Kia Ora from Wellington

Theme Songs for the Day:

1. "One Love", Bob Marley and the Wailers
2. "Aotearoa Aroha", by Diwata Tribe
3. "Island Style", by John Cruz

We missed the bus!

The plan today was to catch another shuttle, Intercity Buslines, up the coast through beautiful Kaikoru to Picton, where we could jump on a ferry to cross the Cook Strait and land us in Wellington by nightfall.

ATTENTION ALL TRAVELERS: When catching the 7am Intercity Bus to Picton from Christchurch, note carefully that Intercity are the only buses which depart from their own terminal station on Worcester St, behind the chapel.  Lesson learned. 

So, it was back to the source of all knowledge – Google – to find us an alternative way to get to Wellington where Ola’s friends were expecting us in time to make a 1:30 tour of the city’s museum.  

$400 in airfares, one hearty breakfast, and 3 hours later we are waiting for our bags at the Wellington Airport baggage claim with a friend of Ola’s who has offered to be our guide while we are in Wellington.  This is no small feat, as this friend also happens to be the Director of Medical Research at Wellington University School of Medicine, and is a very busy and important man.

He whisks us away in his sporty little coupe and takes us to Te Papa Museum on the shore of Wellingon Harbour, where he is delivering an award to a colleague.  She happens to be the Chief Curator of Te Papa, and takes us on a brief whirlwind tour of the Maori history exhibit, which is scheduled to be changed very soon.  Ola is stricken by the beautiful and intricately carved Waka [war canoe] that is the length of the hall.  

We learn about the Marae meeting house and Pataka food storehouses.  We learn about the Treaty of Waitangi, and of the continuting struggles for land rights between Maori and Pakeha [non-Maori].  We learn about how the Maori population has been decimated since white man’s arrival: from 130,000 in the 1700s to about 40,000 today.  The Hawaiian population has suffered similarly, although far more heavily: from 800,000 to about 40,000 today. 

It is fasciating to compare notes between the two peoples, and how each dealt with, and continues to deal with adapting to modern-day society whilst honoring and preserving the rich culture of their ancestors.  This will become a theme for the remainder of our trip. 

After a cup of coffee with our guides, we are whisked away again, where we visit another friend, the Director of Maori Studies at Wellington University.  This part of the city is a college town, with townhouses built into the hills and students lugging books and listening to iPods as they rush to their next class.  We ask for permission to visit the Marae, which is hidden behind some buildings in a protective elbow carved into the hillside.

Led by our guide, we stand at the edge of grass before the Marae and wait to be invited in before crossing the threshold.  We take our shoes off and are led to seats just inside the entrance, where we stand facing a small group of Maori students who survey us with a fierce curiosity. We are motioned to sit as he begins to welcome and introduce us to his family in his native Tongue. 

The students then launch into a beautiful harmony, a welcoming song that gives us goosebumps, and recounts the story of the sacrifices made to build this Marae. The Maori language is beautifully musical, similar to Hawaiian, with a more war-like quality to it.

Now it is our turn: we are introduced as friends, and a little about who we are is shared, before it is sugested that Ola may dance a hula as our offering.  There is enough similarity between Maori and Hawaiian language that Ola understands this part of his speech, and she is visibly nervous.  Her lone voice quivering, she dances and sings beautifully for us, her courage and grace moving everyone in the room.

The ancestors of the many different tribes represented here glare down upon us from the walls as we are welcomed and shown around, learning about the different tribal ancestors represented in each beautiful carving, and the meanings of each intricately weaved pattern.  The mana is strong here, vibrant and pulsing with its own life force. Our host explains that this is very much a living marae, with regular events scheduled and familes coming to sleep under the watch of their ancestors. 

I feel so blessed to be invited into the marae as a 'Brother from Hawaii' to learn about Maori culture .  You see, although I am third generation born and raised in Hawaii, there is no Native Hawaiian blood flowing throw my veins: my family heritage is Irish-Scottish-Filipino.  Though the Hawaiian culture is the one I feel closest to, I have always felt an outsider because of my lack of Hawaiian cultural knowledge.  It is truly humbling and an honor to be so warmly welcomed.

Although we are invited to take photos, the experience of sharing cultures so intimately is so profound that it doesn’t feel right to take out the cameras and start snapping away.  The images and music and emotions of that afternoon, however, will remain etched into my memory banks. 

WELLINGTON HARBOUR

Afterwards we are invited to have a cup of tea in the student house, where we watch the Maori-language news broadcast, then are taken to the staff lounge to enjoy a couple Friday night drinks.  As we relax on a balcony with our new friends, sipping on a cold brew and watching the sun set over Wellington Harbour, I notice that my cheeks are actually sore from the smile that has been on my face since our arrival in Wellington. 

Today's experience epitomizes what I enjoy most about travel: people, humanity, connection. 

Tasmania: Day 7 - Of Rain, Guiness Pie and Cheese

Theme Song for the Day:

1. "The Rain Song", by Led Zeppelin
   

CHASING SUNSETS

Two words: Guinness Pie. and Cheese. Okay 3 words then…

Cheese, as in: the best cheese I have ever had [and the most in one sitting] at a roadside showroom for cheese made by a family-owned dairy whose 4th generation custodians smile innocent cherubic smiles from their milk cartons.

Guinness Pie, as in: the best damn pub food ever invented! Imagine - chunky beef stewed with Guinness Stout so that the bittersweet hunks of meat melt in your mouth, washed down with ...a pint of cold Guinness, of course! So good and hearty and satisfying after a full day's driving North-> South across the state - that I decide on the same meal for brunch the next morning too. Fan-TAS-tic.

...Our time in Tasmania was wondrous, an escape into an alternate, past world when a families and communities bonded together out of a common need for survival. A time when the rhythm of life was dictated by the seasons of sow, harvest, stock, survive… and then the cycle would begin again.

There was such warmth in the household; it was clear that like all families, this family had been through its ups and downs and ins and outs and dramas and triumphs, and had come out stronger for the experiences. Their choice to live off the land was literally a choice to take their lives back into their own hands, and has created the bond of mutual understanding that a shared experience creates. The kind of bond that goes without words, that can convey volumes in a quickly shared glance.

The Canadian and I have also created a similar bond through the shared experience of the last few days, but through the sharing of stories: our lives’ journeys to this point. That’s one of the things about travel, it sharpens senses and heightens your experience another, because every moment counts.

How do I bring this back into my daily life, the one where I have bills to pay and phone calls to return and commitments to make? And keep. The life that has consumed the last decade of my life, the life I have left behind.

Through all of that endless mundanity, that terminal condition of western society, that syndrome that afflicts so many who walk around their lives fast asleep with their eyes wide open, that bastion of insanity, of doing the same thing over and over and over and over, and expecting a different result....

How do we keep alive our sense of wonder, and adventure?

We are alive dammit, ALIVE. And we don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Or if it will ever come. But in this moment, we are alive, and we are here to savour every precious flavour, the sweetness of it all, the bitterness, the chocolate-and-coffee richness of it all. And then we are gone.

To sit with someone’s pain is a unique privellege indeed. To sit with someone’s pain and bear witness to their journey through to the other side is quite another. I have gone to the depths of humanity over the last few days.

There is a subtle melancholy about her, a deep sadness and even deeper pain that dwells just beneath her easy-going way. There is a sense of joy, of closure, of celebration that bubbles through in her smile. And in her eyes, you can almost see the twinkle growing brighter each day.

Some days the grief hits hard, and other days the sun shines brightly through her heart. And with each step she holds her head high, eyes up, smiling and laughing, and listening. With such dignity. With such genuine interest in what the other person is saying. With such an understated appreciation of enjoying this moment with a fellow human being. With a slightly bewildered amazement at this gift called life.

She is finding her way back to herself, removing herself from an old world full of memories and expectations and love. Finding her way in a world which has given her the most bitter things to taste, a world in which she finds herself wandering, and wondering what is next. And finding out that she has been given so many gifts, so much richness, so much LIFE…

Now, she pauses, a brief intermission as the next reel is loaded in preparation for the next act of her life. Only she gets to write the script – however she wants to.

No wonder our paths have crossed. No wonder our paths will diverge.

“If you can lose, and start again at your beginnings, And ne’er breathe one word about your loss…”
-"If", by Rudyard Kipling-

My losses seem to pale in comparison to what she has lost; yet there exists a mutual understanding of what it means to have won - big time - and then lose it all. Though my circumstance looks different to hers, the pain each has felt is very real.

Financial abundance is one thing; abundance of the heart is true wealth. I am truly blessed that the ones that I have loved, that I still do love, and that love me… are still here for me to enjoy.

From The Canadian, I’ve learned that:

• Dignity is carried, not given
• Pain can be beautiful
• Sweet tastes so much better after Bitter
• Every moment counts
• Shared silences are healing
• Everyone has a story
• Everyone's story has a gift for those who are lucky enough to hear it
• Listening to someone's story is a gift for the storyteller

At the departure lounge, we sit easily in each other's silence, thankful for the new friends we have made, the lessons we have learned, and most of all, for the shared experiences of the last few days.

Life is beautiful.

# # #

"These are the seasons of emotion,
and like the winds they rise and fall.
This is the wonder of devotion -
I see the torch we all must hold.

This is the mystery of the quotient -
Upon us all a little rain must fall."
-"The Rain Song", by Led Zeppelin-

THE CANADIAN,
WITH NEW FRIENDS
AOBA AND MAXIMUS

# # #

Tasmania: Day 5 - In Search of Sushi

Theme Songs of the Day:

1. “Fire Coming Down the Mountain”, by The Gorillaz, live in Harlem with Dennis Hoper
   
2. “El Manana”, by The Gorrilaz

TAWNY FROGMOUTH AT NIGHT

Who’s bright idea was it to go spotlighting on the back of the ute for wildlife at midnight on a 3 dog night [as in degrees Centigrade!]?!?

…oh yeah, I was the Ideas-Man last night… the wildlife around these parts is very intelligent; smart enough to stay in on a cold night, anyways… we only spot three wallabies, nothing like the abundant wildlife scattering from our headlights experienced on the way in.

The morning is balmy compared to the windchill of midnight on he truck bed with the midnight wind screaming in my hair, spotlight turned up to the tree canopy searching for glimpse of the elusive, rare, and very rare species of Drop-Bear and Hoop-Snake that are rumoured to be active in these parts.

I spend it with a steaming cup of tea in one hand, and a slimy tennis ball in the other, exploring the luxury campgrounds again while Maximus leaps and bounds alongside me like an oversized, muscular Mexican Jumping Bean [another rare species fumored to be active in these parts].

Today’s mission is to head back into Ulverstone in search of sushi supplies. Aoba’s arrival has sparked my culinary imagination, and I’ve offered to gather the necessary ingredients to make okonomyaki, a delicious sort of Japanese savory pancake made with shredded cabbage, batter, minced beef or pork, Japanese mayonaise, bonito flakes, and a special okonomyaki sauce that is like a mild teriyaki.

Ulverstone by daylight has quite a different character; it is Sunday so the main street is empty and the church’s parking lot is full. We find a morning latte at Smiley’s café, where we meet none other than Mr. Smiley himself, who amuses himself by attempting to welcome us with his best Caadian accent. “Hau wood yoo like yore coafeeee then, ay, young laydeeee?” he drawls, then laughs heartily at his own joke. Aussies love Canadians…

The supermarket doesn’t carry the Japanese batter mix and other special ingredients for us to make okonomyaki – I forget that we are in rural Tasmania. We are surprised to learn that nobody in town sells fresh fish, and so head down the road to Penguin in search of good sushi.

The road to Penguin follows an old railway track along coast, just a few feet from the rocky beaches, and as the sun glints and sparkles off the blue water I feel like I am driving through the opening scene in a roadtrip movie. The town of Penguin is nestled into a small nook in the coast and has the feel of a lazy coastal holiday town. There are winged tuxedos everywhere on the main street, cute and kitschy, all grinning and winking, and one in particular is very happy to see The Canadian.

There is no fresh fish to be found here either, so we press on to the port of Burnie, which is said to have a deep water harbor to rival Devonport and Hobart. This is a logging, woodchipping, and papermill town, and the first thing to be spotted as we round the corner and approach the town are three massive piles of woodchip sitting on the docks, each at least 5 stories high.

Peter tells us later that he has seen miles and miles of woodchip piles twice as large sitting idle deep in the forests around his property. The effects of the Global Finanical Crisis [known in Oz as "GFC" - sounds like a really bad fast food restaurant chain...] are felt even in the wilderness of Tasmania, just waiting for a stray spark to send them up like piles of gunpowder in a Loony Toons cartoon gone tragically wrong.

The stark contrast of the pristeen wilderness we have come down from, to the huge industrial machines and belching smokestacks that are in and around this town is disconcerting. It sparks an inner dialogue questioning how economic and environmental sustainability can ever reconcile each other when we live in a system that places financial profitability and growth above all else.

The road back is full of questions, and as I enjoy fresh sushi with new friends this night, I am thankful for being with good people surrounded by wilderness.

Suddenly, it has become much easier to see why Peter made the decision to come build a self-sufficient life for his family, “luxury camping” in the bush.

# # #


BUSH TUCKER: SUSHI!


MAXIMUS DECIMUS MERIDIUS




# # #

Tasmania: Day 6 - Wild Beauty

Theme Songs of the Day:

1. "First Dy of My Life", by Bright Eyes
2. "Burn One Down", by Ben Harper
3. "Are We Different?", by Priscilla Ahn
   

CAMPING ON THE RIVER FLATS

The morning dawns achingly cold on the flood plains of Taylor Flats.

Blue smoke bellows from the still-damp campfire while I stand on the bank of a river, casting into the flow and hoping for a rainbow or a brown trout to strike. The air is still, and my breath hangs around my shoudlers in a puffy veil.

Kookaburras guffaw in the distance while other birds chatter and chirp and whistle all around me. An industrious little fellow tap tap taps at the skeletal tree standing behind me, pulling out grubs and other goodies from the dead wood.

Poplar trees grow thick along the banks to the water’s edge, and I pick my way upstream searching for breaks in the undergrowth large enough for me to cast from. Back at the campfire, butter and home-made raspberry jam bubbles away on the gridle, while bread smokes itself into toast for our breakfast.

Last night we met Roslyn and Oscar, Peter’s wife and youngest son. I spoke with Roslyn on the phone when we landed in Tassie, or rather she spoke to me through the crackling connection: “Is that you Matt??” She is tough as nails, all sinew and no nonsense, with a warm smile and a heart of gold.

Oscar and his brother grew up on the “luxury campgrounds” and were homeschooled by their parents. He is a confident, well-mannered 16-year old, also tough as nails, all sinew, and no-nonsense. He does have his father’s cheeky grin, and the twinkle in in his eye that suggests he may or may not be about to play a practical joke on you…

On the day that the Board of Education came to interview the children to find out how effective [or not] their homeschooling had been, Roslyn was nervous that they might deem their progress sub-par, and take her children away. Instead, the lady that came out was so impressed that she asked if the boys would come and speak to other homeschool families as an example of possibility.

Roslyn explains to me later that their approach was simple: keep the boys engaged and having fun, and they would learn something without even realizing it. For example, to teach them about mathematics and geometry, they built a shed and had them do all the calculations on site that were necessary to complete the project. They learned the theory and application of the concepts being studied, and gained the practical construction skills while swinging their hammers. At 23 years old, Wilbur now travels the world as a freelance adventure guide; he is currently away in Europe leading whitewater kyak adventure tours in Norway over the summer season.

We get to see more of the benefits of this kind of education first hand when we get back to camp and Oscar invites us to join him and his best mate Alex [who is 3 years older] on the downhill Moutain Bike Track that he and his brother Wilbur have built on the other side of the waterfall.

The track is impressive; a narrow trail winds its way down the mountain, earthen embankments allow you to throw the bikes around the switchbacks, and a fallen log provides a massive railslide that drops back onto the track on a steep, twisting ramp. The see-saw feature they fly over freaks me out and sends me careening off into the bush, mowing down a couple of baby eucalypts along the way.

I opt to take the side route on the final stretch, which drops off a rocky outcrop before slipping through a narrow gap in the trees. It took us twenty minutes to hike up to the start, and maybe three minutes to barrell down, hooting and crashing and laughing all the way down. I am thankful that the 15-foot jump they are still building mid-way down is incomplete… and that despite falling off twice, I survived my first downhill mountain biking experience with barely a scratch!

The adrenaline is still coursing when we return to “camp”, and we are still wild-eyed when Peter shows us the yield of hazlenuts that he and Aoba have gathered that morning. The Canadian has asked that we do a bonfire that night, so Roslyn announces that ice cream, molten chocolate, and home-made raspberry sauce will compliment campfire-roasted hazlenuts perfectly for desert.

Before we head out to gather wood for the bonfire, however, Peter invites us on a bushwalk with him to Levyn Canyon. The 45-minute trek up to the lookout point takes about 25 minutes with the pace that he sets for us, and our breath is taken away when we reach the end of the trail. Wooded valleys stretch to the horizon as a river winds its way through. We are ants perched precariously on the edge of this precipice, dwarfed by the massive spectacle of nature engulfing us. The platform and we stand on and polished trail signs behind us are the only sign of human presence; the work of a single park ranger who has carved the trail out with his own two hands, and the occasional help of a laborer or two.

THE RIVER WINDS THROUGH...

Once we regain our breath, we head back to the car which Peter guides deftly around the gravel roads twice as fast as I would be comfortable driving, to bring us to another trailhead. This one descends into the canyon and crosses the river, where we pass a sign reading EXPERIENCED BUSHWALKERS ONLY, and our motley crew - The Moustachioued One, The Canadian, The GreenBackpack, and the Tokyo Girl - pick our way along the steep trail until we round a bend and stop at a natural stone bench which overlooks dark tea-colored pools that eddy and swirl below.

It dawns on me how foreign an experience this must be for Aoba, who has probably only known the bright lights and ceasless racket of big city life... now we are surrounded by a natural symphony, the water rushing below, the breeze whispering through the treetops in waves, birds cackling and whistling and chirping all around.

NATURE'S SKYSCRAPERS

We sit and munch on the chocolates I have brought, drinking in the view from the canyon floor. The cliff face stretches up 100+ stories above, and you can almost hear the cracking and rumbling of the massive rock stratas which lie at a 45 degree angle from the horizontal rocks which are the adjacent cliff. The river does a huge switchback here, and Peter tells us that at some time in the distant geological past, this entire canyon was formed by the collapse of the massive rockforms towering above. If we were ants standing on the top of the canyon, we are gnats as we look up from within.

We return to "camp" with a new sense of quiet satisfaction, our glimpse of the awesome power of Wild Tasmania lingering in our auras. This is Peter's backyard, and I find myself longing to keep exploring, to discover yet more wild spectacles that few privelleged humans will get to experience in their lifetimes. The wild places of the world don't want to be discovered, preferring instead to reveal their secrets only to those intrepid enough to seek and discover...

Dinner is the vegeterian green Japanese curry that I have had bubbling away all afternoon. The homegrown baby yams added at the last minute are pink and translucent and no bigger than my thumb, and lend just the perfect earthy-sweet flavour to this Asian-Australian bush tucker meal we have just invented.

HYPNOTIC

We take turns simmering in the woodfired bath; house rules are that whoever is in the hot tub gets waited upon hand-and-foot, “As you wish…” Everyone outside of the bath house sits and stares into the fire, talking about past and future planned adventures [and misadventures], and even start to sketch out a vague plan to hike in to Cradle Mountain and back from Loongana when I return to Tasmania.

Aoba entertains herself by slicing cross-sections of the bonfire smoke rising into the night sky with her bright green laser beam, whistling Super Mario Brothers to herself and munching on potatoes roasted in the glowing embers. I can only imagine what her internal dialogue would be, 18-years old girl raised in the Tokyo metropolis in the middle of the Tasmanian bush and only enough grasp of English to understand fleeting glimpses in our conversations..

Roslyn and The Canadian have convinced Peter to break out a bottle of homebrew honey mead which has been “cellared” for a couple years. The amber liquid has a velvety texture, not quite as viscous as scotch, yet smooth enough to coat the sides of the glass when swirled. It smells sweet like honey, not the sickly sweet of desert wines, or the artificial sweet of soda pop, but a subtle, delicate sweetness imbued with a hint of citrus… and the taste? Divine. Almost spiritual. If one were lucky enough to sip from the nectar of the gods, than surely this would be it.

Maximus curls up in my lap and drifts off to sleep, twitching and eyelids fluttering as he starts to dream of chasing birds and sticks and severed wallaby heads. The conversation fades and becomes more intermittent, each of us losing ourselves in the hypnotic glow and crackly of the bonfire, connecting with some deep part of ourselves from eons past, when ape-like men huddled around campfires in caves.

Glowing embers float up and away into the milky way yawning above us. I realize that have discovered a formula for inner peace:

Homebrew Honey Mead
+
Vegetarian Japanese Curry
featuring Home-grown Baby Yams
+
Fire-Roasted Hazlenuts on IceCream with Molten Chocolate
and Home-made Raspberry Sauce
+
Woodfired Bath-house
+
Bonfire
+
Awesome People
+
Amazing Conversation
=
Bliss

# # #

BEDFORD'S BACKYARD

RIVER CROSSING

THE CANADIAN


CHILLIN' ON THE STONE BENCH


AOBA [TOKYO GIRL] CONTEMPLATES NATURE


ROASTING HAZLENUTS


BLISS

# # #

Duelling With Devils

Theme Songs of the Day:

1. "Paper Aeroplanes", by Angus & Julia Stone
2. "Only Love Can Break Your Heart", by Neil Young
3. "Neopolitan Dreams", by Lisa Mitchell
   

MAP OF TASMANIA, CIRCA 1916
APPROX 240KM SOUTH OF MELBOURNE

I'm going to Tassie. Tasmania, that is.

When I share that with the locals in Melbourne, I get one of two responses:

1. "Why??"
2. "Aw, yeahhhh, Tassie is BEAUTIFUL!"
   

I've heard that Tasmanian Devils really do spin around like in the Loony Tune cartoons. I've heard that Tasmanian Tigers aren't really extinct, if you know where to look for them. I've heard that some of the wildest places on earth are still pristine and hiding in this little corner or the world that most of mainland Australia has forgotten.

My travel companion for this leg of my journeys is Jill Rushton, the lovely Canadian that I met in Maui earlier this year at a pivotal time in my life:

After Christmas 2008, I sank rapidly into a fairly deep depression in which I did not make it out the front door of my house for most of January. I would lie awake at night waiting for sleep to arrive, listening to my inner monologue loop endlessly around thoughts of "Why did/didn't I do this; Why am I so far away from where I should be; How in the hell did I get myself into this mess; How the hell am I going to ever get myself out of this mess; Who do I think I am [bloody useless fool]; yadda-ydadda-yadda-doom-and-gloom-ever-downward-spiraling-blah-blah-blah......"

In the morning I would awake and lie catatonic, staring at the wall for an hour or so before mustering up the courage to get up and have a shower to face the sunlight. Being surrounded by so much natural beauty didn't help at all; it only heightened the contrast between how I felt within and the cheery surroundings without. I kept the blinds over the window to wallow in as much darkness as I could and found solace by distracting my mind with hours of mindless sessions on YouTube watching conspiracy theory movies, alien encounter clips, and other random obscurities.

My brother was a great support to me in this period, holding a safe space for me to move through this process, giving me room and permission to wallow without judging me, as if he knew all along that I wouldn't allow myself to linger for too long in this place of self-pity.

"I don't feel like doing anything, or seeing anyone today," I would announce gloomily. "Then don't!" was his cheerful reply.

I've never understood people who have had challenges with "depression", rather heartlessly writing the condition off as a sign of a weak and undisciplined mind. It's not. It is very real, and can be very scary - even to the most self-aware individuals. Depression is a very elusive, seductive creature: it beckons silently to you, lulling you into a sense of security and then drowning you in your own heavy thoughts. I can see now how the weight of it all could quickly add up and become unbearable, especially without the love and support of family and friends around you.

After a week or two of moping around the house all day and feeling lousy, I forced myself to get out into the sunshine, into nature, and do something, anything I could find joy in. This is when I started blogging, volunteering, hiking, sailing, swimming, surfing....anything to get me out of the house and having fun.

This was also a time to make peace with some lingering open wounds upon my heart, and move on into the next phase of relationship where you allow yourself to enjoy a person for who they are, wherever they are at, warts, old hurts, and all. After a two-year absence, I returned to Maui for Chinese New Year's Celebrations, which had become such a big part of my previous life, and was welcomed back with open arms, as if I had never left.

So it was there that I met The Canadian, her travel companion Kristen, and their chaperone [the perpetually hungover] Knuckles Tulio while stealing away to the hot-tub to relax muscles sore from a day's worth of Lion Dance and Kung-Fu performances. After two years fighting tooth-and-nail against brain cancer, Jill has recently lost the most important person in her life , and has embarked upon a journey to "rediscover both what's important to me and what makes me who I am." You can read her blog by clicking here.

Here I am, after moping around for the last month or so about losing everything, reawakened and finally enjoying all the beauty of life surrounding me... my breath is knocked out of me and silent tears stream down my face as I discover her story and see Facebook photos of good times....recent good times....shared with a loved one who has only recently left us. And again, I am reminded of what is truly important, and how lucky I really am. And of how beautiful, cruel, and beautiful life can be.

That experience has humbled me, and deepened my appreciation for the beauty of people and places surrounding me. I hope I never lose this perspective.

We're never really alone, are we? Our experiences may feel like we are the only ones going through this, indeed who has ever and will ever go through whatever it is that we are going through at that time... but the fact is that we are all more similar than we are diferent. We can find more that we relate to in others, than we can often find in ourselves. There is comfort and solace in the bond that exists between those who have had a shared, or shared a similar exerience. And we are all sharing a very similar experience - it's called the human experience.

"Are we human beings having a spiritual experience?
Or are we spiritual beings having a human experience?"
-overheard at a cafe, a long time ago-

# # #

The Canadian has been traveling throughout Australia spending time with friends across the continent, blogging about her journeys here. The plan is to meet up in Melbourne, and head down to Tassie to share the cost of a campervan to explore the island for a week.

I've organized a stay with Peter Bedford, whose CouchSurfing profile says that he lives on 60 acres of wild bush in the mountains of Tasmania where "he and his family and working towards creating a self-sufficient lifestyle." Sounds wild.

The Guidebook to Hiking in Tasmania that I bought describes some amazingly beautiful multi-day treks, which I hope to somehow accomplish despite our lack of cold-weather gear. There is no agenda other than to explore, experience, and explore some more.

I am really looking forward to getting on the road again with new friends, and to making even more new friends, and to learning whatever lessons Tasmania has in store.

# # #

Chloe

YOUNG & JACKSON'S PUB,
HOME OF GRANDPA'S FAMOUS GIRLFRIEND:
CHLOE

The first time I ever saw a naked woman was at a bar with my Grandpa.

My Grandpa, Keith Lynch, owned the McKinnon pub [about 1/2 mile away from where Mum & Dad live today], and brought up Dad and his 3 brothers here; as a result the Lynch men are a very colorful bunch...our family get-togethers are always fascinating affairs!

The misadventures of the Lynch boys growing up in and around the pub would make for a great novel: pet snakes escaping into the neighborhood, unexpected overnight stays in the walk-in fridge, fast cars, and the girls next-door to name a few...but these are other stories that will be told another time...

This is a Grandpa Keith story [of which there are also a great many tales of misadventure], and I digress.

In 1985, the year before we moved to Oz, Dad took me on a scouting trip to Melbourne to prepare for the family's move the following year.

Grandpa was, of course, tickled to see his eldest son's eldest son come to Melbourne for the first time and took it upon himself to show me around. He booked us an all-day bus tour [highly recommended!] which included, among other things, a visit to Healsville Sanctuary to see a real live kangaroo, and a stop at Ferguson's Winery for lunch and a tour. breakfast that day was my first Aussie four'n'twenty meatpie [no the ketchup did not look like that on my pie]...

Long story short, after the tour was over and Grandpa had charmed all the ladies on the tour bus over lunch at the winery, he says, "I want to introduce you to my girlfriend", and takes me to the famous Young & Jackson's Hotel, across from Flinders Street station at the entrance to Melbourne central business district.

Grandpa sits me down at the bar, my 8-year old legs dangling off the barstool as I peer over the countertop, and orders himself a pint of beer, and me a shirley temple.

We sip our drinks and then raise our glasses to toast his girlfriend, "To Chloe!".... who is the 12 foot high nude oil painting hanging on the wall next to the bar!

"Sweet things do not go well
with a bitter Aussie lager -
Chloe is an exception"
-Rafal Zakrzewski, Beer Historian (2001)-

Today, the bar is different that I remember. My feet no longer dangle from the barstools, and I can lean over the countertop to order my own beer. Chloe now lives upstairs, overlooking the busy intersection that is home to Federation Square, St Paul's Cathedral, and Flinders Street Station.

I take a moment to myself today and climb the upstairs to visit her; she hasn't aged a day. As I hoist my glass to toast her, an old digger and his wife wink at me and comment about the gleam in my eye.

Here's to Chloe!

TO CHLOE!
AND TO YOU, GRANDPA...



# # #

Green Point

SUNSET AT GREEN POINT

Yesterday I sat at my old thinking spot and watched the sun go down.

I hop along the basalt blocks that make up the breakwater and I am ten years old again, picking my way across the tidepools at BlackRock and exploring the Red Bluffs, survival kits made of matchboxes and stuffed full of string, matches, sandpaper, a magnifying glass for burning ants, and other essentials in case we kids got stranded and had to spend the night on the cliffs [not likely under the watchful eye of the Beach Rd mansions that look out across the bay].

The water of Port Phillip laps gently at my feet, its surface tension palpable, like a vast rippling carpet gently rolling to the horizon. It is tempting to step onto it and start walking out towards the light. The indigos and oranges of the setting sun dance and shifting, allowing me fleeting glimpses of the rocky bottom beneath the surface. The air is still, crisp, and cold against my cheeks ...this was where I was to come for solitude in later years, after I had made friends with this new place.

I went to elementary school not five minutes from here, my first introduction to Aussie culture when the family moved to Melbourne 21 years ago. Melbourne was cold and grey and unfriendly at that time in my life, full of spoiled little rich kids teasing my American - pidgin english and dark skin, distinctly uncomfortable in my new, alien, british-style school uniforms [socks pulled over calves, shorts above the knees, shirt tucked in, tie and coat to pull the whole ensemble together...].

The awkwardness of being a pre-teen while my older classmates were beginning puberty only added to the confusion finding myself in the midst of transitioning to a new country, a new culture, a new life. I tried out many different identities and began asking myself, "Who am I?" In so many ways, I am still on that quest, and still asking that question.

AFTERGLOW

The Bay has many moods - the water is always freezing cold - the complete opposite of the tepid bathwater-temperatures of Hawaii. In winter, my brother and I used to dread the capsize drills at the local yacht club where Dad has enrolled us into sailing lessons; I don't know what was worse, the bone-chilling waters, or the itchy woolen undergarments that we were told to wear in order to keep us warm.

The stark Melbourne summers brought stifling heat and humidity, the unforgiving Aussie sun beating down mercilessly on the beaches and brightly colored beachboxes and pale skin of Brighton, while the dark waters of Port Phillip stung with icy contrast.

I have only just left home, only to arrive home again. It's a warm and fuzzy feeling, as if I am existing in two places at the same time.

Question of the Day: Is home where the heart is?

MR LIVINGSTON SEAGULL,
A PLEASURE TO MAKE YOUR ACQUAINTANCE!

letter to The Victorian

Names have been changed in the following excerpt to protect the innocent:

...did u hear the one about the harvard grad, buddhist monk, the atheist, and the 3 born-again christians? me neither, but they have been staying with friends of mine over the last week... some people should just have cameras following them around so that they can broadcast their entire quirky lives for the world to see...

....perhaps one day soon, my life will also be interesting enough to warrant a podcast / vodcast... for now, i am still in the bittersweet limbo of leaving a place i so dearly love and venturing off into the metaphorical wilderness of this wide world....

which seems to get smaller every single day. you'd be amazed at the people i've met in the last few weeks that have connections and resources they are willing to share in the parts of the world i am interested in:

potential opportunities to teach at a university in thailand, work on an orphanage in bhutan, live on a farm in rural japan, participate in human rights' movements at the UN in geneva, stay with crazy architect's brothers in sydney, party on with friends i've not seen for 17 years in jakarta . . . !

can u tell that i am no longer in hawaii? the departure date draws closer each day, and it is so tempting to shirk the few remaining responsibilities i have: selling my house [let the bank eat cake!], completing an architectural model for a friend's development, and saying farewell to friends and colleagues who have supported me here through the years i was building my business....

...i am planning to escape into the [literal] wilderness of Maui for a week before I leave and run around naked in the valleys to connect with the 'aina one last time before i leave the beauty of this place... hopefully, i don't get arrested! =p

your words still ring in my head: "you must do this. for all of us. for all of us who have hoped and lost, built and lost, loved and lost." ...it kinda makes me feel like i am on a mission to save humanity, or at least our sanity.

which is good, because i have no idea how i am going to fund all of this.... which is the point, i guess.

it's an experiment on my life, and the thesis is: how much more fulfilling can my life be when i focus on adventure and service, instead of money?