Greek Islands – Rocking the Boat

A gust of wind blew through the pool side terrace of our hotel, knocking drinks to the floor like a cold and unforgiving warning. Napkins swirled around the pool, brewing with anger. It was on this auspicious day that we chose to make the journey across the Aegean to the island of Milos.

We approached the dock where a crew member was ushering passengers aboard. The ember of a cigarette sticking out from behind his wide brimmed hat, illuminating his aged features with a faint orange glow. “Welcome aboard” he droned, sounding as though he had nothing more to his name than shattered dreams. I could feel a dark energy lingering in the air as I stepped onto the ferry, blissfully unaware of the perils that lay ahead of us, just beyond the horizon.

With no turning back, the ferry churned into motion and we were away. It wasn’t long into our journey before Poseidon appeared on the horizon, welcoming us to his kingdom. With a mighty wave of his trident he sent a welcome party of rolling waves our way, rocking the ferry side to side, instantly sending a wave of nausea surging through the cabin.

“I don’t feel too well” a pale faced Anna whimpered. An unwelcome feeling of deja vu washed over me.

It was clear this ride was not going to be a pleasant one, but the seriousness of our error was signalled by a deep bellowing noise I hope to never hear again. It wasn’t another bellowing warning from the sea, no, this bellow emanated from the stomaches of one hundred odd passengers aboard the sorry excuse for a sea worthy vessel I was now trapped on.

Chaos quickly erupted as passengers burst up the isles with reckless abandon to grab extra napkins and sick bags from the shop and back down the isles to the toilets. A queue of sick people quickly lined the back row (here forth known as Chunder Alley) waiting their turn to bow down at the porcelain alter and pray. As the boat soared through the choppy seas, a wave of vomit exploded from Chunder alley and hurled its way down the isles, taking suitcases, small children and anything else in its way with it. Meanwhile, the kid in the row in front of us was re-enacting the scene from The Exorcist, painting the entire row in what I can only describe as a cocktail of chicken soup and the souls of orphans like a broken fire hydrant.

Cries of help echoed through the ship. “Its the Kraken!” some one yodelled through their lunch.

The storm battered the ferry from all directions, throwing the passengers that dared leave their seats across the ship. Sick bags flew from the weak, loosely grasped hands, landing on unsuspecting victims. Napkins soaked with fresh sick were flung to the floor, landing under the feet of those providing fresh bags, sending them flying down the isle. Projectile vom exploded from all corners as the sick bags were in short supply. No one dared leave their seats to restock in fear of spinning down the isle like hitting a banana peel in Super Mario Kart.

A sigh of relief was hurled as Milos town could be seen glinting in the night, like a beacon of hope. As the boat broke through the last of the storm and trundled into the calm of the harbour, I peeked from the safety of my fetal position and gazed around the cabin which was now covered in a blanket of noxious stomach acids. The smell had spread like algal bloom, wafting its evil through the ship, stripping paint from the walls as it rose unrelentingly. Pavement pizzas littered the floor like land mines. Luggage and clothes had been strewn across the boat and landed in the most unlikely of places.

As We left the boat, our eyes met with the horrified gaze of the poor souls lining up to be ferried to the ‘other side’. A ghosty grimace was all they could muster as we wished them good luck.

Morocco – a desert (not dessert) experience

So as it turns out, people actually want to hear about my Morocco trip, not just about me ranting on about stupid shit I did. A few people have asked about my camel ride adventures through the desert so I thought I would share with everyone this unforgettable experience.

The ominous sand storm that carried us deep into the Sahara was only the first sign of perils that awaited me, but I was too preoccupied trying to figure out how to put on my Moroccan doo-rag, which as it happens, is no simple task. The combination of Saharan sun beating down on the steel roof of the land rover and a car full of people meant it quickly became uncomfortably warm in the our car. To combat this, we had the option of either opening a window to let the whipping winds of sandy destruction into the safety of the car or sweat it out in the heat box. We went for sandy destruction which was well timed as I had finally figured out how to doo-rag (went for the mummy approach). Not being able to see anything due to the sand storm but also because of the three layer thick cloth covering my face, I could only hope we would arrive safely.

The next morning we woke to the cheerful bellowing of camels as the bathed in the rays of the morning sun. “Sweet! I love camel rides! Time to sit back and enjoy the ride” I said to myself in a statement that will go down in history with many other regrettable statements such as “Looks like a great day for a drive” – JFK, “How many Persians could there be?” – King Leonidas and “Finally, an easy way to meet girls from the comforts of my home” – Chatroulette guy. Sitting comfortably on a camel is a bit like trying to run with ankle weights and flippers on. There is just no easy way to do it without looking like a complete idiot. The camels trudged through the rocky desert terrain, only feeding on our cries of pain. With every yelp and groan they took one step closer to our desert campsite.

After smelling like a camel for the entire day, a shower starts to look like a godsend. The campsites come fully equipped with eski’s for beer, semi flushing toilets and showers. And by shower I actually mean is either scaldingly hot lava water or a trickle of cold water from a faucet that is conveniently positioned at hip level.

Once you think this whole ordeal is all done and dusted (#NailedIt), you wake up the next morning with a sharp aching pain shooting up and down your entire back. Forget deadlifts, camel rides will give you the most intense back workout of your life. One ride and you will be a jelly mess for dayyys, and then come the doms.. The entire next day I was unable to walk like a normal human, instead I was walking half like an old-man-cripple, bent over and holding my back as though it was not able to hold itself up, and half like a cowboy, unable to touch knees.

But don’t let me put you off Morocco. The experience was an awesome one and if the opportunity came up, I would visit Morocco again – just no more camel rides.

Morocco – Mistakes were made, lessons were learnt

Traveling in Morocco was a great learning experience for myself. I learnt how to get lost in the middle of the Sahara during a sand storm and how to barter for wives with camels. But, I also learnt several life lessons which I feel I must impart on you should you ever travel to Morocco:

Always look down

If you are walking through Marrakech, stare at the ground at all times. If for whatever reason you need to look up, be prepared to be charged for watching a performance that was happening on the other side of town or be attacked by a hoard of monkeys and then be charged for taking photos with them.

Keep your mouth shut in the desert

Even if your nose is already full of sand, trust me, keep your mouth shut. I’m pretty sure I ate my own body weight in sand over the two days I spent in the Sahara.

Every one already knows its hot

They are reminded with every beating heat wave and don’t need you reminding them also. Not only will you get a mouth full of sand but you will also get a shoe full of sand.. to the face.

Don’t be a tail ender

In addition to eating a shit load of sand, I also ate several camel farts while riding at the back of the pack. As I found out, camels fart a lot. Like, more than any healthy living thing should. I would recommend staying at the front.

Camels are having none of it

As surprising as it is, camels do not appreciate it when you pretend they are a bucking bull. They will sit down and not get up.

Camels are not made to be ridden

And then Satan said “lets put a hump on it just for good measure”. Everything about them screams get the fuck off me. The boney hump, the awkward getting up two legs at a time, the jerking forwards and backwards motion as they walk, everything. Sitting comfortably on a camel is about as easy as doing the YMCA in Chinese. Contrary to popular belief, camel humps are not full of water, they are full of bitter resentment for human squishy bits. Great service for carrying your bags across the desert – limited market for slow and painful vasectomies.

Gypsies are not to be fucked with

Do not ask the gypsies for their tears. They will use their gypsy magic and put a curse on you. You will eat a lot of sand for it.

Don’t throw rocks

There’s not a whole lot to do in the desert, and as tempting as it is, don’t pick up the little pebbles that scatter the camel trails. They aren’t rocks.

Don’t be a backseat bandit

Don’t sit in the back of the jeeps when they go over the sand dunes.. unless you want your head through the roof.

squeezyJet

Do not fly easyJet. Ever. It is like paying for a form of mild torture.

A Necessary Evil

The skies above London are darkening with each passing day – not because winter is coming, but because of a much more ominous presence. There are few necessary evils in life – war, taxes, alarm clocks and George Lucas. Even fewer are the necessary evils that are more sinister in nature than the people that enforce them. They must exist in the world, not by choice, but by pure necessity. There is one, however, that stands out from the crowd. Hate is a strong word, but there is one necessary evil that I truly despise with immeasurable fervour – recruitment agencies.  

The monkeys over at recruitment aren’t just lazy, their brevity is that of a teenage virgin. All until you tell them you are at final stages. Thats when they get their shit together and in a burst of panic throw every steaming pile of shit in reach at you in the hopes that one of them will stick. 

Don’t believe a word they say either. They offer vague roles that are clouded in mystery. If I had a penny for every time I heard a recruiter promise me a Business Analyst role at a respected firm that turned out to be desktop support or project management, I wouldn’t need a job in the first place. The next thing they will be telling you is that unicorns and Mexicans are real too. 

Home, Sweet Home

Its been a LONG time coming, but we’ve finally moved into our apartment. I can’t lie, It feels amazing. A place to finally unpack. A place to make my own. A place to call home.

For those that know London, we’ve moved to Old Street. For those that don’t know London, we’ve moved to hipster central. This place is swarming with fucking hipsters. I could throw a cassette tape and hit three of them.. then another would jump out of no where and run off with it. Its not uncommon to be tickled by the odd neckbeard on the subway during peak hour. And the streets are awash with coloured flannel shirts. 

“Dirty Chicken” shops dot the corners ready to lure in unsuspecting victims looking for a greasy midnight feed. The area is sprawling with bars, filling even the most quiet of streets with life. Street art is cleaned and resprayed in a never-ending, mechanical cycle. 

I love it here.

An Update – The Nomad

As some of you have so colourfully pointed out, my blog has been somewhat lacking in the blog department. Well, shit.

So we stil haven’t found a place to call home yet and living out of a suitcase is only fun for the first.. no, actually, living out of a suitcase sucks donkey balls. Being homeless and all has its ups and downs. On the up side – since we’re already homeless we decided we may as well be homeless somewhere warm. So we booked a trip to Spain. More to come on that at a later date. On the down side, however, we rely heavily on public wifi while travelling as the apartments we are staying in don’t have wifi for what ever reason, so I haven’t had much of a chance to update every one. 

To make up for the lack of updates and for apparently getting everyone’s panties in knots I’ve added a new section up in the menu doo-dad next to the photos thingy. A favourite for everyone. The infamous Book of Anna Quotes. 

The Vatican – “An ornament of the world”

Saints and martyrs line the towering colonnades that circle St Peter’s square, welcoming us with open arms. As the tallest structure in Rome, St Peter’s Basilica rises high above the skyline, keeping an ever watchful eye on its subjects. We approach the towering double doors as they swing open, letting us into a lofty, open nave lavishly decorated in marble. Michelangelo and Bernini statues adorn the ever expanding walls, looking up in reverence at the marvel of their creators. Voices bounce around the grand halls, carrying praises of awe and wonder. A magnificent stain glass window cast long, painted shadows over the ornate tiled floor. Sunlight trickles down from the top of St Peter’s dome, casting beams of light onto a crowd of tourists as they circle the Papal Altar. Guarded by larger than life statues of the first ever saints, the alter stands as the centrepiece to this wonder and marks the final resting place of St Peter. 

The Vatican in itself justifies a trip to Rome.

Naples – The Ghetto

Graffiti filled the place like a huge fuck you to the system, a gentle reminder that entropy is waiting around the corner where ever there are attempts to impose order over chaos. The bus drops us off on a deserted street corner in the dead of night and the driver waves in the general direction of a darkened street alley. He was a heavy set man who looked like he would enjoy copious amounts of gravy on his sunday roast. Probably on his cereal too. “Casa del Sol?” we whimper. A number of indecipherable hand gestures were thrown our way – Up, up, down, down, left, right, left right, B, A. Got it. Ushering us off the bus, the doors swing closed with a dramatic thud before we had a chance to gather our thoughts. A gust of street dirt blew in out face as he took off, leaving us clueless as to what just happened.

Naples is one of the very few places in the world I have felt unsafe in. I think it was the combination of complete lack of signage to anything and everything and the low level infrastructure on a back drop of fragile social order. I, personally, would not recommend staying in Naples any longer than necessary.

Pompeii – Long Gone, But Not Forgotten

My hands run over the stone relics of the crumbling ruins of the domain Roman gods once mastered. As my fingers trace the carvings of the now neglected and fading edifice, I flash back to a wall once adorned with intricate frescos telling of great battles won and lessons learnt. Stories of conquering heroes long since passed into the annals of history. Gravel crunches underneath my feet as I make my way across the garden, through the rows of towering columns and down to street level. Children are laughing as their feet danced across the cobble stone streets. Wooden carts full of trinkets from far away lands navigate the narrow passages. A gladiators blade sings through the air, but is only met by the dirt floor of the stadium followed by the boo’s and jeers of the blood thirsty onlooker of Pompeii’s colosseum. Intensifying waves of cheers can be heard throughout the streets as the clang of steel rings through the crowds. The quiet rumble is felt from Mt Vesuvius as Pompeiians (?) carry on with their peaceful lives, completely unaware of the imminent demise.

Walking through this once thriving ancient city makes me realise how little history Australia has to offer. Its odd to see huge blocks of granite, once giant Roman columns or carvings off a statue, cast aside for tourists to sit on. Discarded like trash, not because they are worthless or insignificant, but because they just have so much of it they don’t know what to do with it all. There is literally a one story high pile of granite blocks belonging to a mansion in Pompeii sitting in the rear carpark of the Naples National Archaeological Museum. Its a magical world out there, and it needs exploring.

Stockholm – The Place Beyond the Pines

We had misjudged the Swedish summer. It was hot, and the sun glared down at us, evaporating any trace of clouds in its way. The paving slabs drifted endlessly, bordering the rivers of glistening tarmac. As we trundled down the sidewalks, the empty heat was pierced only by the faint drum of beats drifting through the air,  just out of auditory focus to be identified. Our feet aching for refuge from the blistering heat, carried us to the shade of the a nearby tree. The chatter of voices and rhythmic beat now getting more and more clear. Curiosity clouded our judgement, we followed the thump of music off the beaten path, meandering through bushes and over tree stumps until we fell on a lightly gravelled track. A tall scandinavian girl skips by in an orange stripped bikini, Rekordelig in hand, confirming we were heading in the right direction. The music beckoned us, drawing us closer.  We followed the forested path to the sound of the drums, through the now sprawling, brilliantly green tree line. The unmistakeable hint of weed wafted through the air in the faint summer breeze. As I catch a glint of movement through the graceful sway of trees, a gangly man in a magicians top hat and coat tails steps out of the brush and greeted us (not even joking). He says something in incomprehensible Pingu speak and directs us forward. We round the brush to find a large clearing full of Swedes. A single DJ spun Armin on his decks in front of a growing crowd. A watermelon stand tucked away amongst the trees selling fruit smoothies and vodka slushies. Shirts were flying as spirits were high. It seemed we had stumbled upon a secret Swedish music festival hidden in the middle of a park in central Stockholm, but I have a feeling it was just your average summer weekend in Sweden.