tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83217761195917408692024-03-13T20:42:12.270+01:00AZIJSKI SPISI 2Daghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033319316830075128noreply@blogger.comBlogger259125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8321776119591740869.post-2785811500164260852021-08-30T19:52:00.003+02:002021-08-30T20:11:19.901+02:00Galiza<p>Two years and a half in the Asturian mountains. Not bad, just that the plan was for a year or so, then the pandemic stroke.Honestly I don't really complain about the "extra" year and half, I know for sure it would have been way more difficult anywhere else. In those remote village we were already socialy distanced from the rest of the world and when 16 persons "own" a village that used to be inhabited by more than 300... you can imagine the freedom we had. But still, tghe moment the restriction were lifted we just had to move. Ramon flew to Estonia to meet his mum and believe me, Bill Gates didn't ask him to show a vaccination passport. The negative test was enough. Me, I moved closer since I don't have money to fly anywhere. Galicia, or, as they call it here, Galiza.<br />And I ended in O Picouto, concello de Ramiras, provincia de Ourense...<br />I was a bit concered about the communication, zero English, mostly Gallego, and to my delight I found out that the galician language is leaning to the Portuguese but is also way more similar to Italian than the proper Castillan is. Another delight is that I live 30 meters from the only bar in the 15 or so neighboring villages. On the bad side is the fact is that I'm far from my host's house and every morning I have a nice warm-up just to reach him.<br />Last week I was a bit sick of it so I took a few days off and decided to try if I'm still at the age of trekking. Packed jus a small backpack, tied the sleeping bag on it and hit the road. Destinatin: the ocean. Roughly 100 km or so, following the river Miño that shares the border with Portugal. The weather forecast said it won't be too hot and not a drop of rain for more than a week. It didn't help me to get dripping wet on the first day.<br />Galicians are proud of their stone cutting traditions. Not only the houses are made of stone blocks, I was a bit surprised to see that even the vineyard post or fenceposts are made of stone. And not only in some old, abandoned vineyards, even the new ones are. And it's not like they lack proper strong wood, forests of oak, chestnut or acacia are covering most of the area.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUA33p-SmzUFw-cpr4EE10uAFK81oCCL8qLTfWw4lvQXrp9fGK3RFjVVC8Sbj345Ng6B0MeRlitsIXWKpk12fykBz6W-Tx1DtZ06hECop3__90qTx9UtwU3UFE9o0SLb8oY7MSmPzvsVUf/s1000/01.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUA33p-SmzUFw-cpr4EE10uAFK81oCCL8qLTfWw4lvQXrp9fGK3RFjVVC8Sbj345Ng6B0MeRlitsIXWKpk12fykBz6W-Tx1DtZ06hECop3__90qTx9UtwU3UFE9o0SLb8oY7MSmPzvsVUf/s320/01.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaJppFxWyMasGpqmjVOKY-bKC9mK4xEE4WUKBPZm97u-FhJ80rQDmfVr4tNx-WZxrlZH9S01ZmKbHxfJsi2kcnsLEElIP3hSfx4Q11vf40OrGo9JOehyphenhyphen06IHt-NwdfofpN4k-kQhw2R6qH/s1000/02.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaJppFxWyMasGpqmjVOKY-bKC9mK4xEE4WUKBPZm97u-FhJ80rQDmfVr4tNx-WZxrlZH9S01ZmKbHxfJsi2kcnsLEElIP3hSfx4Q11vf40OrGo9JOehyphenhyphen06IHt-NwdfofpN4k-kQhw2R6qH/s320/02.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidtByHrl30OTlFoPjOkbDq_49i96Ar47NYSsru7WOcGnNf96ZxG3prfMViRQIB43qd5EumaztcBcZ3rTydYKm70I4icsSmgqCE008h1HvYZUNhIdz3r3qD9HkPHWY6TzjTfqq0PYodJwgD/s1000/03.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidtByHrl30OTlFoPjOkbDq_49i96Ar47NYSsru7WOcGnNf96ZxG3prfMViRQIB43qd5EumaztcBcZ3rTydYKm70I4icsSmgqCE008h1HvYZUNhIdz3r3qD9HkPHWY6TzjTfqq0PYodJwgD/s320/03.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>After a good half day of walk I finally reached the Rio Miño in Cortegada. With enough food on my back I bought me just a few liters of wine, crossed the river on a fancy highway bridge - I wanted to stay on the right side of the river, the Galician, at the time Portugal was on a complete lockdown - and started to look for a nice spot for the night. And at one point I had to pee. No problem, what can go wrong with that? It's not like I'm pissing in front of a police station, right? Well, it can be worse if you're affected by OCD (obssesive compulsive disorder). For example, when I take my backpack off of my shoulders I simply can't let it lie on the ground. Heck no, it must be standing properly, that's the reason why I pack it so properly every time. And it stood properly for a few seconds, long enough for me to take my willy out and start pissing, then it decided to roll down the slope, in the river. Willy still in hand, willy still releasing some liquids, I just followed the backpack into the water. Good job. In the end it was a fu**ing miracle: the camera in my breastpocket was dry. In the backpack the toilet paper was dry. And the loaf of bread was dry, too. Everything else looked like some idiot threw it in a river. My boots were fool of the river. So was my underwear. Fuck rivers, they are wet! Sleeping near an old roman bridge didn't dry anything.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5loZn3pglHqI7w5dGt-eFxK6PQp8m4Z_Y8xUwi6J6AxyuvW7tNMNYF78Fb7FOg7yUUNDiYnWab7MDsoELjimHad1Eerwvh0Debmt5imUUxTq10LXvoOuiGk8KO5o8w01dgmJiX9yjm3dm/s1000/04.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5loZn3pglHqI7w5dGt-eFxK6PQp8m4Z_Y8xUwi6J6AxyuvW7tNMNYF78Fb7FOg7yUUNDiYnWab7MDsoELjimHad1Eerwvh0Debmt5imUUxTq10LXvoOuiGk8KO5o8w01dgmJiX9yjm3dm/s320/04.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigirugOb5lmLT3babbOilLnYkUjL1Fj7zhzX8-F4mPE5R03x0IPF7t_mFxjH0MI9vovVN7ohHkBqqumkrEt3MxqDpbpcsLxqlh_z717ZOUNYTB4qe5huiNS8MXt3GBhrffMEGGeLj45Z2E/s1000/05.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigirugOb5lmLT3babbOilLnYkUjL1Fj7zhzX8-F4mPE5R03x0IPF7t_mFxjH0MI9vovVN7ohHkBqqumkrEt3MxqDpbpcsLxqlh_z717ZOUNYTB4qe5huiNS8MXt3GBhrffMEGGeLj45Z2E/s320/05.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>My shoes made funny noises all the nect day and in the evening started to fall apart. Yup, cheapfuckingamazonmadeinchina, the only I could afford. Buying locktite or superatak for the next days preserved them fairly well (money spent on glue was more than the price of boots). The aunt of my hosts told me that if I'm discovering the Rio Miño I have to stop somewhere and try the local delicacy, the lamprea. And WTF is that? Oh, it's a fish, a very special galician fish.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-bGHLHiVoFFUAjRu2DKVBNacACHeP-psmMHvxmd5dGreMZqvp9u5jPNBsOJ8dYFEUBFVIPODVlhxMmTzB56UZhuF7niwloRItfGSLjNtUVbnTlLc9Sj4yzXxsDq4soJrOxg3WD2qPnWRA/s1000/06.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-bGHLHiVoFFUAjRu2DKVBNacACHeP-psmMHvxmd5dGreMZqvp9u5jPNBsOJ8dYFEUBFVIPODVlhxMmTzB56UZhuF7niwloRItfGSLjNtUVbnTlLc9Sj4yzXxsDq4soJrOxg3WD2qPnWRA/s320/06.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>A fish my foot! It's a fucking overgrown leech 500 milions or so of years old. I don't give a shit if it's considered a jawless fish with no scales, for is a leech. A bloodsucker is not a delicacy for me. But I started liking it for some weird reason after seeing the picture of its mouth on the web. Have no clue why the image made me think of vast areas of sand, of dry and hot winds, fat flying pigs... ah, well, this pic is from wiki.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH8EsLjy-UMxKBIN5r8rNBI17i09jjNovNQG1QRrxGBFwOrDZUqT-spL0G67LMtpP74tEqBoRqGGUxAtgF92I0a7KUaxBdi13ZN8bOsgEa3qNe_FpcZO2U2Zx2aI6JOQiSXM9-q4VU6STo/s1000/07.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH8EsLjy-UMxKBIN5r8rNBI17i09jjNovNQG1QRrxGBFwOrDZUqT-spL0G67LMtpP74tEqBoRqGGUxAtgF92I0a7KUaxBdi13ZN8bOsgEa3qNe_FpcZO2U2Zx2aI6JOQiSXM9-q4VU6STo/s320/07.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>In the end it took me three days to reach the Atlantic ocean. Nothing basically interesting happened in that time. Nobody chased me with pitchforks and hoes... This one needs an explanation. While in Asturias we had a very unpleasant meeting with a certain person (read "a piece of shit") from a Balkan country, codenamed "Experiment V". Well, the piece of shit kept explaining how Galicians are primitive tribal mentally underdeveloped persons because had had troubles everywhere in Galicia. He actually told us that once when he was trekking people from a village nearby came to chase him away with forks and other farming tools. I believed him. Completely and totally. Because that's what happened to him in Asturias also. He was chased away, not with forks, but with scorn. Shit persons are not welcome anywhere. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcUuDNvSi4TdtyvKw8mxHqQcqii56PQTNeVa3dXQV8074HvWyG6YQYT2TwE2YO07LQ2fQ1bDyqLR8yTs96zi-PVkcyCGO7RdU_i9J3XdrY5CHowGD6xT3LJoII90oJ59PmGZcgmqxpUR7i/s1000/09.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcUuDNvSi4TdtyvKw8mxHqQcqii56PQTNeVa3dXQV8074HvWyG6YQYT2TwE2YO07LQ2fQ1bDyqLR8yTs96zi-PVkcyCGO7RdU_i9J3XdrY5CHowGD6xT3LJoII90oJ59PmGZcgmqxpUR7i/s320/09.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibh48wyJYQLOmVIbMbCioqE0hUFRrGv2WsVNOfR9xqyQ8SbwcI8zYBRUgGf8xAJPxIT9WGRyP3jE4tuZpdFo5H3HY1FNbr9ZBAsZONUL4sVp9jw-6HbqCoRKXwj9RU9VYBPiWq_2cEmSZV/s1000/08.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibh48wyJYQLOmVIbMbCioqE0hUFRrGv2WsVNOfR9xqyQ8SbwcI8zYBRUgGf8xAJPxIT9WGRyP3jE4tuZpdFo5H3HY1FNbr9ZBAsZONUL4sVp9jw-6HbqCoRKXwj9RU9VYBPiWq_2cEmSZV/s320/08.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilXwnyCrp6yKYTkwPzAZIJCdpuHutsc0nBc1pbE1f-FxT-wVQcb9TJ6r3roS1e05KWwPz5Y2mlKLnqq1hqnjnm-tg5EnNOmUR4Jn1gxdTtzp4b0pJC8dpzZ9kZTgzlSVYm-wHJVg9brB1D/s1000/10.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilXwnyCrp6yKYTkwPzAZIJCdpuHutsc0nBc1pbE1f-FxT-wVQcb9TJ6r3roS1e05KWwPz5Y2mlKLnqq1hqnjnm-tg5EnNOmUR4Jn1gxdTtzp4b0pJC8dpzZ9kZTgzlSVYm-wHJVg9brB1D/s320/10.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh31yT1pHyLEtoKybzU5fXqx-IS49brniOzcaoTsL0bbIKWiq5-_eWSHz18NQ593ugAKArIRAROpRx_b12jYg4oTf2LgQBz7kwIXgQbVKxZUccDu9JtBUn22gqCoXj3Ep79CORwGbG6kSTp/s1000/11.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh31yT1pHyLEtoKybzU5fXqx-IS49brniOzcaoTsL0bbIKWiq5-_eWSHz18NQ593ugAKArIRAROpRx_b12jYg4oTf2LgQBz7kwIXgQbVKxZUccDu9JtBUn22gqCoXj3Ep79CORwGbG6kSTp/s320/11.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHfz5btGH0ugyRCs3PIY715vLPRgXGSwnEDgia_gFvYW7hyMzLmOlC9qEzBmMDpqgbL92pHNGiP-gwKjf4Z7qiH5IrI84m7dUtjdL6JAGbcqm1sh81LXjYPfEFJFe8aXDKX9MqCzFwPJiA/s1000/12.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHfz5btGH0ugyRCs3PIY715vLPRgXGSwnEDgia_gFvYW7hyMzLmOlC9qEzBmMDpqgbL92pHNGiP-gwKjf4Z7qiH5IrI84m7dUtjdL6JAGbcqm1sh81LXjYPfEFJFe8aXDKX9MqCzFwPJiA/s320/12.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFNaPRvQkIdIAcsy3vU57Rmfnsga_eJ-4daLSlJD_jKElrrpnUEQBHcWnrCoAdPxGiPZ_Cx2gVLN5KwVZSsI6YW_ZKd5dFPdVgc1CUUBbmaRJyokLW4SSoQu8gjEA5rxDo96GMTsy0uS50/s1000/13.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFNaPRvQkIdIAcsy3vU57Rmfnsga_eJ-4daLSlJD_jKElrrpnUEQBHcWnrCoAdPxGiPZ_Cx2gVLN5KwVZSsI6YW_ZKd5dFPdVgc1CUUBbmaRJyokLW4SSoQu8gjEA5rxDo96GMTsy0uS50/s320/13.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />The only mentionable feeling is that when I finally reached A Guarda and had a good look on the open ocean I felt elated like I didn't in a long time. I can't explain why but I felt exactly the same like I did twelve or thirteen years ago (fuck this time that flies by) on the island of Tokunoshima, on my first trip to the Mushiroze beach. The wind, the waves, the rocks. I felt like I belong there. And nowhere. Because nothing really matters.<br /><p><br /></p>Daghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033319316830075128noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8321776119591740869.post-75248055581567366702020-04-27T19:58:00.003+02:002021-08-30T19:40:33.277+02:00Viruses, Heisenberg and Zen. Being a Sheep.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Writing, even knowing that those concerned give jack shit about what I think. That's probably because they simply don't want to think, or maybe they can't think at all. I'm talking about believers in conspiracies, ignorers of science and destroyers of common sense.<br />Statement: I'm a sheep. I'm proud of being a sheep. Why? Because the modern definition of a human sheep is as follows: A human sheep doesn't believe in fake news. A human sheep believes only in verified facts. A human sheep will question claims without source. A human sheep will measure not how possible but how probable is some claim without source. A human sheep will rather trust a scientist than a John Doe who can't spell "science". Last but not least, a human sheep will never follow any shitty populist politician.<br />So please, feel fre to call me a sheep. I'm proud of it.<br />Why now?<br />Becuse the time is ripe, the morons are having a race to show who is dumber than dumb. Take an example, from one of my Facebook friends, no names here... He is 100% sure the Covid 19 pandemic is a hoax, he did his research on the web. He knows it so he keeps posting it. But guess what? Every third or fourth post is about who made the Covid 19 virus and who is spreading it across the world to kill (or reduce the number) humanity. OK, which one? Both, of course, everything becomes reality if you believe in it, it's just me, the sheep, who can't understand it. (Guess who, it's Bill Gates that made the virus that doesn't exist, that was 2 weeks ago. Last week was Trump...)<br />Another person is cursing daily the government for the enforced quarantine since there is absolutely no viruses, it's all a "social experiment". Sure, I can agree on the "experiment", I'm dead sure that analysts of all possible government services are studying the effects to see how far could they go... but that's all. So, no virus, the guy starts making fun of Americans who are protesting confinement measures, saying how stupid can they be, do they all want to die etc..<br />Yes, I know, what else can I expect from people who think that the North Korean dinasty of dictators is better than the US presidents (sure, many of them deserve to burn in hell, but the Kim dinasty belongs a few circles lower).<br />And why do I think that I'm right and they are wrong?<br />First of all, I'm very rarely absolutely sure of something - I mean it IS possible that tomorrow the sun will NOT rise. But how probable or plausible is that? Not enough to influence my life in any way. So yes, it's possible that we are living a moment in the wettest dreams of a conspiracist, but how probable is that? <br />Let's try what we need to make it real:<br />1. Most of the leaders and majorities of parliaments are part of the conspiracy (they always were).<br />2. The scientific world is part of the conspiracy (it always was).<br />3. The media are part of the conspiracy (they always were).<br />4. The police and military are part of the conspiracy (they always were).<br />5. All medical staff is part of the conspiracy (they always were)<br />6. I will not mention alien reptilians, illuminatis, zion communists etc... They belong to fairy tales, but you can probably add someone more plausible...<br />Now, let's put aside the coordination needed to keep this up, with so many people actively involved in a conspiracy, let's simply think about the number of people involved in it. It's not milions but bilions. What a shitty conspiracy can this be? Against who? Coming from personal experience with psychotic belivers in conspiracy - they were always the target, they still are. Self important beings, keepers of the only truth.. Hey, which one? This pandemic is real because THEY want to kill us? Or this pandemic is made up to confine us? Both, of course, it's me, the sheep, that can't understand something simple as this (someone starting to feel a bit of pride in being called a sheep?). <br />The conclusion: Schrödinger was an asshole. Because of his stupid box with a cat in it. He choose a box and a cat as symbols for quantum level and quanta, as symbols for quantic superpositioning of possibilities. Now every moron able to copy-paste "Schrödinger" keeps shouting in my ears how we are living simultaneously on different planes of reality; it's me, the sheep, that can't see it.<br />Ever heard of Heisenberg's car? No, of course not, I just made it up. Can you imagine Heisenberg saying that when you drive a car, you check the speed and you don't know where you are or where you're going... Then you look out the side window and you know where you are but not how fast you're going nor where you're going... and when you finally look at the road in front you finally know where you're going but not how fast nor you know where you are. (It could probably happen if you drive high on some illegal stuff - don't try it.)<br />Schrödinger is OK for quantum scientists. Also good for fiction or jokes. Until someone makes properly the rumored "quantum supercomputer", the quanta will not affect my life. Not yours.<br />Seung Sahn, the great zen master from Korea, once said: "We can argue about the color of that rock as long as we wish since to me it looks whiteish and to you blackish. To the rock it doesn't matter, it will stay gray."<br /></div>
Daghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033319316830075128noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8321776119591740869.post-91948042956691747192019-01-22T16:42:00.000+01:002019-01-22T16:44:52.672+01:00Ten Years On The Road<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A rough and very conservative estimate is 120 000 km by air, sea and land. After 10 years I have the 4th backpack, 5th laptop and 3rd camera. Uncountable shoes and clothes came and went; from the start only three items survived to this day: the sleeping bag, a belt from my late father and the hair trimmer/shaver.<br />
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I was bitten by a Korean and two Californian dogs; by a bullet ant and dozens of green tree ants; by gazillions of mosquitos and bedbugs. In return I tried to eat silkworms and dogs, I found both disgusting. But the kangaroo was good.<br />
I drunk soju, makkoli, shochu, umeshu, Ozzie moonshine and lots lots of beer everywhere. I drank Italian wine, French wine, Spanish wine, Californian wine, Australian wine and, unfortunately, also Korean wine. That was a bad idea. But the persimmon wine was good.<br />
I saw pythons, fugu blowfish, crocodiles (from far far away), cassowaries, redback spiders, bullet ants, red-bellied black snakes, roadrunners, coyotes, wallabies and kangaroos, habu snakes, iguanas, ryukyu wild boars.<br />
I harvested sugarcane, rice and marijuana; picked Korean radish, cabbage, onions, persimmon, strawberries, lemons, olives, potatoes and sweet potatoes.<br />
I built houses of brick, stone, wood or cob; built gudeuls (floor heating), ovens and stoves; dry walls, roads and riverbanks.<br />
I've been with buddhists, catholics, protestants, muslims and all kinds of newagers. I turned from radical atheist to radical anti-theist.<br />
I've been with anarchists, communists, populists and right wingers. Occasionally I had better time with rightists than with leftists, but my political view went further in the unexplored realms of the extreme left.<br />
I met people of all possible skin colorations and found out that stupidity is extremely politically correct, equally distributed regardless of race, gender, sexual orientation or age.<br />
I saw deserts and oceans, mountains and coral reefs, volcanos and jungles, rice fields and vineyards, crazy skylines and soothing sunsets.<br />
There are days I feel tired and sick of it all; but the day ends, a new one starts and I feel ready to go, to a new place, see a new face, make a new friend, drink another beer.<br />
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Daghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033319316830075128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8321776119591740869.post-19066652869783235792018-07-02T15:55:00.001+02:002018-07-02T15:55:33.593+02:00En Provance<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Rooting for the brewer to spoil beer... sounds improbable if not impossible, but it's true.<br />
The past year I spent in Italy, mostly on Sicily with a summer trip to Tuscany. Some bad experiences, lots of good ones, but overall nothing really worth posting. And I felt pretty lazy, too. In winter ramon joined me in Italy and in early June we left for France. A three day train travel with the slowest (and cheapest) regional trains and we finally arrived to our destination, Miramas, close to Marseille.Domain de Sulauze, a winery and brewery owned by Karina (Brazilian) and Guillame (French), an amazingly friendly couple. The property is more like a small settlement with a bunch of families living here, most of them working for the Domain, and a completely separated house for the woofers, at times there's even 10 of us. There's Costarican and French beauties, an American student that doesn't seem to know where his head and ass are attached and there's German "Gestapo" - she wants to indoctrinate "ordnung und disziplin" to everyone, deciding when, who and what music can be played, when to go to sleep, what to eat... I already sent her to hell twice but she's totally oblivious to it. Anyway, in a week she'll be gone.<br />
The brewers... Looks like they love to experiment (or they just don't know their trade, who cares) and a lot of kegs ends being filled with spoiled beer. Sometimes the beer tastes awful, sometimes it has just a slightly more soury taste but in any case it can't be sold. And so all the kegs like that end on the terrace of the wwoofer's house to be consumed. With great pleasure.<br />
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Daghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033319316830075128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8321776119591740869.post-17366295768865136442017-04-16T19:08:00.001+02:002017-04-16T19:08:11.666+02:00Non Olet!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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If I'm correct it was the Roman Emperor Vespasianus who said Non olet (It doesn't stink), referring to the profit he was making from the taxation of public toilets (in Italian the expression vespasiano means a pay-toilet, but even most Italians don't know it).<br />
I had nothing to do with public toilets (and even less with money, too bad), but it was what I was thinking during this walk. I went again to Noto Antica and this time I descended into the gorge on the southwest side. What about the smell? Well, I was happy that there was no smell since I visited the ancient tanneries of the city. After 400 years there really was no smell and I wasn't curious at all how it smelled when the tanneries were active. There's another history that came to mind, that of William the Bastard. Easy to check on the web, but I'm writing this offline and when I'm online I'm very limited so I won't check and if I'm wrong, I'm wrong. If I'm right my memory still works. William's mother was supposedly the daughter of a tanner and during the siege of don't-know-which-city the brave (and foolish) citizens hung raw skins on the city walls and started making fun of William, shouting <i>Work for the tanner! </i>When they were defeated William ordered every man to be dismembered (literally: chopped legs and arms) and thrown from the same walls where the skins were hanging.Moral: never mock a Bastard.<br />
The gorge with the tanneries.<br />
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Most of the path was carved in bedrock.<br />
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And the tanneries are in man made caves.<br />
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Even without the interesting tanneries the walk was worth a bit of sweat as you can see from this pictures.<br />
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And it's another festivity for a cannibalistic religion which, most of all, loves sacrifices. Well, instead of some <i>agnus dei</i> I opted for some corn and greens - polenta and wild herbs. No, I'm not saying this as some go-vegan commercial, I actually wanted to offer a bloody sacrifice myself after seeing that crap Berlusconi making a big fuss about his "adoption" of 5 lambs to save them from slaughter. Hell, fuck I know the lambs have nothing to do with it, it was just an instinctive reaction to anything politicians do or say.<br />
You still believe in democracy, religious freedom and all the other crap that comes with it? I pity you, but at the same time I honestly envy you.<br />
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Daghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033319316830075128noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8321776119591740869.post-79380968809731066822017-04-10T15:53:00.002+02:002017-04-10T15:56:14.223+02:00A Visit to Noto Antica<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Yesterday, finally, I took the time for a walk to the ruins of the ancient city of Noto, now a sort of archaeological park - sort of because the place is left to itself, crisscrossed with motocross trails, church ruins used to shelter sheep during bad weather and who knows what more that I didn't notice.<br />
It took me one hour, all uphill, to reach the eastern city limits with a nice view of the Ionian sea. And then... piles of rocks. I like piles of rocks. I mean real piles, not neatly ordered like in the China wall or the pyramids or some huge fucking cathedral. You know, the spots where hordes of so called humans start to go "oh" and "ah" and "superb" and "magnificent"... usually there I can just think how many had to die and how many died of starvation just that some jerk is now "oh-ed" and "ah-ed" by idiots. The piles I like make me smile, thinking something nasty. Like they built something like twenty churches and monasteries to the glory of some supreme being, who in return, took a few seconds of his precious time and shook a bit the ground. And turned everything into piles of rocks. And shed some more blood, but that's the usual way that supreme beings are well known for.<br />
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It was quite a huge place for the time. I climbed the tower of the Palazzo Reale near the main - west - gate and took this picture, the arrow is pointing at the monastery on the cliff on the eastern side. All this bush was the Noto Antica.<br />
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Part of the building stones was moved 7 kilometers away, to where the current Noto is, to build some more cathedrals and churches. Some more was looted in the past decades to build country houses and villas in the surrounding areas. And yet so many interesting stuff still lies there around.<br />
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Daghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033319316830075128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8321776119591740869.post-37382345744810285632017-03-16T16:41:00.002+01:002017-03-16T16:44:51.601+01:00Fragments<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span lang="en-US">Same
place, nothing going on... well, nothing spectacula</span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span lang="en-US">r, at least. Just
to make a post I started collecting short thoughts...</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span lang="en-US" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Weather
Report</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span lang="en-US" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I
was told here that wearing only a shirt on the New Year's Eve is not
unusual, but are more common the years when you have to put a light
jacket on, too. Unless I'm here. Read it on the newspaper, it was the
coldest (and wettest) winter in the last 25 years. Snow all over
Sicily, here luckily just for a few hours. And temperatures below
zero only for 3 or 4 days. In mid February... 20 C with noon peaks
over 25. But during night even today, mid March, we have one digit
temperatures. To make it worse the sunshine hits the front of this
house around 10AM - great for summer, but at the moment is driving me
crazy. When I wake up I have to put on winter clothes and start the
fire in the stove.and then I take an hour or more for my morning
coffees before I venture out. Around 9AM the air is breathable and I
can chop some wood for warming up. Then the peeling starts until
before lunch I'm only in my Tshirt. Soon after lunch the process is
reversed and it ends with the fire for a cozy evening. This was just
theory - most of the days I'm too lazy or too busy to follow the
proper "dress code" and I'm catching a cold every third
day. Luckily Giancarlo provides me with ginger as I wish so I can
heal me in a single night.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span lang="en-US" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The
Evangelion Messiah</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span lang="en-US">That
would be me, of course.In the last four months I spent here I wasn't
really all alone all the time and I'm not talking about the drinking
excesses with Giancarlo and his friends. There were two couples of
returning wwoofers who came back for a short visit. Both couples were
curious as to what do I do in the evenings here, all alone. </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span lang="en-US"><i>"Well,
mostly I drink and when I don't I watch my animated Japanese series."</i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span lang="en-US">
Luckily in Italy the otaku culture is still quite popular and I'm not
looked at as some brainless freak. And then comes, always, The
Question: Which is my favorite anime? And The Answer, always, is: "
It is, was and will be Evangelion!" And then we watched it
together. Twice in 4 months to add to al least 7 times before...
well, I'm buying a beer to everyone who watched EVA more times than I
did!</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Rue</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Rue
is growing wild on the property. When I found some bushes I asked
Giancarlo why he's not putting in the grappa. He looked at me as if
something was wrong with my brain. But his friend Enzo was more
interested in such a "crazy experiment". So I did it and
hid the bottle for a month. Now Giancarlo is a grappa drinker (he was
never keen on it before) and Enzo regards me as his best buddy.
Thinking of it, I'll have soon to go to pick some fresh rue, the old
is washed white with all the refills done...</span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqbcfc_bhX1iNBa58a2uwfDW6OuMFwiAKL7-JWSIn7fUseGqYdYIwm-sT7XvP_JD2a9_q9WzfcVTCfTf1GkcOrdHuNLKmo8MsYkV-eybtAR-l9YQ9xSktKp65o2S3hsU_E_L3KlV9CpzLx/s1600/Photo0231.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqbcfc_bhX1iNBa58a2uwfDW6OuMFwiAKL7-JWSIn7fUseGqYdYIwm-sT7XvP_JD2a9_q9WzfcVTCfTf1GkcOrdHuNLKmo8MsYkV-eybtAR-l9YQ9xSktKp65o2S3hsU_E_L3KlV9CpzLx/s320/Photo0231.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Lemons</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Giancarlo
gave me an amazing gift when I told him that I'm flat broke. He gave
me all his lemons - they were anyway fated to rot. I had to pick them
and he took them to a local dealer. A bit more then 500 kilos at 30
cents per kilo. I'm not rich, but I sure am grateful.</span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGp8C-j5AsNxw2u_XV-WIGC5F4tRwPolVUoryFKhugH1U1tUCSCCylUTE9w14UAF-T0Vw4OlyyNgSYzg4Aqlz3riScn2uIJpsA6a18FUeu1eiVqXBuL1EtPDQT275wUBIGO9GYwrjNuKhp/s1600/Photo0242.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGp8C-j5AsNxw2u_XV-WIGC5F4tRwPolVUoryFKhugH1U1tUCSCCylUTE9w14UAF-T0Vw4OlyyNgSYzg4Aqlz3riScn2uIJpsA6a18FUeu1eiVqXBuL1EtPDQT275wUBIGO9GYwrjNuKhp/s320/Photo0242.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Booze</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Not
a single beer since the beginning of November.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Smoking</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I
have to save money so I smoke mostly joints. Tobacco costs. I got a
bag full of weed for free.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Language</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">It's
not that difficult to understand Sicilian unless they swallow half of
the word. A strong Spanish influence, like </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US"><i>muliera
</i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">for
</span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US"><i>moglie
</i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">
or </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US"><i>travaglio
</i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">for
</span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US"><i>lavoro</i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">.
As for joke I found some similarities with Istrian because here
they've never heard of red wine - they only make black wine. And
white, too, similar to </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US"><i>malvasia</i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">,
14%, great to mix with water. The folks I met all speak proper
Italian with me, but between them they easily slip into dialect and
mostly I can follow them. Once they asked me if I could understand
what were they talking of. Yes, almost 80% of the words and basically
all of the meaning of the conversation. "You're amazing,"
was Enzo quick on the comment, "I don't understand half of what
I'm saying..."</span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 0; widows: 0;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 0; widows: 0;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2jogz3sFlW8UM1LG_2NwEC9UZZjnUIcH7WxpNaAE8vhjhHTdnaUV24Xe72T8wQ8BBlu8VH3pQFQL8OXlGK3MNbbhN_aEoSD5tfBQip7H8TUecUoWp5a1gNSV1hX7zkvrqtBRZXY2ogxX5/s1600/Photo0244.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2jogz3sFlW8UM1LG_2NwEC9UZZjnUIcH7WxpNaAE8vhjhHTdnaUV24Xe72T8wQ8BBlu8VH3pQFQL8OXlGK3MNbbhN_aEoSD5tfBQip7H8TUecUoWp5a1gNSV1hX7zkvrqtBRZXY2ogxX5/s320/Photo0244.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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Daghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033319316830075128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8321776119591740869.post-32180416706798580402017-01-13T14:03:00.003+01:002017-01-13T14:05:07.880+01:00Snow And Happy B-Day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Still in the same place - more than 2 months now. A good thing about EU, I don't have to check the calendar when my tourist visa expires, so I'm taking my time.<br />
Believe it or not, this winter is snowing even in Sicily. Could that be just because I came here to pass a cozy winter? It wouldn't surprise me. Still, luck is on my side. Here I saw snow just for a few seconds, it was melting the second it touched the ground. And it was a sunny day. Weird weather.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM6bjzyyeCzIXhbquqFkha59jHQC9lUq_dMOYJlkIgisWH42IN0UTzUXsO4-eNaObTNg5tjN3u0xmdTyUZ4a948VWSSVKI8sjlHnxVDFpRgOuNmsuB7Pll1AA7SVYa3lFq_z9H83Rzx-3n/s1600/Photo0156.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM6bjzyyeCzIXhbquqFkha59jHQC9lUq_dMOYJlkIgisWH42IN0UTzUXsO4-eNaObTNg5tjN3u0xmdTyUZ4a948VWSSVKI8sjlHnxVDFpRgOuNmsuB7Pll1AA7SVYa3lFq_z9H83Rzx-3n/s320/Photo0156.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">But in other parts of the island is much much worse, I see in old newspapers that the snow is coming down properly, caused by some cold winds coming from Russia. Another plot by Putin, I guess. Not that I care.</span></div>
More important was my B-day. Since Giancarlo had to have a reunion with his two best mates, he decided to have it on my birthday.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHXp0Dxf4fnDxuChZlFHmlvGvzaxd_J0sg_8gPaxl9S1hLZ9O5AR1nFr4RzSSiwRWKZ7SbnWrJNnArmWTGZ2h0_4lC-t_PDj8KJTIevH4YbtlHUmnoY6USXmQwcqgYvmb9NPkcFLXOZhsD/s1600/Photo0160.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHXp0Dxf4fnDxuChZlFHmlvGvzaxd_J0sg_8gPaxl9S1hLZ9O5AR1nFr4RzSSiwRWKZ7SbnWrJNnArmWTGZ2h0_4lC-t_PDj8KJTIevH4YbtlHUmnoY6USXmQwcqgYvmb9NPkcFLXOZhsD/s320/Photo0160.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2XxtQM3eGGKA-J-mIiSh2LHynhg9f93r5jHJYVgtcmgYJJE1Dyiv7BKhgkIhkQu3neqDWYMHOQetVCJZTa9wk5rmOc2hTC5rihpq6TBQZNhsl4QnPkqTRuH7JwRC27dywX1oRb2_SZdsz/s1600/Photo0161.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2XxtQM3eGGKA-J-mIiSh2LHynhg9f93r5jHJYVgtcmgYJJE1Dyiv7BKhgkIhkQu3neqDWYMHOQetVCJZTa9wk5rmOc2hTC5rihpq6TBQZNhsl4QnPkqTRuH7JwRC27dywX1oRb2_SZdsz/s320/Photo0161.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I set everything in the morning and then slowly drank my wine, till Giancarlo, his son and his friends came.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFN5AIBr8VBnlSffRSEWYrTetkbuyErb1G11WDnSDd-trIr_h2KChK_LvjCpnPRuFxTfAuz0ndMsFx15bq2pnhVQ0ABGvm53WX-x3OGpzpX6GV5lsndEFgbkkTF6446RhSC7Y6EGrmTjL1/s1600/Photo0162.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFN5AIBr8VBnlSffRSEWYrTetkbuyErb1G11WDnSDd-trIr_h2KChK_LvjCpnPRuFxTfAuz0ndMsFx15bq2pnhVQ0ABGvm53WX-x3OGpzpX6GV5lsndEFgbkkTF6446RhSC7Y6EGrmTjL1/s320/Photo0162.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Giancarlo's son Corrado enjoying the sun.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXBtzBYiIRZdowEo_S3O60Sqhh3YxVbOanbZvjzKktaWWVvcW1TiMjYCeuoHQO8kxJBTjO_9-d8elKt_9763ymb9BJ483UX-iwBM6zvIgAapNmovnY5M-hCK9itIKoyWDJHmIFHasrJfff/s1600/Photo0164.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXBtzBYiIRZdowEo_S3O60Sqhh3YxVbOanbZvjzKktaWWVvcW1TiMjYCeuoHQO8kxJBTjO_9-d8elKt_9763ymb9BJ483UX-iwBM6zvIgAapNmovnY5M-hCK9itIKoyWDJHmIFHasrJfff/s320/Photo0164.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Some of the goodies that came with them.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga5Yh6_JQUBfdjy3ahQMVCOfp1HVg4ruiW9y9JH2OU3hGMDHjcNs7enXr39EhGwK24OYe_Jtw3_UVwbS57aMsF4G0jpM4-ebDIJMD5rYR0XQYtmHUpxwpDjj-turEKKUnNMlO1XMcygQNy/s1600/Photo0165.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga5Yh6_JQUBfdjy3ahQMVCOfp1HVg4ruiW9y9JH2OU3hGMDHjcNs7enXr39EhGwK24OYe_Jtw3_UVwbS57aMsF4G0jpM4-ebDIJMD5rYR0XQYtmHUpxwpDjj-turEKKUnNMlO1XMcygQNy/s320/Photo0165.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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Enzo is making an oranges - onions salad....<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO8nfAiFnUTZnGAM8hys_dwksDezOQGvHCQTlbfhizOU-yffF1ZpQueou14Ffqrj1-hl8ddGyLpVgnsJI9JmGVJV0pqZd-UBdCRR6r0BIp6_ctNR8qV5yka30n2Ed0F50ymi3VhgLq1gGU/s1600/Photo0167.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO8nfAiFnUTZnGAM8hys_dwksDezOQGvHCQTlbfhizOU-yffF1ZpQueou14Ffqrj1-hl8ddGyLpVgnsJI9JmGVJV0pqZd-UBdCRR6r0BIp6_ctNR8qV5yka30n2Ed0F50ymi3VhgLq1gGU/s320/Photo0167.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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... and he also made the artichokes....<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8qf4WtkmonJTflZht4FbgjLF2d8KLqR3JFEPN-8IOtM8oCwuEdWdl6hSugGaFp-0pPRpLTclUNVVL_rMuh8JGPonDb1qFbTZ3hmD4nCVGouU8SCaq137mY0HfcLwc8jMb4zyC7ZAi7onh/s1600/Photo0168.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8qf4WtkmonJTflZht4FbgjLF2d8KLqR3JFEPN-8IOtM8oCwuEdWdl6hSugGaFp-0pPRpLTclUNVVL_rMuh8JGPonDb1qFbTZ3hmD4nCVGouU8SCaq137mY0HfcLwc8jMb4zyC7ZAi7onh/s320/Photo0168.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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... and he brought some botarga (tuna eggs) - but I made the spaghetti with botarga!<br />
Then it was time for the cake. It reminded me of an out-of-season birthday I had in Japan, when together with my son we had a cake made especially for otakus, with a beautiful picture of EVA 01 on it. As the Japanese cake was a feast for the eyes, the Sicilian was for my tastebuds (with all respect for the Japanese bakers!). It was a classic cassata made with ricotta. Mind me, noit cottage cheese. Ricotta. I don't give a shit what dictionaries or guugle translators say. It just isn't the same.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg52yHu1jAjh4tjNRPmyrLgf_5P4cljsQeh2e9Q2pYYwFE4vqZeSJ2pX6zMcqtFWAha_zZ_faJ_UrqC3rMaCO5xl5lTHX1GR_05v9l8GoQ-bNJve5Edfc_Jma9vM7SH6pz7Gfo5sHeAW9km/s1600/Photo0171.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg52yHu1jAjh4tjNRPmyrLgf_5P4cljsQeh2e9Q2pYYwFE4vqZeSJ2pX6zMcqtFWAha_zZ_faJ_UrqC3rMaCO5xl5lTHX1GR_05v9l8GoQ-bNJve5Edfc_Jma9vM7SH6pz7Gfo5sHeAW9km/s320/Photo0171.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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In the late afternoon it started to get chilly (= fucking cold), so we moved inside even the barbecue and opened some grappa, which helped us to breathe all the smoke.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMroIBRudA7_NgYy2gSgu1mMeCcWA2zP0Jc7U-CEY5xVkqZZGLAy0UH1idPZod9dkNYA87eRrAfbmpPsHiO2eki8ZT8l3-lT0OYBnsY3wtwDknkL8ZhL66cn6GAfJQuEic-fvO8FmBtk86/s1600/Photo0172.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMroIBRudA7_NgYy2gSgu1mMeCcWA2zP0Jc7U-CEY5xVkqZZGLAy0UH1idPZod9dkNYA87eRrAfbmpPsHiO2eki8ZT8l3-lT0OYBnsY3wtwDknkL8ZhL66cn6GAfJQuEic-fvO8FmBtk86/s320/Photo0172.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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Over and out. Hope you all had a nice Xmass and NY. Have no clue when I'm online again.<br />
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Daghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033319316830075128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8321776119591740869.post-26384567731962964132016-12-04T12:30:00.002+01:002016-12-04T12:30:37.883+01:00Noto, Part 2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Nothing new under the sun... or, under the clouds, I should say. There were no news from me since we had few weeks of bad weather and every time I wanted to take the bike to Noto for some free wifi it started raining. Same yesterday, but this morning I woke up to a beautiful sunny day, so here I am. Nothing much going on, just trying to learn Sicilian dialect - I already mastered the Sicilian cuisine. Not a big deal, you just have to know the correct prayers.... yes, prayers. It was here that I first heard that you "add one Ave Maria of olive oil"... which means you continue to pour oil as long as it takes to say the complete Ave Maria...<br />
Nothing more to say. I'm staying here till Xmass or NY or my birthday, will see. And a few pics from when the weather is nice.<br />
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Daghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033319316830075128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8321776119591740869.post-18136050427034576362016-11-13T12:32:00.000+01:002016-11-13T12:32:11.416+01:00Noto<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Two weeks ago I left the city of Archimedes, Siracusa, for a short hike. Since then I'm off the grid. The first four days on the road, the rest wwoofing. But let's proceed in order.<br />
I had a good breakfast and left the LOL hostel late in the morning, two Sundays ago. The weather was perfect: cloudy with a friendly wind, the temperature about 18 C. Went west in the direction of Canicattini Bagni. following the regional road, and in the late afternoon, just before coming in Canicattini, I left the road and started back east. Weird? Not at all, since my goal was... south. I had plenty of time and this way I could do some proper hiking in the wild, following the canyon of the Cassibile stream, which happened on day two.<br />
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I was back on the coast before noon of the second day, near Fontane Bianche and I walked south by the sea till Calabernardo.<br />
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Then it was just a short stroll, again west, till Noto.<br />
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In noto I met my wwoof hosts, Vittoria and Juan Carlos (Giancarlo, as they call him here), and they took me to their farm some 7km from the town. It's an isolated place, no internet and lousy phone signal, but with two dogs and four cats. Vittoria and Giancarlo live in the town, since they have to take care of his 97 yers old father, so I'm here alone most of the time. A lot of things to do, around the house, in the orchards, at the spring... but mostly, it's italian way of life - we eat, then we eat a bit more, then we have a rest, some more food, a coffee... oh, how time flies, it's already time for a glass of wine or two....<br />
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Daghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033319316830075128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8321776119591740869.post-89290462905112696852016-10-29T22:20:00.001+02:002016-10-29T22:25:48.980+02:00Another Day at the Museum<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The Leonardo Museum, this time. Crappy weather today again.<br />
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Went in a search for a bookstore to buy me a good map, can't rely on g++gle maps once I'm in the wild, then literally stumbled on the Leonardo Museum on Ortigia island. Well, it's nothing flashy, but to me it was quite amazing. I always knew da Vinci was a genius, a genius and a genius... maybe he was a genius, too. But I was never that much interested in his works to study it, so I was surprised to see some stuff I've never heard of it before. Mostly are just scale models, built by <span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "muli"; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased !important; filter: none !important; text-rendering: optimizeLegibility;">Niccolai Artisans </b></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "muli"; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased !important; filter: none !important; text-rendering: optimizeLegibility;">of Florence</b><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased !important; filter: none !important; text-rendering: optimizeLegibility;">,</span></span> using only materials available at the age of da Vinci. This one was a shock.</div>
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As I learned there's still a dispute about the "bicycle of Leonardo", the page with its drawing in one of the many "da Vinci Codes" is unanimously recognized a <i>fake, </i>but very possibly being a copy been made by one of his pupils. Why would it be plausible? because there's no fail that Leonardo knew all about chain transmission of the movement. Built from a verified drawing.<br />
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Warfare. The first tank, human powered, ever designed, never built (as far as I know and I know little, just that some 100 years later the first armored <i>ship</i> was built in Korea). This one I would really love to see in full scale.<br />
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There was a model of a <i>"perpetuum mobile non existens"</i> and I didn't want to take a picture of it. Too many people would be more than willing to point at it and start drooling the like <i>he was one of the zionist communist reptilian aliens that live in the hollow Earth and THEY</i><i> killed him at the tender age of almost 70</i><i> to not give humanity free power from perpetuum mobiles </i>... That's stupid folks for you (=average person), when confronted with someone clever, the only way out is to demonize him. Or her. OK, never mind, about the <i>perpetuum</i>. Leonardo had no clue about gravity, but he sure knew what friction is, so he used bearings even in the unpictured <i>perpetuum. </i>Yep, he invented the bearings.<br />
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With whom would you associate this boat, with Mark Twain or with Steamboat Willie? Wrong, with Leonardo da Vinci!<br />
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And if you fall of that boat...<br />
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Don't know the proper name, we used to call this a <i>self grip</i>, the heavier the load the stronger the hold. Guess who invented it...<br />
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Fans of opera, drama and concerts... another guess, who invented the spotlight? Or <i>reflector</i>, as it was called at the time. Dude made some good dough from famous stages at the time.<br />
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Back to real life... a water powered saw. If there was something like patenting at his time, his descendants would own the world. WAIT! They already do, since he... <i>he was one of the zionist communist reptilian aliens that live in the hollow Earth</i><br />
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A dream to never come true.<br />
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A dream that came true. The differential gear. Actually this one blasted me much more than the bicycle, now that I think about it. It's just so unobtrusive as invention...<br />
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Infinity screw to lift weights...<br />
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Another infinity screw to transform circular motion to linear...<br />
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Lift with <i>automatic stop</i><br />
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And a way of transmission I just can't remember the name - it's a proper anvil and a heavy sledgehammer, but turning the handle is a piece of cake (they put a piece of felt on the anvil, if every visitor is as keen as me the stuff would probably go crazy)<br />
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Another bad picture, but you'll have to get used to them. Blame the fucking Mexicans who stole my camera. A precious gift from my son. I hope they will die from diarrhea. No, I hope they already died. Never mind, just to make clear I'm still a bit fucked up. OK, yes, it's a bridge. yes, it's just a model, the sticks about 50 cm long. They are NOT glued, NOT screwed, NOT nailed, NOT tied. The joints are just carved to keep the "logs" in place, it's the weight added that makes it really stable. In the workshop you can build one and feeble as it may look I was able to step on it withot breaking it apart.<br />
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Leonardo wasn't a bunch of roses. He invented the log-arched-bridge for <i>blietzkrieg</i>. Contrary to the warfare logic of his time ( yeah, I know, <i>he was one of the zionist communist aliens that live in the hollow Earth</i>) he believed in sneak and swift attacks. And he believed in the value of human life, he did think of a lifebelt for sailors, did'd he? Or an armored "vehicle".... Also for warfare he made the "extendible ladder" as a siege weapon, so well balanced that it couldn't be pushed away from the city walls...<br />
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Hmmm.. since I'm in Archimedes' city, let's drop it with Leonardo. Ever heard of <i>ostomachion</i>? It looks like a puzzle, 14 pieces of different shapes, called also <i>Ioculus Archimedeus</i>...</div>
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....always treated as a sort of game, but it could have been a <i>tool</i> of Archimedes for the combinatory calculus and the basis for his geometrical and mathematical theories. But... we do know he...<span style="text-align: left;"> </span><i style="text-align: left;">he was one of the zionist communist aliens that live in the hollow Earth</i></div>
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Daghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033319316830075128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8321776119591740869.post-18076587172833926722016-10-28T10:47:00.002+02:002016-10-28T10:47:29.577+02:00Sicily!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I promised myself that I would be posting a bit more frequently... if there will be something interesting to write about. So I decided to make notes regularly, of any kind of curiosities... and I started this note as soon the train left the Trieste station. I bought the ticket to Rome online and I wanted to see what's the difference in price (I wouldn't be surprised to realize that I actually paid more online than at the ticket machine). I touched the screen of the vending machine and the thing greeted me: "Beware of pickpockets!" And, after all, I was lucky, for once. The online ticket was less than half of the station price. Cool, I boarded the train, car number 3, seat 67. Weird.. the car has only 65 seats... AND my ticket is not valid. Sounds familiar? Well, this time it was my fault - I printed the wrong part of the ticket, some code number is missing. <i>Is that a problem?</i> Well, it should be... but hell, who cares, have a nice trip!<br />
Thank you, Trenitalia :D<br />
Well, I didn't like Rome so I immediately left for Napoli. Same there. Stopped in Salerno for a few days in a monastery...former monastery, now a funky looking hostel and I behaved as a proper tourist, walking the <i>lungomare</i> and visiting museums.<br />
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A grater from the bronze age. Why would they need a <i>cheese</i> grater if they didn't know how to make pasta? (Being it a cheese grater is just my wild imagination!)<br />
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A reminder to the right-wing traditionalists and religious morons who think that homophopbia is as old as humanity... it's not.<br />
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And it was time to leave for Sicily. My first glimpse of the island and the city of Messina.<br />
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Catania, boring. Let's move to Siracusa, the city of Archimedes. Again, a tame tourist, yesterday checked the Temple of Apollo on the Ortigia island....<br />
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... and spent all the afternoon at the archaeological park.<br />
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The Greek theater.<br />
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With strong sun in my face. It's hot here. I mean really hot.<br />
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The Ear of Dyonisos.<br />
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The Roman theater.<br />
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More than half of the paths in the park are like this, closed. The park itself is kept really badly so paying the ticket felt quite like a cheat.<br />
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And then... THIS OPPROBRIUM! No, I'm not trying to sound intellectual - I actually had to look for the translation to <i>opprobrium</i>, because the first word that cane to mind after seeing this church was the italian <i>obbrobrio </i>and I really wanted to use it.<br />
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Today is raining, a quiet morning at the LOL hostel in Siracusa. If the rain stops I'll go to the museum and one more time to the Ortigia island, I heard there's a place that makes "the best ice-cream in the world". Hopefully on Sunday the weather turns nice - I have 50 or so km trek waiting for me.</div>
Daghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033319316830075128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8321776119591740869.post-288442269282310162016-08-14T07:00:00.000+02:002016-08-14T07:01:18.064+02:00CLUSTERFUCK<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I had my share of days of hunger and of cold and wet nights when broke in all these years of my travelling. And by broke I mean literally without a penny/cent/won/yen. It was bad, sure, and during the hard times I kept cursing myself and the decision to life a life like I do. And then it passed. And now it happened again, without being my fault. Documents, money, laptop, camera - gone. Even my reading glasses. Gone from my hotel room in Tijuana.Have you ever tried to sue the wind for stealing your hat? No? Well, you should try, you'd have better chances than I had complaining to the hotel Plaza de oro management. Or any other hotel in Mexico, I'm sure. Have to warn you - I'm still bitter and angry and I still hate Mexico and the Mexicans. Yes, I admit I met nice, friendly and helpful Mexicans - just the exception to the rule, as I see it. I know I will sound a raving lunatic, like a certain presidential candidate... I don't give a fuck. You were warned. If you're too sensible to hate speech... stop now. And go fuck yourself.<br />
Let's talk about shit now. Mexicans, of course. Shit N.1 - the thief, whoever it (yes, <i>it</i>, I can't use <i>he</i> for a piece of shit) was. Shit N.2 - the receptionist. Which (again, not who) is possibly the same as shit N.1. Or at least a close friend (if shit knows what friendship is). You see, it was a "closed room" mistery, my small backpack disappeared from a locked room, without any signs of a break-in. So the thief had to have the room key. Should this be of any help to me? Get serious. After shouting in vain (not only in English, my rusted Spanish still remembers <i>hijo de puta</i> and <i>que te hodan, coño</i>) for 10 minutes I simply went to the police box that was really nearby. No, I'm not that naïve to think I was to get any kind of help from the Mexican shit police. I was right, they were just pissed of because I was interrupting their do-nothing time. Even when I explained that I really don't expect them to do a damn thing about my stolen belongings, that I only need a police report, with which I could go to the consulate... <i>No no, es muy papel, long writing mister, go to Central station for report, I don't do.</i> Shit N.3. Keept my cool, it's counterproductive to shout at uniforms, everywhere, not only in crappy Mexico. Went to the station, got my report, went back to the hotel. Taxi fare - 1200 pesos. Went to sleep, without bothering to lock the door. Nothing much valuable left, only some money in my wallet (you see, I was "wise" and was never walking around with all the money on me, in fear of being mugged on the street). Next morning, to the bus station. No sense trying to hitch out from Tijuana, too big. Funny coincidence, I thought, when I saw that the bus station is just near the Central Police, where I was the day before. Taxi fare, this time, 100 pesos. Added a mental note about a certain taxi driver, shit N.4.<br />
From here I'm gonna cut it short. Mexicali, Santa Ana, Mazatlan, Guadalajara - the only names I remember from the hitchhike to El Jefe, Mexico City. I took me a week. Luckily, a friend's father lives near MC, in Tepoztlan, and I found shelter there. I contacted my friends in Slovenia and asked for help (I needed financial support, not moral). They were more than willing to buy me a plane ticket and I went happily to Mexico City to pay a visit to the Consulate. And things just went from bad to worse.<br />
On the metro/subway/whatever you call it station of Chabacano, where I had to change the line I noticed a cyber spot with a big sign saying it's free for the passengers of the Mexico City metro lines. Wow, how cool, let's pinpoint the consulate position a bit better, now that I'm so close... <i>You have no document. You can't use our computer.</i> I'm sorry I was robbed by your Mexican friends, but that's the reason I'm asking for a little help, please, I would just like to check on googlemaps the location of.. <i>You have no document.</i> Well, do you maybe know where Avenida Alfredo Musset, somewher in Polanco... <i>You can't use our sistema.</i> I finally got it. THANK YOU VERY MUCH FOR THE TIPICAL MEXICAN WELCOMING, GO FUCK YOURSELF, YOU FUCKING STUPID MEXICAN BITCH! And I ran away, really fast, knowing I wouldn't last long after calling her a bitch, even if she was, jumped on the first train, not caring where it goes - one good point of the MC Metro is that once you're in (for 5 pesos), you're in, and you can ride all day long, as long you don't exit. Anyway, I found the Consulate quickly, just to be told that it's only a Honorary Consulate. Meaning? They don't do shit and my trouble is of no concern to them. If I need help I have to go to the Belgian Embassy. At least they gave me the directions. At the Belgian Embassy everyone was sorry for me and no, no problem for the emergency documents, after they get the green light from the Slovenia Embassy in Washington it will be a matter of minutes. <i>We just need the copy of the stolen passport, the police report, a picture and your ticket for Slovenia.</i> Er... I had the copy, the report and the picture. But no ticket, clearly. <i>No way, we can't issue a travel document since in it it will be written the exact itinerary. Get the ticket and come back when you have it. The only thing we can do in the meantime is send the scans of your papers to Washington, so when you come back everything will be ready.</i> Back to Tepoztlan.<br />
In a couple of days the ticket was bought and one day before the flight I was back at the Belgian Embassy. YO, look, I have the ticket! <i>Oh, we're so sorry, we didn't get any answer from your embassy. We can't give you the emergency documents without that.</i> Are you fucking kidding me??? <i>We will try to call them, so come back tomorrow morning.</i> OK, at least I had some luck - the flight was scheduled at noon something and the Benito Juarez airport is incorporated in the city, one hour from the embassy by subway (=5 pesos). I went to sleep at the airport - in Mexico City as well as in Tepoztlan was raining all the time and it was pretty fucking cold, considering it was summer. Next morning, lo and behold, I finally got the fucking travel paper. <i>Now just the tax...</i> WHAT? <i>It's 200 pesos, you can pay it at the bank at the corner</i>. Get serious, I have 20 pesos left, just a bit more than I need for the subway. <i>We're so sorry, we can't issue the... </i>WELL, YOU KNOW WHAT? NOW I'M GONNA GO PUNCH IN THE FACE THE COP THAT IS GUARDING THE EMBASSY SO I'LL BE ARRESTED AND EVENTUALLY DEPORTED. GUESS IT'S THE EASIEST WAY. Silence. <i>Wait, don't be stu.. don't act silly. We'll figure something. </i>Think she had all figured already, if not, I have to congratulate her for hyper fast thinking. She called the honorary consul, told him the story and he agreed to pay the tax. I was free, finally. And things went from worse straight to fucking hell.<br />
Went to the airport and started looking for the Eagle Aviation check-in counter. Can't find it. No wonder, Benito Juarez is a confused mess. There's not one check-in area, if I remember correctly there's more than seven of them, just on Terminal 1, hidden between a plentitude of arrival and departing gates and a myriad of small shops, currency changers and car rentals. I gave up on running up and down, went to the info booth. <i>Eagle Aviation? There's no such airline.</i> Well, there must be, they operate this flight for Condor Air. <i>Condor Air? They don't fly from Benito Juarez.</i> Yes, yes, I see that, it's the Eagle Aviation that operates for them... <i>No Eagle Aviation here, sorry</i>. Dag, patience. Thank you and I simply went to another info booth. Clearly the same answers, but the guy was much more willing to try to help me. <i>Look, I found a flight to Cancun that is scheduled at the time as yours, operated by Volaris. It could be your flight, you should go ask them, it's here behind this corner. And if not, wait a moment, I will write down for you the companies that fly to Cancun so you can check them all.</i> Wow, thanks, will do!<br />
Volaris: <i>Sorry, this is not a booking for our company.</i><br />
Viva Aerobus: <i>Sorry, this is not a booking for our company.</i><br />
Interjet: <i>Sorry, this is not a booking for our company.</i><br />
AeroMexico (on Terminal 2, even): <i>Sorry, this is not a booking for our company - I can tell without checking because we have no numbers in our booking codes. But let me check anyway... Sorry, this is not a booking for our company.</i><br />
I was standing there, with the printed booking in my hand, and I suddenly saw that piece of paper moving by itself. Huh? Oh, I'm not hallucinating, it's just my hands shaking badly, without me realizing it. Oh crap, I said to myself, it's coming. I'm just about to flip and will start breaking things and people. Wrong. My vision blurred, to my utmost surprise I was crying. I was pushed way beyond the state of a senseless destructive rage. I was pushed in a pit of self pity, for I knew I was completely, absolutely, helpless. There was nothing I could do and it was already boarding time, IF that flight actually existed. It was most frustrating because I understood them - I was pressing on them with a booking for an airline that doesn't exist - if my booking was for any of the above mentioned airlines and I was told the same, there would have been hell. Yeah, for me, I know, but it wouldn't have been only my blood splattered on the airport floors. You think it's a bad joke? Well, it's no joke. I was partially insane at that moment. Stress, hunger, sleep deprivation (homeless sleeping on cardboard are allowed at the airport, but backpackers are constantly waked by security and told that we can be sitting but not sleeping on the floor). Think. Think. Am I still able to think? I need internet. My only way of communication. Just one spot at the airport and they charge 30 pesos as a start and then 1 peso for each minute. I don't have them. The subway. There's one spot at the Pantitlán station, maybe there.. <i>Sorry, you have no document to use internet.</i> I was just about to blow... <i>But I understand your problem. I can give you 10 minutes, please no more.</i> I didn't need 10 minutes. In two I sent a fucked up mail, it was mostly composed of fuck, fuck and fucked and that the only thing I can think of is going back to the Belgian embassy and to ask them to connect me directly with the Slovenia embassy in Washington. Or, otherwise, I'm really going to punch a policeman. I was dead serious about it at the time. I made it to the embassy before closing time, just to be told by Jorge, the Mexican assistant, that all the personell (the "important people") are already gone home and he can't help me in any way, I should come back the next morning. At the time I was so tired, without a molecule of adrenaline rage, that I just thanked him and asked him if he could be so nice to fill me my bottle with drinkable water. <i>Water?</i> Yeah, water, please, I would much appreciate it. I'm running on water for the past few days. <i>Seriously?</i> Yes, I swear I wasn't making up that I can't pay even the tax. He disappeared and it took him along time to come back - with water, a bag of snacks and a handful of pesos, 150 of them. <i>Please, take this, all of this, go eat something decent.</i> Thanks buddy, I'm taking the water, but not... <i>No, please, I insist, it's not just from me, from a few friends, too. I can't stand you being in such situation in my country.</i> Nice guy. Good point. Me hungry. Thank you, I gratefully accept. With a deep Japanese bow, looking at my shoes and not in his eyes when taking the money, ashamed. Fuck shame when you're hungry. I had a feast, spending more than 40 pesos on tacos on the subway. Near the airport (near, a 20-some minutes walk from it) I found a cyber cafe that charged 10 pesos for one hour (fuck you, airport!) and swallowed my pride one more time. Asked for money to be sent via Western Union, since they don't require an ID from the receiver (as advertised, fuck yeah). Slept (more or less, between constant moving) at the airport, in the morning went to check the mail, before going to the embassy. I knew how the replies would look like, I know my friends, but it didn't make me feel better. Yes, worse. <i>Dag, don't worry, we're working out on how to make a miracle, all of us, we're gonna make it happen, no matter what, just wait, in the meantime there is already this sum of money on WU waiting for you.</i> Do I deserve friends like this? It's a good question, but I don't know the answer. Belgian embassy, everyone is sorry for my tribulations, Jorge is more interested if I had something to eat the previous day. I just give him thumbs up and a grin, they connect me with Washington. I explain the situation, tell them there's no way I can ask folk again after all what happened and ask if there is any chance that they could buy me the ticket and send me the bill. I got a polite diplomatic (well, of course) answer, that translated to street language would be <i>Dude, get serious, where did you get this sick idea we're gonna credit you? We've got nothing to do with you, but since a motherfucker of your fucking friends that works for the government keeps pestering us I'm gonna help you, and that's more than I do for others, so listen well, I just found a flight good for you, call your friends again and tell them to buy it and never call me again, be grateful I'm wasting my precious time on shit like you, drop dead, bye.</i> That was what I heard - not by ears, they were filled with cold politeness with a dash of scorn, but my mind was doing an instant translation. Even if I'm wrong, it doesn't matter - they were (are) just useless. Even the Belgians were surprised. <i>We do have this emergency option to repatriate OUR citizens, weird your embassy doesn't.</i> They stressed the OUR well, to make it clear it's not for me. I just did an imitation of Terminator, I'll be back, since the travel document is valid only a couple of days and who the fuck knows the itinerary of any future tickets... wait, what tickets? Ah, who cares, let's go get the money, I have the reference number written and every single branch of the BaNorte bank (they are on every fucking corner) is in the WU system, piece of cake! Fuck, yeah. <i>Ah, so this is your reference number, OK, can I have your ID, please?</i> You don't need my ID, the WU terms are that the reference number is what I need, nothing else. <i>You don't understand, I need your ID to make the payment</i>. No, it's you who don't understand, I DON'T FUCKING NEED A FUCKING ID FOR THE FUCKING WESTERN UNION TRANSACTION! They were sorry to kick me out. Another branch, same story, my same yelling, but without being kicked out - I was instantly tamed by the clerk with her advice to check the nearest, very close, WU proper office. Guess what? <i>Un documento, señor.</i> In the next <i>Jefe, documento</i>. In another one they miracolously spoke English, so it was <i>Where do you think you are to withdraw money without an ID? </i>IN A FUCKING SHITHOLE CALLED MEXICO YOU MORON! And I kept going.<br />
In Slovenia we have a saying that you have to try three times. For the shithole it's double. At the sixth try I was confronted with a decrepit old woman, I wouldn't give her more than a day or two of life left, no, actually she looked like she died a few months ago, but she still keeps her job and clearly, no habla Ingles. I was tempted to just wave her a "fuck you too, mexican crone", but instead I just repeated my story. She was far far from being a zombie, you don't hear a zombie swearing so much - I didn't understand more of half of what she said, just the main point, being that God will punish the thieves (which were sons of bitches and daily involved in copulations with animals, or something similar, just guessing) and He will bless me. Well, let's put the "He" on the side. SHE blessed me with giving me the money, filling the form with the data from the copy of my stolen passport and even making up an address in Mexico for me. Yay, I was "rich" again. Far from relieved, not even a shade of happy, but confident I can afford a real proper meal, a bed in the cheapest hostel, and even a beer. Got all of it.<br />
Next news was a new booking, sent to me by mail. That was THE relief, far from happiness. I felt more and more like crap, blending in the surroundings, a little piece of shit in a shithole country full of shitheads. I was also forwarded the answer from the travel agency that sold my first booking, to a complain of the buyer. They answered that everything was like it should be, I was a "no show" case for the Volaris flight. Wait, what, what fucking Volaris, if the booking was for some Eagle motherfuckers? The signature held a Russian name and if this happened just a month ago, I would be dead sure it's them, the culprits, fucking Russians, famous criminals. After almost a month in Mexico, I wasn't sure anymore who is the scum of humanity. Still now I keep forwarding the mails I receive from both sides, from Volaris to myTrips and viceversa, not hoping a refund will ever be done, but I'm soothing my little ego calling both sides cheaters, liars and thieves. Volaris claims that no booking was done, myTrip insists it was. I can't afford a lawyer to fuck them in the ass so hard that they will be shitting blood for a year, but I can be... not their nightmare, but an annoying mosquito buzzing in their ear. Enough for my (still) little ego, while I'm surrounded with great friends in Maribor and waiting to meet all the others in Koper, just in a few days.<br />
And for a goodbye: fuck you Mexico, fuck you Mexicans, without any apology to the good guys I met there - you're part of it, bear it. Love your crap country and your shitty folks. I don't. Never will.</div>
Daghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033319316830075128noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8321776119591740869.post-65548957428417874502016-07-17T21:28:00.000+02:002016-07-17T21:39:47.905+02:00¡Que viva México!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was lucky. I mean, I'm always lucky, I used the past tense since I'm writing about the US, which are in my past by now. I was lucky for the Americans I met - they really improved my view on the US citizens or, better said, they were able to correct my stereotyped views. I still firmly mantain my opinion (a bad one) about the US as a country, but I will never again say that it has the highest percent of moronic population on the world. They made my stay enjoyable. I didn't visit the Grand Canyon or the Yosemite Park or you name it - I spent my time, as I usually do, in remote places with nothing monumental to see. Only with people to interact with. Be them norms or hippies, gay or straight, stoned or clean...humans.<br />
From Valley Springs I went to Covelo in the Mendocino county. Was really lucky with the hitchhiking and made it there way quicker than I predicted. Enjoyed my wwoofing on a pot farm and did some $ work for the neighbors. The clay oven obviously became a must for me to do.<br />
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And one morning, far from early, I had my stuff packed and Brandon (a farmer for whom Jesse and me pulled weeds every morning from 6 to 9) gave me a lift to Fort Braggs and my next chapter started.<br />
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After a few short rides on the coastal 1 a totally stoned guy from Oregon pulled over (I realized how stoned he was only later). Stoned or not he wasn't driving too dangerously and we ended in San Francisco around 2am. Believe it or not, this is the Golden Gate.<br />
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He, too, had nowhere to go and was kind enough to let me sleep in the car. Good thing, it was creepy cold outside. And foggy damp. In the morning I went to look for the train/bus station - have you ever tried to hitchhike form the heart of a big city? My thumb went to work again in Santa Cruz and took me to Monterey before night. Wasn't as cold as SF, but it kept drizzling all night long and part of the morning. The kind of weather that makes me feel shitty and miserable. Anyway, in Santa Barbara was sunny and hot and the evening was approaching. Even with the luck I had I didn't want to take any risks - I had a bit less than 30 hours left. Hopped on a bus to LA and a train from there to San Diego. Has your train ever been delayed because the crew that is serving it has not arrived yet? A stereotype or only in the US? The crew was "only" half an hour late and I was in San Diego at 3am, slept on a bench near the ocean and at 7am I was already on the trolley for San Ysidro on the Mexican border. I hope I won't get in any trouble someday in the future, but without even realizing (after a short walk) I was in front of a Mexican border official. And where's the American one? Shouldn't I get a "departed" stamp for my passport? Won't the homeland Security computer keep counting all these days as my illegal overstay? We'll see next time when I try to enter the States.<br />
The Mexican border experience was most pleasant. I'm dead serious, no sarcasm in this. He asked me for my destination and I gave him the address that a friend kindly provided me with. <i>"You're so lucky, you're going to a really beautiful part of Mexico!"</i> was his only comment. <i>"And how long do you plan to stay?"</i> I froze for a bit and my heart skipped a beat or two. A tricky question, when asked at the Immigration. <i>"Something like two months, then I will leave for Guatemala." </i>Trying to play safe, not too short, not too long and with the clear implication that I already plan to leave the country. <i>"Two months? Ah, I'm sorry to say it, but...."</i> Oh motherfucking karma! What now? WHAT? <i>"... but you will still have to pay the tax for the full 6 months stay."</i> The fuck he just said? Fucking 6 months? Are you fucking kidding me? And that was it. Paid 300 and something pesos and got my "visitante card". I had to check twice to confirm that it really states "allowed for 180 days".<br />
And I walked into Tijuana with a new look, more <i>local-like</i>.... :D<br />
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Daghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033319316830075128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8321776119591740869.post-12491290778522398222016-05-28T07:28:00.003+02:002016-05-28T07:28:51.751+02:00Hard Boiled Egg<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's been so long I don't even know where to start. I'm not in Australia anymore, it's been a month - more or less - since I arrived in the USA. It wasn't hard at all, the government was happy with the legal bribe called ESTA and after a few routine questions I was allowed to stay here for the usual 90 days. I had troubles leaving Australia. They just wouldn't let me go. Not because of my overstay. I made myself legal for the last few days - went to the Immigration office in Sydney, told them I'm an overstayer and got a bridging visa so I could leave the country in complete lagality. No questions asked, 10 minutes of time wasted for me and the official and a 3 year ban to return to Oztralia. Ah, well. The troubles started with the clerk at the United Airlines check-in. <i>Do you have a return ticket?</i> No, but I have an outgoing ticket for Mexico City. <i>Then you will not be allowed to enter USA</i>. Why not? As far as I know an outbound ticket is required, not a return.<i> .....Because... because... Mexico is a country bordering USA and it doesn't count as outgoing</i>. That's a new to me, but OK, I get your reasoning, I'm going to buy a ticket to Nicaragua so there will be no problems. <i>You can't buy a ticket from Los Angeles to Nicaragua because you can't enter the USA!</i> I was looking at his dumb face for a few seconds before it hit me. He's not a stickler for rules, just a dumb asshole that doesn't like me! And fuck the ticket to Nicaragua! Just told him that our conversation is over and I want to talk to his supervisor. It wasn't easy but I can be loud. Actually that loud that his supervisor and a security guard came at the same time. I had a short talk with the supervisor in her office and just to make sure she called the immigration at the Los Angeles airport and got an "all clear" for my entry. Went back to the check-in line and with my sucking luck ended with the same asshole. He immediately realized that I don't have a visa for the USA. Look mate, I KNOW that I DON'T need a visa! Stop making my life miserable, in 30 seconds you'll never see me again! You don't like me? Well, I fucking hate your guts! It took more than 30 seconds because a very annoyed supervisor had to come again to explain him that a EU passport holder needs only the ESTA. The worst of all? Not a single bloody word of apology from them. I hope from the bottom of my heart that the bastard will get bitten by a dozen redbacks. Oh, if you don't know, the redback is an Australian spider, its bite is not deadly but is so painful that you wish it was.<br />I landed in LA. And stayed there less than 2 days, just had to run away. Too big, too crazy for a country boy like me. I liked it better in San Diego.<br />
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And from San Diego, to the desert. Arizona, close to Tucson.<br />
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Where I realized I'm really in the USA....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Not just from that sign. I was listening every day the local radio station, The Cave. Joe, my wwoof host, called it THE hardcore local country redneck. It sure is. The first commercial I heard - actually, we heard, the British wwoofer Ollie was with me - started something like "dear, let's get rid of all those books!" We looked at each other, started laughing and decided that this station is worth to listen to. So day after day we were listening to dumb commercials and country songs about reading the Bible and drinking beer. Ollie got sick of it in 2 weeks and poacked his stuff, I endured a week more. Packed my stuff, got badly drunk in Tucson - wasn't sick for years, but this time I spent all the "day after" in bed or in the toilet of the Roadrunner hostel.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Eventually I was ready and I stuck my thumb to the breeze. Who am I kidding? No breeze, scorching sun, all the traffic ignoring me. It took me more than one day to leave Arizona and I ended stuck in LA. Big cities? Worst nightmare for a hitchhiker. My next destination was Valley Springs, I checked the map and bought a train ticket to Bakersfield. And even if it was a train ticket we had to board a bus, go figure these Americans. Then I checked the hitchwiki site for Bakersfield and got a heart attack. It said that if you hitch from LA to the north you should take the coast or the Sierra Nevada route - it's a whiff. Don't ever go by the Central Valley, it's a Bible-belt in miniature and from Bakersfield it's a no go, you'll be stuck forever. The hell, maybe I look like a backpacking preacher but not even in Australia I had had such smooth hitchhiking, free food and drinks included. I mean, I said "thank you" more than a few times for a can of Coke, a drink that I really don't like, such nice rides I caught. It went, all in all, way too smooth. I was four days - yes, four days! - ahead of my schedule. My next wwoof hosts were expecting me for Saturday and it was Wednesday afternoon that I left route 99 in Lodi, some 26 miles from Valley Springs. No hitch, just hiking. Slept in a vineyard near the road and felt great - last time I used my sleeping bag was last December. It took me some 10 hours to do all the walk and here I am. Nice family with four kids, I have the trailer for me and it's really comfy one! With some "sleeping pills" in the cupboard, too!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">
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All in all, America is not bad. Yes, plenty of morons everywhere, maybe my preconcepts, but more than in other countries. My pocket knife ( a cheap Chinese imitation of a Swiss knife) was seized by the Greyhound. Yes, they checked thoroghly my backpack and told me that knives are not allowed, not even in the baggage that goes in the trunk. Aw, shit, I wasn't able to do a busjacking. Dumb rule? Yes, because firearms ARE allowed. Go figure.<br />I keep going. I'm a hard boiled egg, after all. An expression I learnt in Australia, when I was called that. Why a hard boiled egg? You can't beat it!<br />
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Daghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033319316830075128noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8321776119591740869.post-69447934279400980112016-02-06T05:10:00.000+01:002016-02-06T05:10:15.136+01:00Happy New Year!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It’s been a long long time since my last post... and I’m still in
Australia. Even if my visa has expired. Technically I’m an illegal
alien, for almost one month already. And I still keep moving around.
Since the last post I’ve been to Soth Australia, first in Bordertown,
quite the desert. Did some fencing and sheep herding.<br /><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheBFRVMtI22113bmufP_jzQfy6ufetbAnJBNJ9e-saq791UfgWgWBEIRpHGHnAjnWlW7LPIgEU03OR_GtMaxpUgnQYWyyLoWFJHOMRBBDQiGwGLigeASOp3vZUug_yQlMglIS9pVsr0y50/s320/PA240079.JPG" width="320" /></div>
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For a week I went to Adelaide and stayed in a fantastic hostel, Sunny’s Backpackers. A bit ran down but presentably clean and, most important, with great staff. Can’t even compare it to the posh looking Melbourne Backpackers that was the worst place I stayed in the past years. I actually stayed in a dirtier place in the Philippines, but there was no pretention and I got what I paid for. In Melbourne I was probably charged for the luxurious looking reception but decrepit rooms, unfriendly and lazy staff, dirty toilets, broken showers, small fridges and the ban of drinking anywhere in the hostel – with the exception of booze from their bar, which was, clearly, insanely priced.<br />If you stay in Adelaide, go to Sunny’s! It’s just 100m from the bus station.<br />
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Back to Victoria! By hitch hike, mostly. On the first day I ended in Murrayville, it was around 3 PM and it was hot. And there was no traffic. Seriously. Before dark 3 (three) cars passed by, without stopping. I slept by the road, woke up early and lifted my thumb. In the next 4 (four) hours, 1 (one) car passed by. Without stopping. I admitted my defeat and went back into town, just a short walk, to the pub. At 11 AM it was still closed but the owner was there so I could get some information, at least. Yes, there is a bus service, once a day, around 1 PM, from Adelaide to Sydney. I just wanted to leave that place and I hoped the bus won’t be full. It wasn’t. In late afternoon I was in Swanhill. Two evenings later I came to Benalla, close to my destination, Mt. Samaria. The botanical gardens looked inviting, with soft grass to unroll my sleeping bag... and sprinklers that went on in the middle of the night. I hadn’t had a shower in past few days, so I can hardly complain. In the morning I was tempted to visit the Ned Kelly Museum, but it was still closed and I preferred to hit the road before the temperatures boiled my brains.<br />For the past 6 weeks I stayed on the Samaria farm, where I finally found my calling. Well, not really, but people started calling me with job offers. After seeing the wood fired pizza oven I built for Al here.<br />
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And some woodwork, when it was raining.<br />
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Besides getting drunk with Al on a daily basis I have to cope with another addiction. I watched and rewatched all the anime I have on my drive and no downloads. The Ozzie internet curse. Al, like most Ozzies, has a limited connection. If I was to download just the ongoing anime I missed, I would exeed his monthly usage in two days. So I ended on “bad dope” - the telly. I was always sure I can’t watch dubbed anime but what a joy, oh what a joy, when I found that on Saturdays I can watch K-ON! And one day Kiki’s Delivery Service was aired and another time Laputa.... dubbed in English, but beggars can’t be choosers.<br />
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And the Lunar New Year is just around the corner!<br />
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Daghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033319316830075128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8321776119591740869.post-69236959069131247832015-11-05T09:41:00.000+01:002015-11-05T09:41:34.028+01:00Kicked... out<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Few weeks ago, when I was still in the Hunter Valley, one day we started a cleanup around the house and filled the back of the ute with various crap, from empty beer bottles (lots of them) to canisters full of old adhesives (few of them). Then we drove to the Cessnock tip and had some fun looking for heavy stones on the way out of the tip to cheat the weight scale and spare a few $. When Jill came home in the evening she asked if had fun during the day and after Ben told her about our "trip to to tip" she switched on sarcastic gear.<i> "Great, what Dag really needs is a trip to the Australian tip, some experience it was,ha? Did you like your first trip to the Australian tip?"</i> I was amused, but I had to counter her. <i>"It was not the first, Jill, it was my third tip! But now think about it - how many tourist can brag that they have been on a tip in Australia? I've been on THREE!" </i>And we went on laughing and drinking all evening, despite all the bad news Jill brought home. She was in Sydney to meet her oncologist, supposedly a leading figure in the cancer research and fight. Not once they called him doctor, it's always professor. She came home with a punk hairstyle, hair dyied red. Ben didn't like it but she cut him short. <i>"It won't be for long, after the chemo I'm gonna loose all my hair." </i>Jill is such a brave girl. Five years ago she was diagnosed with a different cancer and was given a few months of life. She never gave up and she fought and she won. Now the cowardly bastard came again, just to find an even more determined Jill, ready to kick it in the balls and send it to hell.<br />
And I left for New Zealand. Well, that's what I was thinking. I arrived to the Christchurch airport in the middle of the night and made immediately my deadly mistake. After declaring that I intend to stay in NZ for 3 months (and showed my booking for the flight to Fiji) the motherfucker asked me where I will stay in NZ. Instead of having a set of prepaired destinations I told him that for sure I know I'm going to start my stay at the Arthur's Pass National Park, then will join the NZ WWOOF and see where... <i>"Wait, wait. You will join the WWOOF? But you don't have a working visa!"</i> Aw fuck fuck fuck, Japanese immigration in New Zealand, I'm, fucked fucked fucked. So, I'm not fighting it. <i>"You're serious? Sorry, first time I hear it, I guess I will pass on this."</i> Too late. Will learn the lesson from a criminal psychologist later. <i>"You will have to have a word with one of the Immigration officers, nothing to worry about!"</i> Sadly, for me, I knew it was over. I had to wait, of course. I was sent from here to there, of course. Then the First started. <i>"You seem to be pretty relaxed after waiting here for so long?" </i>You can imagine all the answers in my head, on the tip of my tongue. All WRONG answers. But yes, I was relaxed, I've fallen asleep. And the Inquisition started, about HTML. Yup. I usually declare myself like some kind of web developer or any kind of free lancing shit, just to get them off my back. It's AGES since I've built my last web page, but the Great Torquemada of Kiwiland had prepared such a set of questions that any of my students back in elementary could answer them. You want a career as a programmer in NZ? Shout <i>"Hello World"</i> when you come there and you'll be respected as one of the most fearsome hackers. I passed the test after saying title-head-body. The next trial was the search. Migra guy put on the rubber gloves and said <i>"Relax, I'm putting this gloves on to search your luggage, not YOU"</i> Probably some sort of joke for people with IQ lower than 70 (if you have higher you can never get a job in immigration/customs/police). He went through everything and found nothing, so the gloves went to the drug traces detector. Clear.<i> "You will have an interview with sn Immigration inspector. On the phone."</i> I went through the usual deal of more or less irrelevant and stupid questions, was put on hold, then<i> "Are you married?" "Not anymore."</i><br /><i>"I hereby declare that I do not find you to be a sincere visitor, legally to be a bona fide visitor to our country so I DENY you the entry to New Zealand. Do you understand, you're NOT A BONA FINE visitor and you're denied the entry. Do you have any comments?" </i>I was quiet for a second or two, I knew it would come, but I still needed that second to swallow it. <i>"Yeah, I understand it. Will any comment of mine make any difference to what you've already set in stone?" </i>Silence for a second, two, three, than I heard the breath taking in.<i> "Aw, fuck it, I'm not interested in any comments, bye, have a nice day, I'm sure you're the best at finding the enemies of your CUNT..ry."</i> A low blow - she was female - but there's also a limit to which I can stand being made an idiot by inquisition. When it was clear I have no way to get to NZ I felt relieved. The tension of the past hours was gone, the decision made. And I was handed to the airport police. <i>"Hi mate, I'm (insert name here), I'm sorry for all this fuck up, but we'll have to keep you at the Central, we have no facilities at the airport.. Please, keep in mind that you're no criminal to us, ask anytime if you need anything, but you have to leave here any belts, shoelaces, necklaces and similar and empty your pockets." </i>Resigned, I did what I was told, and when I took the tobacco from my pocket the "insert name here" copper gave me an inquisitive look and said to his subordinate: <i>"Call Central we have some fuckup with paperwork and we'll be late."</i> We weren't that late, just two smokes. And we weren't late at all since it was early in the morning. Sunday morning. Meaning that the can was full of Saturday's night drunks, fighters, dopes and other wackos. A woman in her cell was crying and yelling, from another cell came threats and mostly f words and a badly beaten soldier was refusing to say anything else than his "serial number". I fell asleep immediately, just to be waken up shortly afterwards, for breakfast. I skipped it, went back to sleep. They woke me again for lunch, I still felt miserable so I skipped that one, too, and tried to sleep more. I couldn't. They were so worried about me that they sent me the police nurse to find out what's wrong with me. Do you need to be a genius to find out what was wrong? At least the nurse was cool. She greeted me in Croatian, she did some time in the Balkans, during the war. She started with some kind of sympathetic psycological approach to which I responded with a kind smile <i>"Sorry, but I'd like just to sleep some more before I get kicked out."</i> That made her curious so I told her the story, short version, to which she commented just with an<i> "Aw, fuck! Why didn't you make up something for the Immigration? Telling the truth all the time won't get you far!"</i> I didn't want to break her illusions telling her that half of my life is made of lies, so she went on. <i>"Just wait for some time and then you can surely come back, just with a good excuse, make up some friends you're visiting or something!" "Mam, after I was welcomed like this, do you seriously think I still have the slightest wish to come back to this country?" "I suppose not."</i> Right she was. In the afternoon they called me out and the coppers that had to deal with me all apologized, saying stuff like <i>it's a shame,you seem a nice guy, blah blah</i>. It meant less than shit to me.<br />
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They flew me back to Australia, to Melbourne, where similarly minded people (IQ below 70) did their duty again. Three hours. With some highlights during the interrogation that kept me just enough amused to not go insane. <br /><i>"Why do you have dye with you?" "To dye my clothes, it's cheaper buy them white and dye them any color I want." "Ah, I see."<br />"Why do you have this notebook with Japanese exercises in it?" "I'm trying to learn Japanese and I do exercises in that notebook." "Ah, I see."<br />"Why do you have a camera with you?"</i> Are you fucking serious??? <i>"I take pictures with my camera." "Ah, I see."</i><br />
Should I change my name to Kafka?<br />They let me in. First thing I emailed Ben to tell him what happened. His reply was priceless: <i>"Well a stint in Central Police Station Christchurch probably beats 3 trips to garbage tips in Australia. One door shuts and another opens. I am sure that you will enjoy seeing more of Australia."</i> You have to love the guy.<br />I stayed in Melbourne, dead drunk, for four days, then ended in the Upper Yarra valley for some wwoofing. Nice place I found, that's for sure!<br />
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<span id="goog_569728413"></span><br />
<title> <head> <body>. The next trial was the search. Migra guy put on the rubber gloves and said <i>"Relax, I'm putting this gloves on to search your luggage, not YOU"</i> Probably some sort of joke for people with IQ lower than 70 (if you have higher you can never get a job in immigration/customs/police). He went through everything and found nothing, so the gloves went to the drug traces detector. Clear. <i>"You will have an interview with an Immigration inspector. On the phone."</i> I went through the usual deal of more or less irrelevant and stupid questions, was put on hold, then <i>"Are you married?" "Not anymore."</i><br><i>"I hereby declare that I do not find you to be a sincere visitor, legally to be a bona fide visitor to our country so I DENY you the entry to New Zealand. Do you understand, you're NOT A BONA FINE visitor and you're denied the entry. Do you have any comments?"</i> I was quiet for a second or two, I knew it would come, but I still needed that second to swallow it. <i>"Yeah, I understand it. Will any comment of mine make any difference to what you've already set in stone?" </i>Silence for a second, two, three, than I heard the breath taking in. <i>"Aw, fuck it, I'm not interested in any comments, bye, have a nice day, I'm sure you're the best at finding the enemies of your CUNTry."</i> A low blow - she was female - but there's also a limit to which I can stand being made an idiot by inquisition. When it was clear I have no way to get to NZ I felt relieved. The tension of the past hours was gone, the decision made. And I was handed to the airport police. <i>"Hi mate, I'm (insert name here), I'm sorry for all this fuck up, but we'll have to keep you at the Central, we have no facilities at the airport.. Please, keep in mind that you're no criminal to us, ask anytime if you need anything, but you have to leave here any belts, shoelaces, necklaces and similar and empty your pockets." </i>Resigned, I did what I was told, and when I took the tobacco from my pocket the "insert name here" copper gave me an inquisitive look and said to his subordinate: <i>"Call Central we have some fuckup with paperwork and we'll be late."</i> We weren't that late, just two smokes. And we weren't late at all since it was early in the morning. Sunday morning. Meaning that the can was full of Saturday's night drunks, fighters, dopes and other wackos. A woman in her cell was crying and yelling, from another cell came threats and mostly f words and a badly beaten soldier was refusing to say anything else than his "serial number". I fell asleep immediately, just to be waken up shortly afterwards, for breakfast. I skipped it, went back to sleep. They woke me again for lunch, I still felt miserable so I skipped that one, too, and tried to sleep more. I couldn't. They were so worried about me that they sent me the police nurse to find out what's wrong with me. Do you need to be a genious to find out what was wrong? At least the nurse was cool. She greeted me in Croatian, she did some time in the Balkans, during the war. She started with some kind of sympathetic psycological approach to which I responded with a kind smile <i>"Sorry, but I'd like just to sleep some more before I get kicked out."</i> That made her curious so I told her the story, short version, to which she commented just with an "<i>Aw, fuck! Why didn't you make up something for the Immigration? Telling the truth all the time won't get you far!"</i> I didn't want to break her illusions telling her that half of my life is made of lies, so she went on. <i>"Just wait for some time and then you can surely come back, just with a good excuse, make up some friends you're visiting or something!" "Ma'am, after I was welcomed like this, do you seriously think I still have the slightest wish to come back to this country?" "I suppose not." </i>Right she was. In the atfternoon they called me out and the coppers that had to deal with me all apologised, saying stuff like <i>it's a shame,you seem a nice guy, blah blah</i> . Honestly, It meant less than shit to me. </p>
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The only picture from NZ that I have.</p>
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They flew me back to Australia, to Melbourne, where similarly minded people (IQ below 70) did their duty again. Three hours. With some highlights during the interrogation that kept me just enough amused to not go insane. (Or, since I already am insane they kept me that way, seeing how can you end being sane and work at an airport)<br><i>"Why do you have dye with you?" "To dye my clothes, it's cheaper buy them white and dye them any color I want." "Ah, I see."<br>"Why do you have this notebook with Japanese exercises in it?" "I'm trying to learn Japanese and I do exercises in that notebook." "Ah, I see."<br>"Why do you have a camera with you?" Are you fucking serious??? "I take pictures with my camera." "Ah, I see."</i><br>Maybe I should change my name to Kafka.<br>They let me in. The first thing I did I wrote an email to Ben and told him what happened. His reply was priceless: <i>Well a stint in Central Police Station Christchurch probably beats 3 trips to garbage tips in Australia. One door shuts and another opens. I am sure that you will enjoy seeing more of Australia. </i>You have to love a friend like this!<br>I stayed in Melbourne, dead drunk, for four days, then ended in the Little Yarra valley for some wwoofing. At least I found a cool place.</p>
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Daghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033319316830075128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8321776119591740869.post-38939633743045583952015-10-11T13:14:00.001+02:002015-10-11T13:14:56.128+02:00Das Ist Walter!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>A Renault drove by, and its driver made frantic and complex signals to the trudging figure to indicate that normally he would have been delighted to give the figure a lift, only he couldn't this time because he wasn't going in the direction that the figure wanted to go, whatever direction that might be, and he was sure the figure would understand. He concluded the signalling with a cheery thumbs-up sign, as if to say he hoped the figure felt really fine about being cold and almost terminally wet, and he would catch him next time around.</i></div>
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<i>So Long, And Thanks For All The Fish (D. Adams)</i></div>
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The day of my flight to New Zealand is close - 6 more days - so this will be probably my last post from Down Under. For the time, at least<br />
And it's gonna be mostly about hitchhiking, this time without drugs or beers, just about ordinary weirdos.<br />
My scariest ride was from I-Don't-Knoe-Where to Port Macquire, 3 months ago. It was almost dark and I said to myself I'm gonna hitch just another car and call it a day, no matter if it stops or not. It stopped. A lovely granny in her eighties was simply delighted that she can give a helping hand to someone in need. The fact that the exhaust of her Mini Morris was making ominous sounds didn't reach my brain, I was too happy. Off we went, in first gear with the engine screaming and the tyres squealing, one two three she was in second with the engine roaring and she allowed it a bit of relax only when she was over 60 km/h switching to third.The fourth was kept for speeds close to 100. It started to rain. Her face turned in a big grin when she said <i>"Gee, I sure love wet roads!"</i> I didn't dare to say a word but she read my face and told me that in the 1960's she was a racer, a rally driver, one of the rare if not the only girl slightly successful. <i>"I still love the smell of gasoline, I think it's the most suitable perfume for a woman!"</i> She went quite of her way to find me a spot where I could sleep close to the highway, but under a roof. I was grateful she did it, even more grateful the nightmare was over.<br />
From Moranbah to Emerald it was the opposite, but not less scary. I got a ride from a guy in a huge Toyota with a trailer fully loaded with tools and equipment, a builder going home. He was slow, but I have no complaint about that. I started to have a doubt when I noticed the Toyota logo on the steering wheel. It was upside down. And we were on a road straight as an arrow. <i>"Em.. err... what does that mean?" "Oh, the wheel? I had an accident yesterday, a crazy punk came full speed from a side road and hit me, you should have seen the trailer, it swinged as if wanting to overtake me!" "Huh, I hardly find it funny." "No worries, The Lord is always with us Mormons!" "Yeah, sure, but the steering?" "The guys at the garage made a quick fix and I prayed all night to be safely reunited with my family!"</i> I had a thought that maybe I should start praying, too. But he did it enough for both us and he was safely reunited with his family, me with a cold beer. I needed it, really. Another one. And another.<br />
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I stayed in Emerald for two days and went forward another disaster. It's honestly a crappy spot for hitchhiking. Considering the other Australian hitchhiking it was the longest wait. Wait for... Michael, the born again christian trucker. Who is thinking to quit trucking and becoming a preacher. He used me as a rehearsal when I told him that I'm an atheist. Quotes from the Scriptures from Emerald to Roma (NOT Italy, Queensland), 400 km, 6 hours. All the things that the Lord told him (they are close buddies, talk to each other regularly, but somewhat spoiled by the fact that the first time he heard His voice was in a psychiatric ward). At the end of the ride I still wasn't ready for baptism so he gave me a pile of pamphlets and magazines for the christian trucker. Quality paper, I had something to wipe my arse with. Which is probably why I was cursed.<br />
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After sleeping in a Roma park I finally encountered my defeat. Nine (9) hours of standing by the road... not much traffic, no religious fanatics willing to give me a ride just to convert me.<br />
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I gave up. Went to Brisbane with the night Greyhound, stayed there for two days in a crappy hostel full of Italians (Nothing wrong with the Italians, the hostel was crappy itself. A really pretty girl actually told me that she wishes to have a father like me... shit, I really am getting old!) and took another bus back to Toowoomba. From there on was a breeze. Warwick, Stanthorpe. The usual rides for Australia where the driver apologizes for taking you ONLY 50 km far or so.<br />
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Without prayers along came Bruce and took me all the way to Tamworth, to a pub of course.<br />
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In Tamworth I had a funny experience, something I completely forgot that exists. The perfect assholes. Me by the side of the road on the outskirts of Tamworth, a car pulls over. Yay, me happy, grabs big backpack and small backpack, runs towards the car when the driver flips the bird out of the window and speeds away. It took me seconds to realize what happened. Five years ago it was a common occurrence that drove me mad while hitching in England and France, but in Australia... Look, I made almost 10 000 km riding the thumb here and yes, I met religious wackos, drug dealers and drug users, senile seniors... but not idiots. The worst was those signaling me like Adams well described in the intro to this post. I prefer those who plain ignore me. It's their choice to pass by, like it's my choice to be standing there. Well. In a way I'm glad I met an idiot like that. Otherwise I would sound like a walking praise to Australians - this way I will be much more credible.<br />
One hour or so later Chen, a 43 years old Chinese teacher on holidays gave me a ride. He too was going to the Hunter Valley, to Pokolbin, barely 20 km from my destination - Broke. I was smiling all the way, thinking about the idiot and where he could stick his middle finger. Chen was quick on geography and told me that when he was a kid they watched tons of movies from Yugoslavia. And he specially liked that one, you know, II world war, a secret organisation is fighting the Nazis, it's about this guy you know, what was his name... <i>"Walter?" "YES! Walter Defends Sarajevo!"</i> He decided to make those extra 20 km and dropped me at the door of Jill and Ben's home.<br />
Here I upgraded the woktenna,<br />
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went to the Jazz in the Catherine Vale Vineyards,...<br />
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Ben (with the hat) at the vineyard jazz.<br />
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And Jill, without hat.<br />
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The jazzers and a grumpy John (extremely grumpy these days even if he doesn't look like in the pic).<br />
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(continued from a few pictures above) ....drink too much beer and help as much as I can.</div>
Daghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033319316830075128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8321776119591740869.post-43094592373132346182015-09-17T10:28:00.000+02:002015-09-17T10:28:11.937+02:00How I Became A Tree Huger<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
If I remember well it all started in 2008 and... and somehow I ended in Australia, hitchiking back and forth, for thousands of kilometres and yet I've seen only the tiniest part of it. After Ingham I spent some time on the achacha (an interesting fruit from South America) farm near of Townsville, made little (very little) money there but met a great man, Graeme, and his mate Gary. I quickly moved to Graeme's place for he needed help with fencing his paddock and while the accomodation was more frugal (but clean, nice and comfy) compared to the achacha, three fridges were always full of beer. <br />
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The work was hard and a bloody mess - even with gloves, pliers and caution the barbed wire will always win. I mean cut. No, it doesn't cut, it just tears the flesh. Graeme didn't even care about it, working in shorts and pulling the barbed wire with bare hands, at the end of the day he was usually covered in blood. Me, the pussy, with thick gloves, handling the wire with pliers and being cautious at every step of the work, at the end of the day was usually covered in blood and in torn clothes. The last day I did like him, in shorts, no gloves, no pliers - lots of blood but I spared a pair of pants.<br />
But it was worth. Not for the money, for the evenings with Graeme. <br />
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We had the compulsory beer at the end of the working day with everyone who passed by - and then we would go on drinking and talking just the two of us, until dinner, during dinner and after dinner. He would tell me stories about the time he spent in South Africa or how frustrating was for him to travel across Europe, border after border after border in a distance less than Townsville to Brisbane... and I told him about Korea and Japan and funny stories about Ozzies.<br />
After a few hundred beers it was time to go. Graeme gave me a lift to Ayr, from there managed to hitch a ride to Home Hill and there waited for few hours in the sun. Well, I got some money in my pocket so, what the hell, I go by bus. The next bus south? It should be here in four hours, maybe five. To waste the time I wasted my money in the pub, got wasted and finally got on the bus, arrived to Mackay in the middle of the night and slept on the banks of the Pioneer river. Spent the next night at the Gecko's hostel and on Monday I met with Colin and Geraldine to go to the Eungella National Park. To the border of the park, at least, because there's where they live. On their plantation of hoop pines, thousands of them. And the pines need pruning.<br />
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That was my job for the past week. The young ones were easy. The old ones... not so. They were high between 10 and 15 meters and they need to be pruned to the height of 8. And 8 meters doesn't sound really high. Or scary high. It isn't. The scary part is the wind. You always get the feeling that the ladder will just slide from under your feet - even if it's secured to the tree with a chain. And the squealing noise made by the metal rubbing the bark. And the cracking noise made by the branch that you cut just above your head that is to fall. You hug the tree - it's a survival instinct, I guess. I survived.<br />
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My accommodation there reminded me of various places from this world. Istria, for example. No joke - pictures of Motovun were hanging from all over the wall of my room, Colin had been there two years ago.<br />
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And of Japan - the back door of my room was leading in the tractor shed!<br />
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And yesterday I started my hitch again, going slowly south, but this time by the Great Inland Way. <br />
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Made it to Emerald the first day, next stop will most probably be tha Carnarvon Gorge. But nothing is sure.</div>
Daghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033319316830075128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8321776119591740869.post-45878991468705385422015-08-09T09:51:00.000+02:002015-08-09T09:51:12.287+02:00Achacha<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The winter in New Zealand was not pleasant. Similarly in Sydney. Not so
cold, but was pouring down like crazy (but I did have a long hot shower
at the airport). Without enough money I had to walk all the way from the
airport to the Central Station in the rain - I had barely enough $ to
buy a train ticket to Singleton. Ben and Jill from Broke were so kind as
to invite me to stop there on my way north for a decent bath, meal and
sleep. Cursed as I was I missed the connection in Hamilton (the second
and last train for Singleton of the day) and could get only to Maitland -
but Ben, dear Ben, had no troubles to make a few tens of kilometers
more to pick me up. Not dear Ben - golden Ben, I should write. He sure
does know how to make me happy - after the hugs I found myself in the
car, with a cold beer in hand. It was his way of welcoming me. I stayed
there for two days to wash all my clothes, eat, drink and smoke a lot. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDeRt57eA8UJ1aMZkKvFCOpLzauaVk7xBOoCK7LRxcJgrDNCi6KPntyPRZv9SpiRBIz6Cororgt6lBFraScrZg69I7XwxCC7ein2C-FYcSmzUyuscYkADI4Dt4N-NCPZqKYtmOohPEUFq6/s1600/P6080050.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDeRt57eA8UJ1aMZkKvFCOpLzauaVk7xBOoCK7LRxcJgrDNCi6KPntyPRZv9SpiRBIz6Cororgt6lBFraScrZg69I7XwxCC7ein2C-FYcSmzUyuscYkADI4Dt4N-NCPZqKYtmOohPEUFq6/s320/P6080050.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I hit the road with a few sandwiches, some tobacco and 60 $, Ben's loan.
I managed a ride of maybe 20 km when I was soaked again. Not really
good weather for hitchhiking. During the night, still wet, I froze my
ass sleeping under the roof of a roadside toilet. In the evening of the
second day I arrived to the outskirts of Brisbane with a dealer and I
was so stoned that I wasn't able to stand by the road so I just lied
down and slept till 4AM or so, when it started raining again. After
escaping the gravity of Brisbane by train I got aride from a musician
who likes smoking pot a bit too much. I passed another stoned night in
Childers. No rain this time. From Childers to Rockhampton, where the
cops told me to bugger off of the road, for my safety. Otherwise I'll be
fined with 120 $, for my safety. I buggered off of the road and slept
near the Capricorn Correctional Center. With my bad luck the camera
wouldn't work - I really wanted to take a picture of a sign on the
prison fence. It says: PRISON - KEEP OUT!</div>
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In the morning of the first ride I got was from a kind gramps. First thing he inquired where I'm from. I told him and he fell silent, so I gave him a more detailed description of the geographical location of Slovenia. He only nodded. After a few minutes of silence, he asked <i>"So, where are you from, mate?" </i>Probably he didn't hear me well the first time, so I repeated the geography lesson, this time a bit louder. He nodded. After some five minutes, he turned to me with abig smile, asking <i>"So, where are you from, mate?"</i> I guess he didn't have a hearing problem. In the next 50 km I told him 4 times where I'm from. I got the next ride from a guy who was maybe two weeks younger, but was rolling joints faster than I can do. The only problem was that he was also a bit senile and after smoking a joint he quickly forgot he did so he had to have another one. I went to sleep stoned on the northern outskirts of Mackay. The fifth car passing by the next morning stopped and at noon I was in Townsville, barely 100 km from my destination. I had to walk in the scorching heat for two hours to find a decent spot for the hitch and even so I had to boil my brains for quite some time before I hit the jackpot. Really.A young guy pulled over, Jona the name as I found out later, and asked me where was I going.<i> "Just take somewhere north, out of here!" </i><br />
<i>"No, seriously, where are you going?"<br /> "Ingham."<br />"OK, I will take you to Ingham, I have nothing better to do."</i><br />
Wut? Just like he said. He was supposed to go on a camping trip with a friend, when he got a call from said friend who was badly hangovered and too sick to move anywhere. So Jona was aimlessly cruising when he saw me and decided to go my way, wherever that would be. But instead of going directly to Ingham we did part of the trip he planned with his friend, first on the beach, then in the mountains and for the end an ice-cream at the Frozen Mango. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqrHZ5-ZYGakOudzexUHSTRGO_Sx_ga5jhxY_x7_LA0p7ISztccibzQfhlw8SADEohgpwdTP3wBlQd2g5U3GJSQf6dmQpx2nrYw84y5ZyDEZ0sbA1ePYkw-XDhP5PsqTz04BFCj-oFQiy4/s1600/P6260087.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqrHZ5-ZYGakOudzexUHSTRGO_Sx_ga5jhxY_x7_LA0p7ISztccibzQfhlw8SADEohgpwdTP3wBlQd2g5U3GJSQf6dmQpx2nrYw84y5ZyDEZ0sbA1ePYkw-XDhP5PsqTz04BFCj-oFQiy4/s320/P6260087.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I was sure that Maja and Matthias, my wwoofing hosts in Ingham (where I
left most of my luggage for my Kiwi trip) wouldn't mind having Jona for a
coffee, so I invited
him over. I was wrong again - not that they minded him for the coffee,
he had to stay there for dinner. I think that the happiest was Alysha,
their daughter entering adolescence - you have to know that Jona is a
really handsome young man.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs1CduDNJI2u4Dh1JfDDRpq3kVJU8xRmic4YFuoEEu332_ruCRWnl5vJxlYXUL_ES6NIcbwwJto8MB-b6zgFuUgACD_o1LNNT6hZaybnncb9MhAxToqc8VvBH57lxaNxkuvVKJ6-mNG0r9/s1600/P6100055.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs1CduDNJI2u4Dh1JfDDRpq3kVJU8xRmic4YFuoEEu332_ruCRWnl5vJxlYXUL_ES6NIcbwwJto8MB-b6zgFuUgACD_o1LNNT6hZaybnncb9MhAxToqc8VvBH57lxaNxkuvVKJ6-mNG0r9/s320/P6100055.JPG" width="240" /></a> </div>
I spent a week more in Ingham and then moved a bit south, half way between Townsville and Ayr, on the Achacha farm. You don't know what an achacha is? Neither did I, before coming here.<br />
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The last three pics are from Mission Beach, I was there a month ago or so.</div>
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Daghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033319316830075128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8321776119591740869.post-41511950722914553262015-07-15T10:31:00.001+02:002015-07-15T10:31:49.737+02:00Kiwi Squatter<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Came to New Zealand without a penny. A four day squat in the earthquake damaged Art & Design College of New Zealand, Christchurch. No power, tap water in some parts, 7 floors of fun to explore!<br />
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Oh, facebook actually deleted my account. I moved to the still alpha version of minds.com as BakaOtosan.</div>
Daghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033319316830075128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8321776119591740869.post-77751424617583910972015-06-13T10:36:00.001+02:002015-06-13T14:33:00.480+02:00The Curse of "Ame Otoko" And The Oecophylla Smaragdina<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I came to northern Queensland three weeks ago and, as usual, I have to consider myself lucky. I'm lucky to be here in the dry season. It means it started raining the morning after I arrived to Alligator Creek (near Townsville) and I had at least 15 rainy days out of 21. If this is the <i>dry</i> season I really have no wish to experience the <i>wet</i> one.<br />
I'm staying with Russell, a geologist turned to marine biologist and writer, author of the <i>Indo Pacific Coral Finder</i>, "... a unique, easy-to-use underwater book that brings reliable genus level coral identification within the reach of the motivated individual. a unique, easy-to-use underwater book that brings reliable genus level coral identification within the reach of the motivated individual."<br />
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He and Rachel also feed the wallabies on their property. I do it, too.<br />
Besides some small repair works around and in the house, my main occupation was <i>Gemma.</i><br />
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Not for fun sailing. Not <i>yet</i>.<br />
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We did a short sail, from the Townsville Charter Marina to the slip yard of the Rosshaven Marina.<br />
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Waterblasting, sandpapering, antifouling, countless coats of different protections and paints, changing all anodes, fix the water pump, clean the heat exchangers, change the engine oil, replace the piping for the salt water cooling... if I ever knew that at the age of 50 I would be a grease monkey I would NEVER even go to school. Definitely.<br />
All the crap done in three days (no rain), <i>Gemma </i>was back in the water and tied at the home wharf. Hull done, engine mostly fixed.. the deck. Chip the rust, brush, apply the primer, next day fill the spots with an epoxy fill, wait one day, one layer of primer on top of the epi fill - each time wait one day to dry (was raining every afternoon) - and finally paint her. Job done. Tomorrow we are supposed to go for a joy sail with lots of cold beer. But I have a strong suspicion that it will rain cats and dogs. Dry season, you know....<br />
Do you know which is the mos dangerous animal on the world, if we don't count humans? Sharks? Alligators? Big cats? Nope. Hippos or elephants kill more humans than the beforementioned. Snakes and scorpions even more. And the top killers are mosquitos. It has been estimated that mosquitos transmit diseases to almost 700 million people annually resulting in 2 to 3 million deaths every year (sharks kill from 15 to 25 people a year).<br />
Today I went for a hike along the Alligator Creek and wasn't at all wary of the alligators. Not that I'm that brave, I just happen to know that the chance of meeting one is less than slim. I was careful when I noticed something like this.<br />
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It's an ant nest. The <i>weaver ants (Oecophylla smaragdina)</i>, in Queensland commonly called green tree ants, form chains with their bodies to bring leaves together and use silk from their larvae to create their large leaf nests. When disturbed, the nest will look like this.<br />
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You can imagine what it means to stand too long under such a tree. Because these little green fuckers grab your flesh with the mandibles,bend their abdomen over and squirt formic acid into the wound. A helluva HCOOH. I got covered with them a few times when I was working around the house and it always ended with me swearing, running and stripping at the same time. The worst is that they inevitably end in my pants, too. And that HURTS.<br />
Today I managed to avoid them, I was mostly rock hopping along the creek, then ended rock crawling. Yes, it was raining and the rocks were too slippery for my taste.<br />
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Daghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033319316830075128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8321776119591740869.post-63914571994601757842015-05-24T08:56:00.003+02:002015-05-24T08:56:57.887+02:00The Last Hitchiker <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Sometimes I really feel like I'm the last one. I made 1860 km in the past week, with some stops, and haven't seen one. But maybe it makes my life easier, most of the time the rides go smoothly, some days are just not for hitching (like the one I made only 68 km in 10 hours).<br />
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Mick, my longest ride on this trip - over 400 km. Good conversation, good music, good weed. <br />
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A two days stop in Gladstone, in the cheapest (and fanciest) backpackers hostel so far. With a pool. <br />
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Try any combination of these three facilities (that are in the same place). <br />
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Morning coffee on the beach, near Mackay. <br />
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A happy ride - we had to stop every 25 km because the engine was overheating. But we had tons of fun! <br />
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Cane railroad (or <i>sugar train</i>). Yup, the sugarcane fields are so humongous that the best way to transport harvested canes to the mill is by rail.... <br />
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Evening night over Bowen, for the time my last night on the side of the road.<br />
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At the moment: feeding wallabies. To think about: I came to the Blue Mountains, it started snowing. Left for the Hunter Valley, it ended flooded. Came to Queensland, in dry season, it rains every night. Yesterday I finally unpacked all my stuff at Russell's place, and it's <i>fucking raining all the day! IN QUEENSLAND!</i></div>
Daghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033319316830075128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8321776119591740869.post-58428280141419145392015-05-05T14:20:00.002+02:002015-05-05T14:20:55.837+02:00Broke<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I'm not broke. I'm in Broke, a village in the Hunter Valley, New South Wales. Came here from the Blue Mountains when the weather (again) ruined my hiking plan, passing Newcastle and did the last 21 km from Singleton on foot. I saw kangaroo meat in the supermarket on my second day in Australia, but walking to Broke I actually realized that here they have lots of them.</div>
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It was less than 100 meters after I passed the sign that I saw my "first kangaroo". More than seeing it I was smelling it.<br />
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And Finally I came to Broke. And got lost. Walked for 5 or 6 km in the wrong direction and when I admitted to myself that I was going the wrong way I stopped at a house to ask for directions. I didn't get them. Instead I had to stay there for lunch, I was given a ride back to the village and they called Jill - who was waiting for me - to pick me up at the <i>Pickled & Pitted</i> (a nice smelling shop with olive oils, olives and handmade olive oil soap).<br />
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Now is more than 2 weeks that I'm staying with Jill and Ben, a lovely couple who hosts me as a wwoofer. Jill is a great cook and even better company, always full of energy and immune to hangovers. She must have a reset button somewhere or a timer that restores her energy in the middle of the night. Ben is far from hangover immunity but is doing his best in his (futile) attempts to outdrink me. Not gonna happen. Of course it's nice to have him for drinking company, best is to have him for conversation. <br />
Sunsets can get quite megalomaniac <br />
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and mornings are often misty. Well, winter is coming.<br />
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In the first days when I was here we were almost flooded. One more meter in the brook nearby and we'd have been swimming. Actually the S.E.S. (State Emergency Service) came around midnight for an evacuation warning, but Ben choose to open another bottle of wine instead of evacuating. I was sound asleep at the time, I can swim so no worries. The Wollombi broke looked like this:<br />
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When on a normal day looks like this:<br />
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About Australia: I like the beer and wine, I love the cheese and - so far - I like most of the people I've met. And yet there is a thing here that sucks big time. Almost worse than in the Philippines. Internet connections. Maybe the fact that this is such a huge country is a valid excuse, but it still sucks. Big time. Not having any connection is sure a pain in the ass. But having it and being unable to upload two pictures in 25 minutes? That was in the Blue Mountains. Here I started without. Ben offered me the use Telstra (the largest provider for wireless) dongle to write an email or two, which I accepted, and then y stubborn alter ego prevailed. I brought with me from Korea my wifi booster and a 10 meters USB extension. I climbed the tree near the caravan where I sleep and left the antenna there. Five wireless networks in range, one unsecured, with a distinctive name. <i>"Ben, where is the Broke Estate?" "It's that house across the road."</i> All I needed to know. I found a rusty frying pan and made my <i>woktenna</i>, fixed it on a container and turned it in the right direction.<br />
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The Broke Estate is where the arrow points. I sure made a hell of a good job.<br />
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Now Ben wants to use his satellite dish to make a woktenna for himself.</div>
Daghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033319316830075128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8321776119591740869.post-80737537072185018072015-04-14T14:08:00.001+02:002015-04-14T14:08:38.371+02:00Here I Come Here I Go<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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They were all making up tons of excuses why they can't come to my last party in Korea.. in the end they were too afraid of my wrath to challenge me. After the long trip they had to make they seemed to enjoy the short walk around the village. Thank yoy Jasna, Namee and Erik for this great present of your presence!
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I Rang and Hyo Jun playing just before the party. I Rang was "removed", but Hyo Jun did enjoy the party to its full. You'll see later.
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Heard some great songs... also some annoying sounds made by adult drunk Korean males.<br />
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As it seems a beer bottle is most alluring for Hyo Jun. I wonder where she got this weird inclinations.
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We moved soon to my room that is smoke free (anyone is free to smoke) but Erik was already looking like a zombie
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and soon he ended like a sleeping zombie, while we went on with drinking for a bit more.
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But not for long, we ran out of beer (it wasn't me who did the preparations, I just <i>trusted</i> the self -proclaimed master of ceremonies that there will be beer for a week of drinking). If my revered (without irony) friend Cha Chung didn't show up with a nice Korean sixpack (=10 liters) as a present for me, the party would end way worse. It was Jun and me who were the last survivors and we managed to had two shots of soju each after the beer was gone. No fun. <br />
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Next morning the folk had left, but Jun went with me to Busan. He wanted to say the real <i>goodbye</i> at the airport. We stayed at the Blubackpackers Hostel in Busan, a place I visited frequently on my trips to/from Japan.
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I n the evening we had a tour of some of the most awkward beer places we could find in the neighborhoo, at midnight both sleeping like corpses.
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THe next night I spent it at the KLIA - Kuala Lumpur International Airport, waiting for my connecting flight to Sydney. It was my first landing at KLIA so I was surprised when I heard from a friend that only a year ago the Air Asia terminal was closed in the nighttime and the waiting passengers kicked out. Well, I still say what I wrote on FB that the transfer terminal is a cozy one, not huge like the ones I endured in Dubai or Istanbul, smaller but friendlier. And I have no intention to mention another airport that was a pain in my ass for the last year. <br />
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a
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I know, the pictures suck, can't help it. I still haven't learned how to use properly my "new" camera.
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But when I really need it I can take a decent picture where you can read the words. It's on the door of the smoking room.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZwADz3shGViwh1GEPcoohhJjqLuU6LKz-xfKEvCnEE0C-4JqO3aSOaC2iV0MNj-5wwMzSTNBbnO8oVwII_G_YKXheqVdIshAjmZN1dtsRs41zZ14FhflsxhM2j_IOtqfuwynFeUn2ufek/s1600/P3200026.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZwADz3shGViwh1GEPcoohhJjqLuU6LKz-xfKEvCnEE0C-4JqO3aSOaC2iV0MNj-5wwMzSTNBbnO8oVwII_G_YKXheqVdIshAjmZN1dtsRs41zZ14FhflsxhM2j_IOtqfuwynFeUn2ufek/s320/P3200026.JPG" /></a></div>
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I made it to Australia, I made it through the Immigration in 20 minutes flat (others in 20 seconds), went to Sydney to join the WWOOF Australia, got lost, joined the WWOOF, got lost, found the train for the Central Station, boarded the wrong train, somehow hot back to the Central, boarded the right train for Katoomba but when the train was to start something broke and the same voice that a few seconds earlier was announcing all the stops to Katoonga now flatly said <i>this train ain' goin' nowhere, just get off</i>... We had to board another train and were late for departure maybe 15 minutes.<br />
And I still made in the daylight, to the Katoomba hostel, the Flying Fox. Tomorrow sleeping all day, later some hiking!</div>
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Daghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033319316830075128noreply@blogger.com0