The times they are a changin’

I remember clearly a very hot summer day almost a year ago. It was the kind of day when you feel as though all of your energy is being sucked from you as you walk alongside the black shimmering road. When you feel like you want to crawl into the refrigerator as soon as you get home just to get away from the heat. I was standing at a crowded tram stop on St. Kilda road, trying to block out the tormenting squeal of Formula 1 cars buzzing around Albert Park Lake. I looked down the street and saw a gust of wind, stirring red dust and leaves in its wake, approaching rapidly; the cool change had arrived, bringing instant relief from the draining heat. This memory sticks in my mind because it is the only time I have actually been able to see and feel a cool change arrive. Normally I’m only semi-aware that the cool change has come at some point well after it has happened.

Sometimes change is obvious and distinct, but most of the time it creeps up on you and you don’t even realise until you reflect on your life years down the track. Despite this, people often like to separate their lives into different periods. A classic example of this is New Years Eve; somehow we like to think that 2009 is completely different from 2008, but does anything really change once the clock ticks over past midnight? In most cases – no. Sometimes, people can be even more superficial and link change to a material object, “My life will be different now that I have this new sofa.”

Right at the moment, I’m semi-aware that change is coming; I feel its presence, but have no idea if it has come already or even if it will come at all. Recently I heard the fantastic news that I’d passed my final actuarial exam, which means no more study; no more stressing before exams and then stressing some more afterwards whilst waiting for the results. Fortunately I managed to get through it all without failing a subject, which to non-actuaries probably means absolutely nothing, but is a pretty special thing to actuaries. I’m not really fussed about that though, I’m just glad I didn’t have to go through anything twice; I don’t think I would have been able to handle it. Anyway, the point is that my education has finally finished, and now my learning begins. That’s why I feel that change is coming.

To be honest I’m a little bit scared really. When I was studying, at least I had a constant source of focus and motivation; I had little time to dwell on my thoughts. Now that I have free time, I reflect and I think about things a lot. I realise that I have a lot to work on until I am the person that I want to be.

I doubt I’ll be content just working during the day and then going home afterwards and doing nothing. So, my plan is to do something. I want to learn a language, get some new hobbies, write a book, work on my weaknesses and last but not least, get back in touch with the social side of my life, which I’ve neglected for so long. I need to spend more time with my friends, my girlfriend and my family. I need to set aside more time to have fun and live life.

Gee, I just noticed that this is starting to sound like a New Year’s resolution, but that’s not my intention at all. It’s a plan really; a plan to have a full happy post-study life. O brave new world.

And yes, I will try and write on my blog more; I’ve neglected that a bit too.

First things first though. I’ll get back to finishing logging my European holiday. Last time I left off, I was leaving Paris for Nice.

Nice – a town that is a catalyst for bad jokes

Yes, Nice was…pleasant. Now let’s just move on.

It was a little bit sad having to leave Paris so soon, but the rest of France beckoned. We checked out of our grimy youth hostel and made our way to ‘Gare de Nord’ to get two tickets for Nice. After waiting around the station for a bit, we crossed town to ‘Gare de Lyon’ and hopped on board a shiny TGV – the French equivalent of a Japanese bullet train – bound for Marseille. With efficiency uncharacteristic of the French, we departed on time and sped through rolling green pastures towards the port city of Marseille.

We had the unfortunate displeasure of sitting near an arrogant man who decided to watch a bad French comedy on his laptop, without earphones, for the entire length of the trip. Police sirens, corny romantic music and canned laughter, which was followed by the inconsiderate man’s laughter, was the soundtrack to what would have otherwise been a pleasant journey through the French countryside.

We changed to a comparatively dilapidated and slow train at Marseille. It snaked its way along the scenic coast towards Nice, that is until it stopped due to a ‘strike’, which lasted for half an hour. I’m convinced it was just an excuse for the driver to go and sit by the beach and smoke, drink wine and eat cheese. Still, we weren’t exactly in a hurry, so it was no skin off my back.

I felt a tingle of excitement when I caught a glimpse of the Mediterranean Sea and also when we stopped at famous towns like Cannes. The trip got a little bit boring after a while though. Europe looks tiny on the map in comparison to Australia, yet it takes a surprisingly long time to negotiate.

Nice didn’t exactly put on its pretty face to greet us. We pushed our way past bus loads (or boat loads?) of American tourists, to the main street, which happened to be the perimeter of the red light district. Perhaps people who frequent these areas don’t like to walk very far? I can’t think of any other reason why it would be right next to the train station. In any case, nothing says welcome quite like a neon sign blinking “Sex, sex, sex.”

It turned out that our hotel wasn’t very far from all of these shenanigans either. The hotel was a cheap pokey one-star affair, whose main boasting point was their participation in the annual Nice Carnival. As a result of this, several paper maché Carnival costumes, which looked like they were straight out of that James Bond film with ‘jaws’ in Rio, were dotted along the flights of stairs to our room. They scared the heck out of me; their eyes stared blankly and they grinned inanely; I swear they moved when I wasn’t looking. Shudder. Chris seemed to love them though – always one to be mesmerised by truly evil things.

Scary carnival costume - photo courtesy of Chris

We were a bit peckish after all of the travelling, so we wandered out to grab a bite to eat. After getting out of our creepy hotel and walking past the red light district, Nice turned out to be quite… err… good. It reminded me of Melbourne actually, complete with trams and all. I almost felt as though I were walking down Bourke Street in certain parts.

We were a bit too hungry to explore the city for too long, so we settled for an Italian restaurant (of all places), decked out with tables with the stereotypical red and white check tablecloths and a with a plump old Italian waiter, with black hair slicked back with greasy Bryll Cream, but who spoke French. Italy isn’t that far from Nice… so it was ok. The wood fired pizza I ordered turned out to be rather tasty in any case.

The next day we decided to go to Monaco. We decided to pick up some breakfast and lunch from a either a boulangerie or a patisserie. By now we’d learnt that your money lasts a lot longer if you don’t eat lunch at overpriced cafés each day.

Ah breakfast in France, the best meal of the day. There is no better start to the day than munching on a crisp freshly made French pastry. I became quite a pastry addict whilst in France and developed a particular fondness for ‘Pain aux Raisin’ – sweet pastry with custard and sultanas shaped in a spiral.

We managed to find a truly amazing place to get our breakfast and lunch. To this day I still think about it. Their pastries and their baguettes were beyond delicious. Their ‘Pain aux Raisin’ was a work of art: glazed with sugar, plump juicy raisins, creamy custard, finished off with orange rind and crisp pieces of malt. Oh yeah. The only problem was that nothing else since has matched that first pastry ‘hit’.

We made our way to the station to get a train to Monaco. Something seemed to be wrong though. The station was packed with confused American tourists and none of the trains on the departures board seemed to be going to Monaco. Still, Chris and I thought we’d be savvy and try and use the ticket machines to avoid queuing with the Americans.

We got the tickets with no dramas, but then we didn’t know what to do with them. We walked around looking as confused as the Americans. Chris went over to ask a station attendant what was going on. I asked Chris what was happening when he got back, “Umm, I don’t know man, he just mumbled a string of French at me. I think I caught ‘left’ something.”

Now it was my turn to try and find out what was going on. I lined up at the information counter, running a line from my phrasebook over and over in my head: “Which platform does the train to Monaco go from?” The Americans ahead of me were all asking in English and I felt immensely superior to them, right up until the point where I got to the counter, spoke my badly pronounced ‘phrasebook French’ and received a rapid response – in French. Damn, I have no idea what he just said, I thought. I stepped aside feeling a bit silly.

The French weren’t getting it. The way it was supposed to work was that I would speak my bad French, they’d be surprised and impressed and then respond happily in fluent English. As I spent more and more time in France, I realised the best approach was to ask, “Parlez-vous Anglais?” or “Do you speak English” in French. That way it looked like you were making an effort, but you didn’t actually have to know any French at all. Brilliant.

Anyway, we ended up having to ask some Americans and realised that there was a rail strike – lazy French – and that no trains were going to Monaco. Try again tomorrow.

Our plans weren’t set in concrete, so we just switched things around a bit and decided to spend the day exploring Nice instead.

It was a wet and gloomy day. We spent most of our time dodging the rain because we were too cheap/lazy/proud to buy umbrellas. That’s how we ended up in the Matisse gallery – to get out of the rain.

Now, Matisse is supposedly a famous artist from Nice, but we didn’t find his work at all appealing; Chris especially. We killed a few hours walking around making snide and sarcastic comments before deciding that standing in the rain had to be better than spending another minute in that place. From then on Matisse became a synonym for bad/rubbish/lame.

We dodged the rain some more before searching the city to try and find a ‘Carrefour’ store that we saw advertised on a billboard on the side of the road. Carrefour is a massive ‘department-grocery-everything-you-could-every-need-under-one-roof’ type store. Best of all though, they have an excellent selection of chocolate.

We walked down the street before being asked for a light by some youths. Ah France, so many smokers, but cigarette lighters seemingly in such short supply. It is great not speaking the language, you can just say ‘I don’t understand’ and move on without feeling the slightest bit of guilt.

Although later on, saying ‘I don’t understand’ didn’t seem to work. We walked down the street for a bit longer before three young ladies standing in front of a small garage stopped us. They couldn’t speak English, we couldn’t speak French; it was a communication breakdown. After a few minutes of their frantic gesturing, we still couldn’t work out they wanted. They sighed and tried a new approach. The girl with copper coloured hair and a black leather jacket pointed at her Vespa, which seemed to be stuck. Ahh, it finally clicked, she wanted help lifting her Vespa out onto the street, so I did, and then we were all on our way.

We eventually found Carrefour in a smallish shopping centre and I almost gave in and bought an umbrella at a ‘low low price’, but decided against it. We’d already managed to dodge the rain for this long, why give in now? I did stock up on chocolate though.

Eventually after some more general wandering, we decided to try and find some dinner. I was on the hunt for ‘Socca’ which is apparently a pizza/crepe, of sorts, made from chick pea flour and is a speciality of the region, but it turns out it is more of a market dish rather than a restaurant dish. Still, the search for Socca took us to the waterfront and down an alley to an out-of-the-way restaurant serving local specialities.

The restaurant turned out to be one of the best during the trip. A likeable waiter with flared grey hair, a cheerful voice and a carefree demeanour showed us to a table. The menu was scrawled in white chalk on a small blackboard on the table. The walls were thick and the place was dim and had dark tones, almost like a cellar, but much cosier.

Our waiter realised that we were struggling with the menu, so he brought over a young waiter who, not only translated the menu for us, but also gave us a story about the origin of each dish. After she had finished her spiel, I wanted to order about five different dishes, but settled for a traditional slow cooked hearty stew called ‘daube’. We ordered a demi-bottle of local wine and began our meal. The place started filling up with locals who were starting their weekend celebrations. It became quite lively, as the place also doubled as a bar.

The food was excellent, the ambiance great and the cheerful waiter topped it all off by offering us free shots from the bar after our meal. While Nice may be a little dull sometimes, the food and the waterfront area makes it a truly special place. Well worth a visit.

We called it a night and decided that we’d renew our quest to get to Monaco the following day.

Fully sick mate.

Having ended the last entry on the subject of being sick, it is somewhat fitting then that I begin this entry on the same subject – albeit a different case. I somehow managed to pick up an annoying bug, which has meant that I’ve had to take two days off work and live on toast and water. I’m tired of being sick and I’m sick of being tired; the illness is just so draining. If there is any silver lining, I guess it has given me time to slow down and reflect.

Still, with some luck I’ll be back to health soon and running at full pace again. Sherly has been great throughout all this given that I’m not very good at being sick – I just hate being helpless that’s all.

We’ve been going out for more than two years now. I took her out to a swanky Japanese restaurant (Yu-u) in the city to celebrate followed by a visit to a Japanese bath house the following weekend, both of which were very enjoyable. Sherly has been ultra busy lately with work and uni and I’ve been a bit worried about it all, but I guess she’s always been hard working, so no doubt she can handle it.

Last weekend as part of a ‘get to know my home city better’ kick, I thought I’d check out the Melbourne Open City event, where several heritage listed buildings were opened up for public viewing. The line for the first – the Manchester Unity boardroom tour – was absurdly long and it took over two hours. The time wasted would have bugged me more if it hadn’t been for my foresight to bring my study notes with me. I managed to get through a paper or two, which the old ladies behind me seemed impressed with.

The reason why I waited – and this may seem a little geeky – is that Manchester Unity has a special appeal to me because of the sickness tables that their English parent company produced in the 1800’s. I remember using the tables as an undergrad and felt compelled to see an offshoot of the company that compiled them.

The building was impressive. It was from a completely different time. A time when profit maximisation and rigorous expense minimisation were almost unheard of. A time when insurance companies spent their wealth freely on grand buildings and lavish functions. When name and reputation was everything.

The halls were adorned with paintings and carvings and led to a set of lifts with big bronze doors with embossed Manchester Unity symbols. Small touches such as unique cornice designs for each floor, so that anyone with a good memory could know where they were if plonked on a random floor, confirmed that mass production was a mantra yet to be followed.

Manchester Unity Tower

The tour guide explained that a (rich) dentist now owns the top floor of the building including a three level tower at the top, which he uses for the purpose of a multi level operating room, presumably for Melbourne elitists who want a view while getting their teeth whitened. We were taken along the rooftop and then to the boardroom.

The boardroom wasn’t as grand as I had been imagining, but maybe that was because the dentist had taken down all of the paintings and jewels the morning before he decided to let all of Melbourne walk through. Fair enough too, he obviously didn’t get rich by being dim.

The most fascinating part of the room was a 15m long, single piece glass table top that had been imported from France. The logistics of getting it onto the 11^th floor in 1840 when it is too wide to fit through the doors or windows are just mind boggling.

The building was impressive, but I’m not sure whether it was worth the long wait. Others on the tour seemed to be convincing themselves that their time hadn’t been wasted by emphatically telling people in the queue how ‘lovely’ and ‘worthwhile’ the tour had been as they exited the lifts.

Plaza ballroom

Next was the Plaza ballroom beside the Regent theatre, which apparently had been restored recently after being flooded for many years. The ballroom was impressively grand and as I stood looking across the carpeted floor lit by numerous chandeliers I squinted and tried to imagine a Melbourne in its golden era with society types watching a play and then proceeding to the ballroom in their extravagant outfits.

Anyway, enough about Melbourne – back to Paris.

Please don’t vomit on the Mona Lisa

After my morning walk, I met up with Harry for breakfast. Today we planned to see the Louvre. I was convinced that it wouldn’t live up to its hype, but it proved me wrong. The Louvre is a feast for the soul that everyone should experience at least once in their life. The only problem is that now Australian galleries pale in comparison and it is hard to get excited about the quarterly ‘special exhibits’ that come along and their relatively exorbitant admission prices.

The Louvre

I’m sure I would have appreciated the Louvre all the more had I not been getting sicker by the minute. After a few hours of browsing the artwork, I became more interested in the locations of toilets – the toilet symbol was the Mona Lisa to me. I understand that it is a magnificent old building, but the lack of toilets was farcical. At times I was reassuring myself, “Please don’t vomit on the Mona Lisa; it would be sacrilegious.”

After a few more hours even Chris was getting a little bit tired of the Louvre. We were both a bit ‘cultured out’. I think you really need to see the Louvre over a few weeks rather than try and cram it all into a day.

Our next stop was the Notre Dame. The intense heat of the sun was making things worse for me and by the time we got into the Notre Dame, I was feeling really quite ill. I thought I was going to vomit in the Notre Dame for sure, which would have been even more sacrilegious, so I told Chris I’d meet him back at the hostel and left. I’d run out of water to drink and I only had large denominations of currency and couldn’t buy any, so I staggered around the Paris streets parched and exhausted, trying to find the nearest metro station.

Finally I was able to spot a funky art-deco ‘metropolitan’ sign and walked down the stairs to the underground platform. It was a real struggle to walk back to the hostel and when I got back, I collapsed in my bunk bed and slept until the next day.

Centre Pompidou – The inside-out building

I was healthy enough to see some more of Paris the next day, but still not fully recovered. It was annoying walking past patisseries filled with delectable pastries and just feeling nauseous.

The view from the Eifel Tower

We spent two more nights in Paris and were able to see a fair chunk of the city. Our approach was to see one or two landmarks each day and walk through the streets to explore Paris in between.

Arc de Triumph

It isn’t the landmarks that I remember most of my time in Paris however. To me, Paris will always be associated with relaxing in a beautiful park on a gentle spring day, watching Parisians go about their daily lives whilst munching on a yummy baguette. Paris really is lovely in the springtime.

Eifel Tower

Europe, at long last

It was a holiday of contrasts: the riches of Paris to the poverty stricken small towns of Morocco; lush green forests to arid ashen deserts; grimy youth hostels with odd roommates to five star hotels with portly porters willing to please for a tip; biting cold to searing heat and back to a winter chill once more. We journeyed relentlessly, always heading forwards onto new cities, never looking back; there was no time for nostalgia. We were in a city never more than a few days at a time and were guided by the limits of the train network. In crooked lines we cut our way across the continent on slow trains and on fast trains with the vague notion of needing to head south to Casablanca.

I think constantly adapting to all of this change made things feel a little strange when I got back. Things were the same, but not really. Work was the same, but not quite. My eyes were closed at night, but I wasn’t sleeping.

Anyway, I’ve been back for a few weeks now and things are becoming normal again. The holiday afterglow – where your own city seems new and exciting again for a brief moment – is fading.

Paris

It took around 34 hours from Melbourne airport to reach Charles de Gaulle airport. When I fly I always get the yearning to flick a switch and lose consciousness until I arrive at my destination. Forget first class, not remembering or having to experience the flight at all is the only way to fly. Still, I finally arrived, conscious and exhausted.

The French have their own (albeit quirky) way of doing things and it feels as though the airport is designed to stamp this impression on travellers from around the globe before they are allowed to enter the country. Instead of a bus or a monorail between the gate and the terminal, at Charles de Gaulle, there is a moving walkway that travels for kilometres through what feels like an underground bunker up hills and down them. It must almost be one of the longest moving walkways in the world.

Whilst waiting for the bags I tried to run through the scraps of French that I had learnt in my head. While I should have been revising useful phrases, the only thing I could hear over and over was ‘Je suis fatigué… Je suis fatigué … Je suis fatigué’ (I am tired). My blue chubby bag slid down the chute and Chris’ soon followed. We hoisted our hefty packs on our backs and went to find customs before realising we were out of the airport. Talk about lax controls. I was in France. It felt good to be in a country again – once you walk through the international departure gates and begin your journey, you aren’t really in any country anymore; you’re just a human in transit; you don’t belong anywhere.

The first opportunity I had to try speaking French was when trying to validate our rail passes and get a free train trip to the city centre. I was nervous and took the easy option, asking in French, “Do you speak English?” Fortunately, almost everyone in France seems to speak English and as long as you make an effort to try and communicate in French, they don’t seem to mind speaking English with you. In fact, my French was so bad that people just started speaking English to me, perhaps to save their language from being butchered by my awful pronunciation.

It was a Sunday; the trains weren’t very crowded and people didn’t seem rushed. We arrived at the central station (Gare de Nord) and could have kept going to find our youth hostel, but after travelling for such a long time, all I wanted to do was to get outside into the fresh air and walk about. So we decided to head to a café just outside the station.

Paris was everything I imagined it to be. Low rise buildings with balconies filled with red flowers in hanging pots, narrow streets with small Citroens and scooters whooshing by, pavements crowded with relaxed diners at busy cafés. We found a café, ordered some Perrier and soaked up these new surrounds. It was sunny Spring day and most people seemed to be in a carefree mood.

Fatigue soon won out though and we decided to try and find the youth hostel. We took the metro and zipped underneath the city and walked for a little way with our heavy packs to the hostel. We arrived and checked in with little fuss. It was a reasonable place, but it was a 10 person share room, so each day I wondered what roommates the new day would bring. Fortunately, none of the people that stayed in our room over the four days were intolerable, but a couple came close. I slept fairly well on the first night, but woke at an excessively early time. I didn’t feel like sleeping anymore, so I showered, got dressed and went for a wander. This was to be my routine during the holiday.

Early Morning in Paris - Garbage men and pigeons

The streets were deserted but for a few garbage men dressed in green uniforms and pigeons. I walked along past stores that were barricaded shut, hoping to find some sign of activity. I guess I’d always imagined Paris to be the kind of city that never sleeps. It was a public holiday though and we were a little way out of the city. Finally I came across a café that was open, so I ordered a coffee, French style – two shots of espresso with no milk – and sat outside. I pulled out a note book and started writing. I loved just sitting there, in Paris, watching the city slowly stir awake as the day grew brighter.

Perhaps it wasn’t the brightest idea to get up so early and load myself up on coffee whilst still recovering from the long flight. So began two days of sickness, where I felt as though I were going to vomit on precious artworks or in sacred places and where the thought and sight of all food turned my stomach and made me nauseous. Not the ideal start, but I grew to love Paris – one of the world’s greatest cities.

A Spot of Fun to Distract from Reality

I came across this tag while reading a friend’s blog, so I thought why not? Constant study is getting me a bit down and it has been a week at work that I’d rather forget.

The idea:

1. Put your music player on shuffle.

2. Press forward for each question.

3. Use the song title as the answer to the question even if it doesn't make sense. No cheating.

4. With the answers, give your own comments on how it relates to the questions.

5. Tag someone else

Alright, I’ve got a nice glass of red at the ready and I’m going to chill out for a bit. itunes is fired up and I’ve merged my playlists for a truly random experience. Don’t let me down now music library…

How are you feeling today?
“Uptown Girl” Billy Joel.

Oh damn… what an awful start. Umm yes, the rough edged blue collar downtown guy singing about inter-class unrequited love – tricky.

Ok I’ve got it. After slaving away in the steel mill (and by steel mill I mean an air conditioned swanky new Docklands office) all week I really look forward to seeing my girl Sherly who is uptown (directly North in Carlton).

Will you get far in life?

“Take me out” Franz Ferdinand

Yes I’ll get far, but ‘I know I won’t be leaving here with you’ (or anyone for that matter).

How do your friends see you?
“Harder Better Faster Stronger (Live)” Daft Punk.

Umm, well the less said about this one the better, especially the ‘live’ bit. Moving right on then.

Will you get married?
“Look What You’ve Done” Jet

… you mentioned the M word.

What is your best friend's theme song?
“Lean on Me” Bill Withers

Go itunes! Yup, gotta love my mates Harry and Irz. Actually we tend to sing this song on the streets when we’ve had a bit to drink.

What is the story of your life?
“Hello Hello” The Cat Empire.

If at first you don’t succeed try again.

What was high school like?
“Blues Brothers Theme” Blues Brothers Soundtrack

Imagine black suits, black ties, black sunglasses and a mission from God.

What's in store for this weekend?
“Nasty Girl” Inaya Day

Haha… oh dear, I shouldn’t have included my club playlist. Well, one can always hope…

How's your life going?
“Cello Suite No. 1” Bach

So true, my life is exactly like Bach’s cello suite 1 right now. Frankly, I’m so glad that cello suite 2 didn’t come up, because that would have been absurd.

How can you get ahead in life?
“Gimme Some Lovin’” Blues Brothers Soundtrack

Yup, asking people for some lovin’ always gets you far.

What's the best thing about your friends?
“The Rhythm” The Cat Empire

My friends always find time to appreciate the lighter side of life.

What song will they play at your funeral?
“Worthy is the Lamb” Choir/ Religious Hymn

*sob* He was one worthy lamb alright that boy. Seriously, what the heck is this doing in my playlist anyway?

How does the world see you?
“Great Southern Land” Icehouse

Well I’m a little offended. I’d like to think people see me as more than that…

Will you have a happy life?
“Concerto for Violin and Orchestra in D major” Beethoven

Yes. Yes I will. Not feeling all that happy about including my classical playlist though.

Do people secretly lust after you?
“All I want for Christmas is you” Oliva Olson – Love Actually Soundtrack

Well, I guess they do. That’s news to me.

How can you make yourself happy?
“Respect” Aretha Franklin

I’ve got to show myself and others a bit of respect. All I’m asking is for a little respect.

What should you do with your life?
“Stuck in Moment you can’t get out of” U2

Apparently I should just be nostalgic and live in just one moment of my life.

Will you ever have children?
“Billy Jean” Michael Jackson.

Yes, but I will deny responsibility. ‘The kid is not my son.’

What song would you strip to?
“It had to be you” Frank Sinartra

Ahhh I’m a romantic at heart.

What does your mum think of you?
“I don’t remember” Powderfinger

Oh gosh… I hope not. How sad.

What is your deep, dark secret?
“It just takes some time” Jimmy Eats World

I won’t tell you just now.

What is your mortal enemy's theme song?
“Relax, don’t do it” Duran Duran

Yeah very fitting. I can see us grappling over a gun James Bond style. ‘Hey, relax Goldfinger, don’t do it! Save the world from the evil death ray.’

What's your personality like?
“Can’t Touch This” MC Hammer

Alright, I might have issues with letting people get close. Let’s just move on, ok.

What song will be played at your wedding?
“U.F.O” Sneaky Sound System

Very appropriate wedding music.

The end….

Alright, I tag Sherly and Irz (update your blog fool).

Time Keeps on Slipping

The year really has just flown by. I’ve always hated that statement, but I find myself using it nowadays strangely enough. For one thing years don’t fly, for another each year is much the same length and finally 365.25 days don’t exactly go by in the blink of an eye; try watching Titanic 2500 times and I bet it will feel like eternity. Then why do so many people feel the need to say this ludicrous statement around this time of year and more intriguingly, why am I starting to say it?

Believe it or not I’ve had this discussion with Chris on more than one occasion and he puts it down to memory compression – you tend to cram important memories together and filter out irrelevant ones, so if you’re trying measure the year by viewing back through your memories, the compression effect will always make it seem a lot shorter than it actually felt like at the time. I’ve always thought it was a good theory, but why then does the effect seem to get worse with age; old people are the most notorious users of this loathsome statement. Is it because as we hurtle towards the inevitable end our perception of time warps so that the years seem ever shorter? Or is it because as we get older, we have less important and exciting memories meaning that the memory compression effect is stronger? I really don’t know the answer, but all I know is that this year has seemed to go rather quickly.

It has been over a year since I’ve started work now. What’s more, my thoughts about my first year have been given a jolt by the starting and subsequent training of the new grad to replace my role when I rotate. As I see his eyes bright and full of energy and sense his scorn at the sometimes tedious tasks we have to do, it makes me reflect on how I’ve changed, if at all.

I wouldn’t say corporate life has sucked out my soul, but I have adapted to it somewhat. I even find myself voluntarily putting bullet points into e-mails and reports nowadays. It probably isn’t all bad though. Where there was flair and individualism there is now efficiency and team skills. Things I have improved on are assertiveness, confidence and analysing consequences before actions, while things I feel I have lost or slipped back from are creative thinking, reflection and the ability to chill out; even when I have time off I feel I want to maximise every second of it; I can’t seem to just relax any more. Still, it has been a good year. Tough, but pretty good overall. I’m proud of some of the things I’ve been able to achieve and think maybe I can see myself having a future in the corporate world. I do notice it is making me become more politically left though for some odd reason.

Anyway, enough reflection, there is some time to go before the New Year. Sherly got her PR recently, so I’m thrilled about that and took her out to dinner at a nice French restaurant in Port Melbourne. Apart from dining out, we really enjoy cooking together. Sherly loves to cook, I love to eat Sherly’s cooking and it is time where we can chat and help each other out, all in all a great combination. It works out swimmingly.

I’m planning a Europe trip with the lads and can’t wait, but there is still a lot to do and achieve before then.

Back to the Malaysia holiday…

You can stay under my umbrella…ella…ella…a…a…a…(3)

My lunch was swinging to and fro precariously from my pack held only by the ever stretching handles of a plastic bag. For it to drop would have been a real shame given how hungry I was expecting to be at lunchtime. Perhaps the sight of my swinging lunch bag as I strode along the narrow bumpy track was strangely hypnotic to Chris and Irz who followed behind as I led in the first leg of the walk.

The path was not testing in the initial stages and was only moderately uphill. We reached the first of eight (or maybe it was nine) rest stations within half and hour and basking in our own arrogance and confidence we made light of the climb and pushed on past the rest stop. Each group we overtook made us more ever more cocky. Irwin was strangely quiet though and knew Chris and I were being foolish; he’d climbed the mountain before and knew our confidence was misplaced as we’d barely scratched the surface.

The path started to get steeper and harder and the flat bits in between hills all but disappeared, replaced by ominous awkward stairs. Along the path we passed several workers whose job it was to carry heavy loads to the top of the mountain each day. We marvelled at their efforts but later on when we realised that every single building and structure on the mountain had been carried up painstakingly piece by piece by these poorly paid workers who are sometimes 80 year old women, we couldn’t help to think about equity or lack of it in the world.

We started to tire. We were sweating, panting and trudging along and we’d barely even climbed 500m in altitude yet. By the time the third rest shelter came along we were ready to have some lunch.

The shelter was crowded with other climbers – who also thought it was a good spot to have lunch – and we wandered around for some time trying to stake a claim to a place where we could eat. Our packed lunch was a little unusual but we scoffed it down without too much discernment. Whenever a piece of food dropped to the ground, a small rat like creature scurried from the safety of underneath a bin to brave the sea of exposed legs and grab it.

A large group of Korean tourists began to annoy me. Firstly they all flew a group flag that said K2 on it, which made me mad, as Kinabalu although a mighty mountain hardly compares to K2. Secondly they were loud, not just American tourist style loud, full on shouting non-stop loud. Thirdly the women wore makeup for the climb showing total disrespect for the climb and the mountain in my eyes. Fourthly, they obviously had too much money, as they all were ridiculously over equipped for the climb. Fifthly they showed utter disregard for other climbers. Sixthly several drank straight from the tap with their mouth over it. Seventhly they made loud chanting noises. Eigthly they were old… not sure what that has to do with anything, but it makes it on my list anyway. Ninthly they hogged the path and gave no thanks when people let them pass. And tenthly one was wearing a ridiculous shirt, I think. Yes it’s fair to say that that tourist group gave me a lot of rage and they did a lot of damage to the reputation of their fellow countrymen in my eyes.

Grumblings about the ‘K2 morons’ aside, we started climbing again. It was spectacular how the foliage by the path changed the higher we climbed. Trees became less dense and more stunted. Occasionally a break in the trees offered a spectacular view of the valley far below.

We began to suspect that Clarence and all the other guides had a secret elevator to the top of the mountain, because no matter how far we got ahead of him, he always seemed to be there at the next rest stop before us, smoking as if he were waiting for a bus. It was strangely irritating. Actually irritation seems to be a recurring theme for me looking back and was possibly due to the strain and lack of oxygen.

Signposts and shelters were both a joy and a curse as they indicated our progress. The trail got tricky in spots with steep slippery stairs a regular occurrence. Although our pace slowed as the day wore on, we were steadily reaching our resting place for the night – Lamban Rata. At this point I remember trying to decide in my head which was worse, the four day charity bike ride or the climb? And at this point it was still an easy decision – the bike ride, clearly.

At one point, big droplets from a tropical rain shower plodded on our backs and faces prompting us to stop and put on our incredibly unfashionable rain jackets. We even huddled in a rest shelter – when we reached one – with some English climbers who were talking about scrabble and who offered us some biscuits. The rain wasn’t to last though and turned out to be as fickle as a Melbourne thunder storm. We trekked on.

Eventually we felt as though we were almost at rest point for the night; it had been quite a while since the last indicator sign. At this point we bumped into a French man, who we thought was being helpful when he said the hut was 1 hour away, but realised soon after was being an utter arsehole when we in fact discovered the hut was but 2 minutes away. The French man was another thing on that mountain that irritated me…

The accommodation was mainly small huts dispersed among the trees off the trail with one large distinctive hut in the middle where there was a restaurant and warm showers for those staying there. Why, there was even a dilapidated volleyball net strewn between two rusty poles for those who had energy to burn and had the foresight to pack a ball.

We were relieved to reach the rest stop but perhaps a little too tired to feel a sense of achievement just yet. We took a few half hearted photos of the view that was now available and made our way into the large hut named Lamban Rata. A clock outside displayed the time and temperature. It must be about one of the only places in Malaysia below 10 degrees. We wearily stepped inside and made our way to the check in counter observing other climbers looking about as exhausted as we felt. We decided to dump all our bags off first and then come back for a jolly good cup of tea.

Our hut was about 5 minutes up the Summit trail and was far from impressive – a cosy steel shed construction with 3 bunk beds crammed inside – but it looked like the Ritz to us. We all claimed a bed and crashed. We weren’t sure why there were 6 beds when there were only three of us, so we all stole an extra blanket each in anticipation of a cold night.

Each of us lay sprawled on the bed staring blankly at the graffiti carvings of previous owners on the dark green wooden slats surrounding the beds. We would probably have stayed there all night had our hunger got the best of us, so we decided to head to the main hut and get some tea and stay there until dinner.

We sat down on faded orange plastic chairs by a window that offered a decent view. A lonely plant stood in a narrow glass vase with a retired helpless air – its leaves decayed and withered. Our speckled table lay nestled between the postcard/snack stand and the kitchen. The Sabah tea on offer was hard to go past, so we all poured ourselves a cup. We pondered where we’d come from and where we had to go over tea, our bodies slumped in the least straining position possible. It may have looked a little odd, the three of us sitting like that, but almost everyone else had the same retired look, almost matching the lonely plant on our table.

Irz appeared to doze, Harry began a pen sketch of the hut and I pondered. As the hours ticked by and the daylight faded, the hut became more and more full of weary hikers. We had an unmemorable meal. Time continued to tick by.

Eventually we summoned the energy to head back to our little hut and turn in for the night. I was surprised at how much energy everything took at this altitude. Even standing up and walking a few paces required large gasps of breath to do. I began to worry about the rest of the climb and for the first time that day I started to think that it was possible that I may not be able to reach the summit.

Lamban Rata is at 3200m above sea level, an altitude that is just not comprehendible coming from the flat land of Australia – it is 1km higher than the highest Australian mountain.

We staggered back along the trail to our small hut. I was gasping for air along the way. This added to my concerns. Once we reached the hut we stood around and took some photos. Next to our hut was an identical neighbouring hut and a toilet that looked like an old style outhouse was a short distance along a path from both huts. The view was pretty good and the sense of freedom and the novelty of being on South East Asia’s highest mountain suddenly sunk in and filled me with a mild euphoria that swept away my aches and worries.

We got chatting to our neighbours, who were a group of friendly backpackers from Ireland on a world trip. They were around our age and were easy and interesting to talk to. As we exchanged travel experiences the conversation drifted to accommodation in Kota Kinabalu and Chris, Irz and I simultaneously decided to neglect to mention that we were staying at a luxury resort for fear of scorn from our new acquaintances, so we mentioned that we were staying at a small backpackers lodge instead.

As the night wore on we decided to turn in and went into our hut to get some sleep ahead of our 3am summit climb the next day. When the lights went off, silence filled the room and my eyes shut, yet my mind stayed alert and buzzing.

Sure I was thinking about the climb, but what was worrying me was the fact that I was breathing at a pretty fast and deep rate even though lying down is one of the least strenuous activities possible. How on earth was I going to cope with climbing if I was out of breath just lying down? The worry ate and ate at me. What if I can’t make it? I convinced myself that I would ruin our entire holiday if I had to give up on the climb. Fear grew and festered in my mind, churning my stomach. These pointless silly thoughts continued, until I realised I wasn’t sleeping. The best I could manage was a drift into deep thought.

…

The cosy fire flickered next to us providing a gentle warmth as I chatted with my family about the holiday I was planning with my friends. The food was good and the atmosphere homely. I was feeling happy about being here with my family on my Sister’s birthday. How busy life has become now that I appreciate a meal with my family so much. I remember as a teen, dining out with family sometimes felt like more of a chore. Funny how we change.

A sceptical question asked by my Sister disturbed my thoughts. “So you’re climbing a mountain on your holiday? Why on earth would you want to do that?” I didn’t give much thought to my response. “Because it is there,” I replied perhaps a little too arrogantly.

It’s funny how some people’s idea of a holiday is to revel in the comfort of a nice beach in an English speaking country, while others really want to get out and push their limits on holiday. I could see my family and I were at different ends of the spectrum.

So what does drive us to climb mountains? Why do some of us look up at a tall peak and think, yeah I’d like to try and climb that? I guess it is for the same reason we came down from the trees, the same reason we sent men to walk on the moon: the desire to go beyond our limits; test what we’re capable off. Some of us take it literally, physically climbing mountains while others climb mountains in other ways, in their jobs or study.

I changed the subject. It wasn’t the day to argue about our thoughts on the perfect holiday.

…

The unmistakable metallic clunk of a key turning in a lock pierced the silence and shook me out of my thoughts. What the? The bright lights came on suddenly. Each of us sat up wondering what the hell was going on. It became evident that the cabin wasn’t exclusively for us; we now had 3 roommates. Talk about horrible timing. Cursing and muttering, we all returned the blankets to the beds above us and asked our new visitors to turn the lights off and be quiet.

Chris later named one of our roommates Mr. Tuberculosis due to the seemingly endless coughing fits he seemed to be having. Mr. Tuberculosis and his buddies were also loud snorers and drifted to sleep very quickly. After about 30 minutes of their snoring and coughing, I heard Chris curse under his breath, “just kill me…” What luck to get such horrible roommates at this time of night.

It didn’t make much difference to me though as I’d already conceded that I wasn’t going to get a wink of sleep. I just wanted 3am to come around so I could get the climb over and done with.

The night seemed to last forever. It was the kind of night where you stare into space for what seems like hours only to check your watch to find that less than 20 minutes have gone by. Annoyingly I finally got to sleep barely half an hour before we had to wake up. The alarm went off just before 3am. It was time to make the final push and climb the mountain.

We paid our roommates back for their midnight intrusion by making as much noise as possible when we got ready. After much stomping, loud talking and light flicking we decided enough was enough and closed the cabin door sealing Mr. Tuberculosis and his buddies inside.

It was a crisp morning. The lack of artificial light made for a bright mesmerising star lit sky. Condensation lingered in the air as we breathed out; proof of a chilly morning. Harry, Irz and I weren’t the only early risers, with our Irish neighbours getting out for the occasion also.

After a little bit of waiting around, Clarence our faithful guide came bounding up the track bidding us a cheerful good morning. This is the moment where Clarence shone and proved invaluable. Instead of walking off on us and taking the sherpa elevator, he stuck with us closely and helped us navigate the tricky rock path to the Summit.

We stumbled and trudged our way along the summit trail, up rickety stairs, never quite sure if we were putting our feet on solid ground or not. After walking at a steady pace for an hour, we got above the tree line and the rest of the climb was up slopping rocks to the Summit. At one point we stopped to have a rest and take in the surrounds. We all switched our lights off and looked around. What an eerie but pleasant sight it was. Darkness was all around except for the lights of Lamban Rata well below, from which a thin stream of the snaking torch lights wound up the path, which looked like glow worms crawling in a darkened cave.

We pushed on. Thick ropes helped us scale up the sometimes steep rocks. Irz was fading and seemed in pretty bad shape. We were now stopping quite frequently and one or two groups caught up and passed us. As I watched Irz bending over and panting at each break, I felt worried and helpless. I really felt like pushing on to get it over and done with while I still had the motivation.

After continuing for a while in this stop start fashion, we reached the final gate before the summit. A Malaysian man, who looked uncomfortably cold, sat in a booth and wrote down our names before letting us pass. We stopped for some water and to snack on some muesli bars before making the final push.

Some more climbing and we reached another milestone – the final sign post indicator. Our spirits picked up and we knew somehow that we would make it. Irz was still battling. Not long after the indicator I suffered the same affliction as Irz. I was overcome by exhaustion and nausea. Each crevice in a rock looked like an ideal place to rest and vomit, but I crawled on metre by metre. It was surprising to feel like this as I felt pretty fit before the trip and had put in a decent amount of training including climbing up and down the stairs at work (18 flights) every lunchtime. I felt as if suddenly I were a 50 year old fat smoker to whom every step was an effort. The air just felt so thin; even though I was panting I felt like I couldn’t get enough oxygen.

Chris and Clarence were fine. They seemed to have no trouble and Chris was still cheerful enough to make wise cracks. Irz and I started to slow to a crawling pace, cursing loudly with each step and cursing more for each rock we had to negotiate or climb. We saw Chris fade into the distance. Irz and I conceded that Chris was the overall winner and we spurred each other on. The best motivation I could muster was to talk like Sam from the Lord of the Rings movies, “You can do it Froddo…” The rocks were very steep now.

We moved on to mindless chatter to keep our minds busy. We couldn’t see any lights ahead of us and had no idea how far it was to the top. Then, suddenly Chris appeared at the top of the rock pile in front of us and declared “This is the top fellas. I win… losers.” Irz and I glanced at each other with a look of relief and joking resentment towards Chris.

And then we’d done it. We saw a small group of climbers silently sitting around on the rocky summit, solemnly appreciating the surrounds and their achievements. The pale green metal summit sign confirmed that we were in fact at the top, 4095m above sea level. Phew. Things felt pretty good right then.

Kicking my Feet up and Chillin’

Goodbye study, hello free time. It sure feels good to have the exam over and done with. If there is one pledge, which I always seem to make and break after exams, it is to make the most of my free time; to live life. The great thing about finishing an exam is that you suddenly find a lot of time that wasn’t there before and that jolt to your system can be enough to help you emerge from the murky depths of self imposed hermit-dom into the light to be a normal member of society again.

A few days before the exam I got so frustrated with study, I took a walk. I meandered along random alleyways until I found myself at St Kilda beach. I sat down on a stone wall looking out to sea and just contemplated the surrounds. The masts of several sail boats stood tall and mighty; they were fragmented silhouettes against an amber sun ready to set. I stared longingly; how I wanted to stay to watch the sunset. After a few minutes though, I had to turn around and get back to study, vowing silently to come back after the exam. So, this is my pledge: To read more, to write more, to go out more, to contemplate more, to visit my parents more, to see my friends more, to walk more, to bike more, relax more, watch more sunsets, stare at the stars and last but not least, spend more time with my girlfriend. Now that it is written down I might guilt myself into doing it all.

I can say I’m already off to a fairly decent start. On Cup Day I took Sherly away for a spontaneous holiday to Mornington Peninsula for a day of relaxation and indulgence. We had lunch at a winery, where we enjoyed the local produce and impressive gardens. Sherly and I were both inspired to start a garden of our own and grow fresh herbs and vegetables, heck I’ve even planted some zucchini in a pot on my balcony. After lunch we made our way to Melbourne’s very own attempt at a hot spring. The surrounding foliage, abundance of flies and lingering Strine accents gave it a very Australian tinge to a very Japanese concept. I think at some points, Sherly was more focused on killing flies than on relaxing, but we both enjoyed ourselves. It was a much needed break and I think both Sherly and I are much happier for it.

Sherly at Montalto Winery and Olive Grove

Anyway, back to the Malaysia trip…

You Can Stay Under my Umbrella…ella…ella…a…a…a…(2)

A few hours of poolside revelry and we started to burn. Well, I should say Harry and I started to burn, while Irz just got more tanned. Considering the fact that we were getting burnt coupled with the fact that our hunger was growing, we decided to head into town to see what was on offer.

While waiting for the free shuttle bus, we loitered in the lobby, observing the coming and going of hotel guests. Given that it was a luxury resort, which we were only at due to good fortune of being hooked up with a good deal through Irz’ aunty, there were very few patrons that fitted into our demographic. Most guests fell into the category of Malaysia’s well to do salary men on a family vacation with their wife and boisterous kids. In fact I don’t recall seeing anyone our age at the resort. It was as if there were a demographic warp that sucked out a whole chunk of ages, leaving only the old and the very young.

Soon after observing this, the metallic clinging sound of a bell bounced around the expansive plush lobby, prompting us to trudge out into the humid air. Our bus, or rather, our ‘Bas’ was lacking a degree of manliness. I could imagine it rolling into a parking lot at the end of the day and having all the other buses snickering at it in mechanic roars: “Vrroooomm… Look here comes Barry, isn’t he looking dainty… Vrrroom Vrooom.” It was painted in bright green and purple, had decorative curtains with tassels… yes tassels and had seats with doilies. I can’t recall, but I’m pretty sure Chris would have commented how unmanly the bus was.

We found some shops after a few minutes and hit a bakery. Our eyes lit with glee at the low low prices as we greedily stocked up our trays with baked goods. This was all well and good until we actually went to eat our goodies and realised that they’d all been injected with copious amounts of sugar – brown, caster, white, saccharine, anything sweet was in there – causing us to wonder what the Malaysians were playing at. It really spoils the party when you gear up for a nice chomp on a savoury piece of garlic bread or a cheese twist, only to find that you’re eating a piece of cake instead… a garlicy piece of cake. Disappointed we headed to the supermarket.

Knowing full well the enormity of the task ahead of us the next day, we stocked up on supplies. Water, chips, chocolate and Twisties were all chucked in the basket, along with a pair of thongs for me, as I forgot to bring a pair and refuse to shower in a hotel without them. More or less satisfied with our student-like grocery shop, we headed back home in a beaten up Proton taxi painted in the colours of the Malaysian flag.

Irz's photo: Chris and I lazing around

After unloading our supplies, our thoughts turned to the sunset. “I’m going to get some good shots, it’ll be sweet.” Irz eluded with a mouthful of ‘Chicken-ator’ Twisties, “Yup, I’m going to try some light painting.” As for me, I was looking forward to a good hour of lazing around watching the world slip into twilight.

Sunsets can be a bit of a cliché, a bit hackneyed, but there’s just something about them that never gets tiring. I guess nothing helps you contemplate life more than taking the time out to watch and truly appreciate something that happens every single day; the mystical limbo between day and night.

Irwin's Sunset Pic

Irz was pretty content with the shots he took, but was a little less satisfied at the portrait shots he took of Chris and me. His idea was to take a photo of each of us that captured the essence of our lives and personalities. He was struggling. “Chris, how would you take a definitive Trav picture?” Chris, who was growing a little tired of Irwin’s musings on photography, began to suggest farcical ideas, which didn’t please Irwin very much. Nevertheless, Irwin tried various gadgets and lenses but still couldn’t quite manage it. I guess it would be hard to capture my character when I myself struggle to define who I am and where I am heading. Maybe a definitive photo of me would be a slightly blurred and moving body on a sharp clear background; a transient character trying to find a place and meaning in the world. I never suggested that to Irz, but I’m no photographer or artist so I don’t really think I was in the right place to be giving tips.

After no decision on a definitive Trav photo, we decided to get some dinner at the resort. We sat on tacky chairs – that were dressed in tuxedos – and ordered expensive Malaysian style Western food. The mood was relaxed and the soothing breeze blew through the open air dining area. After downing some food and drinks we chatted about the adventures Irz and Chris had been on so far. Interestingly enough we avoided the issue of the mountain climb. Sure it was all at the forefront of our minds, but I guess we were all contemplating it silently and inwardly. Personally I was anxious and bewildered; I had no idea what it would be like or whether I would be able to manage the climb.

There was no drinking or going out that night; we hit the hay early in preparation for the early wakeup call and long day ahead. It was just as well, as I was utterly exhausted. I think I slept the most soundly that night out of all three of us, despite being on the fold out bed.

The incessant whine of a telephone rudely disturbed the blissful silence of early morning. Irwin cursed, picked up the phone, mumbled and went back to sleep, mumbling some more. Soon after, a mobile phone alarm began to sound, followed by another and another. It was a regular early-morning mobile phone orchestra in our room – totally intolerable. We brushed ourselves up, packed our bags and made out way down to the lobby.

A mini-van arrived for us, which we staggered into and collapsed on the seats. Our Malaysian guides tried to break the ice by telling us that our driver was Nicholas Cage. Chris and I managed a polite but forced chuckle, while Irz, the man of no false pretences, lent his head up against the window in a quest to catch up on some sleep.

We were taken along bumpy neglected highways further and further away from Kota Kinabalu. It was far too early to talk, so we simply communicated only when absolutely necessary by means of hand gestures and grunting, usually only to ask for a biscuit or a bread roll.

After an hour or so on the road, we took a refresher break at a petrol station. I found the contrast in employment levels at petrol stations in Malaysia bewildering compared to petrol stations in Australia. Usually, an entire busy petrol station will be manned by one gawky awkward teenager on award (minimum) rates who does all tasks required. In contrast, this petrol station looked as though it was part of a ‘reducing unemployment’ strategy. There must have been a staff of at least 10 floating about, some who’s only job, it seemed, was to scrub the petrol pump, which seemed rather pointless.

The road began to get steeper as we crossed the neighbouring mountains. Regular (albeit immature) conversation started again, kicked off by an odd looking road sign we spotted. Mount Kinabalu was in sight, and gee it looked daunting; it reared its head high above the clouds; the king of all mountains in South-East Asia.

Eventually we reached the park headquarters, which were a short distance from the official starting point of the climb. We examined the map of the summit trail, which happened to be carved onto a large wooden information board including the rules of world heritage sites and the carefully constructed motto: “Take nothing but photographs, leave nothing but footprints.” Given the petrol station experience, I wouldn’t be surprised if the information board alone employed 100 people in its construction and a further 5 full-time for its maintenance.

Mt. Kinabalu information board – employing hundreds since 1950

“Looks high,” one of us pointed out, to which the others agreed, “Yup.”

After some administration work was completed, we met our mountain guide, a man who shares the same name as a carriage on ‘Thomas the Tank Engine’; Clarence. He was a cool, down to earth and fit man who has probably climbed the mountain more times than most people have walked to their local shops.

Chris offered Clarence his bananas from his packed lunch (Chris hates bananas) and we were driven to the entrance gate of the summit trail, also known fondly as the ‘power station’.

We stopped at the kiosk for some last minute supplies before stepping through the prison-like gates to the trail. As soon as we stepped through, the gate was shut behind us, as if to say “Now don’t return until you prove yourselves as men.” And so the arduous climb to the peak began with a deceptively easy descent…

You can stay under my umbrella…ella…ella…a…a…a (1)

Sometimes you don’t even realise that it is happening, but a certain song gets locked into your mind as a poignant reminder of a significant point or event in your life. ‘Mika – Grace Kelly’ reminds me of the sweltering summer that I moved out of home, ‘Bon Jovi – Living on a Prayer’ reminds me of the frivolous carefree days of backpacking in Japan with my mates and ‘Snow Patrol – Chasing cars’ reminds me of standing in rolling fields of purple lavender with Sherly by my side on our summer getaway. Now that I look back, I know without a doubt whenever I hear ‘Rihanna – Under my Umbrella’, Teh Tahrik, the humid pungent air of KL, the savoury taste of Roti Telur and the feeling of breathlessness on Mount Kinabalu will race through my mind.

They say that if you look like your passport photo, you really need a holiday. Well, let’s just say there was no possibility that customs officers anywhere in the world would have had trouble matching my passport photo to my face when the holiday finally came around. On the day I left Melbourne I felt exhausted and burnt out, I think the holiday came just in time actually. I’d just gone through a month long busy period at work, which was even busier than it should have been due to my colleague being away for almost the whole time through illness. I was staying back until 10pm most nights and eating dinner at work each day. My suit seemed to be constricting me tighter and tighter as each day passed while the fluorescent lights buzzed and glowed until they worked themselves into the backdrop of my dreams. One day I got to go home early (around 6pm) and I remember feeling a rising torrent of rage when another man in a business suit sat next to me. How come he gets to go home at this time? I bet he goes home every day at this time. Then I stopped myself. What was I thinking? How could I be angry at a stranger just because he was on his way home? That’s when I knew I really needed a holiday. Fortunately I only had to work a few more days until it finally came time to go to Malaysia.

On the final day at work, I was typing away at my desk right up until the point where I was going to run out of time to get to the airport. I told my team leader I really had to go, switched off my PC, stared out onto the horizon of snaking streets and towers of buzzing lights and breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, it’s time. I swung my bag over my shoulder, pushed through the glass security doors, hit the down button on the lift and walked out of the building without looking back.

It took some time for it to sink in that I was on holidays. I met Sherly for dinner to say goodbye, but my eyes must have seemed dazzled and distant, my hands cold and my movements robotic. I knew I was going to be away from her for a week, and that hurt inside, but my head was dizzy with thoughts of the long day just passed.

I ended up running late and made a mess of the goodbye. I guess goodbyes are never easy though. I ran off towards Collins St, big pack on my back, while Sherly faded into the distance behind me. Somehow my running paid off and I ended up catching the ‘skybus’ on time.

I sat back letting the traffic noise, the propaganda from the Melbourne tourism video and the blue lights of the bus seep into my mind and mix with the white noise of my frazzled unconnected thoughts. I exchanged SMSs with Sherly to make up for the far from perfect goodbye and pulled out my study notes.

The queue at the airport was long and it took a good hour and a half to get through. By the time I got to the gate, it was time to board. Time passed in an unmemorable fashion and soon I was being rocked to sleep by the gentle hum of the jet engines and the rich deep sound of ‘Ray Charles’ singing. It’s never easy to sleep on planes though.

I thought I could sleep a bit more at KL airport before my flight to Kota Kinabalu, but the incessant blaring of announcements in four different languages and the chimes of the attention music put that idea to rest. I resorted to looking over my study notes instead. I justified that it was ok to do that because the holiday hadn’t officially started yet.

More flying, a blissful drift into sleep and soon I touched down at Kota Kinabalu airport. The thick humid air hit me like opening an oven and the aroma of ‘famous amous’ cookies invaded my senses. KK was nothing like I had expected. It was more like a Polynesian island city rather than the overdeveloped industrial mega-city I thought it would be. I trudged wearily towards the luggage carousel, hearing two familiar voices. “Hey Trav!” Chris shouted, to which Irz added, “Hurry the f___ up!” I looked over and beyond the customs ladies and the railing I saw the silhouettes of two of the three stooges. My face cracked a huge grin and I went to get my bag. The customs ladies gave nothing more than a disinterested polite glance when I showed them my muesli bars and they waved me through.

There against an unfamiliar background my two oldest and closest mates stood, sporting goofy grins and holding a quickly scribbled sign which read, “Travis Elsum esq.” We got a taxi and sped off towards Sutera Harbour – a luxury resort where we were staying. Chris and Irz proudly pointed out the features of the resort and described some of the misdemeanours they’d experienced already. In KL, they’d managed to stumble their way into a gigolo bar by mistake and Chris had already had several people try to scam him. I was proud of them; this was going to be a fun trip for sure. I was given a new burst of energy and life.

First stop was the expansive pool which had a spectacular view of the coast and a Polynesian style poolside bar. We all jumped into the soothing water, swum around and made our way to the underwater seats by the bar. Soon, three frosty cold Carlsbergs were placed in front of us and we all took a gulp. I laid back into the pool looked at Irz who raised his glass and smirked, “Good to have you here,” I looked over at Harry who looked equally relaxed and said “Welcome to Malaysia Trav!” That’s when it hit me. That’s when my holiday started, right then and there. Welcome to Malaysia. I was here, half way around the world in this idyllic location with my best mates who have been around almost half of my life. The guys I first got drunk with, the guys that got me through tough times, the guys that I got lost with in Tokyo and ran with along the slippery snow filled streets to make the last train. Welcome to Malaysia indeed. Bring it on, I thought before swimming up and taking another gulp of beer.