Photo is actually from Surfer's Paradise, like 12 hours north of Sydney... but you get the gist.

“So what’s on the menu tonight Rich,” I asked.

“Take a guess,” he said.

“Well, let’s see now,” I took a second to scan the various ingredients sprawled out over the speckled counter top and made a deep thoughtful face. “Hmmm…Roasted duck l’orange with haricot verts, fingerling potatoes and a balsamic vinegar reduction?”

“That’s the one,” he said.

Then we both almost fell to the floor with laughter, as I knew full well what he would be having for dinner, as he knew full well what I’d be having too. Rich would be having stir fry as I would be having noodle soup. The cabinet was full of strange and exotic Asian spices. Something had stayed with Rich through all these years since his big travels through South East Asia and Europe so many years ago. These daily, if not ritualistic meals were indicative of more than just the flavours their ingredients imbued. These were glimpses back in to the past, back into the golden memories of dusty streets and roadside vendors, of wild nights, and pints, and stories of people whose names you can’t quite remember. This was our daily bread. A reminder. Of greater lessons learned which we couldn’t acquire in the western world. It gets in you sometimes. Grabbing hold of something deep and sincere and never letting go. Touching on some rare indescribable place in your heart, where everything is real and nothing is held back.

Rich and I sat on the tall concrete steps staring out at Maroubra’s choppy waters. We had just been sitting there like that for a while. Staring. At what in particular, I didn’t quite know. It was clear that Rich was looking at something, that much was sure. Scanning the waves, reading the surf, checking the rips, noting the breaks. But what had I been staring at? Without a lifetime of his knowledge, I had really just been staring at waves. One after another. Crashing into the sea floor. With no other significance than that. I was curious though. To know more about the ocean and how it works, about swells, and riptides, and the liquid machine that churns our great planet with the forces of the moon. Rich, of course, was more than happy to explain it all. Why the surf breaks where it does. How the wind conditions help shape a wave. We looked into the heaving mass as Rich decanted his wisdom into my half empty glass.

Tamarama Beach. Mid-day. This is the stuff dreams are made of. A heavy sea mist rolls off the oceans tongue like smoke into a sandy snifter. Already, we’ve heard of the young swimmer who had drowned, lost in the thick fog only hours ago. “This is unreal,” I thought. “It’s like nothing else I’ve ever seen.” It was like a slow motion scene composed by the best cinematographer.

Through the sea mist charged fit light-footed young men carrying featherweight boards. Over the sand dunes and between the tall grassy greens reeds they emerged, charging like young stallions over the dunes, their manes trailing behind in visual echo of the feet below.

We paused for a moment on the edge of the water, but it was brief. Only enough time to fix the velcro strap to my leg and conjure a shallow reflection of everything that had been going on. No time to think, just go. This was typical of Rich. There was a flow, a process to the whole thing. We had just been slowly circling from the outside, building up momentum, driving a crescendo, to arrive at this very moment. Dig your fingers into the wet sand, let them curl tight around a shape that has taken generations to perfect. Draw breath, and kick sand into the past, let your periphery be filled with only the future.

The ocean trying it’s hardest to spit us back out onto the solid ground to which our terrestrian legs called home. We paddle harder. Hand over head, head over board, board over water. In the distance, Rich disappeared, enveloped in soft folds of liquid and smoke he drifted away like a ghostly apparition into the undulating seas. Surf’s up.

For real! Let uncle Sam do the heavy lifting in your quest to chill with penguins or smoke with the natives or dive with great whites or whatever the hell it is you decide to do with your travels. If you havent already blown it on the new Playstation IX or that pair of Manolo Blahnik’s, consider jumpstarting your travels with free money from the government. Oh wait a second, that’s your money isn’t it. What the hell was Uncle Sam doing with it in the first place?

Travel needn’t be so homoginzed. Go do what you like. If you like books go to the library. If you like getting lost go find a lonely road and follow it.I think the key to great travel isn’t doing what you’re ‘supposed’ to do. It’s involving yourself in the things that drive you, that get you out fo bed in the morning. Maybe you’re really stoked about getting up and doing nothing in the morning. Maybe you reall like driving, so get in a car and drive. Maybe sports is your thing, so go see another cultures take on the subject. I think that all too often we’re driven by a sense of duty to confirm what we know is already there. Have you seen x? Have you been to the y? Did you see the z? I think that we would fair better as travelers if we took a little time to reflect inward and ask ourselves,

‘What is it that I really enjoy doing? What is it that brings me the most happiness? And how do incorporate that into my travels.’

Personal inventory beckons and it’s returns may be as eye opening and discovery laden as the road it takes you down.

The Downfall of Planning
I left the house in a dazed state. Stressed beyond belief at the infinite possibilities that rose with every step and the decisions that I will ultimately have to make. Within a week of arriving here in Australia I had been constructing plans for the next trip abroad.

“Let’s go to Europe,” my buddy said.

We booked tickets almost immediately and I begun the obsessive planning process that seemed to keep me going this whole time. Complex financial tables complete with variable rates of income were designed. Budgets for food, transportation, and every conceivable expenditure were calculated, tested, and re-calculated. Time tables spanning far into our newly spawned year of 2011 mapped out what sounded like good routes to travel. So much time and energy invested into this yet I stand before you truly lost. To say the least, things have gone horribly awry.

This is what it’s all about though. Diving into the deep unknown. Into potentially perilous situations that either eat you alive or see you become the wise world traveled adventurer that you always knew you could become. But let me tell you something, it’s not all flower necklaces and adventure treks out here. There’s a lot of stress and suffering that must be endured in order to keep this kind of thing going on a shoe string budget. Almost always before departure or arrival I experience a breakdown of some sort…and this moment is now.

Catch and Release
I imagine that traveling is a lot like fishing. Having to continually hold tight and let go. This place is amazing, grip tight, wind the reel, and hold on for dear life. You’re leaving in a week, unhook the most beautiful thing you’ve ever caught and let go. This process is repeated over and over again, manifesting itself often and in unpredictable ways. You let go of clothing, mementos, control, pride, and routine. Sometimes forever, sometimes for a newly acquired thing. You hold onto memories, and people, and places, and change. Taking snapshots with your mind so these things, you hope, are never lost.

The Price of Ambition
So far my experience here in Australia has been solely guided by the desire to make money for the next destination. “Every { x } you don’t buy here is an { x } you could have in Europe, becomes the typical rule. Be it a sit-down meal, or a train ticket, the rule remains the same. Don’t spend money unless you have to and try to have as much fun as possible within that one confine. Not that I haven’t been enjoying myself in Sydney, but if I were to leave and never come back, what would I be able to say that I had actually seen? But had there been anything I even wanted to see here in the first place?

Let’s meet in KL
The plan was to meet in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. AirAsia has a killer deal on a newly established route going direct to Orly International in Paris. My buddy would be flying in from South Korea for less than $100usd, while I had mapped out a route to get me there for around 300. Of course the optimism of the journeys success had been based on a high paying job that I would only work for two weeks, as opposed to the 10 weeks that my finely tuned numbers had been based on.

“Sorry mate, we have some boys coming off a job who need the work. Have to look after our full-time employees first.”

My plans crumbled along with the optimism and hope that they were built upon. “How the fuck am I going to pull this off now?” As the weeks tore past I settled into yet another routine. Wake up, eat a bowl of Weet-Bix with honey, wait for the internet cafe to open, apply for jobs, try to scare up some cheap form of entertainment like snorkeling or surfing during the hot part of the day, and return to the internet cafe to see if there was a job waiting for me in my inbox. I had practically given up until a couple of weeks ago when a friend said he knew a tiler who was looking for an assistant.

“The pays pretty crappy,” Dave said. “But it’s work.”

I pulled the rod and reel tight. “Don’t let this one go.” I thought. While simultaneously giving up on all of the planning, and graphs , and tables that led me to falsely believe that I was on track. I had been fighting this battle from the shadows, now it was time to duke it out on the front lines. It was time for grit, and instinct, and a messy struggle with the battle cry, “get there or die trying.”

Monday. Jack hammering tiles off the wall of some poor bloke’s sad gray apartment. Carrying bucket after bucket of cement down from his crappy sixth floor walk-up. Tuesday. Sitting in the back of a pick-up truck on the hottest day of Australian summer. Forty degrees Celsius. One-hundred and four degrees Fahrenheit. Throwing number one of the four-thousand newspapers we had to deliver that day. Wednesday. Roughly one week out from my departure date and I just didn’t have enough money to go there and come back. If I got a one way ticket from Sydney to Malaysia, I could make it to Europe and probably make it back to Malaysia. But then I’d be stuck. Everything began to unravel. I began to unravel. Any plans that I previously had went out the window like Tuesdays paper. “Malaysia’s not so bad,” I thought. The food’s great. The culture’s interesting. The women are pretty. I wonder if I can make enough money there to get back to Sydney. Maybe I can just stay and work in Europe and put my flight to Malaysia on hold. What’s the job market like? Do I need a work visa? Is there anyone I can stay with for free? Or is it simply time for me go home?

…

Sometimes you have to take a step back and ask yourself, “Just what the hell am I doing?”

Bondi Beach, Sydney, Australia

In every place there are people who live their environment. There are urban cyclists in NYC, mountaineers in Switzerland, and barflies in Boston. I’m always excited to meet and make friends with these people where ever I go. People who have a deep connection with the land and an intimate knowledge of its workings. In Australia 85 percent of the population lives within 50 kilometers of the coastline. The ocean is their environment.
Growing up in the woods of the deep south I know virtually nothing of the ocean. I can tell you the names of common birds and which plants are which in my native Georgian forest, but standing here on the edge of choppy waters with this snorkel strapped to my head, I can’t tell you shit. Not about the potential dangers that lurk beneath or how to spot rip currents by looking at the water’s surface. Of these things I am an ignorant child, luckily though, this is my buddy Dickson’s playground, and he’s agreed to show me the water’s way.
Dickson, or Dicko as he’s affectionately referred to by friends, is a tall lanky character, an internet dating phenomenon, and at times (particularly when I’m not in the room) the hardest drinker around. On New Years, Dicko, two his best friends (a couple of lifelong surfers), and I sat on their front porch drinking beers, and waiting for the rumored stampede of hot chicks to come drunkenly sloshing by. We had been discussing exercise when Dicko decided to mention his daily snorkeling routine.

“Snorkeling isn’t exercise. You don’t even use fins Dicko,” chimed one of the surfers. Seems to me like it might be more work without fins than with them, but what do I know? I’m from Stone Mountain, Georgia.

“Do you know how to snorkel? Have you ever done this before?” Dicko asked.
“Yeah,” I replied. “My old man took me snorkeling when I was a kid………..once.”

Off into the drink we went. Dicko takes to the water as if born to it. While I, at least for the first 10 minutes am a complete catastrophe. The water’s getting in my goggles. When I try to adjust them my snorkel fills with water. Forgetting that I can just blow the water out, I’m thrashing about swallowing mouthful after mouthful of saltwater. At some point I look up and Dicko is so far away that I can’t even see him. Then I realize that I’m really alone out here and how deep the water is. Panic begins to set in not only because I don’t want to die out here, but because safe footing really isn’t that far away. As the only black guy in probably all of Australia(at least it feels like it sometimes), I hoped that people weren’t looking at me saying to themselves, “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it.”
Eventually, I too grew gills and the psychological threat of dying was placed at bay. Turns out the water really wasn’t that deep at all. *cough* When you look at the surface of the water all you see is water, but underneath lies a whole new world. Strange, thinking of this as wilderness. To me trees and forest and spiders and snakes is the wilderness, and the ocean is really just another word for the beach. Well, that’s I thought before anyway.

It’s wild down there.

They say that the ocean is the last unexplored frontier on Earth and now I understand why. Beneath the glistening oscillations of the water’s smooth surface is an environment in which we are foreigners. Perhaps it was that I had expected there to be only sand, that I was surprised to find such dramaticism and diversity of terrain. Ginormous boulders jutted from the sea floor proudly overlooking the vast expansiveness which conceals two-thirds of our amazing planet. Aquatic plants cling to anything they can get a hold of like wind swept trees on the side of a mountain. Vegetation is everywhere, and if this was above sea level, this would definitely be the back country.

Potentially awkward on land, you could tell that Dicko was champion of this environment. He dove amazingly deep, propelling himself further from the surface by hurling himself from big boulders. Seriously, the guy was like Johnny Fucking Quest out there, tapping rocks together to call large swarms of fish, flipping over flat rocks to feed this 5 feet iridecent blue one. It’s just cool when you get a chance to see people excercise massive stores of knowledge of something you know nothing about. Hopefully I get to learn a thing or two about the ocean while I’m here.

Been doing demolition in a decommissioned airplane hangar. Swinging crowbars, Driving forklifts, and pretty much just getting paid to fuck shit up. $22/hr. 50/hrs a week. With 10 hours overtime that pays time and a half. “Far cry from [teaching english] at ENG Play, Evita says.

The distance can only be measured in light years.

Dead ass broke. If Australian Immigration knew how much I actually had in my bank account they would never have let me in. The department of Immigration and Citizenship says that:

You must have access to sufficient funds to support yourself for the initial stage of your holiday. Generally, AUD5000 may be regarded as sufficient, but the amount may vary depending on your length of stay and the extent of your travel. You should also have a return or onward ticket or the funds for a fare to depart Australia.

I had come with $126 on a one-way ticket. So here we are, with no job, 26 dollars to my name, and a head full of worry. Job prospects aren’t looking so good at the moment, but thank god that at least we had a semi-permanent place to stay now. Russ, our first and only couch surfer here in Australia had taken Michael up on a bold offer. To let us “house sit” his apartment while he was away for the holidays. We agreed to chip in $100 total to cover utilities for the two weeks Russ was going to be away, gathered our things from the campground, and BOOM!, we’re chillin’ in our own apartment. Well, we weren’t exactly chilling. I was still about to financially flatline, but at least I didn’t have to worry about where I was going to lay my head that night.

Calling in for reinforcements. The potential severity of the situation hit me all at once. I was really about to not have enough money to eat. So, I did what any self respecting 28 year old would have done…I called my mom. But first, I came up with a plan to get me the fuck out of Perth and back on the right track. So I called my buddy Scott, an Australian who I met 5 months ago in South Korea. We had bonded in Seoul after a hard day of climbing and an even harder night of drinking. In South Korea he assured me that If I were able to make it down to Australia, that he’d be able to get me a job. Maybe that was one of those half truths like when I told him, “maybe I’ll see you in Australia.” Maybe it wasn’t a half truth at all. Maybe it was actually true.

I rang Scott. He said he was pretty sure that he’d be able to get me work at his job site and that I could crash on his couch until things leveled out. “All I can do is ask,” he warned. “I don’t make the decisions.” Still, I trusted his word and moved forward with the rest of the plan. The only problem is, well, not the only problem, because let’s face it my situation is a pretty fucked up at this point, is that Scott lives in Sydney, on the other side of the continent, about 2,500 miles away from Perth. Meaning that I’d need money to pay for my plane ticket. The holidays were fast approaching and ticket prices were rising a few times a day. I had about 48 hours to figure out how to be on a plane and be on it or I’d be trapped in Perth until well after the Holidays. Well, I guess it’s time to call in the support team.

Dear mom, Hey. I hate you ask you this. But could you send me some money? Like 250? The bad news is that I’m almost entirely out of money and finding jobs on the west coast has proven to be more difficult than we originally thought. The good news; My friend in Sydney is a welder and has a job for me as a construction worker at his job site. Also, he’ll put me up at his house until I get my shit together. The only catch is that I have to get to Sydney (opposite side of the country) in order to take advantage. I’m borrowing 300 bucks from an old friend back home to cover the flight but need some cash to eat and buy workboots for the new job. My situation is pretty dire and time sensitive (or I wouldn’t be emailing you). I’ll probably run out of money in two days if I can’t find some casual work. When I get to Sydney, I can start working straight away and will paypal the money back to you a week after I start bringing in money. It’d be much appreciated if you could help me out.

Shortly after sending the first e-mail: hey. xmas is making ticket prices sky rocket on the daily. i need to be out of here by wednesday or im going to get stuck in perth until after new years. i worry about the money clearing my account in time for me to buy the ticket before prices really start getting crazy. maybe it would just be easier if you paid for my ticket online. in fact tickets for wed jumped from 264 to 299 in the past 10 hours.

Not my proudest moment, but I think she knows that I wouldn’t ask unless I absolutely had too. Trust me, I’d rather not be doing this kind of thing, but hey, sometimes you just have to do what needs to be done. 24 hours later, my ticket is booked and funds should begin transferring from paypal to my bank account. After a long ride on the bus and quick jaunt on the plane I made it to the east coast by the skin of my teeth. 18 dollars to my name. 8 in the pocket. 10 in the bank account. Right now Sydney seems like the most expensive place in the world. Now what about that job?

“This is going to be fun. Fun, fun, fun, fun, fun. Camping is fun,” Michael said sarcastically. I was running out of money and needed to find cheaper ways to live in order to preserve my rapidly evaporating Australian dollar. Setting up the tent in the sand I tried to maintain the appearance of confidence. The two man tent had barely been big enough for me when I was living out of it in Brooklyn. How was Michael’s tall ass supposed to fit in here too? Not to mention all the gear that also needed to go in with us. I started thinking about how I could use the rain fly to make a lean to shelter for myself. Obviously we weren’t both going to fit, and well, this was my half-cocked idea.

“It’s funny the things that can happen if and when you put yourself out there on the edge of uncertainty.”

8:16 am. The down comforter and queen-sized bed is making it difficult for me to start my day. I’m lying here, letting my thoughts float in the sounds of the Indian ocean and Fremantle’s lazy streets. A/C on blast. Wrapped up like a worm in a cocoon. The last three days at the campground have definitely been the best times we’ve had here in Australia so far.

The campground was like a hidden desert oasis trapped in a cultural wasteland. Located on what seemed to be the very edge of town, as far south as the free bus would go, through a less than obvious one kilometer foot path, is the coolest place we’ve been to in Australia……wait for it………the RV Park!
How do I explain that the most memorable and fun times that I’ve had so far in this great outdoor paradise was in a concrete campground next to a landfill site? How was THIS the place that I’m going to remember as the highlight of my time spent on the west coast?
It was like stumbling directly into the cool kids club. This was hands down the cheapest place to stay in all of Fremantle, difficult to get to, and the living conditions (at first glance) were primitive to say the least. Not to mention the fact that you actually had to own a tent or a camper of some to sleep there. This is where the dirtbags, cheapskates, those in the know, and hardcore road warriors stayed. The cast was as diverse as they come. Rag tag. And full of awkward vigor and priceless outback experience. This…………….was way cooler than any hostel we could ever have stayed at.
8:37 am. The inside of the tent is a stark contrast to the dark comfort of my dreams. It’s hot and the air is thick. The rolled up pair of jeans under my head feel as if they stiffened through out the night, losing all credibility as a pillow. Michael’s crunched up on the other side of the tent. All six foot four of him. Somehow he looked way more comfortable than I was. “Asshole!” We slept feet to face as men tend to do in these situations in order to prevent any accidental spooning from going on. Our gear and bags filling in any floor space that our bodies neglected to occupy. Time to pull the trigger and get this day started. Reach for the zipper. Pull with all my might. BOOOOM! The visual noise is unbearable. Fucking hot Australian sun always seems to be directly overhead. Hovering a few dozen meters from the Earth’s crust. Step out of the tent and onto my flip-flops, next to the half empty box of wine based beverage. I need some water bad.
The campground is just waking up. Dave and his girlfriend are sitting at the picnic tables checking to see if there’s any new interest in their camper van. Wet clothes dry in the sun on metal trees. The Finnish guy who I’d been having a deep conversation with the night before sat unmoved in a sun bleached folding chair, shades on, couldn’t tell if he was asleep or not. Past them, in the outdoor kitchen, a guy is pouring cereal into an unlikely container, and one of the Japanese girls has something going on the stove. I refill the four dollar bottle of water that I bought with liquid from the tap and remind myself not to lose this one. No one’s sitting in the TV room and its enclosed isolated nature seems like the perfect place to beat the heat and enjoy as little time alone. Kicked back on the couch, Southern hip-hop flowing through the headphones, I reflected on the madness that had transpired the night before, the new group of friends that we had just made, and the fist fight that happened over a single rolling paper.

The Night In Question:
Michael and I are standing in front of one of the two public grills provided at the camping area. Staring down at the sizzling links and glossy beef steaks like two hungry wolves watching a young fawn stray from the elders. Back in Asia it it had been noodle soup and pork on rice all day everyday. I would have killed for a steak back then. Now, thanks to Australia’s amazingly inexpensive beef prices we were eating steak everyday.
Dave, his girlfriend, the Finnish guy, and the German girl were sitting at the table next to the grill. They had all been here for at least six months, separately traveling across the continent, winding up here together, for this very moment. How long have you guys been here in Australia?” someone asked. “About a week.”
Then they all began discussing the routes that they had taken to get here in Fremantle and what they saw along the way. Broome, Darwin, Surfers Paradise, Turtle’s nests on the beach, Snorkling on the Great Barrier Reef, Picking Fruit in Queenland, Breaking down in the middle of the outback. Yes! This is the information that we needed. There people were cartographers helping us to map out of trip. Before listening to the stories I hadn’t been that impressed or excited about Australia. But their accounts of life on the road had stirred up my imagination once again. We continued to talk over boxes of Goon, a.k.a. crappy box wine, undoubtedly the cheapest way to get drunk in Australia and another dirtbag travel tip from the crew. The German girls’ friends had just arrived, a bunch of loud mouthed ruffians she had worked with somewhere along the way.
“Fuck these guys!”
They were aggressive, annoying, and a negative energy descended upon their arrival, threatening to destroy the family environment that we had been fostering this whole time. “Let’s move. These guys are starting to piss me off.” That’s about when the fight broke out. Something about someone not letting someone else have a rolling paper. Stupid. We put on the Doors, cranked up the laptop, and prayed that they would stay seated on what was now “Their side” of the campground. Which of course they didn’t. “You know what? These guys are ridiculous. I’m calling it a night.”

*sorry for the lack on photos and super sloppy writing. my laptop decided to stop working when I landed in Sydney. -jp

Thursday. 12:40 pm. Full summer. Our appearance has begun to nag at my conscience and my sense of self conscientiousness. We look like fucking Sherpas, I thought. Or gypsies. Bags strapped to our withering frames at every angle. The awkward weight causing us to tither here and there unexpectedly, like a couple of drunks after a few boxes of the finest goon. People are going about their daily lives, eating lunch on outdoor patios, running errands, doing the day to day. Then there’s us, quote unquote backpackers (Although I’d like to think that at the ripe old age of 28 that I’m more of a traveler and less of a backpacker) lumbering through the streets bearing all our pride and shame for everyone to see. There is no hiding from this. Another thing with which I must make peace.

Today is our fifth day here in Perth. Fremantle more specifically. We’re currently taking the free bus down to South Beach in search of cheaper accommodations and some relaxing times on the Indian Ocean. As expected, life has been anything but convenient(or cheap). Australia has been god awfully expensive and I’ve been struggling to retain the few pennies that I still have left, it’s like trying to hold onto a fist full of sand on the beach.

5 days ago. Sunday. Our first day in Australia. Siting on a park bench at 7:30 in the morning after taking the red eye from KL. This was anything but the hot Australian summer that we had been promised. It was fucking freezing. Beach town. High Winds. The sun barely over the horizon. Our couch surfing contact wasn’t answering his phone and with the two tons of gear to look after we certainly weren’t going on any casual strolls around town. Call him again…no answer. So there we sat. 8 o’clock. 9 o’clock. 10 o’clock. The bums start asking for change. 11 o’clock. It’s still cold. Call him again. Make contact. He says he’s playing tennis and will be back sometime midday. 12 o’clock. See the same bum we saw earlier in the day. He’s been out walking around. Doing whatever it is that bums do during the days. We, on the other hand had just been sitting there on that bench since he made the first lap. Who were the real bums here? At 3:30, Russ finally arrived. 8 hours after we first sat down in that bench. That was day one. At least then we had a couch to sleep on…

Day 2 A.K.A. hit the ground running. We had done our research prior to arriving and had a checklist of things that needed doing to facilitate working in Australia. By mid day we had Australian cell phones, bank accounts, and tax ID numbers. It seems as if we had hit the ground running. By the days end we had filled out job applications, and inquired about work at a handful of Fremantle’s many restaurants and pubs. But this place was crawling with backpackers. Not like in Bangkok or Chiang Mai, but the place is still crawling. The only difference here is that everyone’s trying to work. We need to get out of Fremantle and we need to do it quick,” I thought. But more pressing issues were at hand. Our couch surfing host had to get ready to go home for the holidays and would be unable to let us crash for another night. Time to find another home. Back on the move. Before we left though, Michael had a proposition for Russ. What if we “house sat” at his apartment while he was home for the holidays. “Hmmm……Russ said, “when did you guys come up with this one?”

Sitting here on the plane, drawn to Australia by the promise of high wages and plentiful jobs, not knowing if any of it is really true. I feel like a frontiersman or a gold miner rushing to stake the next great claim.

Tired. 4:28am. It’s an icy tundra in here and AirAsia doesn’t give a fuck about you. Nothing. No blanket. No pillow. No nothing unless you have the coin to pay for it. Regardless, the tickets were dirt cheap, so I guess I shouldn’t complain about much.

The second half of our journey to Australia has been easy going. Make the bus from Penang to Kuala Lumpur on time. Journey 5 hours south to Kuala Lumpur. Short taxi ride to the next destination of our couch tour across Malaysia.

Smooth Sailing.

We lucked out big time in KL. Our couch surfing host Morteza was a laid back Iranian dude with a spacious apartment in a quiet part of town. Over the next 4 days Morteza and his countryman Saeed would give us a grand tour of their home away from home. Sharing their food, customs, and an insight into this strangely diverse peninsula. We’d eat Indian food with our hands, smoke Malaysian styled hookahs, and discuss the tragedy and futility of war, a direct relation to what Morteza and Siaeed experienced growing up in Iran.

To say that Kuala Lumpur is simply diverse one would have to overlook the specific cultural composition of the city. Like Jackson Pollack using a palette of the world’s peoples. It’s so interesting to see such largely different cultures living harmoniously and side-by-side. In any case, that’s what I saw in Kuala Lumpur during those 4 days.

Morteza and Saeed dropped us off at the train station 3 hours before our flight. 1 hour on the bus. Casually smoking cigarettes outside the airport while pondering life outside Asia. No rushing. Made the flight on time. Regretted checking the bag with my long sleeve shirts.