sober. Had this happened the tour before chances are I would have got on a plane and headed back home to Australia; instead I got to see 15-odd blokes tied together (and piss together) as they made their way through the streets of Split before being filled full of booze after the kind of midnight countdown you normally associate with December 31.

Heading down to Split we said goodbye to a couple of people and picked up another few - although this time we had plenty of seats on the bus. The difference when we hit Plitvice for the barbecue was amazing, with Owen suggesting we get some volunteers to grab the salads while we grabbed the rest. End result was a great barbecue where everyone felt like they'd contributed - and that they got value for money. The whole coach even played a prank on their photograph and Lady GaGa-hating guide: when I jump back on-board after grabbing the room keys I find Paparazzi blaring through the speakers. I sigh and settle in, only for someone to call out behind me. I turn around to find 30-odd cameras pointing my way!

And I need you now tonight

And I need you more than ever

And if you only hold me tight

We'll be holding on forever

By now half the coach have joined in. I'm not sure if we've got everyone on-board belting out Bonnie but that's only because I'm having too much fun. The smile never leaves my face as we get right into this 80s epic.

Once upon a time there was light in my life

Now there's only love in the dark

Nothing I can say

A total eclipse of the heart...

The song fades out to laughter around the coach. I finally turn around to see everyone smiling back, except for one girl sitting directly behind me.

How she slept through that I'll never know.

Random Adventuring: Hobart

MID-MARCH 2013 and cricket fans around Australia are glued to their internet connections. As of March 14 all six states had a chance of making the Sheffield Shield final, with four of them an excellent chance of hosting it should results go their way.

I won't bore you with the details, but the end result was that my home state of Queensland would play Tasmania down in Hobart. Chatting it over with the boss I mentioned something along the lines of how good it would be to be there if Queensland managed the win. He reckoned I should get my arse down there, and he was right: it was the perfect combination of four days off work, my team playing a final somewhere I'd never been before - and most importantly, money on the plastic.

Debt repayments be damned*!


FIRST up I actually had to get there. With a limited time before I had to be back in Brisbane for work on the Wednesday I had to catch a 5am flight down to Sydney before connecting through to Hobart. Now the key thing when you have such an early flight is to pack the night before and get an early night. What I actually did was stay up until all hours celebrating the marriage of two good friends before coming home three-parts elephant trunk, forcing a bunch of clothes, toiletries and camera kit into a ridiculously small carry-on bag, grabbing a couple of hours sleep before spending the taxi ride to the airport trying to do up my shoelaces.

With such a great lead-in the trip down was spent either pushing out the big zzzz's or pushing in a Red Rooster combo at Sydney Airport. It wasn't until Captain Speaking told us in a pleasing baritone we were approaching Hobart International that I woke up and began peering out the window at the only Australian state that had thus far eluded me.

Now it would be a shame to visit somewhere new and spend the entire time at the sporting ground/pub, and as such had a rough idea what I would do. The plan was to arrive, head straight over to Bellerive Oval for the rest of that day's play, then alternate between the game and sight-seeing depending on how well Queensland were doing. Not knowing how expensive Hobart taxis were (and not being keen to find out after the $60 cab fare to Brisbane Airport), I decided to ask a shuttle bus driver how close he could drop me to the ground. The answer was not that close, although according to Google Maps (how did we travel before smartphones?) it would be a pleasant walk. This would no doubt have been the case, only for a squall to pass overhead, forcing me to take cover at a funeral home before arriving at the ground in brilliant sunshine to find play stopped after the groundsmen had taken their time getting the covers on.

This turned out to have an unexpected bonus. Heading into the main pavilion I found the Tasmanian Cricket Museum, which not only listed modern-day greats like Ricky Ponting and David Boon, but also included the history of cricket on the island. This included a panel on Charles Eady's unbelievable 566 not out for Break-O'-Day back in 1902. Other sections included lists of all Tasmanian first-class cricketers both pre- and post-Sheffield Shield entry; about the only thing missing was mention of Boonie's tinny-drinking record on the 1989 Sydney-London flight.

Play eventually got back underway with Queensland struggling against an excellent Tasmanian attack. Rather than sit around listening to locals crap on about their boys I decided to try and work off the previous night's festivities by walking into the city. After heading back to where the bus dropped me off I learnt a very important lesson about walking in Hobart:

Don't walk over the Tasman Bridge.

Seriously. The pedestrian/cyclist pathways are about 2 metres wide and right next to six lanes of traffic in what was 20 minutes of carbon monoxide poisoning on an island famous for its clear air. By the time I'd made it up and down the graceful arch I had the flu, black death and a nasty little sniffle. South of the Derwent was a little better, with the pathway a good few metres up and away from the freeway.

I eventually made it into Hobart's compact city centre and checked into the Mecure Hadleys Hobart. Now for those that haven't stayed in a nice place for a while - and this is a nice place - I will warn you that many large chains now take a pre-authorisation on your credit card; ie they put a hold on a certain amount of cash that you won't be able to use until your bank decides you can have it back. This varies from place to place, so I suggest doing what I did and calling to see how much it will be, budgeting for it, then hoping like hell the bank releases it before petrol prices rise by 12c/l. But I digress.

After a quick snooze (sleep on a plane not being all that helpful after two hours sleep the night before) it was down to Salamanca, host to a world-famous market every Saturday. This being a Sunday, locals and tourists alike were thin on the ground. After a quick blockie with the windows wound down and house music blaring I decided to dine at a James Squire bar, where I had an adequate, if slightly overpriced, pizza and beer. Then back to the hotel bar for my first Cascade in Tasmania.

Tasted good.


MONDAY, and I was a bit excited. After dragging my sorry carcass out of bed relatively early (did I mentioned I'd only had two hours sleep on the Saturday night? Because I totally did.) it was down to the harbour for the ferry out to the controversial Museum of Old and New Art (MONA). According to the good people at Wikipedia MONA is the largest privately-funded museum in Australia; having now spent some time there it's unlikely any government would have had the courage to do it themselves.

On arrival you leave your bags in the cloakroom, grab a portable guide (free of charge) and descend into the depths of the building. Your portable guide not only tells you where you are, but also has sections like "Gonzo" and "Art Wank" for more detail on a particular work. I managed to end up in the adult-only section pretty quickly (it's on the bottom floor - teehee I just wrote "bottom" - which is where you start) and while works like the painting of a transgender person didn't bother me, Juan Davila's Arse End Of The World certainly did. I won't go too much into it, other than to say I'm pretty sure Burke & Wills never interacted with local flora and fauna quite that way.

While I'd heard about MONA before the idea of heading to Tasmania even came to mind, I didn't realise the main building was on the site of a winery. Despite Queensland starting to run through the Tasmanian second innings over at Bellerive, I simply had to (I'd pre-paid and was determined to get my $10 worth) do a wine tasting. Although I booked a set time it turns out you can rock in pretty much any time you want to - not that I minded waiting as it was 20 degrees and cloudless outside. The wines themselves were quality and it was only the safety measure of leaving the credit cards at home that stopped me from signing up to their wine club and having eight bottles delivered to my door every three months. Still wouldn't mind, but there's nowhere online to sign up. I also gave the locals beers a crack and very much enjoyed them as well.

So back on the ferry, back to the room briefly to drop off the daypack and off to sample some more local culture. This time is was at the Lark Distillery where for $10 I got to sample some of the local whiskeys. I don't normally drink whisky but enjoyed this, chatting away to the bartenders from New Zealand and Warwick, Queensland respectively. By the time they kicked me out for closing I was in a pretty good mood - so good in fact I decided to go back to the James Squire pub, spend nearly $50 on a steak and a pint, and proceed to watch my beloved North Queensland Cowboys play like the Nauru under-19s and get thrashed by Newcastle.

So much for the bloody smile. Only started coming back when the lovely barmaid at the hotel bar decided to fill - and I mean fill - my wine glass when I popped in for a nightcap. A couple of minutes later she told me it was last drinks; a bit redundant seeing as it took me another hour to finish the wine glass.


TUESDAY dawned with the realisation that 10 o'clock was checkout and I wasn't nearly in the mood to, you know, be awake. I eventually dragged my sorry carcass down to reception then set about finding breakfast. While scouting Salamanca I discovered a book store and found myself $40 lighter and 1kg heavier; soon afterwards I found a spot at the busiest cafe and settled in for breakfast. The pancakes and bacon were delicious; the service somewhat lacking. In fact, 30 minutes after they'd cleared my plate I was still reading one of the books, wondering if anyone would notice either my empty coffee cup or me walking out without paying. Honesty got the better of me this time around, although next time I find myself breakfasting in Hobart they'd want to be keeping a closer eye on things.

A bit of a wander around Battery Point and I found myself with some time to kill. Queensland were now no chance of snatching an amazing victory, which ruled out Bellerive. I'd already done quite a bit of walking over the previous few days so was pretty keen to rest my feet. Wandering into a bar by the bay I found two different cricket games on the tv, cold beer and a hot barmaid.

I'd found home for the next few hours.

A few beers, a few sledges from locals about the Shield final, and some fish and chips down by the water and it was time to jump on the bus back to the airport. Although I only made it down for a few days it was easy to see why Lonely Planet rated Hobart as one of its "Best in Travel" for 2013 - and I hadn't even been there over a weekend! Proof that sometimes the most random travels are the best.


* Only joking about that debt repayment thing. I take my obligations to Dewey, Nee-Capem & How very seriously and very much enjoy being able to walk along such magnificent structures like the Tasman Bridge.

The Great Australian Road Trip

YOU always remember your first.

So they say. I can't – but then not many can remember where they were at age two, let alone two weeks. Likewise, I only have my parents and some old black-and-white photos showing that at some point in December 1980, we trekked down the old Bruce Highway from our home in Townsville down to Mum's family in Brisbane. It's a trip you could never repeat – me wrapped up in a bassinet with a net over it, which in turn was secured to the Mighty Datsun. Dad really had to drive carefully, lest his unsecured newborn pinball between the sides of the bassinet. He somehow managed to do this despite becoming one of the first to drive the coastal stretch between Sarina and Marlborough, missing the turn-off for the old road through the mountains and instead driving down the dirt highway still awaiting its tarmac topping.

That was my first road trip. We had plenty more through childhood – Dad's military career and my grandmother's untimely passing from a brain tumour meant we pinballed from Townsville to Canberra to Brisbane to Toowoomba to Queanbeyan to Caboolture back to Brisbane; Dad driving his ever-increasing brood while we did our best to drive him nuts. On top of that, with Mum's parents living in Morayfield, Caboolture and Nanango, and Dad's in Mildura, trips to visit relatives were always planned out well in advance.

Thus childhood played out in a succession of cars, vans, cheap motels, service stations, 80s mix tapes and massive arguments between four young boys. The day before would see Dad sound asleep in preparation for the drive ahead – Mum never trusted herself not to fall asleep, and even if she did it's moot whether Dad would have relinquished the wheel anyway – while we had to pack our bags for the trip ahead. An early dinner, the car packed, and by early evening we were away. Trips south would inevitably find us at 2am in some country service station, simultaneously warming up, stretching out and pestering both parents for some chips or lollies. Daylight hours would involve mass games of “I Spy” and outbreaks of spontaneous karaoke syndrome, when our car alternated between a giant John Williamson jukebox of Australian folk tune and all Dad's greatest hits, turned up LOUD. So ingrained is the latter on my memory that it wasn't until I was 15 or so that I realised that Elton John's falsetto chorus on Crocodile Rock wasn't just Dad playing silly buggers.

The family settled down a bit after that last move to Brisbane. We spent nearly four years in the one house before heading slightly closer to the city in late 1995. Soon after I began boarding school in Toowoomba, thus getting to know the Warrego Highway rather well as we trekked up and down for school sport, weekends away and holidays. In 1996 I made my first solo trip down to Mildura on the Greyhound; in 1997 a bus took me around New Zealand's South Island as part of a school trip.

THE next road trip was the biggest though. These days it's hard to comprehend just how expensive it was to fly around Australia back in the 1990s; my favourite statistic from that time is that for the same price for a return trip from the East Coast across to Perth, you could buy an around-the-world ticket and really make a day of it. Wanting to visit an aunt over in the western capital meant getting imaginative with the travel arrangements, skipping the $1000+ airfare and paying around $800 for an itinerary that read Brisbane-Melbourne-Adelaide-Perth-Adelaide-Mildura-Canberra-Sydney-Brisbane. The original plan saw the Melbourne and Sydney legs swapped around, which would have given me daylight hours in the two major cities; unfortunately the family in Mildura I wanted to see would be away those dates.

The whole trip was one of those things you can only do when you're young and stupid. It took 24 hours to get down to Melbourne; an overnight trip to get across to Adelaide, then another 30 or so to cross the Nullabor to Perth. Despite the trip length it was all relatively comfortable – I managed to sleep most of the time I sat next to someone, including the entire Melbourne-Adelaide stretch where I jagged a seat at the top and front of a double-decker bus, meaning I could fully stretch out onto the raised platform directly in front of me. If ever there was a bonus to topping out at 5'8”...

The sector to Perth was easily the most fascinating. I remember not long after leaving Adelaide looking up to see the world's bluntest sign:

Northern Territory →

Western Australia ↑

It definitely showed what kind of emptiness we were about to go through. This was only heightened when we stopped off at Ceduna for a meal (the first time I'd ever tried oysters) - I thought we'd crossed most of South Australia, only to look at the map on the wall and realise that not only were we not in Kansas any more, it'd be a very long time before we were anywhere at all.

The Nullabor came and went as we past the Great Australian Bight during the Great Australian Night. The driver woke us as we crossed the state border at some ungodly hour to let us know that we'd be stopping at the local police station in case they wanted to search the bus for drugs.

Drugs? On a Greyhound? You reckon the bus yesterday was found with a whole heap in the toilet? Pull the other one mate, it plays God Save The Queen. After arriving late the next afternoon into Perth it turned out that no, he wasn't joking – one of the drivers from the day before had found a whole bag of cocaine hidden away in the bathroom. Delayed that bus for a while, which definitely makes the culprit a prime candidate for a lynching in my books.

Then again it had been a long trip.

Once in Perth the sensible thing to do would have been stay put for two weeks, venturing out for supplies and not much else before the 60-odd hour trek back home. Which is why I found myself in a full car at stupid o'clock with my uncle and his mad mate, heading back east to a place called Peak Charles where the pair of them would climb up some sheer rock faces and I'd try not to get hurt. We stopped at Wave Rock along the way, before heading down over 100km of dirt road to our final campsite. It was as remote as I'd ever been – should something happen we were at least 100km as the crow flies from the nearest communities of Norseman and Esperance, a figure all-too-real when I managed to slide down a rock face as I tried to cut a new path across the face of a mountain, rather than going back to the bottom and taking the footpath back up the top. A couple of fortunately-placed saplings impeded my progress but increased my lifespan long enough to get back to Perth ok.

The road trips were a lot shorter once back in Perth; the longest a trip out to Fremantle to see the jail and try Australia's best fish and chips out on the waterfront. Before too long though it was time to farewell the relatives and jump back on the Greyhound heading east. On boarding the driver said I was sitting next to a little blonde woman, a trip highlight that last as long as it took to find my seat and realise that in WA “little blonde woman” meant “big, fat blonde man”. The whole way from Perth-Port Augusta I found myself with half an arse hanging off the seat in order not to have any kind of physical contact with the man; more than once I found myself looking longingly at the luggage racks and wondering if I was just small and light enough to squeeze in for the night.

Port Augusta brought both physical and comedy relief. The physical relief was that a few disembarked there and I could finally move into a spare double-seat; the comedy from the Chinese man that must have gone exploring and never made it back. After stomping up and down the bus a number of times to confirm he could still count past 10, the driver eventually muttered something about giving this bloke all the time in the world and driving off, while the rest of us looked out the windows for signs of a streak of panic and/or vengeance to come tearing our way.

AFTER more than 10,000km on the road I made it home. While I was 18 and officially an adult at the time, my trek across to Perth was really my adolescent self's last hurrah. Eighteen months later I headed west out of Brisbane with a full car, a Canberra street directory and no idea what would happen when it came time to actually use it. The Triple M radio signal stayed with me right until Cunningham's Gap, dropping out along with my childhood and adolescence once over the crest of the pass. Adulthood kicked in along with the CD I had to keep me company.

And just like childhood, adulthood began with a road-trip.

Where To Next?

I'M NOT going to lie to you - I've had a good run when it comes to travel.

Really good. Since 2005 I've been lucky enough to explore parts of Australia, New Zealand, Singapore, Malaysia, Sri Lanka, United Arab Emirates, South Africa, United States of America, Canada, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, England, France, Spain, Portugal, Gibraltar, Monaco, Germany, Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Finland, Poland, Switzerland, Liechtenstein, Austria, Czech Republic, Hungary, Croatia, Slovenia, Romania, Greece, Italy, San Marino and the Vatican City. Add to that overnight stop-overs in South Korea and Japan as well as a few pass-throughs of Slovakia, and yeah, I'm doing ok.

It's not enough.

There's still so much of the world to explore you see. Note the complete lack of South American countries in the above list - have to fix that. Two weeks in South Africa wasn't nearly enough: didn't even go to a game park or anything! Definitely need to fix that one up - and I hear places like Mozambique and Namibia are pretty awesome as well. Come to think of it, how awesome would a Cape to Cairo be? Of course, once you're in Cairo the Middle East is right next door, and frankly it'd be rude not to go (riots, civil disturbances and possible wars notwithstanding).
It's amazing too how many people have rabbited on about their Asian experiences. Imagine overlanding in Singapore and slowly exploring South-East Asia all the way up to China, Japan, South Korea - hell wouldn't North Korea be an experience come to that? And I hear Myanmar/Burma's starting to open up as well...

You see my problem? And that's without the inevitable re-visiting places like the USA and Canada to visit friends and new attractions (hello Rockies and Grand Canyon!). Not being blessed with James Packer's bank account (or even one that, you know, averages more than two digits before the decimal point) means that if I'm going to tick these boxes I'm going to have to either:

1. get a job that pays better than a hostel; or 
2. get a job that takes me places. 

Number 1 would be a lot easier had General Newman not decided to sack 14,000-odd public servants since coming to power. I'd love to get back into writing or radio, but the seven years since I last worked in the media seems to be an issue for potential employers.
Which leaves us with number 2. Tour guide again, or maybe teaching English overseas? I hear there's some good coin to be had there....

At any rate, I'm going to have to come up with something soon. The world's a big place, and that travel itch needs scratching NOW.

Kicking Back...

YOU ever seen people that come back from holidays in need of a holiday?

You know the type: they've spent their entire holidays travelling to some exotic destination, researched all the major sites then spent the whole time trekking from sight to sight without relaxing properly, which always seemed to me to be the whole point in going on holidays in the first place.

In honour of this - and some fabulous weather - I am proud to announce that I spent my first couple of days staying at Base Magnetic Island doing pretty much nothing.

Actually, that's only semi-true. I arrived on the Saturday and simply had to get out to watch the Queensland vs Auckland rugby semi-final. The guys on the desk were kind enough to point me to a sports bar about 20 minutes walk away, where the good guys (the Reds) won to set up a fantastic few days.

The next two days were spent basically reading and sleeping. Base Magnetic Island is located right on the beach, so I had the choice of sitting in a hammock and swaying myself to sleep; or grabbing a chair right outside my room and going through the books I'd bought at the Airlie Beach Book Exchange.

Night times were a little more exciting, with a V8 supercar on site Sunday to help promote the Townsville 400 the following weekend. Monday was time for Bar Wars, where teams did everything from a scavenger hunt to tossing water balloons to musical chairs with a difference...

Tuesday I decided to actually get off my bottom and grab a bicycle for the day. There's plenty to see on the rest of the island, including any number of bays and an old World War II fort built to help protect the Townsville shipping industry.

Unfortunately Magnetic Island is a wee bit hilly, meaning that the first part of my trip up to Horseshoe Bay was largely spent pushing the bike up a 14% incline and swearing and cursing that I hadn't hired a scooter instead. About the only things that kept me going were the stunning views around every corner and the knowledge that while 14% is hard to ride up, it's also a lot of fun to ride back down.

One sore bottom and a memory card full of photos later it was time to relax as Will gave us bingo with some bango - a funny way to finish a great stay on Maggie.

A great place for a proper holiday!

Islands To Island...

ONE of my brothers has a saying: "I know boats".

Naturally this comes into conversation at completely random times when he deems it necessary. Whether he actually knows boats, or is just Facebook friends with a boat is unknown, but after four days sailing and one ferry ride, I reckon I know a little bit about boats now!

After all the fun and excitement of sailing the Whitsundays, it was time to reacquaint ourselves with solid ground and see if we could walk without the ground swaying from side to side. It was a sad goodbye at the docks as some people had early buses to catch to destinations north and south.

For me it was time to check in with "Shazza", my trusty steed for this trip. Given she'd been sitting quietly while I was away I decided to take her for a spin out to Shute Harbour, something I can definitely recommend for any photographers out there! Tree-covered islands sitting peacefully in crystal-blue waters as boats blissfully sail past... Heaven!

This was pushing on for mid-afternoon though, so it was back to Base Airlie Beach for a snooze before heading to the Down Under Bar to meet the remaining crew for some food, drinks and dancing. After that it gets a little hazy...

WAKING up with a hangover is never pleasant, especially when you're due to drive 300km that day. After several cups of tea and swearing never to drink again it was time to head north to Townsville, drop the car off and jump on board yet another boat.

The drive up to Townsville passed through some unusual terrain. Given Airlie Beach is pretty much a tropical paradise I'd expected more of the same heading north: rainforests lining the way. What's there instead is a lot of brown plains, the kind you get travelling inland rather than along the tropical coast. Along the way I stopped in at Bowen (and the Big Mango just before the town itself!) and Ayr (birthplace of golfer Karrie Webb), both picturesque towns that had a very chilled vibe on this particular Saturday.

Nothing could detain me for long though, as for only the second time since leaving as a toddler, I was heading into Townsville! Actually, just passing through really, although I did manage to get lost and getting to know South Townsville (my tip: don't do this). Eventually I found my way to the Sunferries terminal to head over to Base Magnetic Island.

On another boat.

My Whitsunday Sailing Adventure...

HIGH winds that never stopped; choppy seas that led to more than a couple of mouthfuls of slightly salty sea-water; occasional rain periods and the ceremonial regurgitation of food off the edge. Sound like fun to you?

Try wiping the smile from my face though!

My trip through the Whitsundays began with a run out to Cannonvale to pick up essential supplies like contact lens solution, sunscreen, and a couple of boxes of goon. Had I half a brain I probably would have picked up some sea-sickness tablets, what with all that wind about and my being so susceptible to motion sickness that I nearly threw up watching The Bourne Ultimatum at the Sony Centre in Berlin one time. But yay, goon!

We met the crew of the Emperors Wings down at the marina, climbed on board and were treated to a lettuce, cheese and ham wrap just to kick things off. After going through the safety with our captain Stu we were introduced to dive masters Pete and Steve and hostess Harriet before setting sail for the Whitsunday Islands.

Even at this early point we could tell we were in for some rough seas. Standing on the front of the boat was always interesting, if only to see which unlucky sod would get drenched by the next wave we crashed through! Most of us got through ok though before arriving at our first dive stop on Hayman Island. A number of punters took the chance to make their very first scuba dives while the rest of us took advantage of the smooth bay to do a spot of snorkelling. Either way, all of us came out comparing what we'd just seen - corals that ranged from miniature "trees" to giant boulders; clownfish that scooted in and around sea anemones; and being completely surrounded by schools of fish, all quite happy to pop in and say g'day to the mysterious wet-suited things floating around their habitats.

Of course the hot tub on the boat made things even better again!

Day 2 saw us pop over to Whitehaven beach on Whitsunday Island. This beach is regularly voted one of the best in the world, with its 98% silica sand. Most of the group went out and explored a bit while some of us took the chance to enjoy a nice sun-bake...

A few funny photos later and it was back on board for the journey out to our next dive stop. Most people went snorkelling this time, with the hot tub again proving a hit once we'd finished. That night we parked up at Hook Island in preparation for our big day sailing.

And what a day that was too! It took us a few hours through choppy seas to get to the outer reef, where you could see the water breaking over the outer edge of the reef. The diving here was spectacular; the snorkelling much harder work - especially if you float like a brick! A few mouthfuls of water convinced me that the hot tub would be more appropriate...

After a couple of hours it was time to head back to shore for one last night on board. By now most of us had figured out the best way to avoid sea-sickness was to lie down somewhere. This works best though if you can fall asleep for most of it instead of nodding off for 20 minutes. After sitting up the back of the boat for a couple of hours I felt brave enough to grab a party pie, only to find that it didn't want to be digested and had in fact encouraged the banana cake I'd had earlier to join it in a mad dash for freedom!!!

Half an hour later we pulled up into a sheltered bay for dinner, drinks, Mega-Uno (don't ask) and pictionairy - a great way to end a great few days.

Still can't wipe the smile from my face!

Finally There!!!

We resume our story at a rest stop some 170km south of Mackay, Queensland. Our hero has managed to set off his car alarm and try sleeping in about 30 different positions before the sun comes up and awakens him for the last time...

WITH just over 300km to go until Airlie Beach, I decided to try and push straight through in the hope there was already a spare bed waiting for me. This was naturally foiled by my stomach wondering just where the hell breakfast was, and with that threatening to bring other parts of my body on strike, it was into another little service station for what was actually a half-decent bacon and egg roll.

This part of the Bruce Highway is dominated by sugar cane: all around were signs warning of cane trucks and train crossings. Eventually though I got through Sarina, Mackay and Proserpine without any problems before taking the turn-off to Airlie Beach itself, only to discover that a) the main road was closed and we had to detour; and b) I was stuck behind a large campervan whose driver had apparently forgotten the accelerator was the pedal on the right...

The scenery made up for Captain Slow though. Tree-covered hills rise over the town itself as you drive in while the blue waters of the Coral Sea tease you on the left. Even better than the view though was the available bed at Base Airlie Beach, complete with bath! One relaxing soak later and it was off to Whitsunday Sailing Adventures to check in for my cruise the next day.

The rest of the day was pretty chilled. I'm staying in Airlie Beach again after the cruise, so after a quick mission out to the docks to see where I leave from it was back to Base for a snooze before heading to their very own Down Under Bar for a $10 meal and pint deal, a few beers - and most importantly of all a few cracks at the pinball machine.

Next stop: Great Barrier Reef!!!

Up To Airlie...

WORD of warning for those driving through Queensland. Before you go any further into this blog, I want you to go to Google Maps. Now find directions from Brisbane to Airlie Beach. (Alternatively, if you're feeling a bit slack then click here). Now have a look at the direction the road goes either side of Rockhampton (about the middle of the map). This is pretty much north-west, which by coincidence is the exact direction the sun sets in, making driving at the exact time I was somewhat of a dangerous task...

But I digress. It's a little over 1100km from Brisbane to Airlie Beach and takes you past some of Queensland's major attractions, including the Sunshine Coast, Noosa, Hervey Bay and Fraser Island. The Bruce Highway also takes you past some historic old towns that are well worth a look, including Childers, my first sight-seeing stop.

Childers itself is an attractive, old-style country town located on the Bruce Highway south-west of Bundaberg. Walking down the highway you get a glimpse of what Australian towns must have been like over 50 years ago (at least until you see the multi-national takeaway store); my destination was one such building.

Back in 2000 a deranged man set fire to the old Palace Backpackers Hostel, killing 15 people. Today it is rebuilt, with an art gallery and memorial open to the public. The memorial itself is extremely well done, with a large painting showing the victims in poses from photographs provided by the families, while on the back wall are small collages containing photos of all 15 victims. To see those photos, of people enjoying their Australian experience - including cuddling a koala at Lone Pine, something we encourage down in Brisbane - then realising these people would never make it home to share their experiences with friends and family was somewhat jolting. The lady at the desk was very informative about what exactly happened, and if you are travelling through Childers I highly recommend stopping in.

THE rest of the journey was a little less memorable. Driving through country Australia you realise a couple of things: 1) service station food is terrible; and 2) some people should not be allowed out on the road. Overtaking lanes are few and far between, so just north of Gympie I took the chance to fly past a truck that had been holding me up. Problem was a woman in a 4wd decided to jump into the right-hand lane for no reason and hold me up, which meant the truck zoomed back past me on my left before it went back to one lane each way. Seriously.

At Rockhampton I'd planned on stopping at the Tropic of Capricorn, but as the sun was shining directly in my face pretty much the last 50kms into town, I missed it completely. Oops.

After Rockhampton I kept driving north towards a very small town called Marlborough for possibly the worst chicken and chips at the local service station, before pulling into a rest area 66km up the road for some much-needed sleep.

To be continued...

Life Is A Highway...

... AND for the next three weeks I'll be riding it all night long!

This trip is a little different to just about every other one I've done in the last seven years though. Those trips have been around Europe, Asia, South Africa and the USA; this time around though it's my home state of Queensland.

In many ways it's a bit of a homecoming for me. My first road trip was at the grand old age of one month old, as we headed south from Townsville to Mum's family in Brisbane. Since leaving Townsville at age 2 I've been back a total of once, with most family trips being down south to visit Dad's family in Victoria.

What a trip it is too! Two days of leisurely tootling up the Bruce Highway to Airlie Beach before four days on a cruise around the Whitsundays before four nights relaxing just off the coast of Townsville on Magnetic Island. After that it's up to Cairns and Cooktown for a couple of nights each, before taking a week to get back to Brisbane - quite possibly looking at going through Atherton, Charters Towers and Emerald to change things up.

Three weeks off, the iPod at the ready, Great Barrier Reef and some beautiful tropical winter weather: what more can you ask for?

Time to hit the highway...

Innsbruck's Mega-Mountains...

THERE’S something about mountains that just does it for me.

Now I’m guessing that’s not the same for everyone. Some people like rainforests, others tropical reefs; a very select few really have a thing for industrial parks. These people are generally industrialists and should probably be avoided at parties.

But I digress.

So given the above information, you can imagine my delight upon arrival in Innsbruck to find the whole city is encircled by snow-capped mountains – as well as rain-bringing clouds.

The weather though was strangely appealing. I’d spent the night before in Munich, doing as the locals do: visiting the Augustiner Biergarten, eating a delicious pork knuckle (a half-shank of roasted pork covered with crackling), and drinking the world’s best beer. Several litres of it in fact, before heading back to Wombats and drinking in the Wombar with a friend there.

All this meant that a rainy day gave me the perfect excuse to chill out for most of the day. When the rain eased later in the afternoon I ducked into Innsbruck’s pretty town centre, wandering the streets and hoping like hell the next day would be better.

The next day dawned with the weather indeed a lot better: nothing for it then but to head up the hills to the Alpine Zoo. Not only would I be able to find out the answer to that age-old question of whether a bear defecated in the woods, but it would probably be the only time I’d get to see European wildlife outside of nightclubs.

The zoo itself was more than bears going potty, with vultures, wolves, lynx, warthogs, farmyard animals and a mummy elk looking happy as Larry with her baby elk. Fish were boring though.

Afterwards I jumped on the funicular back into town before heading up the other hills to a ski jump. This wasn’t just any ski jump though – this one was used in the 1964 and 1976 Winter Olympics, and besides, we don’t have any ski jumps in Queensland. While I didn’t go in on account of cost and dark, threatening clouds appearing stage left, you can head in for about €8.50, which includes a trip up to a café at the top.

The clouds held off long enough for me to head back home and have a wander through a festival that had sprouted outside my hotel – a nice way to finish off my sojourn in this picturesque Tyrolean town.

Love those mountains.

A Mythical Place Called Prague...

GROWING up, Prague was one of those mythical places.

Well, not mythical as such, but somewhere mysterious that was the capital of every spelling test nightmare, Czechoslovakia. Sited on the wrong side of the Iron Curtain Prague was one of those places you were unlikely to go to anytime soon.

Nowadays things have changed. Prague is one of the more popular European tourist destinations; Czechoslovakia became the Czech Republic and Slovakia in 1993; while the latest country to give students cold sweats on spelling tests in Kyrgyzstan in central Asia.

There’s always the feeling though that Prague is still somewhere a bit different. Even the language when you enter the Czech Republic goes from vaguely understandable to a mish-mash of z’s, y’s, ř’s, ň’s and š’s. Our guide Amy told us a bit about the language on the way in, with a couple of useful tips to try and remember a couple of words (cheers in Czech sounding a lot like someone saying “nice driveway” quickly).

Before we even hit the Czech Republic we stopped in Dresden, home amongst other things to porcelain, the world’s longest tram and the Wonderbra. Although I didn’t stay here, it is a city rebuilt in the last 60 years after being ¾ destroyed at the end of WWII and was disappointed to miss out after Amy’s description.

Just over the border we then stopped at a former concentration camp at a small town called Terezin. Despite being an internment camp rather than an extermination camp as per Auschwitz 2/Birkenau, it’s still confronting to look at the way the Nazis kept prisoners – and in particular Jewish prisoners – in inhumane conditions.

Eventually we arrived at Plus Prague, our home for the next few days. The first night was pretty quiet, just catching up with a few people that had gone on ahead after Daniel and I left the circuit. The first day in was pretty quiet too, not least because after travelling with Daniel around Scandinavia I had to a) sleep, and b) launder!

Important stuff aside though it was time to head across to the Pražský Hrad (Prague Castle to for us monoglot English speakers). Despite there being a direct tram between the hostel and the castle (tram #12 for those playing at home), Cath and I walked across, not least because the walk entails the Letenské sady, a park superbly located overlooking the Vltava River and the old town. That it’s also a good way of working off those Czech beers (pivo) is another bonus…

After meeting Cath’s friend Jaime in town we then had a wander through the centre, with someone deciding that since it was a relatively nice day and it should only be about 30 minutes or so, we should walk back. Five or six detours and at least one very smelly underpass later and it was decided that someone (me) was an idiot… C’est la vie!

My final day was pretty chilled as well. Stupidly I decided to go to the Communist Museum: not a bad move in itself, but because I procrastinated so much earlier that day I was in the museum while the Czechs played Sweden in a World Cup Ice Hockey semi-final, and missed seeing the Czechs win on penalties on the big screen in the centre of town!

The museum was well worth the effort though. It doesn’t just look at the Communist-era Czechoslovakia, but goes back further to the formation of Czechoslovakia before going right through to the Velvet Revolution of 1989. Throughout it examines what life was like under Communist rule, shows propaganda posters used to discredit the West, and gives examples of how Communists used things like sport to promote their way of life.

For me though the most confronting – and disturbing – part of the museum was the TV room. Here on continuous loop is a film that shows demonstrations, includes footage of Wenceslas Square eerily free of McDonald’s or any other western stores – and police savagely beating their own people. For anyone who thinks that Communism was worthwhile, watch this video and be shocked.

To look at Prague nowadays is to realise how much has changed – and how accessible it really is. The beauty of the city still makes it mythical, but in a better way.

Berlin. No Need For A Witty Title.

THERE were only two things I really wanted to do on this trip.

We’re not talking general wouldn’t-mind-checking-out or hey-that’s-kind-of-interesting things, but two things I really, really, wanted to do.

The first of these was a watch a cricket match at Lord’s in London. Unfortunately that particular pilgrimage for cricket tragics like myself cut short by a bout of weather so foul that the only possible way to alleviate the pain was to go to the pub and watch Australia play in a very warm-looking West Indies.

The other thing was to do Berlin.

Berlin – and Germany’s recent history – has fascinated me since I first looked at an atlas as a young fella and saw maps of Germany over the years. Being very young I had no idea about world history, so couldn’t quite understand how this country had gotten smaller over the years; indeed how it ended up being two countries for a while there.

I don’t remember the fall of the Berlin Wall in November 1989 (major world events skipping past most 9-year-olds living in Toowoomba) but even back then the concept of a divided city was, well, weird.

And now I was heading there.

Our first glimpse of the scars of Germany’s recent past was actually our final service stop at a little place called Marienborn. Had we been travelling just over 20 years earlier, this is where we would have stopped to go through East German immigration before continuing onto Berlin. The former customs houses are now an open-air museum, while the masses of light towers and a guard tower meant that it didn’t take too much imagination to realise this wasn’t a place you would’ve wanted to linger back then.

It was then onto Berlin, where after a relatively quiet night at the CityStay hostel bar (only open 23 hours a day!) Daniel and I jumped onboard an Insider/Fat Tire bike tour to learn more about this fascinating city. Amongst the strange things Berlin has to offer was just up the road from the TV tower where the East German parliament used to stand. Authorities have dismantled that old piece of junk as it was full of asbestos, and have decided to replace it with – and I’m not making this up – a replica of the royal palace that used to stand there until just after WWII, even though Germany hasn’t had a royal family since Kaiser Wilhelm abdicated in 1918. Go figure.

During the tour we got to see Checkpoint Charlie, the Jewish Memorial, the Brandenburger Tor (in the death strip during the years of the Berlin Wall), and the Reichstag, as well as a stop in a Tiergarten beer garden for a refuelling stop. That had been the main reason for doing the bike rather than the walk, although everyone who came off the walk raved about it as well!

That night most of the crew – plus a few guides and drivers on days off – came along for the Insider pub crawl. Once again memories are hazy, although what does spring to mind is Daniel doing the caterpillar, and an awesome kebab at ??o’lock after coming back from the Matrix nightclub at the end.

The next day was a mixed bag; although that was always on the cards. Some went down to the Eastside Gallery (the largest bit of the Berlin Wall still remaining); others checked out the Jewish Memorial and the Topography of Terror. I went out to near the bombed-out church near the Zoo to pick up a car for Daniel and I to take us around Scandinavia.

That trip is for another blog away from here… But I tell you what, I’m glad I did Berlin.

Now if only I could get back to Lord’s for a match…

Amsterdamaged!!!

AMSTERDAM has a reputation for carnage.

Hardly earth-shattering news really, but after travelling around for a while you find sometimes things can be exaggerated. True, The Netherlands’ liberal drug laws meant that a few were looking forward to partaking in the local specialties, but surely it can’t be that different to other major cities…

Of greater importance to me though wasn’t what was waiting in Amsterdam but rather who. My brother Daniel is travelling Europe for a couple of weeks, so we’d arranged to meet up in Amsterdam before heading across on Big Blue to Berlin and some randomness. Also waiting was a good friend Jaime, who joined us out on the first night.

The fun started even before we arrived in town. The Amsterdam authorities had decided to hold a big bicycle race in our honour called the Giro d’Italia, which made getting around town was a bit of a mission. Once there Daniel suffered a nightmare that no one ever wants: a cash machine swallowing his one and only ATM card! This naturally caused a bit of concern for the lad, so after sorting out monetary access it was time to join the crew for a bit of a drink and boogie. Ask anyone there about “the caterpillar”…

Our first full day was, like all bar one since I arrived in Europe, cold. Bitterly cold – especially if you’re from Queensland. The one bonus though was that the chill zapped our hangovers as we jumped onboard Mike’s Bikes tour around the Amsterdam hinterland. Dodging around the Giro d’Italia we took in the Vondelpark, the Amsterdam Forest, a lot of canals and the like before heading into a clog and cheese factory with one of the most random dudes running it. It’s hard to explain his jokes, but like this one, they were cheesy…

All that riding around had made us thirsty, so it was off to a brewery; well, the Heineken Experience at any rate. A quick experience of being a beer and a walk around later we were ready to sample some of the stuff, which turned into quite a few more when we arrived in the Leidseplein for the Ultimate Party pub crawl.

At this point we must skip forward to the next day on account of the pub crawl being one big blur. Hazy photos and hazier memories suggest a good night out; certainly everyone enjoyed themselves! This included Daniel, who finally stirred late afternoon to head on out to the Anne Frank Huis. This was our first real introduction to the horrors perpetrated by Nazi Germany, and afterwards Daniel reckoned it was well worth the effort of leaving his warm, cosy bed/bar.

A few beers and a quick trip to the Red Light District to have a look around and it was back to the hostel for a few quiet ones to reflect that yep, Amsterdam certainly has a reputation for carnage.

And that reputation is very well-earnt.

Can't believe I'm in Bruges...

RECIPE for fun: take 40-odd travellers and place into a big blue bus; mix them around a little bit, then sift into random medieval town. Add personal preference of beer, fries and chocolate. Stand back and watch the results…

That was the recipe we used in Brugge anyway. Just over 40 of us jumped onboard the Busabout coach for the first time, with most of us jumping out in the well-preserved Belgian city made infamous by Colin Farrell’s incessant moaning.

First we had to get there. There was already a good crew waiting for breakfast at St Christopher’s when I got downstairs, so everyone had the chance to have a bit of a chat before Driver Dan loaded our bags and guide Nick checked us on. Once aboard I ended up chatting to fellow Brugge-ing Busabouter Lisa, whiling away the hours as we passed through the Somme and Lille before crossing over in Belgium.

Brugge itself was a lot better than Colin Farrell’s character gave it credit for – although had he been part of this crew he might’ve enjoyed himself a lot more. Nick had told us that beer and chips were Belgian specialties, so we wasted no time in trying a few beers before going on to grab some chips (and more beer).

Now full, we set off to explore the town. After the obligatory pics in front of the Belfort, we went down a random street and came across a Tintin store and a chocolate shop. Nothing special about that… but the chocolates were rather interesting. Think of certain parts of the human body (male and female) in chocolate form… Needless, a few brave souls gave them a try!

After that we kept walking down the same street, just chatting away when we came across something none of us were expecting: a fun park! Being a pack of big kids it was straight onto the fun house before Matt, Taleish? and I went on the scariest-looking ride there, screamed our heads off and came out sounding like the cast of The Godfather.

After that the day was pretty chilled. A few took advantage of some free wifi to organise travel plans while Matt and I took advantage of the fact we were in a pool hall to partake in ye olde trash-talking competition with some pool thrown in.

Day two dawned with most people hiring out bikes and going for a cruise down to a Belgian beach; Nick jumped onboard a Flanders battlefields tour; while I took the chance to have a quiet wander around town and catch up on some work-type stuff. Plans to head up the Belfort were thwarted though when I realised my camera battery had somehow gone from full to dead in one day…

Night brought more beer-tasting and quite possibly the worst restaurant lasagne ever! Tempted by a sign advertising €3.50 lasagne we went in, ordered up, then listened to the sounds of the microwave heating it up. To make matters worse Joel and Nick had upsized on account of being very hungry, only to find their €6.50 large was very similarly-sized to our €3.50 medium…

Aah, the joys of travelling… Good thing our recipe for fun was tastier!

Pedestrian in Paris...

I LOVE walking around cities. Or riding bikes. Rollerblading I’m not so keen on, although that has everything to do with a complete lack of coordination on my part.

The reason I enjoy walking/riding is the random things you find when you’re not crammed under someone’s smelly armpit on the metro. You can come across some markets, a hidden gem of a church – or even a gift from Canada to France. You’ll never guess what that one is…

It was with this in mind that I decided to spend my last day in Paris walking from St Christopher’s hostel down to the Seine before turning right and heading towards the Hôtel des Invalides. The sun was out so there were even plans to pop into Sainte Chappelle, the church built to house the crown of thorns worn by Jesus when he was crucified. The church contains stained glass windows that tell Biblical stories, and on a sunny day is supposed to be quite the sight.

Unfortunately it seemed like half of Paris had the same idea, so I went over the Île de la Cité and instead lined up for the Musée d’Orsay. The building itself is an old train station that fell into disuse after electric trains kept getting longer and longer; as an introduction to Paris it would have been quite the sight!

Inside the museum contains many works from Impressionist artists like Van Gogh, Renoir, Cézanne; check out Van Gogh’s self-portrait for an insight into a troubled man. I was also quite taken by Jean-Léon Gérôme’s La Réception de Condé à Versailles showing King Louis XIV and his rather impressive court. Also interesting but for less historical reasons was Thomas Couture’s Les Romains de la Décadence. I’ll leave that one to your imagination…

Having had my fill of culture, it was off to the Hôtel des Invalides where Napoleon awaited. As expected his tomb was very grand – legend has it that because Napoleon was so paranoid about his height, he wanted his tomb set up so that you either had to look up or bow down to see him. Also impressive was the Armouries Museum in the main building itself; but for me the best part was something I had no idea about.

Contained within the Hôtel des Invalides is an excellent exhibition on World War I and World War II. When you first walk in there’s a small amount on the Franco-Prussian War before getting into the two World Wars. I was particularly intrigued as to how they would deal with World War II, given the English-speaking view that the French were on the wrong side of useless (or cheese-eating surrender monkeys if you prefer) during that particular time. As expected it does go quite a lot into Charles de Gaulle and the Resistance movement, but also looks a little at the war in the Pacific.

So that was it for Paris then. I walked back to the hostel, muttering and cursing that perhaps the metro would have been a better idea instead of tramping through the wind and cold, only to remember the afore-mentioned gift from Canada resides in a small park just below the statue of Louis IV on the Île de la Cité. I went in, had a look… it’s a rock!

London's Calling; Paris Answers...

I WRITE this as I wait for that inevitable bane of traveller’s lives to finish: the laundry.

It’s amazing how something that’s so simple back home – add dirty clothes to washing machine, insert powder/liquid, close lid, turn on – can turn into a mission when you’re out and about. Here at St Christopher’s in Paris it’s a two-minute walk to the laundromat, where everything (washers, dryers and laundry powder dispensers) is run through a central payment thingy. Once you know how to work it it’s actually quite easy, but it is a reminder that metaphorically, we’re not in Kansas anymore Toto!

Of course you tend to realise this when you fly for over 24 hours from Australia. Flying Emirates I left Brisbane at 2am on April 29, had brief stopovers in Singapore and Dubai before arriving into London Gatwick around 2000… on April 29, which works out to something like 27 hours in transit (and about 3 years in imagined time when you’re surrounded by screaming children). Fortunately the food was good, immigration was quick and before too long I was tucked away in bed dreaming of the day when someone pays for a first-class ticket…

London itself was a chilled time, visiting friends and paying a first-time visit to the British Museum. In the two years on-and-off I lived in London I’d never made it to this very impressive museum, home to the Rosetta Stone amongst other things. Knowing the popularity of this one exhibit the museum has very thoughtfully put it just to the left of the also-impressive grand chamber just after walking in, which then drags you towards the Ancient Greek exhibit, containing a number of artefacts from the Athens Parthenon that the Greeks would very much like back.

To leave after just seeing these two rooms would be a shame though. Although many rooms were closed the day I went there, I managed to spend a couple of hours wandering aimlessly through rooms detailing Ancient Egyptian life – and death; perused Italian history pre-Roman domination; then finished up with a spot on Enlightenment. All this… for free (although they do have boxes asking for donations).

After this there was a failed attempt to catch Afghanistan playing India in the World Twenty20 Cup, a May Day march through the Strand, and possibly the best steak pie I’ve ever had at the Sussex Gardens near Chiswick. Seriously chunky pieces of steak in a rich gravy with an astounding pastry on top… it’s amazing how much you can fit in even when you’re not hungry!

ALL good things must come to an end though, and on Monday it was off to Paris on the Eurolines bus. This wasn’t too bad, apart from the inevitable hour wait at French immigration as they went through 40-odd passports, had a cuppa, watched Days Of Our Lives, had a smoke, then finally gave us our passports back – in my case minus entry stamp. Not cool.

Here in Paris so far I’ve managed to head across to Cemetrie Père Lachaise, final resting place of Oscar Wilde, Heloise and Abélard… and a singer called James Douglas Morrison. Jim Morrison’s grave was the busiest by far, with a fence around it to stop over-eager fans from getting too close! No such problems with Wilde’s grave, which is covered in lipstick marks; Heloise and Abélard’s merely covered in authentic medieval scaffolding.

There was also the excitement of watching the first coaches of the season pull out and head on their way to Bruges and Amsterdam. Tomorrow I’ll be jumping onboard Big Blue myself to head to Bruges, but later today it’s off to Hôtel des Invalides for another tomb – this time for the most famous short man in history.

Which I’ll do right after the laundry finishes…