stray 23March04 - Part three of four.

I have arrived, I am home. My destination is in every step.



I went to a dowsing workshop and that’s a weird story too. Guy in

Nelson

was like, I do dowsing. I was like, I’d like to learn that. He was

like,

alright but we both forgot about it. Mate of my father’s we stayed with

in

Golden Bay had a dowsing book on his bookshelf, I flipped through it.

Driving to a street party in Takaka that night we passed an old shed

and

Alan (my father) was like, got your file? I was like, sweet, and

retrieved

my trusty Leatherman (tm). Alan cut two bits of number eight fencing

wire

(classic) and bent them into dowsing rods. I hid a twenty cent piece in

the grass and he found it first try. Incredible really. Went to the

party,

watching an act and I’m all like, I want to practice dowsing tomorrow.

Woman passing at that exact moment was like, dowsing? What? I’m off to

a

dowsing workshop tomorrow morning, leaving now, staying in Nelson,

wanna

come? I was like how much? And she was all, sixty bucks. I did the

thing

where you whistle backwards but Alan was like, I’ll pay.  Sweet, I was

like. Went (would’ve been a spit in the eye of serendipity not to),

stayed

with woman who turned out to be an old friend of the family’s,

attended,

dowsed.

Actually the workshop, which was like nine hours long, turned out not

to

be too much about dowsing and more about how the use of it pertains to

global energy line flows and Maori migration patterns and myth. Very

interesting and we did learn the basics (I was the only one there with

my

own rods) and I sort of got it to work, maybe.

I haven’t really stuck with it, but it’s a good skill to maybe hone

someday.



And more weirdness, but this time bad stuff. I had a dream my sister

showed up and said something had happened but it would be ok. I got a

bit

freaked out. Then I couldn’t get hold of her for a week and a half and

ended up ringing from here to make sure everything was ok. It was,

nothing

had happened. Yet.

Mid writing this I get an email from her saying she’s hit a car and

taken

a header off her bike, emergency room but nothing too serious.

Ok, let me just say this for the record; I’m not saying I can, based on

one event, but I DO NOT WANT TO BE ABLE TO TELL THE FUTURE. Seriously.

If

it’s bad stuff its just going to terrify me and if its good I’ll have

been

assuming it was coming anyway. I do not want to be able to tell the

future.

I don’t believe in the existence of the future anyway, so it can just

fuck

right off.



Chapter three,

Being entitled “Such sweet sorrow.”

Or

“The fine art of saying goodbye.”



I think it was Shakespeare. It sounds like something he’d say. Parting

is

such sweet sorrow. That’s exactly what it is. Exactly.

Sorrow because you’re not going to see them for a while, quite possibly

ever, sweet because in that moment everything good you feel for that

person comes to the surface and you realize just how much you actually

care about them.

It is the worst thing about traveling, without a doubt. I think I’ve

mentioned this before but I’ll go through it again. It can get so bad

it

actually prevents a lot of people from traveling at all, and cuts short

many travels of people who find they simply can’t bear being away from

the

people they love. I can understand that, but don’t suffer it so. Its

not

the being away that’s so bad, it’s the build up.

There are a few techniques I use and know of.

The goodbye party. Good because you get to get it all over at once, and

everyone’s drunk. If you miss actually saying goodbye to a few people

(perhaps because you were curled up in the hot water cupboard above the

bathroom) then at least you can assume the goodbye was inferred in the

party itself.

The just suddenly not there anymore trick. Canadian friend of mine was

a

big fan of this, though I think it can be a little harsh. Where’s

Daniel?

I… don’t know. Actually. Now that you mention it I don’t think I’ve

heard

from him in ages. People can get a little hurt if the first they hear

about you suddenly being in another hemisphere is a group email.

The one by one hug and promise of contact through regular writing. Not

a

lot to be said for this one though its almost always what ends up

happening. Email softens it a bit, but it’s a chore.

Take everyone with you. Wouldn’t that be nice. Until you got sick of

them.

The I’ll see you soon. This is a good one. Make mutual plans for months

down the track. Then it’ not really goodbye, just a catch you later

when I

have some more amusing anecdotes. It’s even better if it actually

happens.

So goodbye, all of you, and hello again. Thank god for email. Photos

are

good too. I carry you all with me (well, ok, not all, since it turns

out

some of you on this list I’ve never even met) but you know what I mean

because I know you do it to. We’re travelers all of us.

I have arrived, I am home. My destination is in every step.



Speaking to people recently I’ve decided that Hawaii is somewhere I’d

like

to spend more time. But they weren’t talking about Honolulu. Honolulu

sucks. It was night when I flew in and out and I was only there for one

day, so I didn’t get to see anything much else than the city, and it’s

a

dive. One big mall and housing complex, with a forest of gaudy hotels

for

a little visual variety. And full of Americans, the bad kind. I asked

four

people the time and two completely ignored me. There was a fake

waterfall

out front of one mall, but I guess water in its natural state isn’t

perfect enough, since they’d dyed it bright blue. Little things like

that.

I paid my respects to Pele and found a hostel. I had been expecting a

massive hassle getting through customs, fingerprinting and background

checks but it was actually about the easiest border I’ve ever crossed.

They had the id checking gear set up at passport control but weren’t

using

it. The woman looked at my passport photo, looked at me, asked me to

remove my wooly hat and said ‘this doesn’t look like you’ then waved me

through.

The old dude with the crew cut and handgun was like You got anything to

declare? No. No alcohol, no cigarettes, nothing? No consumables of any

kind. He fixes me with his beady little eye and drawls You sure now?

You

bet. Ok, next.

Spent most of the day sitting under a palm tree on the beach eating

mango

and reading The Beach. Slight irony but it mostly just made me think of

Malaysia.

Left that night for my annoyingly short to be leaving at that hour

flight

to Vancouver. Got a shuttle and made transit friends with an Italian/

Torontan girl who was hoping for a standby. That’s an air travel thing,

not something sordid. We hung out until we got on the plane and then

lost

track due to the seating arrangements and I didn’t see her again.

That’s

what transit friends means.

It was five thirty am local time when I arrived in Vancouver and I had

maybe three hours of sleep in me, needing more. Crossing immigration

was

again no problem and my working holiday visa got stamped in without

them

wanting to see anything like bank statements or other incriminating

documents.

Caught a bus into town and fucked it up a little because I didn’t

realize

it was town and ended up looping all the way out again like Haley’s

comet

and had to swing back and take another run at it. Didn’t cost me as the

nice bus driver lady slipped me a free ticket since I obviously had no

clue about anything.

Hostel. Slept the whole damn

day.

stray 23March04 - Part four of four.

We pledge resistance to the flag.

This is not America.



Vancouver. All right. This is where I am now and it’s a strange strange

place. But then I say that about everywhere.



What does it mean if the whole world is strange? I tried to sign up to

a

web account with the login stranger_in_a_strange_land but it, and every

possible variation on it were already taken. Guess I’m not alone in

feeling like this.



I had been warned about the deries, (derelict, i.e. homeless, beggars,

whatever your phrase may be) that they were everywhere and mad and

aggressive and maybe even a little violent. I don’t think they are,

other

than the everywhere bit. They’re definitely everywhere. Man they are

_Everywhere_ its unbelievable. I’ve been to some poor places before but

nothing _Nothing_ like this.

Apparently it’s a combination of this being about the only place in

Canada

where you won’t freeze to death sleeping outside and being on the major

arterial drug route no pun intended.

They’re not so bad though. Deries are usually ok in a dejected

shuffling

sort of way. Except in Ireland where they growl and stab. I have some

sort

of niggling concern about giving people money, I think I’ll just take

to

carrying some bananas around with me for anyone who wants a handout.

The government here has been shutting down a lot of what support there

was

and apparently over the last five years the number and aggressiveness

of

homeless has been rising steadily.



Six friends of my flat were walking home from a concert last week when

they were confronted by police officers. When one of the girls, a well

known activist and community worker for the poor, asked to see their

badge

numbers the six of them, mostly women, were beaten so badly that four

ended up in hospital with serious head injuries. The police (about five

squad cars had turned up by this point to join in) then charged them

with

resisting arrest and assaulting an officer. Some of them may go to

prison.

This happens here.

I was at a punk gig slash gallery opening (?) a few nights ago and

turned

round to find two cops suddenly standing in front of me. I was like

AAH!!…

I mean… hAA!lo. They smiled at that. They were there to check for

under-

agers. We saw one on the street as we were leaving; he was talking to a

deri. As we passed he said to us You see that? That’s the lowest of the

low. You don’t get any lower than that.

That’s what it’s like.



It’s no Edinburgh, that’s for sure. But then, what is? Not much, maybe

not

anywhere. Vancouver is only a hundred and fifty years old, the downtown

is

only about thirty. It’s too new for my tastes (I’ve been so spoiled of

late) but its ok and the area around it is pretty damn amazing. From

the

little I’ve seen.

Day three caught up with me good mate Sophie, a kiwi/brit I know from

Edinburgh, here studying sculpture. But most of you know Sophie. Her

art

school has notice boards up and I looked through them for flats (must

start saying shared house or whatever they call them here because when

I

say flat, as in flat car or flat cat, people get very addled) and

immediately noticed that nine out of ten of them were too expensive and

just horrible sounding. But number ten was advertising communal food,

arty

stuff and a pet bunny so I gave them a ring.

Went, chatted, got the flat. First and only one I looked at. Dude I

live

with had to camp out in his car for a month before he found a place.

I’m

lucky.



Oh such a wonderful flat. Five others; Jordan, Jonathan and Colleen

study

at the same art school as Sophie, Sarah’s a carer (for the disabled)

and 

Mara’s a masseuse which is perfect since my back’s been a little gammy

from sleeping in a too soft bed in Oz and went out on me completely on

jumping out of a tree in Christchurch.

Both Jordan and Jonathan are American, and a little worried about this

draft thing, both have said they’d go to prison as conscientious

objectors. Maybe that’s what’ll happen to them.

Two cats and a rabbit running around which gives it all a pleasantly

surreal farmyard quality. One cat chases the bunny (Matisse). Matisse

chases Jonathan and the other cat. He also likes to chew on power

cables

so we’re always half expecting a muffled pop like the sound of

absentminded innocence being suddenly replaced by a somewhat startled

vacuum, and then to be picking French impressionist out of the

furniture

for weeks. I’ve been reading too much Terry Pratchett.

Broadband wireless Internet. Sweet.



I just got back from a demonstration marking a year since the

occupation

of Iraq. Started with a five hundred or thereabouts strong march

through

downtown to the water. A handful of small and very very loud girls were

trying to keep us chanting, but it didn’t work too well.

It was pretty lame, quite frankly. Marches don’t really get interesting

until they are a) at least five thousand people, or b) we have to start

running for some reason. Edinburgh was good because the Scottish have a

long proud history of rowdy civil disobedience, Spain was good because

although they’re more relaxed they are the loudest people on earth.

We ended up at an actually quite impressively large crowd gathered to

hear

some speakers, one of whom was Noam Chomsky. He’s a good speaker, his

writing makes me want to kill myself.

So he talked and we listened and clapped at all the right times and

then

he finished and everyone went home.

I couldn’t believe it. I literally could not believe that with a crowd

that must’ve been almost twenty thousand people, everyone just quietly

shambled off, being careful to stay on the footpaths and obey all cross

signals.

It was just so… Canadian.

I want to be in a huge planned demonstration that goes horribly wrong.

I

know its counterproductive and more than a little self destructive, but

I

just want to see what its like. I’m writing a movie around it, and the

way

things are going especially in this part of the world it may just be

unavoidable anyway.



Bit the financial bullet and joined in on a day trip down to the

Whistler

ski field. Thing must be six times the size of any field in New

Zealand,

apparently the snow was a little sticky and the best runs were closed

but

I’m not exactly spoiled and ran myself into the ground boarding my

little

ass off. It hurt. It’s been a long time, five summers in a row.

Getting sick is an inherent part of arriving somewhere new, but it

never

fails to piss me off. I’ve been sick for about two weeks now, in fact

all

of Vancouver seems to have been under something greebly since I got

here.

It’s not much more than a technicality now, the last few symptoms with

their fingernails still dug in me that will soon be gone.

Work has yet to materialize but I’ve dropped off ten cds to various

production houses around the city and am hoping something will come of

it

before my rent is due again, yesterday.

I’ve been here a month and have a flat, fire spinning and parties, so

what

if the only thing lacking is main reason I came to this continent in

the

first place?

I need to talk to someone about this film thing. I don’t know how films

get made. I don’t know what directors do. I don’t know how to write for

film or sell it once written. Can I stipulate that part of accepting

the

script is getting me as an assistant director, and what is it they do?

I am telling stories and I love that. They are stories that want to be

told visually, so I will make films of them. This much I know and will

do.

The how is tricky.

I don’t know where I am going but I know how to put one foot in front

of

the other and that’s usually enough.



Plans to drop down into America during the year. We’re right on the

border

here. See you all at Burning Man. Plans to go up north. Mara’s father

has

a sailing boat so there are plans to go sailing up the coast and maybe

kayaking on a lake somewhere. Rock climbing, there’s some good

bouldering

around here in the summer. Plans for a vege garden and we may be moving

the house a little closer to town in May. Not the house itself, of

course,

just everything in it. Duh. Plans for more lounging and by the sounds

of

it a lot more parties.





Aroha nui



Daniel Pagan Connell.

Stray 22March04 - Part two of four.

Kill em all and let god sort em out.



The sun in southeastern Australasia is vicious. In Scotland we would

spend

the whole day in the park without sunscreen and I wouldn’t burn, but

the

second you let the southern sun touch your skin you can feel it eating

at

you. We simply don’t have the ozone. This year was the worst on record

in

New Zealand for u.v. (I’ve already commented on how everywhere I go

it’s

the worst something ever) and now you’re supposed to be wearing

sunscreen

_under your clothing._

Its not the end of the world, there’s a lengthy lag on these things as

the

various gases make their way up to the stratosphere, so what we’re

getting

now is the effects of a decade or more ago, and it will probably start

improving again, but its still pretty fucked.

Lets just hope this Pentagon report stating climate change is a bigger

threat to American national security and the economy than terrorism

gets

something moving.



So that was the first thing I noticed in New Zealand, the sun.

It was weird going back to NZ. I had been unsure how it would be

returning

after a very long two point five years, if it would still feel like

home.

It didn’t feel like anything. I had a complete lack of emotional

reaction,

which since I was expecting the opposite made me feel like either I

wasn’t

actually there or had never left in the first place.

This was obviously a little confusing.

A mate I ran into summed it up though; it’s an airport. Transit space.

If

I had been there to stay it would’ve been something else, but since I

was

just passing through it was all one great big departure lounge.

Somewhere

you go to wait for your flight to leave. I’ve had this with many other

countries that were little else than in my way, but never really

noticed

because I wasn’t expecting anything more.

I don’t know what to think the word ‘home’ means anymore.

New Zealand is exactly the same, New Zealand has changed completely.

There are a couple of big issues at the moment, and they all seem based

around those damned Lord of the Rings movies. (The doilies on the

plane’s

headrests said ‘Air New Zealand, official carrier to Middle Earth.’

Grow

up. You’re not cool, you’re an airline. You’re not elves, you don’t

fight

the forces of darkness; you’re a marketing executive in some office

somewhere and apparently a complete escapist. Which is not to say I

didn’t

enjoy the films, of course.)

Everyone is suddenly flocking to NZ, which, especially in the south,

has

always been rather lacking in cultural diversity. Well, they’ve got it

now.

I think it’s a good thing. The way of this century is going to be the

entire world spreading itself thin. Everyone will go everywhere, and

for

once NZ is experiencing global trends at pretty much the same time as

the

rest of the planet.

But I see a time of ugliness coming for New Zealand, as people adjust

to

this. People who aren’t used to seeing a bit of colour around aren’t

going

to like it much and there’s already mutterings about how we should be

more

like Australia. (Concentration camps, sinking boat people and deporting

anyone who comes from a country that’s likely to shoot them when

they’re

sent back.)

It won’t last. Just growing pains. It won’t be much fun, but it’s

necessary and we’ll come out the other side better off. New Zealand has

never had much of a taste for prolonged bigotry.



The other big thing is land prices, and again this is global. A mate of

my

father bought a block of land and house back in the day for eight

thousand

dollars. Last year it was worth eighty thousand. Now it’s worth a

hundred

and fifty thousand. Actually by the time I left I think it had gone up

to

a hundred and eighty. A run-down batch and a little patch of land by

the

beach near Nelson just went to an American investor for one point two

million. It’s out of control. The price of anywhere by the sea or a

lake

is literally doubling every year, though it does seem to be leveling

off

now.

This isn’t going to destroy New Zealand. We’re used to a huge tourist

industry and no one’s going to build their house in the middle of

nowhere,

so towns will just get bigger and cities more crowded. What it does

mean

though is that New Zealander’s are no longer able to own land in New

Zealand. And even if you didn’t want to buy land your rent will go up

so

much if you live somewhere nice that you won’t be able to afford that

either and you’ll have to move somewhere that isn’t nice.

You can’t fault people’s taste for wanting to live somewhere beautiful,

but all you’ll end up with is massive suburbs of gated communities for

the

very rich and the rest of us forced into all the bits that suck.



I made the most of my time in NZ, met up with everyone I know who’s

still

there, which is everybody, and went hitchhiking to all my favorite bits

in

the South Island. Went to my beloved Fjordland, got molested by

sandflies,

had an interesting hitch getting in. Young American guy, owned a semi

auto

assault rifle and two handguns, was a biological engineer for Monsanto.

He

was actually really nice. Way into the ideological uses of genetic

modification, I told him about some of the stuff Monsanto was doing in

India and all the deaths it was causing but he hadn’t heard anything

about

it. Even he thought New Zealand lifting the GE moratorium was a

terrible

idea.

I asked him about his guns, he used to take them hiking. For the bears?

No, people. You ever had to pull one? No. Know anybody who’s had to

pull

one? No.

He was telling me about an expo for non-lethal weaponry he’d been to in

the states. Pepper spray paint ball guns and devices that knock you

unconscious by disrupting your brain with an electromagnetic pulse.

Great.

In Milford sound the weather was nice and I spent the night in my tent

out

on a sandbar, where you’re not supposed to camp but all the department

of

conservation officers go home at night. After dark the sandlfies

wandered

home too and I was able to unzip my little tent and sit out amongst the

dark looming walls of the fjord, the dull thunder of a waterfall

gleaming

like milk across the still, leaden water that surrounded me.

Nice little mental photograph.

Hitched up to Nelson to meet with my father.

I got an email from him recently saying he was looking forward to this

mailer to see all the things we got up to.

I don’t know, usual stuff. Lounging with old hippies in the sun, rock

climbing, ranting about the immateriality of imperceptible timespace

and

how the universe is really just too damn strange to even pretend to

know

what’s going on anymore.



The universe is really just too damn strange for me to even pretend I

know

what’s going on anymore. Some university did an experiment recently. A

machine generated random numbers, these were sealed in an envelope. A

few

days later they sat down and tried to influence the numbers, when they

opened the envelopes they found the numbers were skewed in the way

they’d

been trying for _after they had been generated._

But that’s nothing. Another university wanted to have a séance with

someone who had never existed. They made up a whole life for a

fictitious

character and had historians researching to make sure no one like him

ever

actually lived. Then they had the séance and of course made contact

with

the ghost they had created. That’s kid’s stuff, the bit that makes my

brain hurt is that afterwards records of this guy’s life actually

started

showing up in exactly the way they’d made him up.



Something a bit like this happened to me. When I was hitching to

Fjordland

and back there were a few points when I had spent long enough in a

certain

place and thought, ok, this is all very scenic and everything but I

really

do need to get moving now. Bang, picked up within five minutes. This

happened about five times in a row. Other times I tried predicting how

long it would take for a car to stop, but the results weren’t anything

worth mentioning.

This all comes under manifestation and I really don’t think it’s that

strange anymore.

However, the reason I was hanging around in NZ was for my Canadian work

permit to come through. This was supposed to take two to six weeks and

around week four I was starting to get a little twitchy. Eventually I

just

thought, look, that’s it, enough. This is no way to live, shuffling

round

between friends sofas and not even knowing if this thing’s going to

arrive

at all.

Bang. The next morning the thing arrives.

Getting cars to pull over is one thing, I’d made the decision they were

going to beforehand. But that permit would’ve had to’ve been dropped in

the mail at least a day or two _before_ I decided it was going to do

so.

These things are very hard to get one’s head around and frankly I’ve

given

up trying. The situation is now pushing up against my intellectual

capacity to comprehend it and it’s going to take a smarter person than

me

to make sense of it all. I can live with that. You don’t have to know

how

something works to know how to work it. If I can pull a few tricks

that’s

good enough for me.



much love



Daniel.

Stray 20March04 - Part one of four.

When fun is outlawed only outlaws will have fun.



I don’t even remember where I was up to with the last one of these, but

I

know it was like three months ago and a lot has happened since then.

So much in fact that I kind of have to treat the writing of it as a

chore

(enjoyable as it is), just plug plug plug away until its all done and

we

are all properly informed. I have forgotten most of what has happened

I’m

sure.

These things can be too long to read properly, so this one comes

serialized.



Christmas day I flew from Western Australia to Brisbane, a plan that

mum

initially vetoed until it became clear that the only flight available

would be last thing at night and I’d still get to do the Christmas

thing.

It was a hundred plus dollars cheaper then going out Boxing Day.

The flight was annoyingly short for one leaving at midnight, longer and

I

would have got some decent sleep, I think I ended up with about three

hours.

I was meant to be picked up from the airport and taken to the Woodford

folk festival, but after an hour of waiting around it was pretty clear

that no one was showing up so I made my own way by series of trains and

a

bus.



This is no good. The last three paragraphs could as easily be replaced

with ‘I made my way to Woodford’ and would contain all the information

and

about as much exiting travel literature. We’ll never get anywhere at

this

rate. I’ll speed it up a little.



Woodford was good.

And immense, and spread out. And hot, and these combined made for a lot

of

walking around at first trying to sort out what was going on and where

I

was supposed to be, and getting very dehydrated in the process.

I had, you may remember, been slung a free ticket by good old Tim to be

part of his street theater… thing. The Woodford Festival Public

Transportation System.

We were a bus. Four people sporting harnesses to lift the plastic

tubing

and canvas bus shell, and a fifth as hostess slash tour guide.

It was beautiful. Everyone loved us. We even ran the occasional night

bus

shepherding punters between the dance tents with a little stereo and my

headlamp set to flash-on-and-off-real-fast-mode hanging from the

ceiling.

Ahhhhhh good evening ladies and gentlemen, this is Bruce Murray your

captain speaking, we are now in our ascent out of ‘the punch bowl’,

I’ll

be taking us out on an easterly heading to our cruising altitude of

twelve

feet. Those of you on the right hand side of the bus will be treated to

a

view of stalls selling water pipes and powdered mushrooms. In the

almost

twice daily event of an emergency you will find exits directly to your

right, your left, by hurling yourself out the front window or assuming

a

reclined position with your arms folded over your chest, allowing the

bus

to pass over you. If an oxygen mask should drop from the ceiling above

you, that’s really fucking weird since we didn’t install any. Smoking

is

encouraged everywhere on the vehicle.

Then Joyce would circulate the cabin handing out damp rags and vomit

bags.



Most of the time, when I wasn’t being the front left wheel and turn

signal, I spent just roaming the festival at random. There was so much

good stuff going on that I could stumble across and drop in on. Saw

some

amazing music and circus acts, met a couple of good people. But not

many,

and if I have a quibble about the whole experience, and I do, its that

the

festival was a little too big. It was practically a city, and so had a

city type vibe. People were in their own space, you didn’t smile and

chat

with every person you passed for the same reason you don’t in town,

there

are just too many of them. Twenty thousand they reckoned.

Or maybe it was just me. The people I did meet were very cool.

Big fire event, not too much politics.

Little things, tents getting hot in the mornings, sudden rains, trips

into

town for food. Just the stuff which isn’t much in the retelling, but if

you were there, and so happy that some of you were, it all made for one

of

those blissful festival type experiences that most of you know all

about

anyway.

Hello Tony, hello Tim. Hello Marnina and Michelle. Wasn’t it good?

Would’ve even been worth paying for.



I left after a week, the day after the paying public wandered off. I’d

stayed an extra night to go to the staff party, which turned out to be

pretty lame, but I was in no hurry. I was hitchhiking to Melbourne

about

two and a half thousand kilometers south.

The first night out was spent in Byron Bay. So many people had told me

go

to Byron Bay, you’ll love it, you’ll stay for days. I actually, as it

turned out, thought the place was an absolute shit hole.

First off there was no hostel accommodation, since it was a Saturday

and

booked solid. I ended up camped in the bush by the beach between the

BEWARE – BROWN SNAKES signs, which if the police had found me would

have

meant a two hundred dollar fine, and if anyone else had would’ve meant

getting robbed. Big big crime problem in Byron.

I spent most of the day hanging out on the beach, which was alright as

the

town is really in a beautiful spot. But it’s expensive, and all the

pubs

have chain link fences around the front to stop the random groups of

drunkards who like to rush in and bash anyone sitting there. There was

nothing going on but drinking and the only ferals I saw were scattered

like colonized natives, hocking beads on street corners to the

occupying

tourist force.

So don’t go there.

The next day my third hitch, which took me seven hours south, was with

the

recently retired second in charge of the entire Australian armed

forces.

Man, that was an interesting ride.

Unfortunately all the really good stuff he could’ve told me was

classified, but I did find out some stuff. Like that the night of the

Bali

bombings (where my cousin was very nearly killed) the American forces

stationed there had been told not to go ashore. They knew it was going

to

happen, they just didn’t tell anyone else.

The Pentagon was hit by a plane, I had thought it maybe wasn’t.

When the main French agent responsible for the bombing of the Rainbow

Warrior in New Zealand was imprisoned he informed the officers that ‘if

I

am not freed within one year my people will be coming to get me.’

Meaning

the French army. He was extradited back to France eleven and a half

months

later.

The popular uprising in Papua New Guinea was put down by the Australian

army (read slaughter) because it risked ozzy mining interests. But

apparently that was common knowledge at the time.

Spent a night camped beside a park in Sydney and one in a suburb of

Canberra. Man is that place dull. Could’ve made it into Melbourne the

next

evening, but didn’t want to show up last thing at night, so camped by

the

side of the motorway surrounded by what I’m certain were trapdoor

spider

holes, and arrived the next morning. It was good hitching. I made good

time and met some good people. Didn’t get rained on, though there was

some

savage heat and flies, but it wasn’t too bad.

Ten days spent in Melbourne passed without much effort. Hooked up with

Michelle again and Naomi, but mostly just chilled in the hostel reading

and drinking with the British and Japanese.



Daniel.