An experience not for the faint-hearted

I spent a week in Fiji. There’s only one experience that’s really worth writing about. I spent a night, two days in the Fijian mountains with a Fijian farming family. Here are the characters of the story:

The horse man. His job is to sell horse rides on the Wailoaloa beach, where the backpacker resorts are. This is how I ended up going to the farm in the first place.

The nephew, though a few years older than the horse man, who is his uncle. The nephew’s daughter, two years old, and his wife, who did not speak English. 

The old man, the horse man’s father, living out his days with his family.

The horse man’s brother, the owner of the place, I never met; he had had an asthma attack and had been taken to hospital in Nadi the night before I came to the farm. He stayed there for several nights. His wife, who sold vegetables in the market and could understand English but did not speak it.

One prearranged morning I met the horse man at Bamboo Backpackers and we took a taxi into Nadi. We walked around the market, he bought some food and bartered for a carrier to the mountains. Riding in the back, I got a glimpse of Fijian life; gravel roads, no seat belts, a cooling breeze going through the compartment. 

That first morning nothing much happened. It was hot, we lay in the shade and talked and napped. I put on suncream and insect repellent. The nephew’s wife made us food, with lots of chilli, and we drank milk tea from tin cups. We sat on the floor and ate with our fingers. We dipped into the river to wash off the sweat. It was, as the locals call it, Fiji time.

The family was of Indian descent. They spoke their own language (which they themselves called “Indian”) and didn’t distinguish between ‘he’ and ‘she’. They were Muslims, though the only external indications of this were the veils that the women wore and the calendar of the Fiji Muslim League on the wall. The food was Indian: curry, roti and puri, dahl soup. With so much fresh chilli. My stomach roiled for two days afterwards.

Roti, rice and spinach curry.

Making puri on a wood-burning stove.

The house was large, built of corrugated iron sheets and stone. The kitchen was a separate stone structure, to reduce the risk of a fire spreading to the rest of the house. The toilet was a pit, with slabs of concrete around the hole to squat on and corrugated iron sheets as screens. The house was definitely not mosquito proof, but more about that later. This experience was definitely not for the faint-hearted.

There were five dogs, definitely not pets. I didn’t see anyone touch them, not even the little girl, and the dogs got out of people’s way as soon as they approached. Chickens roamed the place, getting shooed away if they tried to come indoors. The chicks were kept in a cage until big enough to roam around with their parents. Goats had a large pasture to roam in during the day, being shut into their goat house at night. The small kids could squeeze through the fence, but they didn’t wander far.

In the afternoon the nephew came back from the hospital, where he had stayed with his father. He was the farmer of the family. He loved his goats, his bulls, his horse. He loved the mountains. He had worked in Suva, the capital, for a few years, but then came back to the land he loved. 

He took me to the waterfall that was the promised attraction of the trip. I rode bareback and with a rope halter on a 23-year-old mare. We left the horse tied to a tree at the top of the waterfall and clambered down, barefoot, over rocks and on an overgrown path to the bottom, where huge boulders sat in the stream. It was the beginning of the dry season and it hadn’t rained in a while, so the stream was only a trickle. We followed it down a ways, it was beautiful. He had a drink from the stream, I was too paranoid about catching a stomach bug.

 

View from the top of the waterfall.

Following the river.

Riding back from the waterfall.

In the evening, we had more Indian food and after that, kava. Kava is a popular drink in Fiji; it is made from the roots of the kava plant and has sedative and anaesthetic properties - and according to Wikipedia, also euphoriant and entheogenic properties, but I didn’t experience these. I could, however, feel my tongue going numb. 

Kava roots being sold in the market in Nadi.

I had been told that kava is the most disgusting drink ever invented (or words to that effect), but I didn’t think so. I actually rather enjoyed the taste; the earthiness of it brought me closer to the land. Spiritual nonsense, perhaps.

I didn’t sleep much that night. As the house was not mosquito proof, I hid underneath my blanket. And when I say hid, I really mean it. I only kept a small opening through which to breathe, otherwise I was covered head to toe. The problem was that it was incredibly hot. A few times I sat up for a few seconds to cool down, then it was under the blanket again. Once, I got up and went outside. It was blessedly cool. The landscape was hidden from view in the dark, but I could see the stars and the milkyway. It was beautiful and peaceful and if it hadn’t been for the mosquitoes I could have stayed there for hours.

Spot the Southern Cross.

The next morning, the first task was to fetch water. The nephew caught his working bulls and harnessed them in front of the water drum, which sat on an old car tyre. Then he drove the bulls to the waterhole. Literally, that’s what it was: a hole dug into the ground which tapped the water table. A well, in other words, though with no supporting structure around it. The nephew drew water with a bucket. The water looked clear despite the muddy environment and I felt obliged to have a drink of it for courtesy’s sake. I did not get ill. 

Fetching water.

After that, it was ploughing the field next to the house. The bulls pulled the iron plough round and round the field. I had a go at it and, unsurprisingly, it was hard work and required a substantial amount of coordination between directing the bulls (especially around the corners) and keeping the plough upright and digging into the ground. The nephew told me that his dream is to have a farm with one tractor and one car.

 

The horse man had a three-hour nap after “second breakfast” (a meal around 10 am), so again it was the nephew who took me for a horse ride. We went up the road to a high spot, from where you could see the whole mountain landscape. We sat there, the horse tethered to a tree, and talked about life in Fiji, families and marriage, plans for the future. The brother, who was still in hospital, called his son and wanted to talk to me. He asked me whether I had had a nice stay to which I replied, “Your son has taken good care of me and I love the mountains.” I wished him a speedy recovery. 

That afternoon a carrier picked up me and the horse man and he returned to Nadi, I carried on to the next valley and the (by comparison) luxurious Stoney Creek resort.

Privilege. I know this next list may seem like a list of clichés, but I’m trying to give you a sense of my own feelings when I spent two days with a farming family in Fiji. Even though we know what poverty is and that, for the most part, our own material existence is pretty well guaranteed, being surrounded by constant reminders of small and large privileges has a curious psychology. How to balance the feeling of powerlessness with the urge to do what you can to help? How to maintain respect and build friendship rather than succumb to either pity or anguish? 

Privilege is having two pairs of shoes and a pair of flip flops - and that’s just with me on the trip. Washing yourself in a hot shower rather than a river. Having another set of clothes to sleep in. Privilege is having a washing machine and owning a headlamp. Having a carpet rather than a sheet sewn together from old bags of “Punjas Flour”.

Privilege is having to say “I don’t actually have a smart phone” (which I had to repeat over and over in Finland) and digging out an old Nokia with a broken screen because I prefer it, rather than because the Nokia held together by tape is the only option. Privilege is the feeling of relief that I left the smart phone at home, so I could pretend I didn’t have one. 

Privilege is being able to flick the lights on without having to first turn on the diesel generator. And not having to listen to the noise of my electricity being produced. And being able to charge my mobile phone at any time of day rather than only in the evening, when the generator is switched on for lighting. 

Privilege is not having to worry about the $15 that the asthma inhaler costs. Claiming to be “the poor student” on holiday in Fiji.

Privilege is being able to walk to the supermarket and buy cucumbers, rather than having to wait until the ones you planted are ripe and picking them in the dark using a borrowed headlamp. 

Privilege is being handed the pencil when writing down a phone number is too arduous for a 36-year-old man who only went to school for three years.

There is a certain kind of privilege also in living in Fiji time, owning a waterfall and being surrounded by gorgeous mountain views. I still know exactly which kind of privilege I would rather have.

Mine is the privilege of choice.

Sugar cane and the house.

Bushwalking, sauna and salsa

Views of the coast in Royal National Park.

The bush here is fantastic. I've done plenty of bushwalking over the last two weekends. A week ago a on Saturday I walked up Mt Keira. That’s the mountain behind the University’s main campus; I mentioned it in my first post. The northern part of the Ring track was closed due to risk of rockfall and at the top, an old viewing spot had been fenced off as a rockslide in 2007 had left the spot on a dangerous overhang. It serves as a good reminder of how powerless humans are in the face of the forces of nature; either work with nature, or perish in a rockslide. Nevertheless, there is a somewhat overgrown and partially very steep trail to the top. My 1-litre water bottle was woefully too small for the endeavour; I had barely a fifth left for the way down. 

On Sunday, I armed myself with a lot more water (3 litres, in fact), and headed to the Royal National Park and more specifically, to the Figure Eight Pools. The Royal National Park stretches from southern Sydney down the Illawarra Coast to Otford. From Otford station one can access a place called Figure Eight Pools, where there are natural rock pools, some in the shape of a near perfect figure eight. Going there requires that it is low tide and that wave conditions are calm. The last part of the track involves scrambling over rocks on the tidal flat. From Otford, the first bit of the walk follows a ridge, yielding magnificent views. At about half-way, the the track forks and the Coast track takes the traveller down the escarpment and to Burning Palms beach and from there to the Figure Eight Pools.

The Pools themselves were a bit like Milford Sound in New Zealand: the tourist brochures present them as a beautiful, sunny spot where you can lie in a pool and relax. In reality, the pools are in shadow in the afternoon and if the waves are any bigger than a ripple, lying in a pool exposes one to being washed around by a wave. There were plenty of people, including myself, with blood dripping down their legs or arms from having been smashed against the rocky walls of the pool by a large wave. However, I feel that one gains the ‘real’ experience when conditions are less than perfect. That is the true nature of the place.

The trail itself was bliss. Gorgeous all the way through, easy going at the top of the ridge (somewhat harder scrambling up and down the Coast track), with magnificent views of the majestic New South Wales coast and coastal hills. It was like meditation, though disturbed by the chatter of other walkers.

Burnt palms on the Coast track.

There was a nude beach, but by the time I got back from the Figure Eight Pools, I wasn’t really in the mood for another scramble down to the shore and a scramble back up again. Plus, I would have missed the 3.15pm train and had to wait another 2 hours for the next one. Perhaps another time, though don't expect any photographic evidence from that one. 

Seeing as it was Sunday, and travelling on an Opal card (the local travel card) cost $2.50 for the entire day, I headed up to Sydney. I was going to go dancing, but I was sweaty from climbing up and down hills. I googled “Sydney pool sauna” and the search came up with three swimming pools with spa and sauna areas. One was the Olympic Park Aquatic Centre, the others were the Bathurst and Hurstville Aquatic Centres. I picked Hurstville, because it was cheaper than the Olympic Park and Bathurst was miles away (about 125 miles or 200 km away, in fact. I don't know why it came up on the search at all).

The sauna was excellent. There also seemed to be quite a regular sauna community, with a Russian(-speaking) woman, a few Russian(-speaking) men, a Japanese man, a few Chinese(-speakers), and a couple of Aussies. There were intense conversations (although some of them were one-sided) about the greediness of American big business and corruption in various places around the world. There was also a debate about whether to throw water or eucalyptus oil on the stones and a comment about not needing Viagra if one came to the sauna and threw eucalyptus oil on the stove. I took care not to take part in these discussions; they seemed to have it all covered anyway. (The latter discussion was solved a week later, as a notice saying "Do not throw any foreign substances on the stove. This is a health and safety issue" had appeared.)

The end result was a very happy if completely exhausted Finn who wanted to head home and slept through the entire two-hour train journey.

A happy, still sweaty Finn heading back towards Otford.

Last weekend I got some more bushwalking done. On Friday night, the UOW Outdoor Club organised a twilight walk to Sublime Point in Austinmer. It turns out that Sublime Point, like all of the Illawarra escarpment, is prone to rockfall. Seeing the track I'm not surprised; the escarpment is steep. This time I armed myself with water, chocolate-covered liquorice and a headtorch. The club provided some glowsticks. We carpooled to the starting point and did rounds of names and interesting facts about oneself until everyone had arrived. It was a sleep climb, involving 5 or 6 ladders. Once up, we could see the Illawarra coast stretching below us. I couldn't help ruining the awed atmosphere with "Look at all that light pollution."

I must say that the trip was very well organised. Not only did everyone get a ride, but a lot of people, including myself, got rides on only a couple of hours' notice. Praise for that must go to the club's secretary. I met very nice people, got an excellent tip about Saturday morning beach volleyball and discovered another great walk. I was also protected from leeches by my over-the-top high ankled walking boots. Not all of those with trainers were lucky.

By some strange mental lapse, I had neglected to take my camera, so no photos of Sublime Point for you.

Spot the trail on the Mooray track.

Yesterday it was $2.50 Opal day again, so I went to Heathcote National Park, across the trainline from the Royal NP. I walked a 5.5 km loop, first the Mooray track, then part of the Bullawarring track. This loop was not for sweeping views, but for bush and pushing through scratchy vegetation on an overgrown trail. I saw no one at all on the Mooray track. I ate my lunch at a beautiful pool at the junction of the two tracks. There were more people on the Bullawarring track, but it was still much quieter than the trail to the Figure Eight Pools. I recommend Heathcote NP for those who enjoy walking in peace.

Last night I made it to salsa dancing too.

Lunch spot in Heathcote National Park.

Getting out of Melbourne and onto the beach

This is part II of my trip to Melbourne. Read part I.

After breakfast with my Couchsurfing host, I hopped on a tram and rode to Federation Square. This was the meeting point for a tour: a 2-day tour of the Great Ocean Road, with a surfing lesson. It was organised by Teepee Tours. Accommodation would be camping in a teepee.

Turned out that Teepee Tours was two guys, Andrew and Adam, who wanted to go to the beach and have some beers with friends, and Adam's dog Riley. They’d set up Teepee Tours after some of their foreign friends said they’d driven around the Great Ocean Road but didn’t really know where to go or what to do. They’ve been running tours for about a year now, twice a week, with two vans. 

There were a bunch of Americans, a few Canadians, two Swedes, some Germans, a French woman, a Kiwi, an Aussie, a Brit, a Norwegian, a Finn and possibly a few other nationalities on the tour. We compiled a multinational Spotify playlist for the drive. 

Our first stop was surfing. Despite having booked a whole surf weekend for next weekend, I was a bit skeptical. I don’t like sand and I don’t like the saltiness of the sea. I also find the power of the sea - that is, big waves - intimidating. That day the waves were a good size, “if a bit messy,” as Andrew put it. They were not huge, but big enough to surf, although it turned out that they generally ran out of power a bit too soon. 

We wriggled into our swimmers and wetsuits, grabbed some surf boards and headed to the beach. Our surf instructors had us run along the beach and swing our arms as warm up. One of us expressed her doubt that the instructors were simply having a laugh at our expense. Then we got on our surf boards. On the sand. We were assigned into groups of six, with a surf instructor for each group. Our instructor, a young guy called Jack, had each of us individually go through the motions of paddling and getting up on our boards under his watchful eye. I was sure I would forget everything he’d said as soon as I got in the water. 

We headed for the waves. Jack looked at me and said, “You’re first” (or something to that effect), and I was pretty sure I would be the first to capsize my board. To be honest, I have no idea if I was, because as soon as I was on my board, I forgot about the others, about making a fool of myself and about the sea being salty. I lay on my board, waiting for a good wave, Jack gave my board a push, I paddled, drew myself up on my knees, got up and fell off my board. Then I did it again, while Jack gave someone else a sendoff. And again. I capsized my board just lying on it, as I wasn’t in the middle of it. I capsized it by being caught sideways in a wave. I capsized it by falling off. I fell of backwards, I fell off sideways. I discovered I make the same mistake in surfing as I do in my aikido: I don’t bend my knees enough. But I also rode a wave pretty much all the way to the beach a few times. And Andrew, back on the beach, was true to his promise and captured photos of people standing on their boards. (Also sitting on their boards and lying on their boards. He took something like 100 photos.)

It was such good fun. A great workout, too: you didn’t know you’d been working out until you got back to the beach and realised how tired your muscles were. 

Lunch was Subway on the beach. Adam and Andrew were good at almost everything, except counting. They never got their heads around how many vegetarians there were. While disaster failed to materialise during this tour (i.e. I didn’t go hungry), one part of my mind was constantly calculating my own snack reserves and their adequacy in case we ran out of veggie food. 

On that first day, we saw koalas, hand-fed birds, played football (soccer) on the beach, jumped in the middle of the road under a ‘Great Ocean Road’ sign, saw the effects of the bush fire that had raged two months earlier (also the rapid regeneration that was already taking place), had a barbecue dinner and shared stories of all manner of adventures in a teepee around a fire. I was the only one to go to bed (in another teepee) around midnight. Everyone else headed to the beach, where - I heard in the morning - the breeze was rather chilly and nothing much happened. 

A koala at a camping and caravan park.

Feeding a bird at said camping and caravan park.

The effect of a recent bushfire. It 'jumped' over the road and burnt the shoreline vegetation too.

Breakfast the next morning was rather subdued and we set course for the Twelve Apostles rather later than the 10 am planned. The Apostles were rock formations on the coast. It was a beautiful place, and despite the hundreds of tourists, I wished we’d had more time there. But time was running fast and we still had a beach to visit, lunch to eat and a two-hour drive back to Melbourne to endure. 

Breakfast.

After said beach, we headed inland for a quicker route back towards Melbourne. The countryside was green and idyllic. After seeing beaches and towns for so long, I’d forgotten what a farmed landscape was like. It put me in mind of my three-month stint at a dairy farm in New Zealand. The happy memories. 

Lunch was fish and chips or, in the case of vegetarians, potato cakes and chips. Potato and potato, that is. We had also been offered pizza, however. Although this time, Adam had really miscounted and one vegetarian ate around the fish. 

The rest was a longish drive back to Federation Square. The others were heading to a local pub later, but I had an overnight coach to catch. I would arrive in Sydney at 7 am on Monday morning and my first lecture would be that afternoon...

A mad trip to Melbourne

Eleven days ago I realised it was Wednesday and that I had no plans for the weekend. In fact, I realised that it would be my last long weekend before Easter (as it happens, that is no longer the case, but that’s another story) and decided that I should use it well. 

I decided to go to Melbourne, that being a place that was fairly easily reached by coach. I found a 2-day tour of the Great Ocean Road that sounded like fun, contacted a few people on Couchsurfing and bought the coach tickets. Everything got sorted in a day. 

On Thursday afternoon, after having been to the university for an O-week (Orientation week) meetup and after spending an hour more than planned packing, eating and sorting other stuff, I headed to North Wollongong Station and caught the train to Sydney. As always when one catches the last service that will get one to the connection on time, the train was late. The train which was supposed to arrive in Sydney just after 6 pm arrived at 6.25. I was supposed to check in for my 7pm coach at 6.30 and I flitted around Sydney Central Station nervously looking for the coach stop. Of course, it then transpired that I could check in with the driver (rather than at the office) and that didn’t start till 6.45. 

Short version: I made my overnight coach. 

I slept remarkably well on the full coach, waking up twice: at each half-hour meal stop, the first around midnight and the second around 3am. I got out, stretched my legs, read some of my Finnish e-book (Neidonpaula, by Kristiina Vuori), bought some overpriced muesli bars and even chatted to a few of my fellow passengers. We arrived in Melbourne just after 7 am on Friday morning and I was feeling refreshed but hungry. 

Meal stop at 3 am.

Having a smart phone with a data connection (something I didn’t have back home) allows for less organised travelling. I hadn’t planned breakfast and I didn’t even have a map of Melbourne. I was relying on Nokia Maps and good luck. So far I’ve found that there are a few features that are handy on a smart phone: maps, the ability to research my travel destination en route and the ability to check my lecture timetable and location info on the bus to uni. Though when it comes down to it, I also have offline maps on my tablet that would do the job and after week 2 I’ll know my timetable by heart. So that just leaves the ease of travelling speaking for smart phones. Once I’m not travelling… well, we’ll see if the smart phone just ends up gathering dust in a drawer. 

I wandered in search of breakfast. A local saw me looking lost, staring at the map on my phone, wondering about strategy and asked if I was trying to find somewhere. “Breakfast,” I replied. She recommended a couple of streets with lots of cafés and I headed in the direction she pointed out. I ended up having a delicious breakfast of muesli with fruit, yogurt and honey, two slices of raisin toast and a café latte in Cafenatics. An excellent start for an excellent day. 

 

It was too early for any museums to be open, so I walked down to Federation Square, over the bridge and towards the Botanic Gardens. Along the way I discovered the Queen Victoria Gardens, the King’s Domain (park) and the Pioneer Women’s Memorial Garden. Typically, the memorial for women was designed by a man. Though the garden was constructed and planted in 1934, so maybe I’ll let it slide, just this once. 

The Botanic Gardens were a haven and I could have spent the entire day there, but I wanted to see a few other things in Melbourne as well, so I settled for a slow amble through the Australian Forest Walk. I find it amazing that Australian forests have dwindled - for the sake of match sticks. Some of the slow-growing conifers of Australia were logged by Europeans for match sticks. How important.

Having purchased a Myki travel card from a 7-Eleven, I caught a tram back to Federation Square. There, I briefly explored the Ian Potter Centre of the National Gallery of Victoria - Aboriginal and modern Australian art. I don’t really understand art, but from a purely aesthetic point of view, it can be relaxing. After that I decided I needed to sit down, so I caught the free city loop tram and rode around Melbourne until I felt the need for lunch. 

I grabbed some Indian dahl to go and ate it on the lawn of the Carlton Gardens. The night spent on a coach was catching up with me, so after eating I stretched out in the shade and dozed. I was woken by a phone call from the guys running the tour I was going on the next day (I would say “tour operator”, but that would seem really odd, considering the nature of the tour - that’ll be a topic for the next post). Feeling refreshed again, I headed to the nearby Melbourne Museum. I only had time for one exhibition (I was pretty thorough) and a respite in the museum’s rainforest. The exhibition was called First Peoples, all about the Aborigines of Australia. Some stories were happy, some were sad, a few made me angry. 

After this I met up with my Couchsurfing host and we ambled around for a while. I spotted this great Star Wars mural and, of course, had to take a photo of it. With me holding my Aiki Wars mug. We had dinner at my host's favourite restaurant, an Indian place. That meant Indian food twice in one day for me, but I didn’t mind. I love Indian food. One of my host’s friends joined us, a chap who had just returned from India. We compared Finland and Australia, India and Cambridge, and talked about identity, politics, feminism and uni life. Afterwards, we walked down to the river and just sat talking some more.

I had couchsurfed twice before, in Gothenburg, and this third time did not let me down. In fact it was brilliant. We had a friendly game of table tennis before going to bed, I slept like a rock (though my host told me later that he’d been cold overnight and couldn’t sleep for fear of me being cold), and in the morning my host provided me with breakfast. 

Thus I headed back to Federation Square to jump on a tour of the Great Ocean Road, with a surfing lesson waiting for me... 

 

Down Under

Australia. 

I arrived just over a week ago, after having skipped a day. My flight left California on a Wednesday evening, and after flying over the international date line, we arrived in Sydney airport one hour ahead of schedule on a Friday morning. It had been less than seven years since my previous visit, but I didn’t recognise the airport. If they told me we’d landed in Melbourne instead, I could have believed them. Either I have a very poor memory when it comes to Sydney airport or then they’ve changed everything. I’m really not sure which. 

I’m not really fond of the sea. What on earth are you doing in the land of surfers, then?! I hear you ask. Well, I decided to come to Australia properly, that is, for at least six months, those seven years ago. There’s plenty to see besides the ocean (all of the outback, for example. With the kangaroos) and lots to do besides surfing (tramping, camping, barbecuing, skydiving, horseback riding, et cetera). What I’m doing though, is studying. I’m an exchange student for 5 months, then staying around for some time on a Working Holiday.

Arrival was made easy. The University sent me emails about enrolment, info on Australia, Wollongong and surf safety, and checklists on travel preparations (still need to work on "I can sing the Australian national anthem” and "I know the name of the Australian Prime Minister”, but scored points on "I know what Vegemite is” and "I can draw freehand a reasonable map of Australia and surrounding countries”). I didn’t read all the info packages. Plenty of time later.

The University offered a free airport pickup. Myself, two Indians and two Americans climbed onboard the minibus. The Americans and the Indians immediately paired off, so I chatted with the driver. I have this idea of a typical Aussie in my head, and he obligingly conformed to it: funny, friendly, talkative. Ready to go the extra mile. We stopped at a viewpoint above the Illawarra coast and had a view of the ocean and surrounding country. I was dropped off at accommodation reception and after receiving my key, I got a lift from one of the guys behind the desk to my accommodation, a few km away. 

View of the Illawarra region's coast. On the right: Mt Keira. The uni's main campus is at its foot.

The best thing about my accommodation is that it’s graduate accommodation. Someone might say that the best thing is that it’s about 300 metres from the beach, but I don’t really like the sea and I dislike sand. Fortunately, though, there’s a part of the beach that’s rocky. There’s even a man-made pool, for safe swimming. And in this climate I might even grow to like the sea. Thongs at the ready! (That’s flip flops for you.)

The rocky part of the beach.

The accommodation itself is typical student housing. There’s that particular smell: a little bit musty (full-floor carpets), dirt from years gone by in the corners and inaccessible places (which no one cleans because it isn’t exactly mould), and lots of strong chemicals (for some reason people seem to think that if you clean the tabletop with really strong chemicals, it also cleans the cupboard). We ourselves are responsible for cleaning and the house is inspected every two weeks. 

Views in a student kitchen.

I’ve found that it’s worth getting as much done in the first few days as possible. On my first day, I opened a bank account. I’d looked at different options online before I arrived, but in the end the matter was decided by which bank had an open branch near me and no queue. It’s worth checking carefully to get an account with no monthly or annual fees and no fees for normal debit card transactions (this is not self-evident in Australia). The network of fee-free ATM’s is also an issue to be considered. The bank I walked into is probably not the best in that respect, but I can withdraw money when I shop, so I should be able to get cash fee-free if I need it. 

Getting internet and an Australian sim-card was more of a challenge than I expected. There’s only a cable connection in my room. This has meant buying an ethernet-to-USB adaptor in order to plug my Mac in. My tablet is currently on holiday. However, more pressing still is the fact that the internet is not working correctly. I’m still not sure whether it’s an actual problem or just the accommodation IT services being dim. At the very least, their communication skills are close to 0.

The lack of internet in turn had an impact on what kind of a phone plan to get: how much data would I need if I didn’t get proper internet at home? Data plans, which would allow me to share wireless, are not cheap. Australia is a continent sparsely populated, so building and maintaining networks is not cheap. There was also the issue of coverage to consider; Telstra has the best coverage geographically - about half the country. However, I won’t even have time to travel around that half of the country which is covered, so maybe I won’t have to worry about visiting the other half. I settled for more limited coverage with a cheaper and more convenient payment setup. Lucky I’m not the type to be attached to a smart phone - I spent a whole week deliberating, during which time I both had no phone connection and limited internet. This is my first time having a smart phone; up till now I’ve been using an old Nokia. (Yes, I could access the internet on it - no wifi though - and yes, it does have a camera.) I’m determined to give the smart phone up when I return to Europe - to prove wrong those people who say that once you start, you can’t stop. We’ll see how it goes.

Getting a library card was easy. I’m not talking about a University library card, but a city library card. I went into the library to use the wireless and decided that I wanted to read something other than law books. I asked if I could get a library card as an exchange student and the answer was yes. 10 minutes later I loaned my first books: two novels by Australian authors and the history of Australia in a nutshell. I finished the first novel in two days - Mallee Sky by Kerry McGinnis, a story set in Southern Australia - but the history in a nutshell is proving to be tedious. I guess that’s what happens to history when you try to reduce it to basics.

I’m determined to make this place feel like home, despite mine being only a temporary sojourn. Home is where I sleep tonight.  

 

The sandy part of the beach.

Aikido like I've never seen before

They often say that aikido is a martial art that anyone can do, whatever their age and condition. It's much rarer to actually see this put into practice. In San Leandro, I encountered such a rare occurrence.

This is John. He had a problem with his leg, so he was doing aikido sitting on a stool. Sensei fully supported him and John did a demo at kagami biraki, when I'd first arrived in California. I had the honour and good fortune to be his uke, together with Noah.

John put this demo together with the theme of "Aikido is fun". It was so much fun. Here are a few clips for you to enjoy. The first one is basic stuff, starting with weapons handling. The second one is tantodori, then kaeshiwaza. The last video is randori. By the end of that, you wouldn't believe John's leg was not up to scratch.

As John is about to give the jo to Noah, he goes into jo waza. The jowaza was not planned. Or rather, John had planned it but didn't tell us. That made the demo fun for us as well. You can also see how John needs to modify his shihonage; in the first one he makes Noah run around him rather than turning under the arm. As it should be, really - make the uke do the work!

 

At the end of the tantodori in the second clip, John amuses both us and his audience by calling in a few unsuspecting extra ukes...

 

 

Kaeshiwaza. I managed to push John off the stool doing a shomen uchi ikkyo... John was completely unflustered and executed his subsequent kaeshi with great ki.

The randori was the greatest thing ever. Make sure to watch till the end. You can hear Brett, who was filming, laughing. I've possibly never been so surprised in my life.