New York, New York

I had looked to the New York skyline as symbol of freedom from my Greyhound’s extra-terrestrial climate, and shortly after scooting over the Hudson River I was fully immersed in the freedom.

Another one of my favorite people in the world and good friends, MK, had kindly got a job on the south side of the Empire State building so his office was my first stop in town. It wasn’t a bad welcome to town to stare out the window beside his desk and see all of Manhattan and the distant Statue of Liberty exchange the orange glow of the sun for the dazzling sparkle of countless city lights. And it sure beat having to struggle with the touristic herds that are funneled through mandatory cheesy photo booths and ticket stations to get a view from the observation deck.

But I wasn’t in New York to observe, I was there to experience. Most of my friends from university had ended up congregating in this concrete jungle of a town and I was eager to act like fools with them again. So after a brief run over to Roosevelt Island to drop off my things at MK’s, we zipped on down to Union Square to see the rest of the gang.

As I recall, we didn’t get up to anything too much that night; sure we went to a club after the point when we didn’t need to pay cover charge, didn’t order any drinks (I think one of us even brought his own flask), and were a complete drain on the quality of the establishment, but we didn’t need to do that much. With just a room and the right combination of people, it’s possible to have as amazing a time as would be possible on any adventure in any corner of the planet. There are a few rooms and a few groups of people peppered around, mainly in Canada and the USA, that have provided me with more happiness than have entire countries of rooms filled with people.

After a couple of days, I was able to remember that what really fascinates me about New York is that it truly does have it all. I’ve never seen a place that has the highs and the lows so seamlessly integrated. A simple commute through town can demonstrate the variety of the city with ease. After a delightful brunch with the boys, MK and I hopped on a subway back to Roosevelt Island. About 3 stops in, the doors opened and a severely disgruntled woman who was Kung Fu gripping her crotch began Walking Dead shuffling her way towards our car. The closing doors alarm began to sound and she was able to scurry just quick enough to make it inside. Instantly, the car filled up with the strongest stale human urine smell I have ever come across, and I spent 3 days on an Indonesian ferry that had urine raining down from lifeboats.

At the next stop everybody, except said lady, stood up and made a break for fresh air and to switch cars. It is however, apparently, New York etiquette to not warn any of the new passengers about the imminent assault to their senses. Instead everyone streams past and leaves newcomers to their own fate. That meant that I was helpless to notify one of the most attractive, well put-together, purposeful woman I had ever seen from what she was walking into, and instead could only turn around and watch her sit down across from the Kung Fu grip and then immediately stand back up and bolt for the far end of the car.

We were all discombobulated from this affair so ended up missing the right connection and had to take the tramway to Roosevelt Island, instead. So we were lifted from the underbelly of the city, over the yellow cab-filled streets, and into the sky. Fresh air and snowflakes surrounded us as we carted across the East River, and the lights from countless skyscrapers, including the United Nations streamed into the tram.

The next night we had arranged to have a final dinner down in Union Square before we all needed to go home for the holidays. On the way there I decided that I should fit in at least a little bit of sightseeing while I was in town. So I made a loop to see the Christmas tree and skating rink in front of the Rockefeller Center and lights of Time Square. The illuminated tree in front of the more brightly illuminated 30 Rock, along with the constant glare of nearby Times Square’s advertisements were magnificent sights, and the problem with that was, of course, that people like magnificence. Every attempt at movement was met with elbow jabs to the side and every peek through a camera’s viewfinder revealed a stream of people too eager to snap a photo to stay out of mine.

Strolling through Union square to the boys’ place, I passed by a man standing on a street corner with an entire bottle of whiskey, gaily getting drunk and telling the world about it. A genuine look of joy was on his face as he blasted through the bottle and belted out his thoughts. After meeting up and heading out to dinner, the man was still there happier and prouder than ever in his choice of activity for the night.

I was pretty pleased with our slightly tamer plans for the evening of just eating some food. I spent about 10 times my average cost for a meal over the past year, but it was a special occasion. It’s awfully handy having friends dotted around the world when you’re travelling, but it’s awfully inconvenient at every other time, and I was just days away from being in that other time.

As we parted ways and headed to the subway, we passed by the same man whose multi-hour drink-a-thon was coming to an abrupt end when the police showed up to ask him what in god’s name he was doing. As we walked by I could see the man giving the cops an innocently puzzled is-this-not-normal-behaviour face.

My personal New York celebration also came to a crashing and depressing halt on my last day there. Everybody was flooding from town for the holidays, MK had already flown back to Zimbabwe and now I was in New York, alone (aside from the 16 million other people). Not only were my friends skipping town but my journey was nearly over. My entire way of life would be coming to an end the next morning when I would be standing in the Toronto bus station. I thought my idea of going around the world was a pretty good one, and I had enjoyed it. But now it would be all over? Just like that?

I jogged through Central Park hopping the snow covered trees, and frozen over lakes would shock the joy back into me, but to no avail. Eventually the night came and it was time to find my ride out of town. I hopped back on the Roosevelt Tramway for one last soar through the sky, dropped every last remaining cent I had on a burrito (a delicacy that is unfortunately not found all around the world), and with beans and hot sauce churning around my innards, I stepped into my bus. The final 10 hours of my world tour would be inside of another Greyhound.

The Cruise: Day 9-15, Crossing the Atlantic

With nothing but sea days ahead of me until I reached Florida, I realized I would have to make a serious change in my approach to the cruising situation. There would be no moret ports to visit and the facilities on the ship weren’t going to change, so I’d have to up my efforts in searching for some people to hang out with who wouldn’t assume I’m staff and try to tip me for talking to them.

My initial sleuthing for conversations turned up some promising results in unexpected places, mainly my dinner table. The brash American couple turned out to be just one brash American drowning out an interesting one. In the odd moments when the wife wasn’t bragging about how great her children are, how refined her musical tastes are, or how well she lies to her high school students, the husband was able to sneak in the odd great story.

It turns out that he was a veteran who has served two full tours of duty in the Korean War. During one of his leaves in Japan, he and a buddy went to bar that GIs generally didn’t patronize and they turned out to be the only foreigners in the place. A man from a large group of local Japanese came over, picked up a shot glass with some chopsticks, and threw back a bit of sake. There was a complete language barrier, but the man was able to communicate a sort of “can you do that?” Now my American dinner-mate had been taught by his father how to use chopsticks (not a common thing for a white American family in the ‘40s, I’d imagine) so he confidently grabbed his own sake with a pair of chopsticks and downed a hefty dose of sake. Immediately he became a celebrity and his money was no longer any good at that bar, but his new friends made sure that sake flowed all night. Now that’s a story! Just as he was about to start another one, he was silenced by his wife who had to impart some haughty information about her greatness.

My greatest find for more friends on board, however, came when I stumbled across Shannon and John who were also pretty young (I’m guessing 38-45) and suffering from the age gap-induced boredom. Not only did we have that in common, but it turned out they had also been hassled by the same neo-Nostradamus prophet loon back in Tauranga. They too had been innocently strolling through town when the bearded bicyclist magically appeared and began haranguing them with his predictions about the pope and why Putin was going to launch the nukes. It may have taken me a year to get around this world, but it’s still small enough for me to meet some people on a boat in the middle of the Atlantic who had met the same prophesier in a small town in New Zealand.

In addition to sharing experiences, Shannon and John also shared a passion for travel. In fact, they made me look like a travelling rookie. Not only had Shannon previously moved her way from China to America (she thought she’d never have to work again when she arrived and that the streets would be lined with gold, but then she found herself working at Walmart) but they were currently 2 years into 4 years of travel. After selling their home and everything in it, they’d managed to trot the globe and find some cheap housing by pet-sitting. They’d even found free accommodation by looking after and bottle-feeding baby kangaroos in Australia. How did I not hear of this until my trip was almost over!

They also let me in on the gossip that by the mid-Atlantic, at least 3 people on the ship had died. With the advanced average age of the passengers, combined with the increased stress of a rocking boat, I guess it’s a fairly normal occurrence on a transatlantic cruise. I remember my roommate Peter pointing out at one of our ports of call that there was an ambulance waiting for one, or several, of our fellow cruisers, but I suppose ambulances are luxuries reserved for landlubbers. If you go at sea, they must just through you on ice in the bottom of the ship until the ride is over.

My last major source of camaraderie had died on the ship himself, but only on the inside. An Australian fellow had quit his lucrative personal training position in Sydney to come work on this cruise ship, only to discover it was the worst decision he had ever made. He was able to be completely candid with me because he was hoping that he would get fired as soon as possible. His sole source of income was from selling supplements and fitness equipment to passengers, and since retired folks generally don’t slam back massive protein shakes after crushing the bench press, his two months of work had earned him about $64. It wasn’t like he was being particularly challenged, either. “Most of the time passengers just ask me why their headphones aren’t working,” he lamented, “or they look into the rubbish bin, see rubbish, and then ask me if it’s a rubbish bin. I used to be a semi-professional athlete!” His biggest challenge came from finding ways of taking long extended breaks without being noticed, and he seemed to be tackling that problem with ease.

“It could be worse,” he admitted “I could be working almost any other job on board.” He had a relatively cushy job reserved for citizens of developed countries, whereas almost every other crew member was from a poor nation and had to be on duty for at least 13 hours every day without any days off. The cabin stewards only had a 3 hour break at lunch and a 6 hour break at night. I hope they’re fine operating on just 5 hours of sleep, forever. For some reason, they change the sheets on the beds twice a day. Can’t we be satisfied with heavily soiling our sheets just once every day to allow these workers an extra hour of slumber?

I got into the routine of cruising eventually, hanging out with my new buddies and eating reasonable amounts of the incredible culinary treats (several passengers on board had decided upon the unreasonable approach and around the pool I saw many distended guts topped off with navels that had been thrust from innies into outies). I had even taken the extra time available on board to floss my teeth, something I had probably done 6 times in the previous 11 months. As I stared at the chunks the floss had flung onto the mirror, I had a terrible realization: real life and responsibility was approaching. My trip would soon be over and I would need to worry about things like jobs, paying rent, and even buying Windex to clean off the bits of food I would eventually spatter against a mirror.  

I made my way to the top deck to reflect on my coming integration back into society, and spotted several lights poking over the horizon; the marine traffic was beginning to increase as we approached the shores of civilization. The glow from distant Bahamian towns lighting up the night sky were definite signals of my imminent arrival in the USA. Only one more country was now between me and Windex levels of responsibility.

The Cruise: Day 7, Lanzarote

I was spared another day at sea by our arrival on Lanzarote, in the Canary Islands. Lanzarote is the easternmost member of the Spanish chain of islands, and is more or less a giant chunk of volcanic wasteland. Violently formed pumice and ocean cooled magma are in abundance, but vegetation and other forms of natural life are not. Even the defunct farms I trolled past were for harvesting salt from the sea rather than food from the land. Apparently there are some aloe vera farms and vineyards on the island, but one would need to rent a car or hire a tour for the privilege, so there was no chance I would see any life.

Even the town seemed to be devoid of human activity. We had arrived on a weekend, and during siesta, so there were more tumbleweeds than there were open businesses. So I had to make do with walking around a tiny island fortress, and looking at a tiny harbour of even tinier boats. Why did they keep bringing us to these ports where there was nothing to do? Was it so we wouldn’t accidentally have an amazing time and then the boredom of the cruise would seem that much worse? I waited in town until an hour before, the hour before the final all aboard. I was absolutely petrified of being abandoned on an island in the Atlantic and ruining my no-flying, cheap, year-long circumnavigation because I had accidentally set my watch wrong.

Later that night, I was once again subjected to a litany of reasons why my dinner mates were the greatest people on earth. After a series of more boasts of how their offspring are supremely impressing, we learned they also happened to be ambassadors of race relations. They mentioned the story of a waiter on-board, Wayne, who had recognized them from a previous cruise. After mentioning that Wayne was African American (despite not being American), in a way that the words “African American” rolled off their tongues very carefully to show us they were using accepted politically correct terminology, they let us know that he must have remembered them because of how they treat people like him. “They don’t like to be treated like slaves,” people like Wayne, “but we don’t do that, we talk to them, they like that.” Yes, this bit of information was also imparted with the same insufferable closed eyes of smugness.

I quickly retired and sealed myself in the library to avoid the chances of having to be subjected to any more conversations. I did find some peace and quiet except for the periodic thudding of a hardcover against the floor. The old man sharing the library with me had developed a perfect system of reading a few sentences, passing out, dropping the book to the floor, being shocked awake by the impact, and then starting the whole process over again.

Hitchhiking From Tallinn to Riga

With my net worth having fallen below $900, I had become even tighter with my money. So when I heard that hitchhiking was easy in the Baltics, I thought I would give it a try on my journey from Tallinn to Riga, Latvia.

The rain that was driving against the city bus window to the edge of town, probably should have been good enough of an indicator that I should spend the 13 Euro and take the bus, but I was resolute. I hopped off the bus at the edge of town, held up my “Riga” sign which I had written on the reverse of a disassembled cereal box, and stuck out my thumb. While I didn’t much enjoy the feeling of being judged unpickupable by a steady stream of motorists, I was pleased I only had to wait about 20 minutes before getting picked up.

I was momentarily put off by the fact the back seats of this man’s man were all removed, making it the perfect mobile hobo killing machine, but he turned out to be wonderfully friendly. He knew a bit of English so we shared a friendly conversation all the way to Parnu, Estonia which was his destination, and about 40% on the way to mine. When we got there he even gave me a tour of the seaside town which appeared to be made almost entirely of spas. After a quick stop at a bowling alley, where once again I was concerned about an ambush, he drove me to the edge of town and bid farewell

Just after he left me at a broken bus stop, the wind, rain, and cold all increased. After an hour, I was not appreciating the worsening of the weather especially considering the rain had disintegrated my sign. Now I was just a sopping wet crazy person in a yellow coat jumping around a bus stop for warmth that wanted to be let into a car. After about another 30 minutes, a guy missing his two front teeth picked me up. I immediately clung to his heating vents like they were water fountains and I had been stranded in the desert for 2 weeks. Unfortunately, he was only able to take me ten minutes down the street, but it was ten minutes that brought life back to my extremities.

He dropped me off at another bus station which was conveniently located across from a tiny supermarket. I had recently become resolved to keep my meals between $1-$3, while also maintaining a bit of variety. My lunch beside the highway therefore consisted of deli meat, yogurt and chocolate cookies.

Aside from the meal and the lightening of the rain, I was to have no inkling of pleasure for the next several hours. Except for one old man who did not speak English pulled over and pointed to three of his fingers and then drove off, I had to wait about 2 hours until my next pick up.

In between swearing at myself for being an idiot, and running in place to keep my temperature up, I continued my practice of mentally converting Euros to Dollars. The exchange rate changed depending on my mood. Earlier, after being picked up quickly in Tallinn the exchange rate was huge. At that point I was laughing to myself: “I’m saving 13 Euro, that’s like 30 dollars! I’m Rich!” Now, beside the highway for 120 minutes, freezing to the core, the conversion was much different: “I went through all of this to save 13 Euro?! That’s only like $15!” When I saw the bus from Tallinn I could have taken whoosh by me with excess interior heat waving out of the bus, I think the value of the Euro dropped to an all-time low.

Finally, and elderly hairy woman picked me up, and drove me 10 minutes down the road. It was only 10 minutes, but it was the most relieving ten minutes that day. When she dropped me off, she pointed up the highway and said “big machine” to help guide me along my way. After about a kilometer I found myself at a gas station, which I assume was the big machine she was referring to. I wandered inside for some warmth and then around back to find some truckers, but there were none, or they were sleeping.

So, I went back out the highway, put on my best scared puppy dog face (it was genuine) and stuck my thumb out. I began berating myself for this stupid adventure and started to worry I’d be a major inconvenience to my host by arriving, if I eventually did, so late. I had no phone so not only was I extra vulnerable, but could not let my host know I would be late. Then I started to realize that hating people is a luxury. Alone, on a freezing highway in a foreign country with dusk approaching, I wouldn’t be able to indulge in entertaining any prejudices even if I had wanted to. Some shelter of communal support or financial security is necessary to fall back on. If anyone were to pull over and save me from my self-made debacle, they would be my hero.

And indeed I did find some heroes, after only 5 minutes. A wonderful Swedish-Lithuanian couple on their way to Lithuania brought me into their vehicle and I am now forever thankful. Thankfully, the Swede was very nervous about meeting his girlfriend’s parents for the first time, so he had been throwing back beers since leaving Helsinki that morning and needed to relieve himself about the time I needed relief. I think he was also hoping I could help calm him down because before I could get in the car he asked me if I had a spliff he could borrow.

Just like has been the case along my entire circumnavigation, the highest highs and lowest lows are never far apart. Just moments after getting philosophically depressed, this couple was driving me towards Riga and giving me beer as the horizon over the Baltic Sea turned purple.

This couple then drove me all the way to the center of Riga, helped me find some internet, let me use their phone to call my host, Janis, and then drove me all the way to his doorstop. After thanking them profusely for being my saviours, the Swede then asked my host if he had any “Bob Marley” he could buy because he wanted to be sure to make the right impression with his girl’s parents. He did not, but I think he ended up doing just fine.

Janis then went out for a party at his brother’s place which I would have loved to join, but I was absurdly exhausted and was in desperate need of raising my core temperature. So I spent the rest of the night drinking hot water, taking hot showers, and going to sleep under the covers wearing pants and a jacket.

I saved 13 Euro though, that’s like $45!

PELNI Ferry Round 2: Jakarta to Batam and Singapore.

The entire bus ride to the Tanjung Priok ferry terminal, I was bracing myself for the worst. I would once again be getting on an ekonomi class PELNI ferry. I had no choice really. There was no other means of overland transport to Singapore, and I couldn’t afford a first class ticket.

Ninda came to see me off, and her moral support dearly helped me the through the psychological stress that was overcoming me. Every place the bus passed triggered nightmarish flashbacks of my ferry ride from Kupang. A family boarded the bus and I had visions of the mother and son puking by my bed. The bus passed a large gutter and I saw streams of garbage being thrown overboard into the sea. We passed a gardener watering a bush and I was brought back to streams of urine flowing from lifeboats onto the upperdeck. These visions, I was soon expecting to again be my reality.

Things, however, started to look up once we arrived at the port. Where I expected to see throngs of humans cramming through small gate openings, I saw sparse, orderly people calmly passing through check-in. When I made it to the ship, I found a ferry that was twice the size and transporting less than half the number of passengers as the previous one. I was overjoyed to find that there was actually space to walk on staircases and hallways. People actually had assigned beds on their tickets. And best of all, there were people collecting garbage and cleaning the place!

Sure, there were still small cockroaches crawling around my bed, and the food was still bad enough to reverse the digestive process, but to me this might as well have been the Titanic. Once you’ve stared into the pit of hell, any glimmer of light is a gift from heaven.  Even though they were less torture chamber-y than before, I did still make a (successful) pact with myself to avoid the bathroom at all costs.

In contrast to the previous 3 day horror show, this pleasure cruise was a mere 29 hours, and arrived exactly on time. As I strolled down the gangplank in Sekupang, Batam Island I looked to the north. Through a dense haze from Sumatran forest fires, I could see the distant, faint, ethereal skyline of Singapore.

Within 30 minutes of being tied up at the port, I had made the quick jaunt to the neighbouring ferry terminal, bought my ticket, cleared customs, and was in a fast boat dashing over the waves to the 6^th nation on my tour. 

Sailing the Timor Sea

When I strolled up to the Tipperary Waters Marina to meet the people and yacht with which I would be sailing across the Timor Sea, I was ready for the worst. After my previous experience of drifting into a rocky bay during a thunderstorm, at night, in a broken ship with an incompetent captain that was navigating us towards rocks, I was a tad apprehensive. However, before I even stepped on board, all of my worries had vanished.

The 50 foot yacht was obviously, even to an untrained eye, fully equipped, gorgeous and ready to go. The entire crew was on board getting the ship ready to go. Not only was everyone joking and getting along well, but they were all pretty good looking too! There was Scott, the Kiwi Captain, who has been sailing his whole life and has been a navigator on cruise ships for nearly a decade. With his American girlfriend Alyssa, he is heading up to Thailand to start a charter business. Hitching a ride for part of the journey was Martin from France, Moniek from the Netherlands, and Tobias from Denmark.

When we eventually pulled away from Darwin and Australia sunk into the horizon, the experience just kept getting better. It turns out that Martin is a world class chef and has worked at top restaurants from Brazil to French Polynesia and has cooked with the celebrity chefs such as Gordon Ramsey. The pasta dish that I ate that night underneath the glow of a moon rainbow (there were even friggin’ moon rainbows!) was one of the best I’ve ever tasted.

The weather that night, like it was for the entire trip, was perfect. A slight wind and calm clear seas made for easy work while keeping watch every night. Our watches, in pairs of 2 for 4 hour blocks every night, comprised mainly of occasionally check the radar and look into front of us to make sure we didn’t hit things or stuff. With the autopilot working its magic, this meant that our main challenges included drinking tea and reading.

On the second day for at least 30 minutes, we got swarmed by 20-30 dolphins that were jumping around the boat and having the time of their life darting around the bow. All of us went camera crazy as we let our feet dangle over the front and splash down just feet away from the slippery sea swimmers. Not being content with merely getting his feet near the dolphins, Scott hooked up an ingenious rope system from the top of the mast where he could sit in a safety harness and hurl himself overboard to splash down in the ocean without being dragged away. Jumping overboard into dolphin filled waters in the Timor Sea was not something I could not pass up.

I think Scott may have done that a few times before, because I did not look nearly as graceful when I flung myself over the side, spun around furiously, smacked into the ocean, swallowed 10 liters of sea water, and then swung back into the side of the boat. It was definitely enormously refreshing, although, the safety strap the cut deeply into vital groin areas almost made come back on board as a woman!

That night our imaginations got the better of us for a few hours. A phantom ship constantly appeared and then disappeared both from sight and the radar. Sometimes approaching within 2 miles of our location, we had visions of pirates or boat people (illegal immigrants to Australia, who arrive not by hopping a border but by crossing seas) looking to plunder our booty. For me, this possible threat to our booties was overshadowed by the splendor of the phosphorescence that danced behind our boat. Disturbed by our movement, the micro-organisms emit a dazzling sparkling light show, like a tame version of what you can see in Life of Pi. This serene source of beauty left me able to worry less about being pillaged by pirates and to instead contemplate important things like when did pirates decide to adopt the pirate accent?

Just two and half days after leaving Australia on a boat I woke up for the final shift on watch. Stumbling onto the cockpit at 4am, I saw it. I could only see the faint outline of a tiny island, but here it was for the first time, Asia: the largest land mass. Not only was it a sweet sight, but also a sweet smell. The air was noticeably more agreeable in sight of land than it had been at sea. Even though the 300 km from Darwin had brought me to a new world, at that time of day, and at that distance, it could have been anywhere in the world.

As Scott steered the yacht into the harbour, we got to see the world wake up. The sun rose from behind the island and we got to see the warm orange glow bring a city to life. First, the silhouette of a modern factory revealed itself and then slowly, so did the people. Small fishing boats began to dart around the bay and scooters began to spped around the city. By the time we dropped anchor the city was alive under a high hot sun.

After the idyllic weather, great company, delicious food, and amazing scenery, I think there is an important lesson to draw from this. If you find an opportunity online to blindly join a group of strangers sailing across a foreign ocean, do it.

Outback Day 3: Maree - Coober Pedy

Shortly after getting under way on Day 3 we pulled up beside the south shore of Lake Eyre, the world’s 4^th largest lake. As we gazed at the water, or salt, I couldn’t be sure which is was, we become even better acquainted with what is by far the worst part of the outback: the flies. Never in all my life have I come across flies so enormously and consistently irritating. 

No matter where in the outback you may be or pull over, you will be instantly swarmed by flies which won’t be content until they land in your ears, eyes, nose, or mouth. I had to constantly swat all around my head like a crazy person to get any relief (I have since been told this is called the Australian salute). It makes no sense to me how there can be so many flies everywhere in this seemingly lifeless environment. What the hell are they doing the 99% of the time when there’s no humans or big animals around?

The flies go away at night, which is good, but what am I supposed to do the other 10 hours of the day? When we pulled over in Coward Springs, I got my answer. When we arrived I was greeted by, I think, the owner who displayed his horrifying method of coping with the flies. He adopted the “if you can’t beat ‘em join ‘em approach.” All over his nose, mouth and ears there were at least 20 flies furiously scurrying and filling in every facial crevasse. Even with the most neglected and sickly horse or cow, I have never seen such a dense population of insects on a single head. Coward Springs is pretty much the only tourist attraction along the Oodnadatta Track, and other than fly-infested faces it is just a grimy lukewarm spring/ hot tub that is most welcome to anyone who hasn’t showered in a day or so.

Mr. Fly Face was also kindly able to tell us that it would be raining that night, and all of the roads would be turned into mud. Up until this point we had just been blithely carting ourselves across the outback. Being armed with actual useful knowledge, and desiring not to have fly orgies on our faces while stuck in muddy roads for up to 4 days, we decided we needed to make it to a sealed road before dark. We took a detour from the Oodnadatta Track and made our way to Coober Pedy to get on the Stuart highway (the main Adelaide-Darwin highway).

 

William's Creek: Australia's smallest town (6-10 people) and the turnoff from the Oodnadatta Track to Coober Pedy

Coober Pedy is a major sight along this highway, but I suppose that is not saying much. It’s main claims to fame include roughly a million piles of dirt stacked from opal mining, a grassless golf course, underground houses, and the backdrop for post-apocalyptic films such as Mad Max 3, Red Planet, and Pitch Black. Since, none of us had much interest in mounds of dirt from Vin Diesel movies, we headed north to find a deserted road we could camp beside.

This proved slightly more difficult than planned since most side roads have large signs that read “Mining Area, Stupid. Explosives and bottomless pits everywhere. We’ll fine you big time.” Eventually we did find a good spot and had another impromptu goon and desert party.

Container Ship to Australia

After my horror show sailboat experience, I wobbled ashore with sleepless awkward sea legs and immediately – after a splendid comatose slumber  – began to face the predicament of how the hell to get to Australia. The one other yacht sailing to Australia from New Zealand was now all filled up, and the only cruise ship headed in that direction wanted $6400 for its remaining room and couldn’t guarantee I’d be allowed off in Australia. That left me with one last dreaded option: another cargo ship.

 

Goodbye New Zealand

My previous cargo ship experience of mind-numbing boredom, conversation-less meals, and unclean bathrooms had, combined with the price tag, left me far from enthused about hopping aboard another one. Thankfully, not all ships are created equal.

The Bahia Grande was a magnificent vessel, bounds ahead of my previous one. It was larger and newer with vastly superior facilities. There was starboard side veranda, an elevator, a gymnasium that actually had working cardio machines, and there was even a basketball court at the back. It must be the coolest court I’ve ever seen, it sits just 20 feet above the rushing ocean and it is underneath a stack of containers. Also, the fact that it is a foot or two too short means that I can actually dunk on it, and that makes me feel like a champion.

Both the crew and officers were willing to strike up a conversation. The chief engineer even gave me a tour of the engine room, and by engine room I mean more of an engine warehouse. Nine pistons about 30 feet tall constantly drive the meaty propeller which pushes this 254 meter behemoth across the world’s oceans, burning through 60-75 tons of diesel fuel a day in the process.

Not only were the officers more talkative, but there were actually other passengers this time! And they could speak fluent English! One was a Kiwi former sniper mercenary from the Angolan war (how many Kiwi snipers are there that I’ve met 2 already), and the other two were an extremely nice couple from Australia. In addition to English dialogue, the Australians even offered up a few places to stay on my journey through their country.

Less conversant, though much more hairy, were the 5 horse passengers who were also hitching a ride from Auckland to Sydney. In a special horse carrying container, these 5 guys just sort of ate, crapped, and looked timidly unsure of everything that was going on for 3 days. I asked what happens when they get seasick, because I know that horses don’t puke, and I got the unsatisfying answer that, apparently, horses just don’t get seasick.

Unfortunately, the weather was similarly pleasant. I was hoping there would be at least a small dose of gale force winds or skyscraper sized waves crashing over the bow so that I could feel better about being on a massive ship, but alas, there was nothing but clear skies and relatively calm water.

The lights of Sydney are starting glow on the horizon. I guess that means it’s time to start worrying about things like where to stay or how to get across the country to Indonesia.

Crossing the Pacific in a Cargo Ship

As the cargo ship Hugo Schulte pulled out of the Long Beach port, I was filled with anticipation and romanticism. After months of planning I was about to sail across the mighty Pacific Ocean to New Zealand.

The sense of romance was obliterated when I woke up the next morning. It was then that I discovered, after stumbling to the bathroom, that whoever the previous occupant of my room was, he was very fond of peeing on as much of the toilet seat as possible and then letting it dry to a crisp. Without being provided any cleaning products, I had to spend every bathroom visit from then on avoiding 50% of my toilet seat. It’s okay though, it complemented nicely with my sticky couch that came complete with a collection of toe nail clippings.

Deciding to see if the dining experience was any better I made my way to the mess hall. I had been designated to eat with the officers who were all from Eastern Europe (Poland, Latvia, Ukraine, and Russia). You’d think that if you were stuck on a boat for 9 months at a time you’d enjoy partaking in some friendly conversation. You’d be wrong.

Not once in my two weeks did any officer start a conversation with me or say more than “good appetite.” And it wasn’t just me, or a language barrier. Sometimes I’d walk in halfway through a meal and there’d be 5 men sitting in a room, eating, and not saying a word.

Once I found out conversation was not going to be a part of any of my meals I aimed at eating when I knew I’d be alone. I found this less awkward especially considering that the engineer designated to sit beside me had some of the worst B.O. I’d ever come across. So, when the choices came down to eating alone, or eating silently beside a sweaty smelly man that makes my meal taste like armpit, I chose alone.

The crew on the other hand was the best part of the trip. While the officers may have been tight-lipped Europeans, the crew was all welcoming and all Filipino. Knowing even less English than the officers, the crew were always keen to strike up conversation. But more than talking they were keen of singing.

On my first full night at sea it was a crew member’s birthday and I was brought to the karaoke party that was thrown. Now usually, I only get involved with karaoke after some serious coxing from friends and alcohol. But hell, how many times am I on a cargo ship on the Pacific singing karaoke with a Filipino crew, right? It wasn’t long before I was busting out my renditions of Eight Days a Week, Bohemian Rhapsody, and Ain’t No Mountain High Enough. And I only needed to be a little drunk!

That being said, a little drunk goes along way when in the hangover department when $2.88 bottles of wine were your poison.

Unfortunately, the crew had to work most of the time so I had to find ways of amusing myself, which was quite difficult. The swimming pool was just two strokes long and was only filled with water sporadically. The gymnasium consisted simply of 2 barbells and a ping pong table which was quite useless without anyone else to play with.

I had come prepared with an arsenal of movies to watch, and thousands of pages to read but there are only so many hours of film you can watch and so many pages of text you can read in a row before nothing is interesting or enjoyable and you just read or watch because it’s there.

With a dearth of physical activities, social opportunities, or mental stimulation, it meant that I spent the vast majority of my day alone in a room that constantly swayed from side to side. If you think that sounds like it would get boring quickly, you would be right. I think it was day 5 when I realized in horror that I still had 10 days to go. I had to stay in this room for twice as long as I’d already been in it!

So unless mind crushing boredom and sitting in a swaying room for a fortnight sounds like a blast to you, please, for the love of god, never take a cargo ship across the Pacific Ocean.