My Journey to Colombia from New York: Part Two

The Avianca A319 Airbus destined for Colombia's capital, Bogota, waited on the taxiway at New York's JFK airport. I looked out my window and could see planes waiting on the intersecting taxiway – there were about nine other planes ahead of us. This gave me time to cast my eyes around the inside of my plane, as I always do. It was my first flight on a South American airline, so I was more than usually curious. Particularly as Avianca is a Colombian airline and Colombia is described by some as a third world nation.

The interior looked clean and tidy. The air stewards and stewardesses were dressed in neat red uniforms. I had an interactive screen in front of me. I grabbed the controller for the screen: some airlines had satellite phones in these things, which would be great, because I needed to call Lucas to let him know I'd changed flights in an attempt to get to his wedding in Medellin on time. I was originally going to fly directly to Medellin and land five hours before the ceremony started, but that flight had been delayed. If everything went right, this plane would get me to Bogota by 1:30PM, and then I would get another flight to Medellin, arriving two hours before the wedding started. Unfortunately, my mobile (cell) phone hadn't worked in the terminal, and there was no satellite phone built into the controller - I swiped my credit card hopefully in the provided slot, but nothing happened.

‘I hope my card details haven’t been recorded for future retrieval by some plane cleaner,’ I thought. 'I'll contact Lucas when I get to Bogota.' I looked out the window again. The wings looked shiny and crack free (although fatigue cracks are invisible to the eye: by the time you can see one, it’s a bit late).

‘An A319 is a pretty small plane and it’s a long way from New York to Colombia. Wasn’t it an Airbus crashed and sank in the Atlantic Ocean a few months ago - it was flying from South America. Actually, I think two Airbuses have crashed in the last year,’ had said one of the guys at work.

Such words were not comforting. Other people had better things to say. ‘Avianca are supposed to have the best service for airlines operating in the States,’ a US courtesy bus driver had said to me. ‘It’s a pity they aren’t bigger – they would really shake the industry up.’

When the time came, the plane took off without incident. ‘Colombia here we come,’ I thought. I really didn’t know what to expect when I landed. I’d done some research, and there were a lot of conflicting messages.

‘Oh you will have the best time. We will show you all around the city. People are so friendly and generous,’ Lucas’ bride Angela had said.

‘We have some Colombian friends are know that they are just the nicest people over there,’ another friend had said.

I wanted to believe them, but I’d heard so much about Colombia’s dark past. The 1984 movie ‘Romancing the Stone’, starring Michael Douglas and Katherine Turner, was set in Colombia. It left me with a fairly terrified impression of the country. Particularly the scene where a baddie threatens to feed the heroes to his crocodiles and someone’s hand gets bitten off. Although the story was fictional, there is the very real statistic that Colombia has a high homicide rate, at 36 people per 100,000 head of population in 2008. Sure, homicides in Colombia have almost halved from the year 2000 rate, but that’s a still heck of a lot compared to 5.4 per 100,000 in the United States, or 1.2 per 100,000 in Australia.

In the 1980s, Colombia was the world’s biggest producer of cocaine. (In fact, it still is the world’s biggest producer of cocaine.) Pablo Escobar, infamous leader of one of the drug cartels, was from the city I was headed for (after changing at Bogota): Medellin. He coined the term ‘silver or lead’ for his policy in dealing with government and law enforcement officials. He rewarded those who assisted him with bribe money, and gunned down those who resisted him. Hundreds of people were killed, perhaps thousands. But he also cultivated a Robin Hood image with the poor in Medellin - he contributed money for infrastructure and many churches around the city were built with his finance. The money in cocaine was more than lucrative – it was a business worth billions. In 1989, he was thought to be the world’s seventh richest man, worth $25 billion dollars. Rumor had it that Pablo had so many crates of US dollars that about 10% got eaten by rats or went mouldy.

With political changes in Bogota, Escobar was eventually caught and jailed. A measure of his influence was that he was allowed to build a prison (actually it sounded like a playboy mansion) of his own design, where he continued to run his cartel until a decision was made to relocate him to a real prison. He escaped and the government hunted him for eighteen months, until they shot him on the rooftops of Medellin in 1993.

The terrorist groups who took control of Colombia’s drug operations after the power vacuum following Escobar’s demise have regularly plotted the downfall of the government. They also kidnap people. 2002 Colombian presidential candidate Ingrid Betancourt was kidnapped and imprisoned by FARC for years, until Colombia’s President Uribe ordered a successful rescue operation in 2008. I don't know how she’d managed to survive in the jungle for six years, but I was pretty sure I didn’t want to experience it firsthand.

The current president, Alvaro Uribe, was also from Medellin, like Escobar. His father was gunned down by FARC in 1983. (They were attempting to kidnap his father.) Since the beginning of Uribe’s presidency in 2002, he has directed the military to eliminate terrorist forces, particularly FARC. He is a popular president because the population is generally tired of conflict and war in their country. He has made close ties with the United States, permitting U.S. access to seven military bases in Colombia to fight drugs and terrorism. He also supports extradition of drug trade operators to the U.S. and other countries. However, he may not have been so resisting of the drug trade in the past. A 1991 US Defense Intelligence Agency report suggests that Uribe was a close personal friend of Escobar’s, dedicated to assisting his drug cartel at the highest levels in government. Pablo Escobar allegedly lent Uribe a helicopter in 1983 to collect his father’s body and his injured brother. Given that Uribe was Medellin’s mayor in 1982 and one of the country’s senators from 1986 to 1994, to me it seems impossible that Escobar did not approach Uribe with one of his “silver or lead” offers. Uribe denies the allegations, saying he was never a friend of Escobar, even when it was fashionable, and that he would never have entered the helicopter if he’d known it was Escobar’s. I had to wonder a bit.

I suspect he works for the greater good of his country, but looking from afar, it is a definite worry when a country’s democratically elected leader changes the rules affecting how long he can stay. I found out later that he changed the country’s constitution so he could successfully run for a second term, and is now trying to change the law again so he can run for a third term from 2010. Ultimate power ultimately corrupts… that’s all I’m saying. Don’t become another dictator, Alvaro.

With all this in mind, my stomach clenched when the Avianca plane crossed over land again, after flying over the ocean for about five hours. The country underneath me looked very green and hilly: difficult to cross by land. Like Australia’s Qantas, Avianca is one of the oldest airlines in the world and it was formed for a similar reason: in the early 20th century, the lack of decent roads in both countries meant that people couldn’t get to hospitals and obtain important services when they needed them. The impenetrable jungles and soaring mountains in Colombia were quite different to the vast open plains of Australia (which turned into impassable mud every time it rained), but the result was the same. Airlines could fly straight over the top, and get people where they needed to go.

The chief stewardess announced something in Spanish and then spoke in English for “gringos” like me. ‘… Muchos Gracias… Excuse me passengers. We will be landing in Bogota shortly. Would you please stow all belongings under the seat in front of you, put away your tray, return your chair to the upright position and ensure your seat belt is fastened. Thank you.’

Many passengers promptly got out of their chairs, opened up the lockers over their seats and pulled out copious quantities of luggage. Others decided it was a good time to visit the toilet. I found it amusing, because President Obama had been on U.S. television yesterday saying that new security measures could require all airline passengers to stay in their seats for the last hour of international flights, without accessing their carry-on luggage and without being permitted to go to the restroom. Of course, that rule applied to planes in U.S. airspace, which we clearly weren’t in now. One passenger unloaded items of clothing and spread them on his seat. Another managed to drop his sizeable bag on top of a seated passenger’s head. The air-stewards and stewardesses smiled patiently and helped people get back into their seats.

The plane descended down towards a plateau between the surrounding hilltops. We went straight over the runway without attempting to land, and flew low across the city. Bogota was enormous, set out in neat grids. Square grey concrete rooftops looked up at me. I could see a six lane highway running along one gridline, with heavy traffic stopping and starting between traffic lights. We made a hard turn over what seemed to be the middle, and dropped towards another runway.

‘Woah. Ohhh. PPPPfff,’sighed the other passengers around as the plane wobbled slightly from side to side. My hands gripped the armrests tightly, as the buildings underneath reached closer and closer towards us.

‘Oooo. Aaaaa,’ sighed some of the passengers, as the plane hung over the runway, almost like a hovering bird – a bird weighing 62 tonnes. Without drama, the plane touched down onto the runway neatly and braked. Simultaneously, the other passengers cheered and clapped their hands. I looked around wide eyed, and then clapped my hands as well.

I’d made it to Colombia. It was about 1:30PM. Now I just had to get to the right city. There were a few more hoops I had to jump through yet…

My Journey to Colombia from New York: Part One

4:30AM, December 28th, 2009. I’d just missed a train, which had been leaving as I’d got to the steps on the corner of Broadway and West 79th Street. I stood, shivering, in the 79th Street subway station, waiting for a “One” train to take me to Penn Station on 34th Street. I was wearing my thermal undershirt, jeans, long sleeved shirt, leather jacket, scarf and beanie. I’d left my jumper in my suitcase with my wife Kerryn. I hadn't wanted to deal with the jumper's bulkiness. I was paying for it with the air temperature.

Fortunately, no snow had fallen since the previous weekend, when there’d been a snow blizzard – some had called it a “Snowpocalyse”. Weather commentators had been calling it the coldest winter in 20 years. We’d been in midair at the time, travelling from Australia via Japan. Luckily, the runways had been cleared by the time we got to New York.

I was on my way back to JFK airport, to catch a plane to Colombia in South America. A few days ago my friends Lucas and Angela had advised me that their wedding ceremony had been changed to six PM on the day I was arriving there - today. ‘I’ll be there, provided the flights are OK,’ I had said.

I stood near the platform edge, tapping my foot. The New York subway is one of the few mass transit systems in the world that runs twenty four hours a day and I hoped that a train would be along shortly. There is always demand for it, because there are always people working. There are two Apple stores in Manhattan (the iPhone, not the fruit variety) that are open 24 hours a day. There is a 3-storey M&M world on 7th Avenue that is open until 12AM (yes, 3 storeys of merchandise for the bright coloured chocolate candy). There are policeman, fireman and wailing sirens on the streets all night.

I had no idea when the next train was coming because there weren’t countdown information boards in most stations. Apparently the boards were under trial in a few places around the city. ‘New Yorkers stick their heads out from the platform edge to look for lights of the next train,’ my friend Stephen had said, who’d recently moved to the city for work. ‘It’s pretty funny at peak hour time, because the entire platform is full of people who are leaning out over the platform edge.’

This seemed a bit dangerous to me. It reminded me of the story of a person approaching the end of the tunnel, only to realise that the light was coming from an approaching train. But I needed to get to the airport, so after waiting for ten minutes, I stuck my head out over the platform and had a good look. Nothing – the tunnel was as black as the far recesses of the universe.

A little later, I could hear a train in the distance. ‘Clack Clack. Squeal. Clack Clack. Squeal. CLACK CLACK. CLACK. CLACK. ’ When the noise came closer, it was an express train that raced past on the inner set of rails, far away from the platform. Fifteen minutes had passed - I was starting to worry. I had to catch a subway and two different trains to JFK and I wasn’t sure how long I'd have to wait for each connection, given the time of day. ‘OK, I’ll wait another five minutes, if nothing comes by then I’m catching a taxi.’

I was ready to race out of the station, when a stainless-steel train finally slowed down at the platform with a whine of its electric motors. By about minutes past five, I’d made it to Penn Station, bought a ticket and boarded the Long Island Railroad for Jamaica Station. The train raced through tunnels for about ten minutes, before coming to the surface somewhere in Queens. It was still dark, and we clattered past streetlights and multistory apartments with lights in some windows. There was no rain or snow, so I imagined there would be no reasons for delays at the airport. How wrong I was to be.

At Jamaica station, I changed along with about 20 other passengers to the Airtrain, which steered driverlessly along elevated bridges to get me to Terminal Four. JFK has eight terminals – it is truly enormous and employs about 35000 people. Icy air whooshed through the small gap between the train doors and the station doors, and the concourse in the station was only slightly warmer. I made my way upstairs to the Avianca check-in desk and got into the queue.

‘Phew, I’ve made it through all the public transport. The weather looks OK. Everything should be fi… what the!’ I thought to myself as I received my boarding pass. The eight AM departure time had been crossed out with a biro and changed to one PM.

I did the calculations in my head. The flight time was five hours and twenty-five minutes. Customs and immigration usually took an hour. Then I would have to get dressed – in a suit I was supposed to pick up in Colombia today. I wouldn’t be at the wedding until eight PM at the earliest. ‘Shit, that isn’t going to work. The wedding is why I’ve come over from Australia. What do I do?’ I thought to myself. ‘OK – I can either accept the situation and go and get breakfast, or I can be positive and create the possibility that there’s a way to get there on time.’

I picked up my phone. It read ‘Emergency Service Only.’ I couldn’t call anyone using it and it was too early anyway. I made my choice. ‘Is there any way you can get me on an earlier flight? My friends are getting married in Medellin at six tonight.’
‘The flight is delayed sir – there’s nothing we can do about it. If you see the supervisor, she will give you a voucher for breakfast and lunch.’
‘Which person is your supervisor?’ I asked.
‘The one wearing the red coat.’
‘They’re all wearing a red coat, aren’t they? Which one do you mean?’
‘The third one from here. The older lady,’ she gestured, pointing one hand.

I looked across through the frustrated expressions of other customers. Her supervisor was talking on two phones at once, with one cradled between her shoulder and her brown hair. She put one down and picked up a walkie-talkie. She spoke to two customers, whose faces wore stressed looks. She nodded her head at them and issued a rapid command to a nearby colleague. She was interrupted briefly by a cargo handler, and then she turned back to the customers. She asked them to stand nearby and then waved at me. She handed me a $10 voucher to spend in the terminal. ‘Uh – I really need to get to Medellin. My friends are getting married there at six tonight. I’m the best man,’ I said.

I smiled and put my best hopeful look. She looked at me with sky blue eyes in a careworn face. ‘OK Sir, please stand over there and I’ll see what I can do,’ she said.

By now, it was about 6:50AM. I waited as she talked to more customers, answered questions from the check-in staff around her, and made calls on phones and the walkie-talkie. After ten minutes, she ushered me over and waved to a colleague. ‘Connie here is going to arrange for your boarding pass and put you on the flight to Bogota. It is leaving very soon. We will put you on a domestic flight from there to Medellin.’
‘Thank you very much,’ I said.

Connie had a short, stocky frame, with a medium complexion. ‘OK Sir, let me get your boarding pass. Is your only luggage the daypack you’re carrying? Have you got any liquids or gels greater than 3 onces? Are you carrying any scissors or knives?’ she said, patting the side of her dark hair.
‘Yes, No and No,’ I answered.
‘OK. So you’re going to a wedding in Medellin tonight? Will this be your first visit to Colombia?’
‘Yes – it will be my first time in Colombia. My first time in South America too.’
‘OK – here’s your pass. The flight is leaving very soon. Let me get my things and I’ll take you through.’

Now, it should be noted that the flight was leaving in ten minutes, and I was standing at the check-in desk. I hadn’t been through security yet and only three days before, an idiot had tried to blow up a plane with explosives sewed into his underpants. Terrorist activity was still alive and unwell.

We approached lines of people and security staff. Connie walked in front of me, with her identity tag slung across her chest. ‘Hi, how are you. Hellooo,’ she smiled and waved.

We raced up to the very last X-ray machine, and loaded it up with my possessions. Connie went through ahead of me. I took off my shoes and belt, threw them in and stepped through the metal detector. ‘I’ll take your stuff down to the gate. Get your shoes on and catch me up,’ said Connie.
'Have you got your passport?’ she asked, when I sprinted up beside her.

Oh Oh. I thought she had it. I patted my jean pockets and felt nothing. I tried the pockets in my coat. My fingers felt the familiar booklet shape – I pulled it out and checked it. ‘OK, got it,’ I said.
‘All right. So we can’t get your boarding pass printed out for the flight from Bogota to Medellin. Just go to the Avianca desk and tell them Connie in New York sent you. We’ll have sent down your details by the time you get there. Go and get on the flight.’
‘Thank you so much for everything. Muchos Gracias, Senora,’ I said.
‘You’re welcome. Now go and enjoy the party tonight,’ she said.

I walked down the loading bridge to the plane. I was on my way, although nobody except a few Avianca staff members and I knew it. I hoped I would be able to call Lucas and Angela in Medellin before anyone got worried.

The journey had only just begun…

Limerick's Christmas tree is not a joke.. really

Limerick's Christmas tree for 2009 has been widely touted as the tallest Christmas tree in all of Ireland. It is made of recycled steel from a couple of big construction projects, and sits on a floating pontoon in the Shannon River. Imagine the children's disappointment when they discover the tree lights cannot be turned on... because it has moved downstream, struck the Shannon Bridge and developed a 45 degree list.

See the articles if you don't believe me:-

• http://www.irishtimes.com/newspaper/ireland/2009/1121/1224259237463.html
• http://www.limerickleader.ie/news/Christmas-tree-crashes-into-Shannon.5845382.jp
• http://www.newstalk.ie/news/video-of-floating-christmas-tree-escaping-in-limerick/

New York - the first day

We arrived in New York yesterday evening. We stayed at a hotel near the airport on the first night - there had been a snow blizzard the day before we arrived, so there has been snow everywhere. It caused a fair number of delays with planes and trains etc, so we were lucky we arrived after they'd cleared the runway of snow. But the snow looks great - we love it. Its very light and fluffly, at least until traffic has run over it - then its grey mush.

We caught the subway (the 'A' as they call the particular line) into town this morning and moved to the hotel in Manhattan that Kerryn may have shown you on the list. It's basic, but its neat, clean and heated. When we go outside, Kerryn and I have been wearing thermal underware + clothes + jumper + jacket + scarf + gloves + beenie and have still been cold. Kerryn said I looked like 'a stupid elf' because of the way I'd arranged the beenie on my head. She pulled it down and folded the rim properly for me.

We've briefly seen one edge of Central Park, Times Square, Macy's department store, JC Penneys dept store, K Mart dept store, and countless other stores. We been touted by an African American beggar. He wanted $10 - Kerryn gave him $1 and he complained. I told him 'you get what you get mate and thats it'. He left us alone after that, but a family that had walked past and seen it happen warned us to avoid these beggars (very logical) because they can grab your wallet and run off with it. Fortunately that hasn't happened and we're wiser to it now.

Have listened to a grumpy old lady talk to her grumpy old husband in a strong New York accent; while we had lunch in one of those booth type restaurants like you see on Seinfeld. 'What family do you want to talk about, since you don't want to talk about mine?' she asked. 'I don't want to talk about any family,' he replied. 'You never want to talk. I'm sick of you. I come in here to spend time with you and you're wanting to start an arguement,' she replied. 'I'm trying to respond to your dialogue,' he said. 'No you're not - your spoiling for a fight. I've had enough - I'm not staying here for this - I'm leaving,' she announced. She put on her coat and stalked out, after muttering something about people what happens when people actually care about each other. He stayed there until he'd finished his meal, and then left without a sound. I wonder if they'll be sleeping under the same roof tonight?

We got sick of getting our feet wet in the partly melted grey mush snow at each street corner, so we went out shopping - I got a pair of waterproof shoes and she got boots. Both were very cheap compared to prices at home. Part of the way through, I sat (slumped) down onto a chair in Macy's as Kerryn circled around looking for her boots. An aged, respectable looking African American sat down next to me and we sympathised about the nature of wives when they enter department stores. It should be noted that Macy's is the largest department store in the world (so they say), and there is an enormous level of choice available.

'There's nothing that suits me here - let's go,' said Kerryn upon her return. 'What - you're telling me you can't find what you want in the largest department store in the world?' I laughed. 'There's nothing I like that actually feels comfortable for my feet,' she replied. We found some eventually, in a small store just near our hotel on West 77th Street.

Pestilence via backpacking

When I wrote 'a few Drops short of a Pint', I expected to have a certain Irish employer sue me for defamation. Possibly I will put on a return flight home if I land at Dublin airport again. And I've certainly earned the eternal emnity of Dublin Bus drivers by posting my opinions of their driving on www.busrage.com

I didn't expect this one - check it out at
http://www.chinadaily.com.cn/life/2009-05/06/content_7747788.htm. It's pretty funny.

1989 to 2009 - Chris' 20 year high school reunion

I attended my 20 year High School reunion last night. I approached the door of the Shark’s Football Club at Victoria Point with both excitement and trepidation. What would all of us be like after 20 years?

When I started high school in 1985, there’d been a fight between students almost every lunch-hour. The school had been stretched to the seams with around 2000 kids, and the fights seemed to be a reality we had to deal with, and in my case, avoid. The fights in school kept going for a couple of years and then died out. I found out that there had been a senior Year 11 student making younger kids fight by threatening them; and then placing bets on them to make a buck. (My father was a teacher at the school, so he knew the story.)

A variety of tough-case principals were posted to our school to sort us out with discipline. These men and women cracked down on behavior, uniforms, and students who liked a cigarette or two, in the days before smoke-free workplaces were thought of.

Dress standard and uniforms became the issue of the day; both for the teaching staff and the students. The command from the principal’s administration was that boys’ shirts needed to be tucked in, girls’ skirts needed to be knee height; and the formal uniform must be worn on every day except sports day, when the sports uniform had to be worn. Spot checks were carried out by teachers and non-conformists could be sent along to detention. Students caught loitering and making a nuisance of themselves around town in uniform were made example of, and would be sent to multiple detentions. I vaguely remember some were even expelled from the school.

Cleveland High School was (and is) a public funded school. From the students’ point of view, the school was required to educate students whether they wore the uniform or not. Some students rebelled against the rules, with girls wearing hiked up skirts to upper thigh level (which I appreciated greatly) and boys wearing their shirts hanging out. Socks were pushed down around the ankles. The school’s administration responded and cranked up the discipline further until the students staged a walkout and gathered on the oval; shaking the boundary fence and talking to the press about the unfairness of the uniform policy. I think some sort of truce was made by letting students have a free dress day every few weeks – but we had to pay money for it. I’m not sure what the money was used for, but I paid 20 cents or so to wear light blue trousers and an orange shirt. I’m not sure what I was thinking or how I survived those days - today, I’d pay $20 so I didn’t have to wear light blue trousers or an orange shirt.

Fights, smoking bans and uniforms seem a bit hilarious in comparison to the drug risks, cyber-bullying and physical threatening that are present in some schools today, but these were the issues we grappled with. While we struggled through English, Maths, Physical Education and a foreign language or performing arts, Madonna became a sensation with “Papa don’t Preach” and “Like a Prayer”. Michael Fox rose to stardom as Alex in “Family Ties” and Marty in “Back to the Future”. An Australian Band known as 1927 played “That’s when I think of You” and “Compulsory Hero”. John Farnham made it with “Whispering Jack” and “Age of Reason”. Remember Rick Astley? – better not to perhaps. INXS was top of the charts with “Kick”. Of course, there was Kylie in her Stock Aitken Waterman years. In 1989 (my final year at school), the Beach Boys' “Kokomo” was huge, but has seemed a bit daggy since; while the B52s “Love Shack” still calls lots of people to the dance floor.

With all this in the background, I walked into the reunion last night. And I had the best time. I met business owners, managers, a radiologist, a Colonel in the Army, a soldier who’d fought in East Timor, a solicitor, Mums and Dads, an architect, computer programmers and information technologists, a horse breeder, an editor, a golf coach, an accountant and a naval lawyer. I couldn’t recognise everyone, and nor could everyone recognise me. But I couldn’t help noticing how generous everyone was. Their welcomes and congratulations were so refreshing. My classmates have done all right with their lives and I'm glad.

Thanks to everyone who came along, and to the organisers for such a great night. I will always remember us leaping around to the Black Eyed Peas – “I Gotta Feeling”; and gathering into a circle for “That’s what friends are for”. Keep being awesome and see you for the next one.

Handwashing and holidays (Part 1)

Every time I use a public bathroom, I wash my hands afterwards and then put them under the electric dryer. I try waving my hands sideways underneath it; up and down; and from left to right. I turn the unit off and back on again at the wall. I sometimes perform a little dance in front of it to surprise it. Nothing happens. As an option, some places also have paper towels, which I prefer. But I don’t enjoy stuffing these in amongst other wet used paper, in a waste bin that is usually overflowing onto the floor. Other bathrooms have those towels on a roller which you’re supposed to pull down to get a dry section. But what happens when the roller runs out of towel? I usually come along, that’s what happens.

It went much the same way when I used the bathroom at Brisbane Airport. The dryer refused to start, even though I waved my arms around like one of those giant air-inflated figures used outside car-parts stores to attract customers. There was no alternative, so I wiped my hands furtively on my jeans and headed for the door. As usual, the dryer roared into life as the person behind me walked within a couple of metres of the thing.

I was at the airport because I was off to Darwin in the Northern Territory for a holiday. It was hard to know what to expect. Darwin is the most northern city in Australia. From the heavily populated east coast cities, it is around two thousand kilometres across mostly empty desert, bush and savannah country. I had visions of a tough frontier town. Perhaps the pubs would be fitted with wild-west louvre doors that swung open violently as people were forcibly ejected. Maybe I’d be beaten to a pulp if I accidentally crossed someone’s path, or looked at their drink the wrong way. I wouldn’t have felt any better if I’d known Territorians’ idea of a seven course dinner – a pie and a six-pack.

‘People can be a bit irreverent in Darwin,’ a girl who’d moved there from Melbourne would later tell me. ‘They don’t necessarily like to follow rules and they certainly won’t do something just because the rest of the country thinks they should.’

On the other hand, two of my work colleagues had been there recently, and both said it was very enjoyable. ‘It’s got a lot of history. Everyone knows Darwin was bombed during World War 2, but did you know it was bombed 64 times? In the first attack, Japan used 188 planes. We only had a few Wirraways, which were crap, and the US had ten Kittyhawks there. The Australian Government has never wanted people to know how badly Darwin was damaged, nor how badly some of the leaders based there reacted. Hundreds of people were killed and the place was nearly flattened.’

I climbed onto the plane. It was about nine pm. Many of the flights to Darwin are scheduled to fly at night for some reason.

When I arrived, after four hours flight, Darwin’s airport was packed with people waiting to catch planes in the middle of the night. It seems that the airport runs twenty four hours a day. So does the supermarket in the city.

I walked outside, expecting to be narrowly missed by mud-encrusted utes sporting large spot lights and “I shoot and I vote” stickers.

Instead, a line of hybrid Toyota Prius taxis waited in the comfortably warm air. Being June, it was Darwin’s winter, so the heavy humidity and vicious temperatures of summer were absent, happily for me. In fact, it felt a lot like springtime would in Brisbane. I climbed into a taxi. The driver had dance music blaring and he looked like he’d be happier enjoying a good coffee than going pig shooting for the weekend. The taxi slipped almost noiselessly from the kerb, running on its electric motor. ‘So where to, mate?’

... more to follow in the next post

On to Chapter six

Hi everyone and Happy Easter

It's been another long while since my last post. I have been busy with my business, Tod Consulting Engineers. I wanted to prove to the older directors that I could do it, that I could run a business without cracking up. I've realised something big: I have not allowed contribution from other people. At work, I've found myself thinking "Am I the only one who can do all the IT redesign, the marketing designs, the engineering work, the human resources work, etc, etc. Why don't they help?" I gave the impression that I had it all under control (actually, I haven't trusted anyone else to assist me or take on the work for me). Why would anyone help me when I looked like I had it all handled? (I didn't). No wonder I've been overloaded - I caused it myself.

It took one of the engineers to demand that he help me, before I realised what a mess I was in. And within days of me realising that I hadn't allowed contribution and then choosing to be open and vunerable; a new engineer showed up looking for work who looked like he could be an excellent team member. I don't know how we're going to create enough work in the middle of a global financial crisis, but I know in my gut that he is the right man for our team. I know with his assistance we can create the space for me to do the things I need to do in the business. And I will also create the space I need for my writing outside of working hours.

So with Easter nearly over, I have completed Chapter five of my second book (working title: a wheel short of a tea trolley) and am now onto Chapter six. I have procrastinated, worried over poorly constructed sentences, played computer games to avoid doing work on it and agonised over the messages and themes. I know more than I did with my first book, but as a wise person said, "knowing doesn't make the difference". A strong committment, combined with consistent, steady action makes the difference. So my committment is to have a completed manuscript (first draft) by the end of this year (2009); and my action is to keep writing until I get there. If you're willing, you could hold me to account by asking me how I'm going with the book each time that you speak to me.

Hope you've all had a lovely Easter and have a great week

Chris

New year with new challenges

Sorry it's been a while since my last post. The New Year has brought a lot of new challenges with the world financial crisis, the Victorian bushfires and the North Queensland floods. Israel and Palestine have been fighting again. People have lost homes, property, livelihoods and some have even lost their lives. I extend my condolences to all the families affected by all these events.

I must admit I have felt fearful with all this going on. Was the world going to fall apart completely? I didn't know if I'd have enough work to pay the bills. I didn't know if I'd be able to keep all the staff on at work. I didn't know if I'll be able to pay my mortgage. I didn't know if we'd be able to afford it when Kerryn gets pregnant and we have a baby. I didn't know if I'll be able to sell my second book when I finish it. What was the point in even trying?

And then I remembered - I'm still breathing, I've got my health and I've got the support of my partner in life and love. There are many aspects of life that I don't have control over, but why let that stop me? I'm not going to get out of this life alive , so let's give it my best shot.

Since thinking that, I stopped focusing on my problems and thought about what I could do for others. My colleagues and I have found enough work to pay our bills and our staff. Our company has donated money to the bushfire and flood relief charities. We've also introduced a new sustainability policies at work to use electricity from 100% renewable sources, recycle paper, and reduce petrol/diesel consumption (I believe strongly that we shouldn't waste our natural resources). I've also managed to write almost five chapters of my new book.

I guess the lesson I learnt over the last two months is this: life is always going to throw events at me that I will find fearful or upsetting. I can either get depressed and sit tight waiting for someone else to sort out the world; or I can accept the problems and do my best to help my own little corner of the world, and keep chasing my dreams.

I suppose none of us can control all the circumstances of life, but we all get to choose how we react. There is a old proverb that says risk and opportunity are the opposite sides of the same coin. If the coin represents life's events, it must take a lot of practice to see both sides at the same time, but I thinks it will be worth it.

Have a thoughtful week
Chris

Turn wine into water this Christmas

With Christmas just a few days away, it’s not long until many of us will be tucking into a large midday or evening meal, with a wine or two to set off the palette.

I imagine I’m not the only person whose clothes, carpet or table cloth have been stained by red wine. How often has somebody accidentally knocked a glass over at your house? I was listening to my favourite radio station recently (I know I’m getting older because in the last year I’ve caught myself enjoying news & current affairs stations in preference to music stations). The announcer had taken her family to a public party and accidentally spilled red wine onto her daughter’s new dress. The two of them had gone to the bathroom to try and soak it up with a damp cloth.

 While they were busily dabbing, an elderly Irish lady walked into the room. ‘What’r ya doin? That’s not the way to remove red wine, sure it’s not.’ She proceeded back outside, grabbed a bottle of white wine and poured it onto the stain. Apparently, the stain disappeared.

Two weeks ago my wife and I held a barbeque lunch in a park, and a friend spilt red wine over our table cloth. I couldn’t resist the opportunity to try white wine out. I poured it liberally over the stain. It ran through the joints in the table and dripped over our friend’s handbag as well (woops – but I suppose it had been dosed in red wine already). We dabbed it with a wet cloth, and in twenty minutes it was dry and apparently stain free. I was very impressed – we’d saved a $20 table cloth (but unfortunately ruined a $200 handbag). Trust the Irish to know all the tips there are to know on the subject of alcohol!

Have a Merry Christmas and wonderful New Year; and if you don’t believe me about the white wine, have a look at some of these links:

• http://www.unilever.ie/ourbrands/aroundthehouse/morearticles/stain_removal.asp
• http://wine.about.com/od/redwines/a/redwinestains.htm 
• http://www.essortment.com/home/redwinestains_scla.htm
  

 

 

Irish epiphany

Engineer-turned-author Chris Dowding reveals why a trip to the Emerald Isle changed him forever

By Gregory Stanton, weekender magazine

Chris Dowding appears uncomfortable as we sit down for a Guinness. My pint disappears quickly while he clutches his, taking small sips. Perched precariously on a bar stool, this Marcoola resident puts his unease down to his persona and his profession.

“I was good at maths and not good at dealing with people,” revealing why he chose engineering as a career. “You sit in a cubicle pumping out designs and calculations. Not surprisingly, you don’t go anywhere with that attitude.”

In short, it was not the most exciting or glamorous life. After marrying in 2001 though, wife Kerryn, who had a more adventurous spirit, was able to conquer his resistance and persuade Chris to move to Dublin for work. “I was disappointed with where I was going,” he says with a grimace. “I didn’t seem to be on much of a career path. I always seemed to get frustrated and come up against this brick wall. What attracted me to Ireland was the sense of fun. I’m a serious person and I thought that would be a great experience. It was chaotic at first.”

However, the spontaneity and vitality of the Irish changed him forever. “I started to realise it was about me and my attitude,” he explains. “I was dealing with the same s…, different country. I had a epiphany. A lots of guys there [Ireland] live for the moment and I wasn’t.”

Born in Nambour in 1972, Chris grew up on a farm in Redland Bay, south of Brisbane. Rounded out by brothers Lachlan and Andrew, the trio had to make their own fun – clay bomb wars around the dam, making corrugated canoes and creating BMX jumps. Yet introversion was never far away. As a boy, Chris found solace in reading adventures such as the Famous Five.

Not surprisingly, he has turned his own adventure into a travel memoir. The 36-year-old’s Irish experiences are the subject of his first book, a Few Drops short of a Pint.

Trying to do as the Irish do, and labelling his one attempt to play Gaelic football as disastrous, Chris has pierced together history, research, anecdotes and his personal journey into a narrative about the Irish people and his new-found awakening.

“I think there had always been a need to get a story out in some way,” says Chris, who is working on his second book, about Britain. “I wrote emails home and wanted to give them [his friends and family] a sense of what it was like – rather than the usual ‘We went here’ and ‘We did this’. And I tried to make it funny.”

While living in the land of blarney, Chris’ usual serious, introverted nature gave way to a newly-discovered sense of expression, which included a drunken rendition of Waltzing Matilda in the middle of a pub. Yet he counts his visit to Belfast and feeling the “tense anger” as the most revealing experience. And he sees the quiet resentment of Belfast reflected in current social trends in the long dark shadow of the events of 9/11. “I see today we’re fortressing ourselves and we’re headed for trouble,” he laments.

However, while not avoiding the dark side of the Irish character, Chris also explores the humour. An elderly woman going the wrong way around a roundabout, happily waving to other commuters, and the traffic jam causes by a man stopped in the middle of the road to talk to a passing friend are among his [Chris’] anecdotes. “ I plain refused to drive through Dublin in my uptight state,” he says. Chris also points to the ominous national figures that indicate 58 per cent of motor accidents occur during the day, in high visibility conditions, with dry weather.

His travel experiences have taught Chris much about himself and he now revels in the chance to create and construct – with his outlook more hopeful – as director and engineer at Tod Consulting in Noosa. “As an engineer, you’re not supposed to write anything interesting,” he jokes. “But life is about now, so I have a balance in my viewpoint.” To this end, accepting risk and making the most of opportunities is a large part of Chris’ life. It’s the reason for his book, which had the dubious working title of Dreaming of Sunshine.

“The book is a willingness to look at the good and the bad,” he explains. “It looks at the dark side of the Irish character and looks at my own character. It’s got a journey that is a message of hope for anyone feeling down about their life.”

And yes, he plans another Irish trip: “I feel comfortable there. It’s like another home.”