Change of Venue

If anyone out there is keeping an eye on me through this blog then I hope you will join me at my new blog site http://freesongaweek.wordpress.com/ which I will be launching along with my new internet campaign on Tuesday, March 24th, 2009.

thanks for keeping me company out here.

from here to there,
sv

I’m Not Sure If I’ll Ever Get A Chance To Bring The Past 6 Months Up To Date

It has been a whirlwind adventure full of extreme valleys of disappointments and peaks of wonderous amazement and awe-inspired…well…er…inspiration.

Many new adventures are afoot and I will slowly integrate my previous tales as I grab hold of the mighty beast of life by the tale and ride it steadily toward the surface.

If you’re out there and wondering what the hell happened to this guy? Fear not friends.

I’m back.

From Here To There,

sv

In The Meantime…

This is footage from the best day of my Australian voyage when Ames and I spent three days at Carnarvon National Park. On the second day we hiked the 25km Carnarvon Gorge where we saw ancient Aboriginal rock art and the natural Amphitheater which is showcased in this video. I hope you enjoy while I put together my thoughts on more recent events.

From Here To There,

sv

By Friday, I will bring this blog back up to date.

I apologize to friends,family and fans who might be waiting to hear the next installment of the unfolding saga of my journey. I am slowly recovering from jet lag and will put pen to paper and have a story for you by the end of the week.

 

From Here To There,

sv

Not To Worry My Friends…

I will explain everything in the days ahead. Please know that I am safe and well in Kuala Lumpur awaiting my flight to Vancouver via Taipei, Taiwan. I will then be in Victoria until I can make the necessary arrangement needed for me to continue my travels and ambitions of sharing this album with the world.

Even though forces conspire to resist my message of hope and love…I will prevail.

From Here To There,

sv

Moving Right Along

            Thirty-three arrives with a bang – one small hangover and two large loads of laundry!

            The day after my birthday was a traveler’s day of chores spent fixing, cleaning and tidying things up. We wanted to begin moving west; in order to plan our route inland in search of the most scenic tour towards Australia’s enchanting Outback, we hit the tourist information stop to gather local maps and materials that would help us sketch out the next leg of our journey.

            Earlier in the week, Amy’s iPod along with the remote to my computer had fallen down a small gap beside the bed and there was no way to retrieve them other than to dismantle most of Daisy’s luxurious living quarters. Finding the local hardware store, we bought a long-handled Philips screwdriver and a clothesline and bag of pegs we could use to hang our laundry to dry in the increasingly warm midday sun.

            We arrived back at the site and moved all our belongings out of the van.

Low and behold there was a red bucket with a clothesline and pegs already provided that Amy, being the organizational master that she is, had somehow managed to overlook. Oh well! I set about trying to get myself in a position where I could muster the appropriate degree of leverage necessary to somehow remove the screws that held our bunk together; not an easy task for a long-limbed man in a short-man’s van let me tell you! Eventually though I managed to lift the bed boards just enough that Ames could squeeze her hand through and grab the lost valuables. Mission accomplished!

            Relaxing amidst the shade of the trees, we looked upon our maps and decided we would leave camp tomorrow, driving the 200kms north to Gladstone – our last coastal town before heading deep into the heart of western Queensland. From there it would be a series of increasingly smaller towns that occasionally dotted the Dawson Highway along the way to our first real attraction, the Carnarvon Gorge at Carnarvon National Park. Once an ancient tropical rainforest, the gorge touted amazing hikes that wound through towering walls of sandstone upon which Aborigines had stenciled and hand-painted hands, hammers and other symbols whose significance was known only to them that had perhaps taken shelter there so many years ago. This was right up my alley and I was incredibly keen to witness that firsthand.

            The next day we arrived in Gladstone and Amy set about making us one of her amazing salads for lunch. After enjoying that, we escaped the heat by strolling across the street to Gladstone Harbour. The tide was extremely low yet there wasn’t any “beach” to speak of so we sat on the grassy cliff overlooking the rocks below. After a few moments spent taking in the view, we walked hand in hand back to our site beside the pool and camp kitchen and went about enjoying a little time to ourselves to collect and reflect on our thoughts. I sat down at the picnic table beneath the shade and worked on my journal while she sat in the sun doing some sketches and soaking in the heat. I had just finished up my writing when a man sat down beside me with a ice-cold Tooey’s wrapped in a “stubby cozy” in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other.

            He said hello and we exchanged pleasantries. Dressed still in the reflective work uniform I’d come to recognize on construction employees throughout Australia, we talked for some time before Amy returned, fresh from her shower, to join us at the camp kitchen. As he finished his beer he quickly retired to the cabin he was renting at the campsite, returning moments later with a six-pack of the same, which he kindly offered to share with us. We graciously accepted; the cold, refreshing taste of beer delighting us both after such a beautifully hot day. He introduced himself as Jono, a good-natured Australian of Philipino descent. We talked and laughed and carried on for a few hours together as the sun set beyond the trees behind us.

            A man from the site beside us came in to begin to prepare his evening’s feast and Jono quickly offered him a beer as well. The four of us all began chatting about our travels up to this point. Jono was a industrial welder from Brisbane specializing in underwater tank construction and was staying in Gladstone for three to four months while working a contract for one of the large oil refineries set up along the nearby coast.  He was recently separated from his wife of twenty-one years and was a proud father of a nine year-old girl back in Brisbane. The other man, whose name I cannot pronounce let alone attempt to spell here, was an ex-pat German working as a civil engineer on The Gold Coast. He and his girlfriend, who was visiting from Austria for three weeks, had spent the past two weeks traveling throughout Queensland in a small caravan similar to Daisy (but not nearly as new or nice, of course!). Any previous concerns we’d had about Daisy being able to manage the rigors of the Outback roads and distances were quickly assuaged as he recounted to us the extensive distances and destinations they managed to experience in such short a time. After all, their “Wicked” camper (another brand of rented caravan) had come with 120,000kms while Daisy arrived with a mere 35,000 – if they could do it in that thing, we could most certainly do it with Daisy! I became very excited about this prospect, feeling increasingly drawn to the idea of venturing as deep as we could afford to go into the Australian Outback; an idea I’d hardly even considered before arriving here strangely enough.

            Soon, we said our goodbyes and headed our separate ways. Ames and I knew we had to get our financial arrangements figured out to properly determine our budget. She was trying to get her taxes back from the previous nine months she’d spent working various jobs throughout Australia. The next day she spent several frustrating hours on the phone and the Internet trying to figure out how to get her documents properly filed as a visitor. As she struggled, I spent the morning on the computer, desperately trying to upload all of the blog entries and photographs to my site while we still had Net access. Heading out that day for the Outback, the gods only knew when/if we’d find it again.

            The frustration wasn’t over as we drove disoriented around Gladstone, trying to get things done after leaving the campsite so late. Normally we have to check out by 10 am but it was nearly lunchtime by the time we had left to pick up groceries. An interesting old man approached us as we stood at the end of one of the aisles, carefully contemplating the merits of one tomato sauce over another. He mumbled something at us and pulled out a blue-folder with the word “emails” written in black ink across the front. He flipped to a message he’d obviously received from someone and printed off at home. He read from it, asking us, “Do you know what a 350 lb woman looks like?”

            I stood puzzled and slightly anxious as I considered the never-ending possibilities of inappropriate Internet-fetched fare he might be referring to. He slowly turned the page to reveal a colour-printed laminated photo of a buxom blonde dressed (thankfully!), albeit scantily, in a French maids outfit. She stood in the doorway of a house, bent at a ninety-degree angle at the waist to avoid thrusting her head through the ceiling. She was incredibly tall; a feat of genetics that towered above the full-grown man that cowered beneath her enormous frame. Thank the gods; I would be spared losing my lunch!  We smiled and laughed with him a moment before carrying on with our list, commenting on how great and sometimes strange it was that old people seemed to so often approach us and start up such random conversations. We seem to attract them.  Shortly thereafter we paid for the large cache of groceries and junk food (I know! I know! I should now better now at 33!) and made for the next task.

            Ames had filled out the tax form online earlier that morning but when she finished it, the computer at the caravan park had crashed, forcing us to track down a tax pack from one of the local News Agents in order for her to send it off to have it filed manually. Add all of this to the fact that we drove around in circles several times throughout town trying to follow the one posted sign that apparently led to the Tourist Information station to get a new, more localized map of the area. As it turned out, that “I” sign led to nothing but more and more frustration and as we drove back and forth for fifteen minutes, never once finding that illusive center of information. By the time we finally managed to find our way onto the highway headed west, we were snapping at each other from all of the combined stress. This was not a good start to the next leg of our adventure.

            We drove along the first stretch of the Dawson Highway, a narrow two-lane thoroughfare blanketed on either side by endlessly stretched farmlands and forest glens of gently grazing cattle. Our frustrations had subsided slightly as the open road spread its arms before us. We soon encountered a strange creature standing amidst the herd. The “Cowmel”, so coined by Ames to represent the particular breed of cattle that resembled both a cow and camel for its distinguishing and somewhat floppy “hump”, was a fascinating beast, almost mystical in it’s distinct appearance. (No pictures yet that effectively capture this striking cloven-hoofed ruminant. Stay tuned.)

            We soon entered The Banana Shire and drove through the tiny one-horse town of Banana, stopping only to refuel before finally arriving at the small mining town of Moura just before sundown.

            Moura is indeed small. Surprisingly, there are caravans and cabins set up everywhere throughout this cheap little caravan park on the side of the Dawson Highway ($21 per night for a powered site!). The cockatoos and parakeets we going wild in the trees above us from the moment we arrived. It was sunset and although they’re boisterous every day around this time, they seem particularly agitated that night. Maybe it’s spring fever or perhaps the looming storm blowing in from the south; whatever it is, birds tend to make me a little unsettled anyway, and their constant squawking and squabbling and carrying on was fraying my already torn and tattered nerves.

            Amy tended to the task of preparing her hearty miso soup for dinner while I ventured over to the nearby Australian BBQ to heat up some diced up potatoes and pre-made, near-frozen garlic bread. These BBQ’s, if you haven’t seen them, are quite different from the one’s I’m accustomed to operating back home. Instead of a slatted iron top where the heat rises over, around and through and the flames sear grill marks onto whatever you’re cooking, these “barbies” have a flat top that tend to distribute heat a little more evenly (or so I’m told!). Once you figure out how to light them and get comfortable using them, their large surface area provides the means to cook a variety of different items simultaneously without worry of losing anything between the cracks. Unfortunately, I’m not at that stage yet.

            Firstly, I couldn’t get the thing to start. It turned out I needed a lighter for this one so I headed back to the van, grabbed a box of matches and returned, only to find myself nearly engulfed in a massive ball of flames upon striking the first match. Secondly, there is an incredibly strong smell coming off the grill plate that I cannot quite put my finger, er…nose on. That, along with the intense heat licking at my belly as I attempt to keep the potatoes from burning, is making me feel quiet queasy and light-headed. Thirdly, the grill plate is now far too hot for the once frozen garlic bread, resulting in a burnt crust that is still cold in the middle – its butter still mostly un-melted. And finally I find, upon returning from my near disastrous BBQ experience to share my contribution to the night’s fare with Ames, that the potatoes not only smell but that they taste of the bleach that was probably used to clean the grill earlier that day. They are disgusting and must be discarded. Oh what another triumphant day of traveling!

            The days tribulations were nearly through as we headed to the camp showers after dinner, fatigued and sticky from the heat of the day. As I entered the men’s bathhouse, I was struck hard in the face by the smell – the same smell that had soured my BBQ and sabotaged my dinner earlier. On the door to each shower and above each toilet were signs that read:

            “Our cleaning staff prides themselves on having the cleanliest amenities to be found. Please assist us in this regard. Use the toilet brush when necessary and the mop provided after using the shower. Thank You.”

            The cool shower was rejuvenating and refreshing, washing away the stresses of a long and tiring day. And the place certainly was clean.

            Still, perhaps they could get by with a little less bleach.

            From Here To There,

 

            sv

           

 

33 in 1770

            September 14^th, 2008. I am now thirty-three years of age.

            The morning wakes, lightening my spirits and rekindling most of my energy. We’re now rested and ready to head out for 1770/Agnes Waters. Amy and I pack up our things and walk down to the small breakfast/coffee bar. Apparently they have famous pancakes so I treat myself. Ames opts out, choosing instead a soymilk smoothie. Mmmm…Yummy!

            The wild berry pancakes soon arrive with three scoops of vanilla ice cream on top. Now that’s what I call a birthday breakfast! (Not the smartest idea though given my weak intestinal fortitude).  After saying a quick goodbye to the beach, and the kangaroos, we made our way north, through Childers and Bundaberg.

            After two-and a half hours of peaceful easy driving, we arrived in 1770/Agnes Waters. If I was doing a well-researched historical account through our Australian adventures I would probably mention here the significance that the year 1770 had on this small surfside, pseudo-hippie town – but I’m not. I have no idea other than to assume it had something to do with Captain Cook whose caravan park we stayed in for two nights.

            The park was spacious and well tended to. We chose a site surrounded by thick forest to the rear, within a stone’s throw of the path that led a few hundred meters down to the beach. There was a nice little pool that overlooked another edge of the forest and the yawning coastline down below.

            We tended to the usual caravan arrival routine before setting out down the path to the beach.  It was nearly entirely deserted. Only a few souls sauntered by us as we lay there soaking in the warm September goodness. The sea looked a little more precarious than at Woodgate but still warm and inviting; that is until we noticed hundreds of jellyfish scattered across the shore. There were of course, no lifeguards manning this beach with their instructive system of flags that told when and where you could swim. Only a tattered sign that we passed as we crossed the path to the beach that warned of stinging jellies from November to April. It was only September but why take the risk when there’s a refreshing (read safe!) little pool only moments away back at the campsite.

            Walking back, we got chatting about one silly thing or another. Lost in thought and staring at the sand in front of me with my cap pulled low over my eyes, I didn’t see the large branch that hung low across our pathway. Smack! Right in the forehead! Knocked me hard enough that I could feel my teeth knash together and was happy that I hadn’t knocked myself out cold or bitten my tongue in half. I felt a little stupid that I hadn’t noticed it on the way to the beach and that I wasn’t paying attention enough on the way back to avoid it. I commented to Ames that that was one way to take your “birthday bumps”.

            Back at the site and hot from our sojourn down at the beach, we each got changed into our proper swimwear – some more discreetly than others!

We made it into the cool refreshing water as magic hour struck; the long shadows beginning to make their way across the pool. I tormented Amy for a while with my wrestling prowess, demonstrating such classic textbook techniques as the bodyslam, the back suplex and the jumping head kick. After the sun began to disappear behind the clouds, we showered and changed for a nice, romantic dinner at the campsite restaurant, The Deck. As strange as it was to find that little restaurant built around back, it was stranger still to find, upon our arrival right at five o’clock that it was indeed a fine dining restaurant. What a wonderful birthday treat!

            On the day I left home for the airport my Mom had slipped me a card with explicit instructions that it was not to be opened until my birthday. First thing I had done when I woke up earlier that day was to reach for that card and the comfort of home and family. Within her kind loving words were tucked a few traveler’s cheques, so I decided that being we were on a budget and that we’d likely not see another dinner of that ilk for quite some time, we’d treat ourselves to something special. A romantic night out of good wine, great food and amazing company –not to mention a breathtaking view!

            The Deck was owned and operated by an Austrian couple. He worked his passion for food in the kitchen while she gave the warm and hospitable service that catered perfectly to the demands of that small but spacious room. The crab and pumpkin ravioli that we shared as an entrée (aka appetizer) was not particularly to either of our liking but everything else, from top to bottom made for an exceptionally memorable night.

            We ordered a wonderful bottle of Shiraz from the Maclaren Vale in New South Wales. It was so delightful that we vowed to remember it should we encounter it again in one of the local shops. Unfortunately, it’s three days later and we’ve already forgotten it! Perhaps we’ll recognize it should ever we see the label and then we can once again sing it’s high praises.

            After the ravioli came the mains. We debated and deliberated for some time before Amy chose the catch of the day and I the grain-fed ribeye steak with frites and steamed vegetables. For me, it was my first real meat dish (ground meat pies don’t count!) in the past 3 ½ months and after a few unfamiliar bites I found it to be very delicious – a great way to be reintroduced. As for Amy, well she was over the moon. From the moment it arrived it looked spectacular and with her first bite I thought she might be gone for good. With every bite that followed she could not stop raving about how amazing it was; fresh Mackerel caught locally just off the reef that day, pan-seared rare and thinly sliced with a touch of soy and ginger dressing drizzled over top. There was a fresh avocado sauce and boiled potato also plated with it but those were never given a second glance. That fish ruled the night. (Thanks Mom!)

            I went off to get the camera from the van so that we might have a photograph to commemorate the wonderful end to a wonderful birthday spent together. I returned in absolute fits of laughter. As I tried regaining my composure for fear of disturbing the other, shall I say more elderly and refined guests, Amy suspiciously eyed me and waited for an explanation but I could not contain the tears of sheer silliness as they poured forth from within me. Even our lovely hostess wondered what had gotten hold of me.

            This is where our mother’s should stop reading; all that follows is purely immature potty humour; boyish and silly and ridiculous fun.

            I entered the men’s bathroom on my way back from the van and stood at the urinal. I’d had a few beers that day and shared a bottle of red wine so I was lose, relaxed and very at ease as I began to do what people do in those places. I had quickly scanned the room upon entering and although there were many stalls for showers and toilets had decided that it was late and the place was empty so I could just let it all hang out there. And so, I farted.

            Flatulence is nearly always a nerve-wracking experience when exhibited around others. It’s a naturally reoccurring phenomenon created by an accumulation of gas in the body that is deemed inappropriate, rude and distasteful in modern “civilized” society. I’ll be the first to admit a disdain for its foul and pungent ways in public but when I’m alone, in those private moments no one likes to mention or talk about at dinner parties, find it to be quite an enjoyable, if not cathartic, experience of digestive relief. They come in all shapes and sizes and, as we all can attest to, can also be experienced in a vast array of disarming stenches. The one that escaped as I stood there that night, reflecting upon the day that passed, was a high-pitched and odorless bastard whose sound was so shrill that I swear it woke every dog in that caravan park from its’ once-so-peaceful slumber. It held a pitch unlike anything I had ever heard before, jumping from one tight-assed octave to the next towards such a resounding crescendo that I was shaken abruptly from my thoughts; horrified yet astounded at the work I had created. Simultaneously, as at long last the triumphant release subsided and I considered the embarrassing delight that would surely bewitch me were I to find I were not alone in that moment, a man’s voice emerged from one of the stalls behind me.

            Deep and clearly distraught at having been trapped behind that bathroom door during my foul display, he exclaimed, “Fuck me!” with such incredible disgust, and disbelief that I burst into tears of fitful laughter, innocent and pure – okay, maybe not really so innocent or pure – and replied, “Sorry Mate! I had no other place to put it!”

            There are three reasons that I can think of as to why this seemed to incredibly funny and I apologize here for drawing it out even further but unless you were there it will most likely never be as funny as it was in that moment. Surely, you know what I mean. Anyway, back to the three reasons.

            Reason #1: I had been riding the ups and downs of a heavy emotional rollercoaster for the past few days and needed to release some stress.

            Reason #2: Ames had once told me that as soon as a man passes gas in front of the woman he loves things have clearly gotten far too comfortable and inevitably start heading downhill. I had been wary about this, especially living in such close quarters 24-7 that I had been holding “it” in for days.

            Reason #3: It was a completely, utterly and absolutely comical encounter between one man who thought he was alone and another who was imprisoned in his own private shame behind him.

            Eventually I managed to recount my silly little tale to Ames, sharing the contagion of my laughter. We ate crème brule and retired to our caravan home still laughing at the fun we’d had that day.

            Recalling my 33^rd birthday brought back all the joy that I experienced and made me smile and laugh again which is why I wanted to journal it here, and so I apologize to anyone who took the time to read this far.

            When the hands of time draw their lines against my face and my memories perhaps begin to fade, I want to be able to remember all of the different levels of joy and pleasurable peace alongside the painful hardships that I have encountered in my life. I want to recount the glories and triumphs as much as the silly little shames and ridiculous feelings of guilt I might have put on myself along the way. It may seem unnecessary and self-indulgent to some of you, but it’s the process of how I move through such things in order to learn from them and grow.

            For me, birthdays signify what I imagine New Years means for most people; it’s a chance to recount, reflect and reassess the past year of life that I’ve been blessed to live on this earth and to consider what kind of man I want to continue to grow towards becoming in the days, months and years that might still lie ahead. It’s a time to grieve the beautiful things I have loved and lost along the way as well as to rejoice at all of the beautiful things that exist in my world at the moment.

            I experienced many great depths and distant heights this past year. I completed my album, an epically ambitious and challenging feat of individual growth and achievement that I’m incredibly proud of. I faced old fears and regrets head on and did my best to move through them. After 20 years of faithful service, I left the restaurant industry, preserving most of my integrity and some of my dignity that it had begun to take from my spirit. I respected and appreciated my friends more and spent more time with them and, in turn, found that they appreciated and respected me; celebrating with me the sweeping changes I was setting out upon this world to experience. I fortunate to be able to spend quality time with my Pops every week, nurturing that relationship and developing close friendship between us. I got to witness the resurgence of joy and success in my Mom’s life as her strength, power and wisdom reached new heights, her spirit continuing to also heal and grow. I spent nearly the entire summer at “The Lake”, reconnecting with my loving family there and getting to know each of them again and for the first time. I said goodbye to things in my life that I no longer needed; the possessions that helped keep me distracted and committed to a solitary and comfortably controlled lifestyle. I began to live more with less. I let go of the hurtful memories of relationships gone by and moved closer towards the woman I love. I took myself on a leap of faith; trusting that when I put my life back in the hands of the gods that I might begin to experience the type of freedom I had been longing for. I arrived in a distant part of this world to be reunited with Amy in hopes of beginning our life together in earnest.

            I am ready to experience my thirty-third year of life on earth in a new and exhilarating light.

            So, as I say goodbye to 32, I’m reminded of something my friend and mentor Mr. Daniel Quinn once said to me as I sat on his couch, manhandling one of the small toys that were scattered across his coffee table.

            He said, “You don’t stop having fun when you get old. You get old when you stop having fun!”

 

            From Here To There,

 

            sv

 

First Kangaroos at Woodgate

            Like the title suggests, I saw my first kangaroo on the road to Woodgate.

            We were cruising down the highway, scouring the scenery as we so often do, when I noticed an odd shape pop up at the edge of the forest to our left. When we arrived an hour later at the caravan park in Woodgate, we found more “roos” scattered throughout the tiny little beachfront town, grazing on front lawns and lounging casually in fairly large numbers in the shade of the neighbourhood park; there was even one in our campsite.

            Although I’d seen plenty of pictures of “roos” in magazines and on TV, I found it very strange to be in their presence.

Maybe it’s their human-like shape and size (the males are eye level with me when they stand up on their hind legs) that startles me or because when they look at me it feels almost like they’re looking straight through me that I’m left feeling a tad bit unnerved. But perhaps it’s quite simply that for so long they have been but a distant creature, fabled in story and in song throughout my formative years and now, here in Australia, I have found that they are in fact something living – something real. Perhaps it’s not they that are strange, but me, for I am the one quite out of place in this place – a vast and unfamiliar land, hostile and inviting, full of beauty and wonder. Of course I wanted to get some quality up-close-and-personal shots of the “roos” but that soon felt akin to taking pictures of bears at the dump – yes, they’re stunning and easier to find there but I decided that I’d prefer to catch them in a less humanized version of their habitat.

            After admiring the “roo” we strolled across the road that ran along the shore. This town was the smallest we’d visited; the cars were incredibly few and far between and aside from a small local market, butchery, pub and two small restaurants nearby, there didn’t seem to be too much going on in that sleepy little village – which suited us just fine. After all, we needed a place to unwind.

            I know I shouldn’t be stressed – I’m on “holidays.” But there is a lot of adjusting for me to do and, on top of all of that, this time of year is always an extraordinarily difficult one.

            My birthday is coming up which, for the past decade, has also been the anniversary of the death of my only brother, Paul Robert Valentine. My body seems to know exactly why my mind and spirit get heavy and saddened. I try not to let it overwhelm me or let it overshadow what should be the celebration of my own life, but he is an integral part of who I am and shall always remain one of my greatest sources of both strength and of weakness. So I spent some quality time distracting myself. I watched movies inside the van and did a lot of writing in hopes of bringing this travel journal closer to date; and, of course, to attempt to make some sense of all the confusion of my feelings. And so I stayed within Daisy’s private comfort and watched the light and easy fare of Schindler’s List.

                        The next day Amy and I ventured down to the beach; a nearly deserted stretch of tropical sand that reached for miles in either direction. We lay briefly on our sarongs soaking up the sun before submitting to the refreshing aqua surf that beckoned to us. The breaks were smaller here and the water was reasonably warm so I plunged in for my first swim amidst the waves of the Pacific Ocean that broke here upon the Australian shore. The tide was quite a way out so the water wasn’t very deep, still we managed to frolic and wrestle for a bit before retiring back to the beach to dry off and, of course, transport even more sand back to the various nooks and crannies of our van.

            Dinner was a wonderful salad that Amy concocted of vegetables, lettuce and couscous; although it must be said that for the climate enjoyed down under, the fruit and produce leaves much to be desired in terms of fresh appeal. Alas, it is cattle country after all where meat (and meat pie!) is clearly King.

            Earlier in the day I had taken my small Backpacker guitar down to the beach and strummed some songs from “Seasons” as the sun went down.

I’ve found this is the best time for me to reconnect with my spirit and to give thanks to the gods for the beauty and inspiration that continually surrounds me. With everything that has been going on and all of the changes that I have experienced since finishing the album and traveling here, I haven’t spent much time playing my songs. It’s not that they feel like strangers to me but that I have spent so much time with them, experiencing their lessons and reliving their moments countless times in the process of recording them, that I feel uncertain as to what songs I’m connected to in this new place.

            The whole album was about growing, learning and letting go of the past and embracing the power of the moments that you’re in – all the while respecting the choices that will build the future web of paths in front of you. To be so far away from those feelings – to be on the other side of the world – I guess I’m finding it hard to get into those songs right now. I think the songs will find me when I’m ready to hear them again in a different light. Rather than to try to recapture the moments that created them, I should perhaps look to interpret them in the places that bring me joyous wonder and comfort as I venture forth to discover them.

            It looks like this travel journal exists more so as a means by which I might use to figure out for myself my thoughts, dreams and memories.

            Tomorrow is, after all, a new day; a day to rebuild the strengths needed to overcome new challenges.

            Tomorrow is, after all, my birthday.

            From Here To There,

 

            sv

           

           

            

A Mountain Road To Mapleton and The Rainbowed Beach

            Ames and I sat there at the nice little bakery overlooking the deserted market stalls beyond the small main street of Eumundi and puzzled over how on earth we managed to miss it yet again. As I tucked into my deliciously warm pie of steak and mushy peas, I leafed through the pages of the local daily that lay beside me.  Indeed, as I mentioned in my last post, it was Thursday and not Wednesday as we had somehow presumed it to be thus why the streets and stalls were all but empty.

            We had left Coolum early that morning, anxious to get to the market and then travel the 200km to Rainbow Beach. Since we’d already been to Eumundi, we were fairly confident that we could find it again without too much difficulty. That would prove to not be the case; let’s just say we took a serious detour (aka: we got lost). 

            Fair enough, we’d decided to take the back roads on our caravan adventure as opposed to the main thoroughfares whenever possible. And yes, signage of both direction and/or distance in these more remote areas can sometimes leave much to be desired. Therefore, whatever sign we missed (Amy!), or map we misread (Ames!) or turn that we neglected to take (Scott do largely in part to the prior negligence of the official navigator, Amy!), was nothing worth stressing or squabbling about. As she so astutely noted, we weren’t lost after all, we had just taken a different road to get there albeit it a much longer and less paved road.

            The road from Coolum to Yandina was straightforward enough. Looking back at the map now, after the dust had (literally) settled and a few days had since passed, I must confess to still being quite baffled at how we managed to miss what should have been a well indicated right turn North along the major road leading to Eumundi. Instead, we somehow headed southeast along a very slim and winding road towards the even smaller town of Mapleton,

which, I might add, offered no indication that the path to its door would involve a) climbing a fairly formidable incline or b) that that incline would consist almost entirely of an unpaved, uneven and incredibly dusty gravel strewn road or c) that that road leading to its door would challenge even the most adventurous and, more importantly, well-equipped 4×4 enthusiast (of which we were neither) with its plethora of potholes, rocks, protruding stones and broken branches. And yes, perhaps we should have turned around and gone back the way we came but I’ll be damned if there was a place wide enough for us to have negotiated such a feat.

            Soldiering on, wondering if ever a sign might appear to assuage our worries or provide some indication that our spontaneous directive might soon be somewhere within our reach, we laughed at the story unfolding before us as every turn, every corner, led to yet another sprawling turn and still another cresting corner. Soon a sign did appear, notifying us solitary visitors that we were in the midst of The Mapleton Forest Reserve. Well Zowie! I’ll be damned! After driving through an endless mountainside of “Blackbutt” trees and the like

 

it turns out we were in the middle of a forest! Jeez, thanks for the tip! Howz about offering some sort of hint as to how much further we might have to go before we run out of gas and get stuck up here?

            Alas help did soon arrive around one of those long meandering corners in the form of a rest spot. Daisy slowly crept her way towards the only other car she had seen for the past hour or so. No doubt tired and slightly traumatized at the ordeal she had just experienced, we set her to rest a moment while skipping off to use the his and hers.  

            The driver of the other vehicle, a man approximately my age with dark sunglasses and a laid-back vibe, sat upon a picnic table contently strumming his guitar beneath the tranquil canopy of those Australian woods. We exchanged pleasantries and he commented on how well we fared making it along this far in our caravan. I asked him how much further was it to Eumundi? He looked at me quizzically. As soon as he began to speak I knew what he was going to suggest for he raised an arm, extended its finger towards me and pointed over my shoulder indicating we should go back the way we came! Amy and I exchanged quick, slightly pained glances. He must have read our disappointment because he soon explained that we could indeed carry on the way we were going; that the road would soon lead to Mapleton and that from there we should be able to easily follow the signs to Nambour that would then lead to Eumundi; easy for him to say! Turns out we’d just drove 60km’s in a complete and utter circle. In fact we were still 15km south of where we started! Oh well! At least we had fun teasing one another about our caravanning prowess and had another interesting, if not frustrating, story to tell.

            So we made it to Eumundi, only to find our egos slightly bruised yet again upon the realization that we never would have needed to travel this way at all if only we’d known what fucking day it was! (I apologize for the vulgar exclamation, however it was, after all, deemed to be extremely necessary!)           

            Moving right along, we motioned to hereby gather our wits and attempt again to drive the roughly 200km that lay from here to Rainbow Beach.

            The road was long, perhaps seeming even more so given the mornings’ ordeal. The highway passed through more sweeping Australian farmland of sugarcane stalks and long-eared cattle that grazed silently along the rolling hillsides. Once again the farmland turned to forest and the forest into a seeming endless expanse of tree farms. Row upon row they stood; one after another. With each tree grown static in its preordained place they eerily appeared to be neither dead nor living; their long lines forming a wooded procession whose funeral would soon be witnessed by their long-lost brothers growing free and wild across the narrow tow-lane highway.

            Perhaps it was the gloomy tree slaves; perhaps it was the gray skies that suddenly appeared that led to such a sense of foreboding. We made the turn at Gympie and headed off towards the beach. Immediately those dark clouds burst, their violent array driving upon us in sheets. Daisy fiercely struggled to see; her wipers sweeping maddeningly back and forth as a steady stream of cars and caravans plowed by her in the opposite direction. It seemed we were headed desperately towards something others were trying just as desperately to escape.

            The trees maintained their partisan separation while we maintained our uneasy trepidations. Still, we continued down this road, too exhausted to consider anywhere else. It was, after all, Rainbow Beach. With a name like that how miserable could it be?

            We made it through the monsoon and found a nearby camping store to pick up a jaffle iron before booking into the caravan park. It seemed pleasant enough; there was plenty of room among the wild trees and bush with views of the inlet where sailboats stood in the low tide waiting for the sea to return. The woman in the office was very kind and we checked in for one night only despite her slight objections; the weekend was nearly upon us and if we decided we wanted to stay another night there might not be an appropriate space available. We told her we’d see how we felt in the morning.

            We found a spot and went about the usual routine of plugging in, folding out and setting up. Ames felt like laying low so I snuck off to the beach and wandered out across the sand. The tide was slowly making its return but I found some very interesting subjects to shoot and the light was great.

After mucking about, I sauntered back to upload my photos into the computer. The sky was beginning to clear over the water but those gray clouds still hung in the sky above us, showering the camp with a slight rain. I thought that the conditions were perfect for making a rainbow so I grabbed my camera and headed back outside. Low and behold, after several minutes, an epically brilliant rainbow stood in a half-circle upon the distant horizon.

I took a hundred pictures; desperately trying to capture those contrasting colours as the one rainbow slowly became two standing side by side against the darkening sky.

            I rushed off to share my find with Ames but she was still feeling uncertain about this place. While I was gallivanting about, she had prepared an amazing miso soup with onions and mushrooms and potatoes with tofu that we both thoroughly enjoyed. This lifted our spirits enough to venture down to the small wharf at the edge of the park to watch the setting sun. While I made a brief pit-stop, she took the camera and gleefully snapped a hundred pictures of the dozen or so pelicans that had gathered to catch the scraps of the fishermen who gutted and scaled their daily catches down there along the shore. Ames just loves the pelicans – she thinks their silly and funny looking. I’d have to agree; they are weird alright…and huge!

            Sunsets are one of our favourite things to share and this one did not disappoint. We cuddled up, taking another endless stream of photos in hopes of capturing those brilliant rays of sunlight that broke across the rising waters.

The sun goes to bed earlier here and with it, so do we. But neither one of us felt very comfortable that night, in fact there was something very ominous, very tangible in its presence that hung in the air, stealing our breathe and capturing our words. We felt smothered and distracted by its negative vibrations. Despite our earlier misadventures, we had had a very fun day together. Now, as we looked for sleep, the fun was gone and we were left waiting for the morning to come and free us from such a miserable end.

            The birds woke only slightly before the bombs started falling. The distinct sound of artillery shells pounded some nearby beachhead; certainly detonated not by conflict but by training no doubt still disarming nonetheless; particularly given the way we felt when we went to bed. We hastily got dressed and made an abrupt departure without a shower or breakfast. We drove in silence until the small town and the memories of it, had fully faded from view.

            We hadn’t decided where to go next but we needed a place of quiet calm to rest and recover.  We looked to our trusty mapbook, ever soggy and with most of its pages stuck hopelessly together and decided upon Woodgate.

            After the past day lost in the forest and bombarded by sad saplings, we looked for wood to redeem itself.

            And it did.

 

            From Here To There,

 

            sv

 

           

 

Chillin’ In Coolum Beach

            Tuesday morning we left Noosa Heads and drove southward for an hour or so to find a nice caravan park on the beach somewhere. We had passed one on the way north but couldn’t recall where so we cruised back down the Sunshine Highway through a few smaller coastal towns until arriving an hour later in Coolum Beach.

            We registered for a single nights stay in a powered site and then slowly drove through in search of the perfect available spot. Selecting a slightly more private space with only a few distant “neighbours”, Ames and I walked off in search of some provisions and to do a quick bit of banking. The young girl manning the office at the caravan park, apparently no more than fourteen, had told Amy where we could find the local supermarket so we headed a few blocks south and took a right as per her instructions. It soon became clear that we were going the wrong way as the shops that lined the walkway slowly disappeared into residential streets lined with townhouses and beachfront condos. Puzzled, we asked a passing young couple if they might suggest where we could find the lost market. They gave us a completely opposite set of directions: go back to the main road, head north past the caravan park to the servo and take a left.

            So we doubled back to whence we came, passing a variety of small shops, cafes and bakeries. Have I mentioned my obsession with baked goods? Bread and pastries are indeed some of my favourite pastimes. Despite not eating meat for the past 3-½ months, since arriving in Australia I had become driven to distraction by the ubiquitous presence of meat pies. I’m sure Amy will attest to the rapid decline of my pseudo-vegetarianism as I drooled and lusted after their flaky crust-filled gravy goodness. I’d always been a fan of them back home – even when it was just the frozen TV-dinner variety my mom would buy. Imagine then, the sheer glee I experienced upon finding I had arrived at the “Home of Australia’s Best Meat Pie.” That was the final straw. I cracked. I couldn’t come all this way and not experience one of Australia’s most signature dishes. Three words: Simple. Meaty. Delicious.

            Got sidetracked there, apologies to those easily offended by such carnivorous delights.

            Anyway, we finished up gathering our goodies and made our way back to camp. I had fallen way behind in keeping this blog up to date (presently I am still three full days behind!) and so I stayed at the site to do some writing while Ames sauntered down the nearby sandy trail that led to the beach. Oh! That reminds me; don’t travel in a caravan in Australia if you don’t want to bring the beach into every last square inch of your life.  Amy is a particular magnet for this, thus I have taken to calling her “Sandy”.  Her laissez-faire approach is best appreciated upon watching her at the beach. I’ll be carefully setting out my things; laying down my towel beneath where I plan to sit so that I can best attempt to avoid those tiny granules from hitching a ride home with me. I love the beach, yes, but would prefer to leave it exactly where I found it. Not Ames. She runs, she skips, she leaps, she frolics and she flops onto the first bit of sand she sees. She’ll lie down in her clothes and when she rises, bring half the beach along with her. She loves the stuff; cannot get enough of it.

            As much as I enjoy teasing her about it, I love to see her so happy.  She’s in her element and I simply enjoy watching the wild-eyed little girl inside of her come out to play amidst the waves that roll into shore.

            We spend two easy days at Coolum Beach. We stroll along the surf at sunset, laughing and wrestling and chasing the ebb and flow of the ocean. We take pictures of the yellow-tailed cockatoos that came into the park to feed. We grab a couple of cheap pizzas and sit in the darkness beside Daisy watching the final episodes we had of Lost. We stew over the ever-twisting plotlines and nibble sinfully rich chocolate squares until sleep comes to call.

            Morning would arrive again soon, but when you’re on holidays, the time and date seem to melt away, leaving you with only the places and people and moments you shared.

            This might explain why, after much puzzling upon arriving in Eumundi the next morning to visit the Wednesday market we found that it was indeed Thursday and that we had missed it…again.

            From here To There,

 

            sv