The Man from Three Rivers (Munnar)
There was movement at the station as the people milled around,
A beggar shook his cup in mournful tune.
The rubbish danced unnoticed as it fluttered from the ground
And rising sun saluted hazy moon.

The Munnar Man stood poised to write in History’s book by hand,
Every muscle in his torso set to rock.
Pensive in reflection, slowly masticating paan,
Six hours, twenty seven read the clock.

So many days have come and gone, a score of years at least,
Since raging Sanjay Gupta left his mark.
3 hours 43 he took to drive his metal beast,
From old Kochin to hinterland Munnar.

The people say it can’t be beat, with the traffic on the run,
With every thing a passing chance to hit.
But he knows that his bus is fast and skill is matched by none,
He’s whittled down the margin bit by bit.

So the people clambered upwards for a place in future glory,
Or else a death in some unknown ravine.
And last aboard the ticketman, who’ll feature in this story,
Shuffled forth collecting gold and green.

Blazing through the outskirts with his horn and screeching tyres,
Reaching speeds that only dawn allows.
Crashing through the odours of the streets and pavement fires
Dodging rickshaws, buses, cars and cows.

So to the hills he races with his lurching beast restrained,
The curves a blur for all of those onboard,
Soon will come the moment for which he’s ever trained,
The record his for now and ever more.

Round and round the corners as the bus would ever climb,
Hitting potholes, drifting left and right;
Right before the summit came a ‘clunk’ in space and time,
And for a tick the beast he drove took flight.

But nothing could deter the man on this his day of fate
3 hours 41 had come and gone,
When ladened bus with ghost-white folk did pass through Munnar’s gate
And stop outside the crowd in winter’s sun.

“Hurrah!!” He yelled “I’ve done it!” and he turned around with speed
Looking for the ticket man to say
“Congratulations Munnar Man, my watch fulfills the need,
Of proving that the record’s yours today”

Alas, it was this moment when he saw it was for sure
That the ticketman had sent his quest astray
And in this fellow’s absence were the taunting open doors
For you see he’d fallen out along the way…

{Baboom Cha}

I have to say that I was, and continue to be, amazed by the beauty of the coastal regions here. Cape Le Grand National Park, near Esperance, was a breathtaking introduction to the flora, fauna and scenery of the region (save for a few unsightly remnant scars from a December brush fire). Similarly, the beaches and coves in and around Albany have been first-class, front-page tourism brochure material, with blue topaz water – as refreshing as a mango Wiess bar on a summer Sunday – stunning backdrops and verdant plant life. I have always been partial to Bonny Hills and Bartlett’s Beach (a.k.a Little Beach) in particular, but I do have to say that the marble white sand and (again) blue-topaz water here places the region in very high esteem. For those fortunates that make their way to our new abode, please be assured that we’ll make a weekend of it down here for you… with as many trips as visitors!

Lastly, two observations –
* Rest days don’t really result in much rest, especially when they’re spent climbing headlands, swimming and watching 4-5 hour marathon tennis matches. Tonight’s final must go down as one of the most frustrating episodes of viewing I’ve experienced, especially considering I was rooting for the guy that incessantly hit the ball out and missed countless first serves. That Roge stuck in there till the 5th was in itself frustrating, in that it did nothing to shorten the torture!
* Coffee snobbery does not travel well Westward. When I politely enquired as to the coffee grind in a small coffee shop in Wagga Wagga, I was informed – in a manner that did little to instill consumer confidence – that it was “Ummm… coffee?”. The ‘Coffex’ brand name plastered on proximate signage did nothing to assuage any lingering fears, sounding more like a coffee-scented industrial solvent than an enjoyable morning blend. Given the long drive that was to follow, however, and through the Hay Plains no less, perhaps we should have tried our luck…

Jimmy…

Wow, well how do you sum up eight odd days of driving and sightseeing in 8 minutes and a couple of paragraphs? I honestly thought I’d have more humourous anecdotes to share with people after 2,000 odd kilometres of travelling; however, the trip has been fairly routine in terms of driving and all things car related. There have been some fantastic moments of friendship and family spliced into long hours of staring at the dotted line, but on the main, it’s been, well, normal.

Perhaps I’ll let some of the pictures we’ve taken along the way speak for us; mine are up at www.jameses.org/photos and Storm has put a collection up on Facebook.

A few minor highlights and observations thus far,
* Bonny Hills - it’s always nice to go home and see family and this time was no exception. With the parents about to head to South America for multiple weeks, it was nice to get one last visit in before a lenghty hiatus. P.s. I do love Little Beach…
* The Bondi to Coogee Coastal Walk - a beautiful walk around numerous coves and bays with shimmering crystal-clear water and bronzed Glamazons. If it hadn’t been 35+ degrees, you might’ve said it was pleasant. A well deserved swim at Tamarama went down very well…
* Friends and Family along the way – quirks and coincidences have enabled us to catch up with more people than we might’ve originally envisaged. There’s even talk that one cousin will be heading across the Nullarbor in the opposite direction at the same time as us! Now that’s kooky…
* Wagga Wagga and Renmark – lovely towns on the Murrumbidgee and Murray, respectively, that had a lovely relaxed feeling. Staying in an hotel in Wagga that was established in 1885 and was full of old world charm was nice, until drunk patrons began getting rowdy after closing time and interrupting our beauty sleep. Luckily no patrons thought detaching a pod from the roof racks of our car was a good substitute for entertainment.
* Finally organising ourselves in Wagga Wagga enough to buy a ton of fruit for the the day’s driving, only to have to scoff what we could and dispose of the remainder 65km down the road. Damn fruit fly exclusion zones. Turns out that eating 2 nectarines, a peach, 1/2 of two apples, and a fistful of grapes in quick succession will give you a tummy ache…
* The Hay Plains – now specialising in 8 different types of nothing. Good preparation for the Nullarbor and with hot, hot sun and seemingly endless bitumen, it was a good test for Norman (our car) too… With the temperature needle firmly planted in the middle of H and C, either he’s humming along just fine or we need to check our display panel wiring.
* The Barossa Valley and Peter Lehman Winery – what a nice way to wind down. Save for the many verdant vineyards, the Barossa is a dry, tawny brown and comprises quite an enchanting juxtaposition of colours and textures. Speaking of colours and textures, the many wines we tasted at Peter Lehman winery were very much to our liking, as was the delicious platter of cheese and goodies. It was a toss up which winery we were to visit, having passed many well-known (and hugely commercial) wineries and smaller, quaintly-named ones. In reflection, I think we were very happy with our choice!

So, we’re not sure what next, although we have given ourselves 3 days to get to Norseman in WA. We do have a rest day up our sleeve should it be necessary; however, we are hoping to save that for the South West and Margaret River region. Hopefully Norman continues along in happy and high spirits and we stay sane and happy!

Happy Australia Day to all as well… it’s the first in a number of years that I will be able to remember with any semblance of clarity in days that follow!

I hope you are all well and enjoying the heat and happiness of Jan ’09. With expected temperatures of 46 degrees in Ceduna tomorrow, I can only dream of how good our truckies’ arms will be…

Lots of Love, Jameses, Storm and Stormin’ Norman!

* The revolving doors at sports clubs rotate faster, as pumped up patrons exiting the building wish to illustrate their muscular prowess…

* The most cost-efficient exhibit at a zoo/aquarium would have to be the glass box filled with a few sticks and leaves and the title ‘Chameleon’.

* O’Hare is probably the most rubbish airport in the developed world. I mean, amongst other things, who still charges (let alone $2.50) for a luggage cart.

* While Australians might be relatively close to Americans in terms of obesity, we can’t do it for anywhere near as cheap. Thanks to the McDonalds dollar menu, I was able to stuff myself with a double cheeseburger, mcChicken, and associated calories for $2.23. Now that’s value for money lard!

* Taxi drivers in Seoul break the universal laws of taxi-driving. They are born in Seoul, polite, and seem to indulge in random acts of common courtesy.

* If you were to judge Korean sporting culture by its Olympic coverage, you’d be forgiven for thinking the only sports played are badminton, weightlifting, archery, baseball, table tennis, and a dash of synchronised swimming.

* I wouldn’t be at all disappointed if I were to discover that Australia was not represented in synchronised swimming at the games.

* If anyone ever has the right to be sick of hearing about themselves, it’s Michael Phelps. Good thing he’s only a once in four year phenomenon. A little like a comet, but with better rhythym.

* Things that are in abundance in Chicago and not in Seoul: white people, black people, Indian Pale Ales, microbreweries, sidewalk cafes, bicycles, fat people, tornados and cubs fans.

*While the Americans steadfastly walk on the right side of stairs and pavements etc, the Koreans are much more fluid and indecisive.

* The Auto-save mechanism in this blogging software is Awesome! (having accidentally just navigated away from the page).

Ok Gotta run… See you in the antipodes!!!

A non-memorable 2 hour flight was followed by a very passable shuttle ride from the airport (45 mins away), dropping off at seemingly every known hotel in the Denver CBD before finally making its way through peak hour traffic and driving rain to my friend Lauren’s house and final destination. Apparently, my trip coincided with the lyrics of a well known Crowded House song as it rarely rains there longer than the time it takes to remark on the rain’s occurrence…

The plan had been to visit my first ever baseball game and, being a huge fan of the statistically driven game of cricket, I was excited. I had learnt the preliminaries to baseball the year before as the team we were to watch, the Colorado Rockies, had made a late surge into the 2007 Worldseries and buoyed by Lauren’s enthusiasm, I had taken it up with relish.

Unfortunately, the inclement weather refrained from lifting and we were ‘forced’ to take refuge in 2 pubs for the duration of the night. The first was an establishment within tobacco-spittin’ distance of the stadium and the second the most beautiful inanimate object I have ever beheld!

This second treasure, the Falling Rock, was dark and homely – with big booths made out of dark wood and with enough room to swing a large dwarf – and home to the most impressive collection of tap beers I have ever been privy to… 78 to be precise! This was in addition to an immense collection of bottled bevvies as well…

I remember remarking at the time that if my friends (notably Dingo, Gally, Rod and Stu (in alphabetical order rather than drinking prowess)) and I lived in Denver, there would be many a liver quaking in its boots at the prospect of ‘Climbing the Wall’. Overwhelmed as I was – luckily I had been forewarned to pack an extra pair of shorts and undies – I settled in to a Buffalo Burger (real Buffalo) and a few pints of amber elixir. Tragically, I could only manage (as we were drinking at altitude (5380ft)) a few pints before my swimming head, inefficacy at verbalising big words and atrocious form on the pool table indicated it was time to away.

Thus, day one was concluded with a smile, the makings of a hangover, and a seal lying well and truly broken on the bathroom floor…

Where Better to renew acquaintances!
Many a hue was seen in this locale!
An impressive collection in anyone’s book!
Spare taps held in the ready, should a barrel fall off the back of a truck
They had bottled beer too!
Patrons attempting to ‘Climb the Wall’
Losing Focus
Denver – a place so friendly even Coke and Pepsi are friends!

As some or most may know, last Tuesday was crunch day. It was no longer possible to put off the RSVP for my friends’ wedding in Michigan. After a brief look on the web and some inflation in my upper dollar-threshold, I was booked onto a flight for Chicago, via Seoul (Incheon), on Monday the 28th. The week flew by with lots of things to keep me occupied, albeit with a few minor anxieties about flying – I’d managed to work myself into quite the bother over it all – and next thing I was buckled in and cruising down the tarmac; however, not before purchasing 26 packs of TimTams for my American brethren on yet another unnecessary whim.

I did not, however, remain in my designated seat for long and had soon claimed an entire row of three middle seats all to myself thanks to the somewhat ‘empty’ nature of the plane. Immediately post-takeoff it became apparent that my apprehension over flying was baseless and a little silly and it was time to while away 10 hours of in-flight media and tedia. I’ve decided that flying in the middle rows is somewhat akin to travelling on a long train trip where the person sitting next to you obstinately rejects any pleas to open the curtains. Boring, occasionally bumpy, and best passed with a kip.

The ‘sound of vitality’ was the tagline of a Korean beer sampled in earnest and surely is subject to having been lost in translation. When I think of beer and associated sounds, ‘vitality’ is certainly not a synonym for what pops into my head. Let it be known too that korean beer is generally shite and that I even preferred a can of Foster’s to the two Korean beers I tried.

So now, I’m using up a few minutes in one of Incheon Airport Square’s (not really at the Airport) plethora of Internet Cafes. There must be upwards of 20 in a block and a half, all with large and occasionally flurescent ‘PC’ signs adorning their exteriors. Indeed, this place looks somewhat reminiscent of the Blade Runner sequences, minus the depravity, filth, and hovering vehicles. That is to say – flurescent.

So before rambling on for too long – it is afterall only the first day of the trip – I thought I’d share just a few observations.

* Incheon airport is amazingly good. Modern, spacious, clean, it took literally no longer than 15 minutes to get off the plane, go through customs, baggage claim, quarantine and be at the help desk asking for directions.
* That in 4 months of living with a Korean guy, it had never occurred to me to ask how to say ‘hello’ or ‘thankyou’ in Korean – Kam sa ni da for the latter apparently.
* It is hot (about 30C) and sticky here, quite contrary to my expectations. Sufficiently so that I was gravely concerned for my valuable cargo!
* Do not place a bag anywhere that would leave it with a propensity to fall into a wash basin with sensor-based taps. Result – wetness.
* English is not as abundant here as I would expect, even among the younger IT savvy, internet playing population. I have based this on a sample of only 4 younger IT savvy, internet playing people mind you…
* The dramatic pauses in the film ‘Married Life’ are too long to be believable, especially Harry’s.
* And lastly, there was a group of four Battle-clad polic officers in the airport, all of whom carried (semi?) automatic weapons and one of whom had a bright yellow badge saying GUIDE. I’ll leave that to you.

So onwards and upwards for 13 hours more of movies (hopefully this plane will have individual headsets) logic puzzles and, fingers crossed, empty aisles! Bring on Chicago baby!!

20 Jan 2003 – San Cocodrilo

Hi Guys

Just a few differences between Australia and Spain.

1) On a recent trip to Ávila near Salamanca we stopped to admire the views, use the facilities and have a peek at a quaint church. Inside we found the remains of a crocodile encased in a glass tomb. The story goes that 300 years ago a Spanish knight in the Americas was attacked in a river crossing by this ferocious crocodile (I guess it had teeth back then). In a miraculous few moments, “the Virgin Mary appeared before him, stayed his fear, and transformed his pole into a sword with which he slayed the awesome creature”. In thanks (or purely to show off) he brought the mighty beast back to Spain and hung it up in his local church…as you do. Now…

In Spain: They make this humble Spanish knight into a Saint and adorn this quaint little church with a huge 4m*4m Painting of the aforementioned miracle and the aforementioned Croc.

IN Australia: They would say, “yeah good on you Rodge, have another beer ya tosser, jeez you talk some shit when you hit the piss”.

And with that the miracle would pass like one of Rodge’s beers into the bleary hangover of time.

2) IN Australia they have had the great idea of introducing EFTPOS
machines in MacDonalds Restaurants to help all of those unfortunates who have forgotten their wallet and loose change but still wish to indulge in some of that fattening, coronary heart-failure inducing, deliciousness.

IN Spain: In fact in this same little quaint church in Ávila, they have also introduced EFTPOS machines, supposedly to help all of those unfortunates who left their change at home when attending the weekly mass.

You might think it was a joke… except for the fact that there are 2! (one at each entrance). I would never have thought I would see someone withdraw money in a church; let alone have queues of people that would necessitate not 1 but 2 devices. Is there a minimum $20 withdrawal? Can you do your banking? Say a few prayers, do some Rosaries and pay of that overdue Telstra bill? Of course they have maintained the “antiquated” loose change box as well.

Clerical Opportunism or Spanish Piousness? I’ll let you decide.

Now I can’t really see this taking off in churches in Australia but it must be said – I’m sure that for many of the fatties in Australia a Sunday “Big Mac Meal Deal” is a religious ritual in itself.

So are we really that different after all?

(Click on the back button after you’ve viewed the photo…)

So in no particular order they are

1) The jump into the Berlin fountain that won me 20 euros from my brother. He said I couldn’t do it, but my wet shorts and hypothermia proved him wrong.

2) The jump onto a stage at a Bratislavan Christmas Market to wish the good folk of Slovakia a merry Christmas from us good folk in Oz. Appropriately full of Gluwein, this gimmick earnt me an additional 50 euros from my ‘I’ll never dare you again’ brother.

3) A photo of me and the Romanian Border Dog asleep after being detained for having a dodgy brother with no visa. This was preceded by a Hungarian beer and some baked beans and succeeded by a 9 hour early morning train ride to whence we’d come. No money was earnt.

4) The remains of our car after our car crash in Morocco. This was the least enjoyable part of my trip it’s fair to say. But all’s well that ends well. For the record, no one was critically injured or worse.

5) Las fallas in Valencia. By far and away the coolest fiesta I have ever been witness to. Click here to find out more.

6) Storm and myself were approached to by photographed for a hotel brochure in Varkala, India. A cocktail and free lunch later, we were presented with a replica of the New York Times ‘Titanic Sinks’ Edition and shown on our way.

7) and Sleeping on the floor of an Indian train. What more can be said…the best stories later are the worst moments at the time. I can still remember the metal flooring in my bony ass. What an authentic experience (having said that, we didn’t notice any Indians sleeping on the floor…dammit!)

After eating more beautiful Galician food (this time pig’s head and snout) , Maria and her friends decided to show me a little bit of Vigo’s nightlife.

First stop “La Escalera” – a former underground parking lot converted into a pub/chill out place/games room. It had that dingy feel and I was somewhat surprised to see the elite Hilfilger crowd mixing as well.

The place was full of people and they have implemented a great system designed to knock your tits off. 7€ = 5 minibar bottles of Whisky (5omls) and coke. Adorning the room were 3 pool tables and at least 10 table footballs. My superb futboline skills have evaporated with the passing of time. I have also introduced the “skulling game” here to Spain where it appears to be a relatively novel idea. Unfortunately, María´s 15 year old sister Carla seemed to be the biggest advocate of the fledgling sport. And although María tried to keep an iron hand, her sister drank on the sly and came out as the fastest drinker, eclipsing my above average standards. After a Super 5 each (previously mentioned) and some games of futbolines, we left for the next bar and… chupitos. (For those who are unaware, chupito = shot, and a chupiteria is a bar based solely around the premise of serving as many shots as cheaply as possible to as many as possible as quickly as possible).

Now these Vigueses have brilliant ideas!! At the next bar we bought 25 shots for only 15€. Starting off with suave, then downing 2 tequilas and then to cap off the 6 shot punishment a chupito of “vodka, whisky and rum”. Manu, a friend of the girls, is physically unable to swallow the shots in one go and he takes each one into his cheeks, swills it around as though sampling a fine wine and then swallows. Each shot takes two swigs and I imagine that the last shot would´ve been possibly the worst taste he (and we) will ever have to face. ( I pocketed the shot glass as a memento of the most foul shot that is known to the human species). And keep in mind that María´s (still 15 year old) sister was with the crew and… well you get the idea.

Another club, both sisters well and truly smashed, falling down – well a sad state of affairs (we still had the task of sneaking Carla into bed without the parents finding out). During the taxi-ride home (and unbeknownst to the cabbie) Carla vomits with persistent regularity out of the window. I can feel the night getting better….oh yeah.

We pull up and Carla passes out on the sidewalk, vomits a bit and then wants to sleep. Then it starts to rain. I piggy back her some 10 metres and she hops off, vomits again and passes out once more. Her dry retching resembles a pig with its throat freshly slit as it “wheeks” away the last of its life. Anyways, after a long struggle, including more than one flight of stairs, we get her to the front door. After clearing the the way I make a dash with Carla in my arms for the bed; halfway there she disembarks, runs to the toilet and continues “wheeking” madly. Mum wakes up.

María who is just as drunk as her sister seems to react by simply embracing hysteria and laughing uncontrollably. As the mother comes roaring out of the bedroom I can hear María´s “It´s not my fault ” and I grab the keys and make for the relative safety of the stairwell as I know dad will soon wake up as well (and that´s what I´m more afraid of). A few minutes later María emerges, “everything´s ok, my mother just wants to thank you”. I walk in and receive the thanks and motherings as Carla lays sprawled naked in the bed, ranting “I don´t want more alcohol, stop moving so much”. I try and help María by taking some of the blame, saying I bought Carla a shot of Tequila which must have reacted with her stomach. María´s mother simply inquires, “what´s tequila?”

And so the night ends with María´s mother offering me food, whilst giving thanks for anything that comes across her mind. The father takes medication to sleep and so fortunately couldn´t stay awake long enough to get angry at anybody. I think if I had´ve known it would be this easy, I would just have rung the doorbell and bodly announced our arrival. In some perturbing way, the night transformed from a worst nightmare into a Brady-bunch-esque sequence of events. And as the music starts to play and the credits roll I tottle off to bed, keeping the light on as the world is still spinning way too much for my liking…and with that, our little adventure ends.

“Chupito Jim”

October 23rd 2003, Croatia

Background…

After a haphazard attempt to get into Eastern Europe as quickly as possible, which involved a detour through the budget travellers’ dream cities Paris, Lausanne and Venice, we finally made our sluggish way from Trieste in eastern Italy into Slovenia. With our passports freshly stamped and exuding that pleasant odour that only a newly acquired passport stamp can give, we breathed a sigh of relief…we had made it into Eastern Europe and the trip had finally (truly) begun.

First stop Ljubljana to get to the capital and make it our base camp. We booked into a new hostel called “Celica” which had been recently renovated from a foreboding, dilapidated military prison into a chic art gallery and hostel. So much for roughing it out east. Whether sipping capuccinos, meditating, relaxing on futons or merely admiring the artistically rendered cells/rooms, the inhabitants and ambience of the place were far removed from my last memories of Eastern Europe; namely snow, cold and the alluring drabness of the lingering communist architecture and decore.

We explored the pleasant city and later ventured off into the mountains and beautiful autumn foliage (It is funny how all of my memories in regards to “that” autumn feeling and “those” autumn colours are inextricably linked to trips to Armidale and the old teachers’ college ground despite being all of half the world away).

Anyway, I did manage to lose Steph for 4 hours, hopping onto a train which I thought already carried her only to realise (just before the quaint little town of Borovnica) that she was indeed not on board and I was carrying no foreign currency. I managed to pass 4 hours in this quaint little “Slovenian Wauchope”, home of the greatest Viaduct in Central Europe (1856-1944) of which only one slender pillar remained; silent homage to the kind of magnificent architecture that can only be worn down by the slow sands of time (and a few thousand pounds of the Allied arsenal dropped during WWII). Back in the hostel, I was reunited with a fretting Steph who was already thinking of how to compose the email to my parents – “Dear Mr and Mrs Mc….I’ve lost your son”…

So we topped off Slovenia with a trip to Bled, nestled by a pristine mountain lake with a hilltop castle dominating the scene, and Skoèjan Caves (a Unesco world heritage site) which satisfied my “Stalacticious desire” for the trip. We found it harder to get into neighbouring Croatia than we had anticipated and finally settled for a bus trip to Pula, site of one of the best preserved Roman Amphitheatres around (I am studying ancient history afterall). The bus trip was easily the worst of my life, the bus felt unbalanced the whole way… a sensation exacerbated by my hangups from the Moroccan car accident, the rain, bald tires and bad roads, and the kamikaze bus driver who thought that two hands on a steering wheel would be far too easy and who instead preoccupied himself with chain smoking and his mobile phone… Ironically, the straight stretches were the worst, for the bus would get the equivalent of the “death wobbles” and imitated the motions of a road-cone obstacle course. Ok I may be slightly exaggerating but it strengthened my resolve to turn this into a RAIL trip…

We arrived in Pula in rain, and left it in a similar manner…heading down the coast to Rijeka along some of the most beautiful coastline, with rugged limestone cliffs, quaint secluded coves and an offshore archipelago. A little more disconcerting were the rusting remnants of cars and occupants that remained at the bottom of the steep cliffs around every second or third corner. After a brief stop, we continued on (in a bus) to Zadar, along more amazing coastline and winding roads finally arriving at 8:45pm… what next?

I was determined to take the train and we trduged off to the adjacent train station, a fittingly run down communist leftover with a total of 6 trains departing daily. Asking the jolly Papa Guiseppe-esque gentleman if there were any trains that would take us to Split he pointed to the track. As my eyes followed the arc of his gesture I saw nothing…except a single carriage on the tracks. And then it clicked. This seemingly inconspicous carriage was indeed the train and it was leaving soon… (Steph later informed me she was thinking “dodge” all the way but was caught up in my childish enthusiasm about catching a one carriage train). So we clamoured aboard with destination Knin (rough translation Mount Isa meets Bansko), a ‘slight’ detour but better than a bus in my opinion.

The translation became all too apparent as we pulled into the station (11:27pm) in the pouring rain – it was subtle at first and then overpowering…that sulfurous stench that took me straight back to the Mount Isa smelter stacks, mmm-mmm. We hopped off and asked a not so Jolly Papa Guiseppe-esque character if there was a continuing train… sure…at 4am. Ah the joyous memories of that cosy Romanian border post came flooding back (through sulfurous stagnant marshlands mind you) and Steph looked at me with one of those “why?” looks. Shocking 80′s music (so tragically typical of Eastern Europe) emanated from the lone bar as a wretched man came and asked us for some coins before coughing up the better part of his spleen onto the floor. I readily acknowledged my mistake.

We trudged down the street in search of who knows what, a bed, a cafe, a cliff, and settled by the damp roadside some 20 minutes from the station. Surely enough, 2 self proclaimed “drunkies” came past and plonked down beside us…past experience had told me that when potentially dodgy people seek you out there is only one remedy… Football. Liverpool, Leeds, Manchester united, football makes the world a safer place. They happily jabbered on for 1/2 hr about everything related to football in their Serbian-Ingleski dialect; hooligans, Mark Viduka, David Beckham, Victoria Beckham giving fellatio…not so threatening after all… when the conversation switched to drugs and how “if we gave money they give cocaine or heroine”,I knew our hearty conversation had come to an end. We politely made our excuses and headed back (through the rain) to the train station.

The ‘Papa Knin’ appeared to have changed his tune and said in German “Zug nach Split dort…” once again the familiar arcing gesture took my gaze to a familiar single carriage sitting lonesomely in the middle of the tracks. “Dort Schlafen…4 Uhr nach Split”… ok cool, we would have a bed afterall. We settled into one of the compartments and tried to sleep, surely enough at 4:20 we pulled out of the station and we were on our way. Had to switch trains at some random station at some un-godly hour and the friendly conductor kindly helped us out…unfortunately he did not board the continuing train and (under the gaze of a not so friendly conductor), we once again settled into another compartment scattering our belongings everywhere so as to deter any other passengers from entering and disturbing us and our sleep. We awoke at 6:50am thinking we had arrived but quickly dismissed that as a crazy notion and drifted off again. Then at 7:29am on the dot, exactly 19 and a half hours after setting out from Pula, we arrived at our destination; Split, home of Roman Emperor Diocletian’s Palace and its beautiful surrounds.

But of course, the happy conclusion of our journey was completely unknown to us, given that we were fast asleep and drooling at the time… and we would have to wait another 7 minutes for the news of our arrival…delivered in the charismatic manner that constitutes the title of this email.

P.S. As we booked into our private room and plonked onto our bed, I managed to relax enough to release a certain emission, not in itself a rare occurrence, but frightening in the sense that the odour that escaped activated our olfactory-memory sinapses and took us straight back to that sulfurous stagnant stench of Knin…hopefully that was the last remnant of that lovely town to make its way through my system… but who knows?