Working Like a Dog in Australia

It's been madness. Or maybe that's just what's going on inside my head. It's amazing the strange things you think about when you're filling barrels for 12 hours straight. At least I got to listen to my ipod while I was doing it. For those who've never had the honor of filling barrels, it's just a hollow spear connect to hoses and pumps and a tank full of wine. One by one, you fill the barrels. About 100 or so a day, sometimes more, sometimes less.

Of course, I had other duties. Cleaning tanks, crushing grapes, and heaps of other shit, all just the simple labor that goes into making wine. It's part of my paying dues, and it's a hell of a learning experience, as much from what I see as what I do. It's been good for me here at Yering Station.

In the meantime, I've been trying to fit in as much fun as possible. Me and Ciara have gone out clubbing in Melbourne a bunch of times, dancing the night away to Indie rock and staying out late. We've gone wine tasting, visited hippie markets in the countryside, visited various awesome natural places, and partied with co-workers. Speaking of the last...

Saturday was our end of harvest party. The day started with a couple of hours of go-kart-racing. It was awesome. It's the only time where cutting people off is considered good driving. It's quite liberating. I was pretty good and might've done alright, except that I twice sabotaged myself by being over-aggressive and over-eager, and spinning out/crashing. Ciara, on the other hand, was awesome, being the top placing female, and 7th overall out of 22 (I was 16th). After the racing, we all headed over to a really cool bar overlooking the Yarra River, in the middle of Melbourne. We hung out and quenched our thirst, then headed over to a real nice restaurant, Arintje, for dinner. They brought out like 8 appetizers for the table to share, and since most everyone else were light eaters, I got to pig out like my typical no-manners-self (I vow that I will not let this wine industry change me!). Then main course was a nice rare steak. Oh, I forgot to mention, about 22 different bottles of wine were poured, so we each drank about 2 bottles each. Thusly inebriated, we departed the restaurant in surprisingly mild and reserved form. We headed over to an expensive bar and continued drinking, but the place was a bit lame, so we moved on. After getting denied at the first bar (bastards), we went across the street to a cool nightclub. They played a good mix and served $6 red-bull-and-vodkas, so over the course of the next 8 hours or so, each of us drank about 10 of them. Ciara kept trying to fall asleep on the bench on the side of dance floor (and on the dance floor for that matter), so I was forced to force more drinks on her. It was funny-she'd hop up and dance for another half-hour, then the drink would wear off, and she'd sit again. Then repeat cycle.

Anyway, finally we finished dancing at 6AM, when the club closed. We'd planned to crash at my coworker Murray's pad in the city, but he headed off without telling us, so we were stuck. We considered taking the first train back to our house in the Yarra Valley, but it was hours away, and besides, we'd already bought tickets for a footie game the next day (footie is the name for Australian Rules Football, which is something like a hybrid of American football and rugby, but way more interesting and fast paced than either). So we decided to stick it out--and sleep at Hungry Jack's (the Australian front for Burger King...on a side note, there's also Big W, the front for Wal-Mart). Anyway, after passing out on the table over a couple of burgers, Ciara and I were woken up by an employee...who asked if he could clean up the table for us. He politely cleared the food and wiped the table, then let us go back to sleep. When we woke up again a little later, we noticed something odd...there were 7 other 20-somethings in nightclub fits passed out at assorted tables. Apparently, Hungry Jack's is the spot for passing out at 6AM.

So, recharged by our brief coma at Hungry Jack's, we tried to make the most of our day, ie walk around like zombies looking for better places to nap. We tried a shopping mall, but shop-keepers soon showed up, so we took a tram to St. Kilda beach, but it was wet. We checked out the craft market that happened to be going on, then headed back into the city, where we slept on the grass on the riverfront. Eventually, after some lunch, we headed to the footie, which was awesome, if a bit cold (our jackets were with the rest of our stuff, at Murray's place). Finally, we returned home, eager for a hot shower and some sleep. Of course, we were out of hot water. But at least we got to sleep...for about 12 hours.

So, things have been interesting at times, mostly boring and full of hard work. But at least I made a shitload of money with all of the hours, and I now can fund my Southeast Asian adventure. But before we fly to Bali, I have an upcoming week on the road in a camper-van, exploring a bit of Australia. Till later, outie 5000.

Paradise Found

The cyclone made it difficult to reach the island. After a brief attempt (huge waves, almost capsizing, etc), our boat captain and tribe leader agreed: the weather was too dangerous to attempt a crossing to the off-shore island of Vorovoro. Rain pissed down as if God was woken up after a night of binge drinking and had a bladder full of ambrosia. It was coming down so hard it literally hurt, kinda like when hail hits you, if you've ever been out in a hailstorm. I contented myself with the thought that this was the real tropics, fuck the touristy sunny beaches and pina colodas and snorkeling and all that old bullshit. This was the local flavor, the 0ff-the-beaten-trail reality: tropical cyclone in a small town, roads closed, sea unsailable.

We made home in a nice hotel room, and the boat captains Moreau and Johnny Mixed up a bowl of grog or two in a big tupper-ware container. At midnight, with the grog session peaking and everyone ready for bed (grog knocks you out if you have enough), water started slipping in under the back door. We opened the door and...there was the river! The river level had risen during the storm to the level of our hotel room. Weird shit. So we moved out real fast, and then started helping the hotel staff stacking beds and furniture up so they wouldn't be ruined by the flood. We slept in the board room and other makeshift rooms that night.

The next day, the weather abated slightly, and we decided to make a go for it. Eight of us and heaps of food and gear were packed into a tiny boat with an outboard motor, and on this ridiculous excuse for a ship, we set off down the Labassa river to make an attempt for the island. We took a side route and managed to escape the worst of the waves. After a rough ride, we arrived at the island. On the approach, it was beautiful: mangroves on one side, rocky cliffs, some sandy beach, and the capper: a beach waterfall, perfectly shower-sized. Mind-blowing. The first thing we noticed: trash everywhere. The cyclone had destroyed the island, damn near, and there was trash everywhere. Also, trash from the Labassa river flows out to the island (right in the path of the outflowing current), and since the local industries don't actually send their trash to a trashheap, but instead dump it in the river, well, there's lots of trash. So first thing after dumping our bags, me and Jerome spend an hours picking up trash, getting massive amounts of trash. Then we get settled in, laying our bags down in a sleeping hut with beds, called a vale.

The little village was amazing. On one side of the island is the chief's house and a few other houses for the villagers, and then there are a few houses for some of the permanent workers (Fijian and otherwise), then finally our section. We have a kitchen area, with wood-burning stove made of stones, there is a composting toilet, solar power, turbine power, a device that makes natural gas out of pig shit, extensive gardens and wild fruit growing, many hammocks, various huts and one huge structure called a bure, and an awesome bucket&valve shower device. Of course, I never once used that shower, always instead opting for the waterfall on the beach for my showers. Seriously. A waterfall on the beach, falling at the perfect rate for a shower, with a large flat boulder under it you can stand on. How awesome is that. I took like 3 showers a day.

The Fijians were amazingly nice. Being around them makes you smile and laugh more, because they are so welcoming and friendly. I felt like I was glowing from all the happiness, and even now, remembering, I'm smiling. I feel like we found Paradise, and a second home.

The Death of Tourism

Tourism is dead to me now. I want to be a world citizen, and I want real experiences. Every backpacker feels he is seeking alternative experiences by backpacking and staying in hostels and reading Lonely Planet instead of staying at resorts and taking packaged tours. But Lonely Planet guidebooks sell millions, and tourism, both high and low end, are the primary or secondary income of many third world, backpacker-frequented countries. I've realized that half the time the unique experiences I seek out turn out to be packaged experiences dressed up as alternative tourism. The irony of backpacking is that while seeking to experience unique and sometimes disappearing cultures, we end up turning these cultures into items for sale and accelerating the destruction of the very cultures we so respect and seek out.

While googling every variation of "fiji tourism" I could think of, trying to find things to do to fill our 3 weeks in Fiji, I found a national geographic article about tribewanted.com, a partnership between a Fijian village and an online "tribe" of mostly British and Americans. The idea: start a second village near the Fijian village, for the online tribe, work and live in conjunction with the locals, and create an ecologically- and culturally-friendly village. Limit the number of online tribies to 30 at one time, so that the Fijians outnumber the white-faces most of the time, and see how it works out.

How did it work out for us? The first day, the infectious and frequent laugher of the Fijians resulted in me smiling and laughing more than I had in the preceding year. There were only 10 or less white people on the island while we were there, compared to a rotating cast of 20 or so Fijians at any given time. The Fijians mostly live on the connected island Mali (ours is called Vorovoro, originally the island for Mali's chief, Tui Mali, and his family, but now home to his family, the tribewanted visitors, and a few Fijian employees from Mali). We gave a Sevusevu to Tui Mali, which is a 1/2 kilogram bundle of Kava given as a thank you / request to the chief for letting you enter his village, or in this case, island. It is a rather lengthy and involved ceremony, involving a speech by me, a speech by Tui Mali, a speech by Api (an older Fijian fellow), Te (another important figure) and finally by Tui Mali, as well as lots of kava drinking and lengthy bouts of sitting cross-legged (which killed my knees, I suspect doing permanent damage). The initial portion of the ceremony is perhaps the only time you will see Fijians act serious. As the ceremony continued into the night we all became inebriated by the kava (causing mind and muscle relaxation, making you talkative, causing your eyelids to uncontrollably droop and eventually resulting in a deep and restful sleep, sometimes with wicked dreams). Tui Mali departed, and the mood became even more relaxed. The guitar appeared, and the Fijians sang songs (barbershop trio style) and we were asked to do our own songs, but mostly failed. A night or two later, I attempted to sing Rocky Raccoon over the guitar playing of Api, who played the guitar line for "Imagine" by John Lennon, which I'd heard him play earlier and realized would work for Rocky Raccoon, one of the only songs I know by heart. I'm quite proud: I started out a bit shy and quiet, and as I got used to singing (I hardly even sing in the shower) I turned up the volume and added some sound effects (slapping the ground to simulate Danny drawing first and shooting Rocky). One of the Fijians picked up my rhythm and added drumbeat with his hands on the ground, while two others gave background vocals (tonal, not lyrical, since they didn't know the words). It was so freaking cool.

Another day, I hung out with Api, an almost excessively friendly older fellow who tried to teach me some Fijian. Earlier in the day, I'd offered to help him with his day's task--machette the path from the boat landing to the village--and he was glad to accept the offer. The day wore on, and my encroaching headache worsened (I don't know if it was the bottle of Pernod we'd polished off the night before, the grog, being woken up after 6 hours sleep by crowing roosters, or the stressful desert island lifestyle, but it was a wicked headache). I decided to take a nap on the hammock, hoping to sneak out of my earlier offer. I was almost there--about 10 feet short of the hammock, when Api came around the corner, ear-to-ear patented smile and even more widely smiling eyes aimed right at me. "Kevin, would you like to help me now?" "Of course, uh, yeah, like, right now?" "Oh Kevin, are you too tired? Maybe you have worked too hard. Or too much grog? I'll let you rest" "No, no, of course not, Api. Let's get to it." So I was caught in a tangled web of promises and teasing Fijian sarcasm. But I've sometimes found that the best hangover cure isn't Vegemite, a Bloody Mary or a 5 painkillers, but a couple of hours of sweaty work, so I was ready to pound out a couple hours of machete work, then go for a quick sea dip and and beach hammock nap. But no, that is just not the Fijian way.

To start out our work, we sat down at the lunch table for a half-hour, chatting with everyone in sight. When it became impossible to delay further and Api had still made no move to actually begin working, I asked what tools we'd need, including to obvious Machetes. He told me--a couple of shovels as well-- and I arranged the implements of your work, and then Api said we must rest, from this extreme expenditure of energy. We then walked to the worksite (a path through the encroaching jungle, which passes through the center of the island, connecting the two bays on opposing sides of our tiny paradise), and worked for 5 minutes, then rested 15 minutes because Moreau showed up. Api and Moreau chatted for quite awhile, then worked 5, and rest 15, chatting the whole time while methodically and skillfully chopping away at the jungle. If anyone passed by, they'd talk with the passers-by and take a break. Meanwhile, I attempted to imitate their technique (requires a movement roughly similar to a lazy sidearm baseball toss, with most of the force coming from the wrist flick at the end) but my hacks were far less effective. When finished, we found shade and sat for a half-hour, then returned tools, and rested after our hard days work, or taka oua cakacaka (pronounched taka oua thakathaka, c's being th's in Fijian...by the way, about we'd take frequent breaks for language lessons during this work).

I have to admit that this way of working was difficult to adjust to, for a guy that's used to working long days full-steam then coming home and smoking and drinking to relax. It's generally all or nothing for me. But that's not the Fijian way, and it's not that Fijians are lazy. It's partly that their lax method of work is well suited to the tropics, where high temperatures and humidity make sustained physical effort a ridiculous concept. It's also that Fijians seem to value quality of life over anything, and no work need become suffering. Social interaction is a part of life, work is a part of life, and therefore social interaction is a part of work. Work becomes fun, if not particularly efficient. And the work needing to be done gets done, somehow.

Of course, on Vorovoro, that's largely because of Pupu, a local legendary figure. More on him later.

This foray into actually immersing myself in another culture was my best experience in recent memory. I think working with someone is the best way to learn about them, and forges real bonds of friendship and mutual respect.

Luther Travel Luck

Before I left for my first big travel adventure, to Western Europe for a month with John in 2003, I was made privy to a family secret: bizarre travel luck. Apparently, the Luthers (particularly my father's generation) has encountered good luck while traveling. Well, I never believed in luck or acts of God or any of that and still don't. Some reckon it's just skill+timing, which seems about right. I'd guess it's more like the predictable results of a fucking simple bell curve, and if you make appropriate choices, you'll end up as the outlier you most desire, aka a lucky circumstance. For those of you who'd call me a dork for referencing a bell curve and those others who've already navigated away from my blog, I reckon that's for the best, since I am a dork and I'm bound to ramble incoherently.

To the point: I've found that I'm another lucky recipient of "Luther Luck."

Traveling with John, we were given free groceries by a benevolent French lady at a farmers market, narrowly escaped authorities, discovered amazing hidden paradises, met friendly travellers, and our trip took frequent positive turns.

Traveling with Jerome, we were on an overbook flight, and instead of getting delayed, we were booked to first class, and spent the 12 hour flight drinking champagne, mimosas, red wine and Bloody Marys, eating gourmet food and stretching out in our luxurious seats while chatting with our extremely friendly and attentive stewardess. And since Air New Zealand lets their first class passengers do pretty much whatever they want, we even sang "I wanna grow old with you" to a lucky second class passenger.

After arriving in Fiji and catching a second short flight, we decided to walk from the airport to town, and were offered rides from locals, finally accepting the third offer. just returning from a brief Sunday work in the fields fertilizing their sugar cane, the main local crop. They offered to take us to our hotel, but on the edge of town, they suddenly and without warning turned into a gravelly driveway leading behind a shop. Seemed like trouble, and a prepared to make a run for it if necessary, sizing up the competition and our positions in case of complications. They claimed they were making a pit stop to "fix the bumper." Turns out, it was true. The bumber was loose, and after about an hour's worth of hilariously inept attempts (Jerome and I offered help, but were refused), they were able to fix it. In the meantime we realized we were at the house of the driver's Indo-Fijian family, where we hung out for the afternoon drinking kava (a mildly narcotic, relaxing drink made of ground up yaqona root mixed with water), Fiji Bitter beer, and Fiji's own Bounty Rum (59% alcohol, a stiff one), eventually sitting down to each a wonderful home cooked meal of green curry fish, red curry chicken, rice, pickled lemons, and taro root (also known as Dalo, it is similar to potato but spongier).It was three sweaty Indian guys (driver Birbal, passengers Raj and Samdi) in a pickup truck, who we learned were Jerome even helped the (20-year-old) daughter sort out the bad grains of rice (amidst cross-cultural flirtation), while the son chopped up the taro root with a machete. At dinner, we followed suit after our hosts began



eating with their bare hands (using only the right, as is traditional in India since the left hand is used to rinse after dropping a deuce). The large food is easy, but the rice is damn tough to pick up. After food, each of the other two guys took us to their houses, where we continued drinking Fiji Bitter (which we picked up from the local bar, the "Farmer's Club," we bought a 12-pack of 750mL bottles, the Fijian equivalent of a 40oz), eating wife-made-food (homemade fries to make us feel at home, etc), and meeting myriad family members. As for their style of drinking: when consuming a 750mL, one does not drink a bottle by yourself. You get a couple of small glasses (say, 8 oz), and pour beer into each. Hand it to anyone, and they have to pound it (sipping is allowed, but chugging is far more common). You pour another glass, and hand it to someone else. So on until the bottle is finished. Then open another bottle and repeat. The result: beer stays fresh despite the heat and you don't get that shitty last 5oz's of a 40oz like I'm used to, and also, you get drunk really fast. It was a lot of fun, and I remember philosophical conversations about how we were all great friends and Samdi repeatedly saying "this is history in the making" and talking about seizing the day and that tomorrow is never promised, and that nothing else mattered. It was great drunken fun.

Later strokes of "Luther Luck" will be in other blog postings, but it involves surviving two cyclones and finding a second home.

Cyclone

No, we weren't killed by the cylcone. Hardly in any danger, really. But we were in the midst of it for a while, down in Savusavu on the southern region of Vanu Levu (the second biggest island in Fiji). We took a bus from Labassa and along the way the wind and rain picked up, and we even saw a few trees blown over and a bus stop smashed to bits. In Savusavu we were meant to catch a ferry to Taveuni (the third biggest island in Fiji, supposedly a jungle paradise island with waterfalls and natural waterslides). But the ferry captain decided the weather was too rough. So we switched to another bus, which claimed their ferry would make the run in spite of the weather. But before the bus could make it to the other ferry, we were halted by flooded roads, and had to turn back. We considered staying in Savusavu and trying to get to Taveuni the next day...but opted to return to Labassa instead. A couple of seconds after making this decision, the radio played a first-hand account of the weather on Taveuni: 100 knot winds of cyclone force, trees and houses getting toppled. Later we found out that we'd been near the center of the young cyclone "Gene" while in Savusavu, and that Taveuni had been hit first and the worst. Gene has now moved Southwest a bit, meaning away from us, but as cyclones have a habit of moving erratically, the short-term weather forecast is uncertain. At the moment we're kicking around in Labassa and trying to hop back onto Vorovoro for a day or three before flying out.

Vorovoro and Labassa

I am at the moment just back in Labassa, Fiji, from almost two weeks on Vorovoro, and am in the midst of an amazing experience. The Fijians on Vorovoro and the connected island, Mali, have treated us like family. I swear to God, hanging out with Jerome, Sosi, Mess, and Save is just like hanging out with Jerome, John, Marcus, and Brandon. Except there are huts instead of houses, and curries and kava instead of sushi and beer. Oh, and a waterfall shower. I'll post pictures and some stories once I get to Melbourne and settle in a bit...

Inspiration

It's a restless hungry feeling
It don't mean no one no good
When everything I'm a-saying
You can say it just as good

At the crossroads of my doorstep, my eyes start to fade
As I turn my head back to the room where my love and I have laid
And I look back at the streets, the sidewalks and the signs
It's all just one too many mornings and a thousand miles behind

It's a mystery to me
We have a greed, with which we have agreed
You think you have to want more than you need
Until you have it all, you won't be free
Society, you're a crazy breed
I hope you're not lonely without me
When you want more than you have, you think you need
I think I need to find a bigger place
Because when you have, more than you think, you need more space

En Vino Veritas

Happiness not real unless shared

Keep on walking straight and narrow down illusionary lines

One would think that being loved would disenchant the loved with the lover; "What? This person is humble enough, or stupid enough, or foolish enough to..."

It's you and me brother for life, so when you put me in the ground, look for me in the clouds.
You make me the definition of proud.
Taught me what this life is really about.

If I don't like my life, I gut it, rebuild it, fuck it, keep nothing but God and my children

Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding. It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self. Therefore, trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquility.

I'm gonna die with a twinkle in my eye, 'cause I sung songs, spun stories, loved, laughed and drank wine

Make love when you can. It's good for you

Travelling is the way forward.

All I keep thinking is, man, I could do this for a very very long time. Travel the world, meet awesome people, learn about different cultures, but mainly, learn about myself

So it goes...

Peculiar travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God

We're here on Earth to fart around, and don't let anybody tell you any different

Such is life