Chris Dowding - travel writer

Meet me at Angus & Robertson Carindale this Sunday

2010-11-03T20:21:00.005+10:00

Ever wondered what it would be like to live in Ireland? My book, 'a Few Drops short of a Pint' is all about my sometimes comical, sometimes life-changing experiences in the Emerald Isle. Come say hello and ask me about Ireland. I'm signing copies of my book this Sunday at Angus and Robertson.

Where: Angus and Robertson, Shop 2008, Carindale shopping centre, Brisbane QLD

When: 12 to 2PM, this Sunday 7th November

Angus and Robertson - ph: 3843 1143

Ryanair - the world's most hated airline

2010-10-23T07:14:00.003+10:00

Barbara Cassani, CEO of former airline Go, once described Ryanair as a "flying Irish pub". While she didn't say as much, she wasn't referring to the enjoyable bits of an Irish pub - like good music, great conversation and fine stout. She was referring to the bad bits - like having your head shoved aside by the arms of waitresses who are retrieving empty glasses.

When Kerryn and I lived in Ireland, we experienced Ryanair's infamous customer service twice. I will never use them again if I have a choice to use another airline. Obviously other passengers of the budget Irish-based airline feel the same way as I do, because Robert Tyler of the UK began a site called IhateRyanAir. The site is full of angry stories about the experiences of passengers, staff and unfortunate government officials that try to get in the way of the airline's boss, Micheal O'Leary.

Recently Ryanair took Mr Tyler to court to get him to take down his site. "Ryanair complained that the site took unfair advantage of the brand’s name and claimed it hosted damaging and defamatory articles including false comments about its safety, maintenance and operating standards."

If you've ever flown with the airline, the stories on this site are hilarious. Take a look at http://www.ihateryanair.org/ for more. If you haven't, look on it as a warning: don't be fooled by the low prices - Ryanair will ensure your flying experience with them is so bad that you will forever regret trying to save a few dollars or pounds. My experience below is relatively tame.

Dublin, Ireland 2002

At five AM on Monday morning, Kerryn and I awoke to the sound of our alarm clock in the Dublin suburb of Rathmines for the last time. We had breakfast and packed the rest of our stuff into plastic bags. I wheeled our two suitcases out onto the street and hoisted my daypack onto my back. Kerryn turned the lock behind us and pushed the key back under the door.

On the way to the airport, one of Van Morrison’s tunes played over the bus sound system.

“When it’s not always raining, there’ll be days like this. When there’s no-one complaining, there’ll be days like this. Everything falls into place, like the flick of a switch, well my mama told me, there’ll be days like this.”

I reflected back over our last seven months in Ireland and the times I’d had. I’d sung Waltzing Matilda in a pub at Christmas time. I’d seen the hills of Connemarra and jaywalked with the rest of the population across the streets of Dublin. I’d played Gaelic football with real Gaelic people. I’d eaten black pudding for breakfast and sat in the Gravity Bar of the Guinness Brewery to sample Ireland’s most famous stout.

I was still humming Van Morrison’s song when we arrived at the airport. We walked up to Ryan Air’s desk, to check in for our flight to London, for the first leg of our journey back to our home on the other side of the world.

“Sorr, your bags are overweight by over 20 kilograms. We’ll have to charge you another 180 euros to carry everything,” said the attendant.

“Oh, that can’t be right. They only weigh 25 kilos each,” I replied.

“Sorr, the baggage limit for Ryan Air is 15 kilograms. You are carrying a lot of other bags. I will not let you on.”

Van Morrison’s song stopped playing in my mind like a needle screeching across an old LP record. We'd paid about 50 Euros each for the tickets, so another 180 Euros was ridiculous.

Our solution: we huffed our way across to a garbage bin and threw in pillows, sheets and lots of other useful things. The Salvation Army or the Red Cross should put a collection service next to every Ryanair check-in, because they would benefit greatly from Ryanair's mean policies that try to crank up advertised 10 Euro airfares (not including booking fees, credit card fees, baggage fees) into 200 Euros with hundreds of unfortunate passenger every day.

My Journey to Colombia from New York: Part Four

2010-03-14T17:33:00.013+10:00

‘Would you like to stop for a coffee?’ asked Gustavo waving his arm enthusiastically at roadside stores.

Lucas and I looked at each other with harried expressions. ‘Er no, I think we’d better keep going to get the suits organised,’ replied Lucas.

We wound our way downhill. The surfaces of the roads were excellent and were not bumpy at all, but the curves and intersections seemed countless, which slowed our progress towards the city below us.

‘There’s a faster road down, but it’s very steep and the surface would be damp after the rain. It’s better to be safe than sorry,’ said Gustavo.

After the earlier overtaking manoeuvre, I was happy to agree. Anything that limited Auntie’s ability to travel at increased speed sounded like a good idea. I looked out again at the striking city below me. ‘Does the city ever have flooding problems? Because it’s in the deep valley?’ I asked.

‘No, there’s no problem with flooding. Except perhaps in the very poor areas, where there are shanty towns,’ replied Gustavo.

About one hour after I’d landed, we arrived at a modern multi-storey shopping centre on the lower slopes of the city. We took an elevator up two floors and stepped out. A lot of the shop spaces seemed to be empty, with only a gym and a tailor open. ‘They keep constructing new shopping centres in every new building. The economy isn’t strong enough to fill all the space,’ said Gustavo.

The head tailor looked like she was in her late 20’s or early 30’s. She had slim features with brown hair and bright light-brown eyes. ‘I know you sent your measurements over from Australia, but they insisted that they needed to measure you here,’ said Lucas.

‘That’s OK – no problem,’ I replied. I stood quietly, quite enjoying her studying me with concentration while she whisked a tape measure across my body. She grabbed a trial jacket and helped get it onto my shoulders. ‘Él es tan alto que apenas puede alcanzar hasta poner la chaqueta!’ she said.

‘What did she say?’ I asked.

‘She said you’re so tall that she can barely reach to get the jacket on. She will have to make some alterations while we wait. Shall we go and get a coffee?’ said Gustavo.

The nearby gym had a cafe attached to it. I ordered a banana milkshake while Gustavo and Lucas ordered coffees. Auntie disappeared somewhere, while we sipped our drinks. Actually, I gulped mine down because I hadn’t had anything since my wait at the boarding gate in Bogota. ‘How amazing is it that a tailor would stay back after 5PM to alter a wedding suit on the day of the wedding. What tailor in Australia would do that?’ I thought to myself.

We returned to the tailor and paid for everything after trying it all on. By about 6:15PM, we were standing at the locked car, waiting for Auntie. ‘Where has she gone?’ I asked Gustavo, with the suit hanging in its plastic bag hotly over my shoulder.

‘Well, she was going to the restroom. Perhaps I should go and look for her,’ he said. He and I climbed into the elevator and pressed the button. As the doors closer, we noticed Auntie coming down the escalator. ‘There she is!’

By 6:30PM we were on the road. We have 90 minutes until the wedding started. We drove along a six lane road through the city, beside the river. Then we were on a different four lane road. Then we were on an interchange to get on a freeway. Then we got caught up in traffic on suburban roads, with countless winding roads and red traffic lights. At 6:45PM, at a red traffic light in the middle of a busy commercial district, Gustavo got out saying, ‘I need to go now – I have some things to do in town. Don’t worry Lucas, I’m sure you’ll get to the wedding on time. I'm sure it will all go fine,’ he said, shutting the door as the lights turned green. He disappeared into the crowds on the street as we raced away up a hill.

I clenched my jaw shut tightly and ground my teeth. We were in a car with Auntie, who could only speak Spanish. Lucas and I could only speak English, apart from saying polite hellos, goodbyes and being able to exclaim how good something was. At 6:50PM, we arrived at an apartment building after a long uphill run past other similar buildings. I breathed a sigh of relief until Lucas spoke.

‘Ah, this is the wrong place – this is Angela’s Mum’s place. We have to go back down the hill to another building. I had to come here to figure out where I was,’ said Lucas. ‘Uh, no no, wrong apartmento,’ said Lucas. ‘Damn, I can’t think of the word for “left”’.

He proceeded to wave his arms, shouting ‘Si and No’ alternatively as we made our way back down the hill towards the river. The beads of sweat on Auntie’s forehead grew as we looped around on ourselves a few times, narrowly missing several crazed motorcycle riders as we made our way back through a busy commercial district that looked exactly the same as the one we’d left Gustavo at. ‘Si, Si. Uh No, No!’ exclaimed Lucas as we turned left and retraced our steps over the river. I clenched my door handle tightly and closed my eyes. Auntie steered back around to the same intersection, and Lucas pointed straight ahead. Auntie followed straight through the intersection. ‘Si, Si!’ encouraged Lucas. A little further on, he waved to the left. Auntie obligingly steered over another bridge into a small street that ended with a tall terracotta coloured apartment building, protected by a large metal gate and a guardhouse. It was now 7:10PM.

Auntie addressed the guard through a speaker, telling him we are staying in Apartment number 603. He dialled a phone, presumably calling someone in the apartment to check that we were legitimate.

‘No,’ he says. I found it interesting that the word sounded the same in Spanish, but then I reacted.

‘He’s got to be kidding hasn’t he?’ I asked Lucas, while Auntie and the guard exchanged volleys of conversational Spanish at ever-increasing volumes. Behind us, another car rolled up, with its headlights boring through the back windscreen at me. The guard opened the gate, apparently to let us park just inside to let the other car past. It seemed we weren’t permitted to go any further.

‘Mum and Dad should be up there, but they won’t answer because they won’t answer because they don’t speak Spanish,’ said Lucas. This only frustrated me further. Here I was, at 7:15 at night, sweating from the suit and backpack sitting on my knees, in the back of a tiny little car after travelling since 4:30AM. I still had to get dressed for the wedding and I had no idea how long it take to get to the church, but every journey so far in Medellin had taken almost an hour. I couldn’t see how we were going to make it.

‘Why can’t we just walk up to the elevator and go up? It’s just over there. Stuff the guard,’ I said.

‘There could be a lot of trouble if we did that. He’s got a gun you know,’ said Lucas.

‘Well what the heck are we going to do? You’ve tried to call Angela and the phone won’t work. Arrggh!’

I looked up at the balconies of the building and noticed a door open. Suddenly, Lucas’ Mum steps out.

‘Brenda – we’re down here! Answer the phone so the guard will let us in,’ I called.

It was 7:25PM by the time we got into the building. The guard could not understand Brenda on the phone, because he spoke Spanish. It turned out that Auntie managed to get on the phone to Angela, and Angela had called another person in the building, who was a friend of the owners of Apartment 603. The owners of Apartment 603 were away in Australia, so this friend rang the guard and told him it was OK to let us in. Did you follow all that? If you didn’t, that’s OK – because I didn’t either. The main thing was we were allowed into the apartment we were staying in. Auntie said, ‘Bye’ and drove off, worn out and probably immeasurably relieved that her part in the night’s proceedings was over.

‘Just a simple white shirt and tie with the suit trousers tonight,’ said Lucas. I grabbed the stuff and started to get changed in the bedroom assigned to me. It was obviously usually a study, but there was a partly inflated air bed on the floor. The apartment was very modern by the way, and equal or better than any other I’d seen in Australia.

‘Aren’t you going to have a shower,’ asked Lucas’ Dad (Bob) who was already dressed in a suit. ‘You’ve been travelling since 4:30 haven’t you?’

‘Surely I don’t have enough time?’ I said.

‘Well Lucas is having a shower in the ensuite, so you’ve got time to have one in the main bathroom. Go on, it’ll make you feel more awake.’

It was 7:45PM by the time Angela’s older sister, Nina, picked us up. ‘Hello, how are you! You have come a long way today. Welcome to Medellin.’

We headed off along more winding suburban roads. I felt a wave of guilt – I’d already caused the cancellation and then delay of the wedding, and it looked like we were going to be late again. It seemed impossible that anywhere in Medellin was only 15 minutes away...

My Journey to Colombia from New York: Part Three

2010-02-27T15:18:00.010+10:00

The old phone I’d brought with me was an unreliable heap of junk but it had one redeeming feature - it allowed me to select a network mode and frequency. I tried all three options without apparent success and dropped it in my pocket, grimacing. I would find out later that connecting an overseas phone to one of Colombia’s networks was highly unpredictable, but my priority now was to get to the boarding gate for my next flight.

Provided I got to the flight, I could still make it to Lucas’ wedding in Medellin at 6PM. I politely made my way through the poorly lit Customs and Immigration area, full of black uniform wearing DAS officers and their grave expressions. I found the Avianca desk that Connie had told me to visit, and got a boarding pass for the flight to Medellin. I boarded bus between Bogota’s international and domestic terminals, and raced across the tarmac between planes and cargo vehicles. A tall girl with honey-coloured skin in her early twenties stood in front of me, wearing tight fitting jeans and a low cut top showing a depth of cleavage that had to be cosmetically enhanced. The stunned expression on my face must have looked like a smile, because she smiled back at me as she patted her wavy dark hair. The vehicle screeched to a halt as I collected my jaw from the floor of the bus: the doors opened, and she was gone. In front of me, a large building of unmemorable colour waited.

‘Habla usted ingles, Senora?’ I asked a middle aged fellow- passenger as we climbed down the bus steps.

‘Si – yes. This is the domestic terminal. Where are you flying to?’ she said, smiling at me with her dark brown eyes.

‘Medellin,’ I replied.

‘Ah – Meda-jin. Will this be your first time to the city – yes? Oh, you will like it – very friendly there.’

‘Do you live there?’

‘No, I live in Boston – I’m flying back there tomorrow. But welcome to Colombia and I hope you will enjoy it very much. If you walk through the building and turn right, your boarding gate should be along near the end.’

I walked through the building past a long avenue of mobile phone stores, newsagents and flower stalls. I looked for a public phone and walked up to all metal boxes hopefully, because I couldn’t read any Spanish. I stopped short when my phone beeped into life. It was about twenty minutes since I’d turned it on. ‘Please call me. I’m OK, but please call,’ read the first message. It was from my wife, Kerryn, who had stayed in New York because she was pregnant and unable to have the recommended vaccinations for people travelling to Colombia.

‘Where are you? Can you please call,’ read the second message.

‘Don’t worry, they’ve postponed the wedding until another day. Please call,’ asked the third message, also from Kerryn.

‘Hi, where are you?’ asked Kerryn after I hurriedly dialled three times to get through to her.

‘I’m in Bogota. I had to change flights to get down here – I should be in Medellin by four.’

‘You’d better call Lucas and Angela. They’ve been trying to reach you all day. They’ve postponed the wedding until Wednesday.’

‘They’re crazy – why would they do that?’ I said, feeling racked with guilt as I imagined their cancellation phone calls to guests, priests and goodness knows who else. ‘I’ll do my best, but the phone is unreliable here. Can you call them while I get through security at the boarding gate? I don’t want to miss this plane or I definitely won’t make it there today. ’

‘OK, but you need to call them too! I’ve been taking calls all day from them – it’s been very stressful. There’s been so much drama.’

After being patted down and passing through the metal detector, I dialled Angela’s mobile phone, which she’d brought over from Australia, using the Australian country code at the start. ‘Boop Boop Boop,’ replied my phone negatively. I replaced the Australian code with the Colombian +57. ‘Boop Boop Boop.’

I tried the number of Angela’s brother, who advisedly spoke English. ‘Hola, éste es Luis Parra. Por favor, deje un mensaje después del tono,’ answered a rapid phone message at the other end. I left a message hopefully, without knowing if I’d even called the right person. Last chance - I keyed in the number of Angela’s mother. I knew that she didn’t speak any English, but I hoped someone else would be able to.

‘Hola, éste es Angela. ¿Quién habla por favor? Hola?’

I tried furiously to think of the few Spanish words I’d crammed into my brain during the last week, but nothing came. ‘Ah – it’s Chris,’ I said optimistically.

‘Chreees – it’s you! Where have you been? This is Angela here. I will put Lucas onto the phone.’ There was a short delay and then my phone’s speaker rumbled as the receiver at the other end was picked up.

‘Hello. I’ve heard you’ve had a bit of an adventure. So you’re getting here at 4PM? We might still go ahead, then,’ said Lucas, with a calming tone.

‘Yeah, my original flight to Medellin got delayed as you obviously found out. I had a choice – grab the flight to Bogota which was leaving straight away and then transfer across, or call you and wait six or seven hours for the original flight – and I definitely wouldn’t have made it in time. It’s up to you and Ange whether you go ahead with the ceremony or not, but I’ll be there by four PM.’

‘OK, I’ll meet you at the airport. We’ll have decided by then.’

_______________________________________________________________________

The Fokker 100 jet that took off from Bogota seemed a bit more aged than the Airbus that had got me here. It had two jet engines on the tail. The interior was clean, but faded.

It alarmed me to know that the Fokker Company had become insolvent in 1996. ‘How well can a jet plane be maintained when the company that built it no longer exists? Where do the spare parts come from?’ I wondered to myself.

I was fascinated but more than a bit paranoid about flight. The approach of my own industry, structural engineering, was to build extra factors of safety into our designs to compensate for the errors we repeatedly saw made within the construction industry. And to put the issues in perspective, structural engineers didn’t need their designs to fly through the air at hundreds of miles an hour, with the metal structure contracting in length through sub zero air temperatures and then expanding again when they landed in sun parched equatorial temperatures at Dubai or somewhere.

The pilot didn’t make me feel any more comfortable about the flight to Medellin. On my left, I could see mountains soaring up to the level we were flying at. They looked a bit like the Swiss Alps in spring and were partly covered by clouds. The alarming thing was that the pilot kept throttling the engines up and down, so the plane would sink into the clouds and rise up again. I wondered how high the cloud-obscured mountains were between Bogota and Medellin. These were the northern outposts of the Andes, the mighty mountain range that bounded the entire west side of South America, a distance of 7000 kilometres. The highest mountain in the Andes was 6962 metres (22,840 ft) above sea level, which was considerably higher than the highest of the Swiss Alps (4,545 metres or 14,911 ft) and more than three times higher than 2228 metres for Mount Kosciusko, the highest mountain in Australia. Bogota itself was located at 2640 metres above sea level; and the highest mountain in Colombia was 5365 metres above sea level. I wasn’t sure if that meant the mountains we had to pass were just below us… or just above. I hoped my pilot had plenty of Colombian flying hours on his log, because navigating here must be extremely challenging. But apart from the constant winding up and down of the engines, the trip was uneventful.

It was raining lightly when we landed at Medellin’s Jose Marie Cordova international airport. Like many airports around the world, there was extension and renovation work going on, so I had to make my way through arrival corridors framed by scaffolding. Fortunately for me, I had already been through immigration at Bogota, so I could walk straight out into the arrivals foyer.

The foyer was dimly lit and looked well used, but it was clean. I walked outside, where I suspected Lucas might be waiting, but I couldn’t see him. A woman selling flowers and other items waved some at me. ‘Senor?’

‘No, gracias Senora,’ I replied - some Spanish words had finally come to me. Beyond the overhead concrete of the departures level, I could see it was still raining, and the trees and grasses around the airport were very green. The temperature was very pleasant, probably in the low twenties (Celcius, not Fahrenheit); and despite the rain, the humidity level was more than comfortable. Given the fact that Medellin was just north of the Equator, this was a relief. Angela had told me the climate was exceptional, because of elevation: the airport is 2142 metres above sea level, and the city itself is at an altitude of 1500 metres. I’d been watching the city’s temperature hovering between 15 and 28 degrees Celcius on my work computer for weeks, but I hadn’t really believed it until now. Medellin’s climate is so fantastic that it is known as the “City of Eternal Spring”.

In comparison, the Australian city I live near, Brisbane, can reach the high thirties (in degrees Celcius) during summer, with humidity of 70-90% at the same time. It is nowhere near the equator – in fact it is 2800 kilometres south – but it can get bloody uncomfortable for a few weeks in late December through to February. During the past week, I’d received messages from friends at home suggesting they could fry an egg simply by putting the pan outside on the road. I cannot describe how happy I was to be in Medellin away from such weather.

I walked back inside, and stood to the side to allow the stream of fellow passengers exit the door. Then I noticed Lucas just in front of me. Like me, he looked pale and extremely Caucasian beside the Latin locals. His slightly receded straight dark hair contrasted with the flowing hair of the women I’d passed on the way out.

‘There you are,’ he beamed. ‘This is Angela’s Uncle Gustavo,’ he added, gesturing at the slender elderly man next to him.

‘Ah, Buenos dias, Senor,’ I said, shaking his hand.

‘Hello, how are you,’ he replied with a U.S sounding accent, smiling with his brown eyes under slightly unkempt grey hair.

‘I’m good – now I’ve made it here.’

‘Yes, it must have been a big day for you so far. Gustavo teaches English, by the way,’ said Lucas.

‘I’m a professor of English at one of the universities. I teach and translate,’ added Gustavo, with a smile. ‘I’m old enough to retire, but it’s expensive to live here and I figure I may as well keep myself active.’

‘Yes, it’s a good idea for everyone to keep themselves active somehow,’ I agreed.

‘We’d better get to the car and get going. We have to get you fitted for the suit and then take it with us,’ said Lucas.

‘So you’re going ahead with the wedding today, then?’ I asked.

‘Yes, but we’ve shifted it to eight PM.’

Lucas introduced me to the driver, who turned out to Angela’s auntie. Her shortish grey hair and careworn expression suggested she was in her late fifties or early sixties. She spoke Spanish and I only spoke English, so I beamed at her and shook her hand, saying what I could. ‘Buenos dias, Senora.’

We climbed into the little car, which looked like a weather-beaten Daihatsu Charade, but was actually a Chevrolet. As we rolled away from the terminal, I could tell it didn’t have the features that I (and other male Australians) associate with Chevrolets – the motor in this car could have faced serious competition from a child’s wind-up toy. I piled my gear onto my knees in front of me as no-one had offered the boot (trunk) for it.

Auntie didn’t let a small engine stop her. She put her foot down and wound up and down through the gears to maximise the noise in the cabin. After travelling up and down through some rolling green hills, we got caught behind an old minivan, pouring out smoke as it struggled up the next slope. Auntie swerved left across the continuous yellow dividing line to the other side of the road, and pressed down the accelerator further. Our car’s engine responded and steadily poured on another two or three kilometres an hour of speed. I looked ahead at the long line of traffic coming head-on towards us, and then looked at the van now beside us. At the rate we were passing, the oncoming traffic would smash us to blithereens before we passed. We would have to hit the brakes and go in behind the junk-heap of a van.

‘By the way, we had a small accident on the way to the airport,’ Lucas mentioned, in the midst of this.

‘Oh, really?’ I asked.

I wasn’t able to hear his reply because my eyes were glued to the drama in front of me. Just before the leading car hit us, two things happened. Auntie managed to get the rear bumper of our car to a position about one inch in front of the van. She swerved back to the right, as the oncoming line of traffic swerved to our left in a wide curving S manoeuvre onto the outside edge of the road to avoid us.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and then opened my eyes again. ‘After driving in Ireland, I thought I’d seen most forms of scary driving,’ I thought to myself.

The funny thing was, none of the drivers in the oncoming vehicles had beeped their horns or flashed their lights. If we’d done that in Australia, some of the drivers would definitely have shaken their fists and squealed the brakes on - one or two might have even turned around to pursue us. It was almost like this sort of driving in Colombia was normal.

‘I heard you had a good metro system here?’ I asked Gustavo, thinking public transport might be a safer mode of transport for my well-being.

‘Yes, but it only runs through the flat parts of the city. The middle class and the rich who live on the hills do not use it. The city has tried to provide access for them to the metro with buses, but who wants to ride a bus! Everyone prefers to drive a car if they can,’ said Gustavo. ‘We are taking you back by the older road – it’s windier, but it’s free. There is a new motorway out to the airport, but it is a tollway. It is very expensive to build motorways here. You see, all the steep hills have landslides. We have to build expensive structures like that.’

He pointed to a half-built suspended concrete motorway on the side of the hill that ran up to each side of a house and stopped. ‘That guy doesn’t want to leave, so he’s hanging on. He has a great location – look at the view.’

An enormous valley spread out in front of us. I took a breath. It was striking, not because of its natural beauty, but because a city had been built in it. The city extended as far as I could see, stretching around the corners in the valley. It sat there in quiet majesty, with tiny cars moving silently along the roads and streets. Multi-storey buildings apartments across and up the slopes above the centre, and were a beautiful terracotta colour that I’d never seen on high-rise buildings before. There was a feeling, a sense of the place that reached out and tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Look, this is what you’ve travelled to the other side of the world to see.’

‘It’s stunning,’ I said.

My Journey to Colombia from New York: Part Two

2010-02-07T10:41:00.008+10:00

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

2010-01-26T21:16:00.005+10:00

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

2009-12-23T23:06:00.004+10:00

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:-

New York - the first day

2009-12-23T03:46:00.003+10:00

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

2009-10-13T06:30:00.005+10:00

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

2009-10-04T15:57:00.005+10:00

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)

2009-06-07T16:38:00.005+10:00

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

2009-04-13T15:52:00.004+10:00

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

2009-02-22T15:38:00.005+10:00

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

2008-12-23T07:35:00.005+10:00

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:

Irish epiphany

2008-12-13T13:45:00.002+10:00

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.”

Local author celebrates with a ‘Few Drops’

2008-12-07T18:31:00.003+10:00

By Helen Barber, hinterliving magazine

Just three months after getting married, Chris Dowding and his new wife, Kerryn started afresh by moving from the Sunshine Coast to Ireland.

Both Kerryn and Ireland had a sense of spontaneity that Chris, a shy and retiring structural engineer, had previously avoided in his life. His ‘culture shock’ experience in Ireland was so unusual for him that he began writing emails home about his experiences. The result is Chris’ first travel book, ‘a few Drops short of a Pint’.

It won 2007 IP Picks Best Creative Non-Fiction Award – not bad for a structural engineer turned first time author, eh?

Chris shares with readers amusing and challenging anecdotes about his time in Ireland. ‘A few Drops short of a Pint’ is as much a journey of self discovery as it is a travel journal.

Fittingly on St Patricks’s day, Chris launched his book with a shindig at the Noosa Regional Library in conjunction with the lovely folks from the Written Dimension Bookshop.

It was a great night with Irish fiddlers, home brewed Guinness and lots of yummy Irish nibblies, to be sure.

Chris is currently writing his second book to convince the tax office about the validity of his holiday expenses.

Chris embraces ‘chaos’

2008-11-30T15:16:00.003+10:00

Young Aussie traveller brings home a new attitude – by Jennifer Scott, Sunshine Coast Daily - Sunday issue

Travellers pick up many things on their journeys – souvenirs, stories and often altered perspectives. Marcoola’s Chris Dowding came back from his working holiday with a newfound ability to relax and live for today.

Pushed along by his “chaotic” new wife Kerryn, in 2001 the uptight engineer had packed his bags, given the credit card a workout and headed for the Emerald Isle. As Kerryn had decided they were going overseas, Chris got to decide where they would live. One of the things that attracted him to Ireland was its laid-back lifestyle.

“I think I really wanted to learn how to have fun,” Chris said. “I was a pretty uptight sort of person. I was always worrying about the future and trying to thing about what I’m going to do tomorrow – how I’m going to get where I’m going, get promoted and all that sort of stuff. What I could see in Ireland was they lived more for today. Some of them would just spend all their money going out, having fun. I really found that confronting.”

Chris, who was 28 when he arrived in Ireland, recounts his journey to become a more relaxed and accepting human being with great humour in his first book, A few Drops short of a Pint. It’s a full-bodied travel memoir that gives the reader a taste of Irish life and history, covering the author’s day-to-day life in Dublin, as well as his travels in both the Republic and Northern Ireland.

The first thing that struck Chris when he arrived in Dublin, the city he would call home for the next seven months, was the sense of disorder. “In traffic, waiting for the bus, whatever, you don’t queue you just push in,” he said. “And just walking on the street you sort of have to dodge and weave your way along – no-one stayed on the left or the right, everyone was just doing their own thing.

Chaos also reigned on the roads, where the rules were “loosely” obeyed. “I remember one day a little old lady going the wrong way around a roundabout, and she just waved at everyone as she went round and off she went,” Chris said.

“Hazard lights are a law to do anything.”

While Kerryn picked up reception work, Chris, who now part owner of Tod Consulting in Noosaville, found a job with a small engineering company. Many of the anecdotes in his book revolve around his boss, a somewhat contradictory character. “One day he’d be saying something had to be really, really, really safe – and the next day ‘oh no, that’s way, way too expensive, the client will never go for that’. So it was constantly swinging back and forth between what he wanted and what I did.”

Immersed in a foreign culture, Chris had to open himself up to a whole new social circle, and new experiences. While he was “always uncomfortable” playing sport in Australia, in Ireland he found himself playing soccer and Gaelic football. “There’s a really big thing in Australia about playing sport,” Chris said. “You’re propped up as a bit of a hero if you’re good at it. And I played it there [Ireland] and I was still crap. But they just accepted it like that, there was no real angst about it, no real pressure about it, and I got better.”

As he says in the book: “Accept your neighbour, no matter how crazy he seems” was an attitude he came across again and again in Ireland. And it’s one that helped him learn to accept the Irish, and himself. “I’m pretty sure now my friends did (accept me), but I was so closed in about myself I just didn’t hear anyone else saying anything good about me. I was really angry at myself all the time… (thinking I’m) not doing good enough, (I’ve) got to do better.”

Chris, who actually met his wife at an Irish pub in Brisbane, decided he wasn’t going to send the usual post-card emails back home, saying ‘I went here, I saw this’, but wanted to give his friends and family a sense of what the place felt like. His darkly comical emails were a hit, and had his friends asking for more.

“Towards the end of the time there [Ireland] I thought, well, actually I’ve always wanted to write something,” he said. “I think I always had a story I wanted to tell in there somewhere, and this seemed to be it. And really I think Ireland creates a lot of stories – you just need to have your pen ready to write them down.”

A few Drops short of a Pint was written over five years, from 2002-2007. “The Irish can tell a joke in 10 seconds and I took five years to get mine right,” Chris laughs. But get it right he did, with the story taking out the IP 2007 writer’s award for Best Creative Non-Friction.

Congratulations Barack Obama - the dawn of a new day

2008-11-05T21:22:00.008+10:00

He's done it - or rather, America has. Today will go down as a historic moment for America and the world, one that the rest of the world was watching intently. And if the rest of the world could have voted, they would be happy. A recent international poll by the BBC World Service found that the 22 countries surveyed preferred to see Obama win the election.

For me, it means hope. The U.S looked stuck in old approaches to ongoing problems. Problems in Iraq - throw more troops at it. Banks losing hand over fist - throw more money into them. Doing more of the same thing seems to guarantee getting more of the same results. Fear, misunderstanding and mistrust were the order of the day. But now I see a man who wants to embrace everyone. A man who wants to understand. A man who wants to build trust. The mettle of any organisation, including a country, is set by its leader. I can't wait to see what can be achieved with this man as an example to the people of the U.S. and the world.

Let us look to Obama, not to solve all our problems, but as a source of inspiration for our lives. We can't all be President or Prime Minister (there aren't enough countries!), but we can all achieve more than we ever expected. Dream big dreams. I believe that Obama wants to see us at our best, just as we want him to be at his best.

A few words from Obama's campaign

Travel emails evolve into book

2008-10-26T18:44:00.005+10:00

By Linda Muller - Redlands Times

It's the sort of book you can read over a few beers.

A few Drops short of a Pint sprang from a series of emails author Chris Dowding sent to friends and family while living temporarily in Ireland in 2001.

'I used to send emails home and a few friends said I should turn them into a book. This is the result,' he said.

His efforts won for Chris the 2007 IP Picks Best Creative Non-Fiction Award and has also prompted Chris to continue to write. He has already started another book.

Educated at Redland Bay Primary and Cleveland High Schools but now living at Marcoola on the Sunshine Coast, Chris said his school English teachers 'never liked' his writing, something this honest account of Ireland now makes a mockery.

'My wife and I went to Ireland like most people go to England. We wanted to live in another part of the world but not where there were lots of Australians. It was challenging,' he said.

Chris writes about the little things, like having no car and using public transport, setting up a bank account, gaining a job and the 'social environment'.

'It's very social. In Ireland, work is there to pay for lifestyle. The pub is the centre of the social village and the meeting place. I have so many memories of what happened but it is easy to forget all the details. Now they're always there,' he said.

The book took Chris about four years off and on to write and included some courses in memoir and travel writing.

'a few Drops short of a Pint' cited in Wikipedia

2008-10-19T19:04:00.003+10:00

Have you reached the big time when your book gets listed in Wikipedia? Or does it mean you’re past it, old news?

I have to admit, I was excited to realise that my book seems to have become an authority on Dublin’s statues. Or at least the derogatory names that Dubliners have for many of them: Hags with the Bags (statue of two women with their shopping bags at their feet), the Prick with the Stick (James Joyce) and the Skewer in the sewer (Millennium Spire, O’Connell St).

I wonder if Dublin Bus will list the book on their website, to let users know what they’re in for. Probably not… but you can see some of my contributions on an alternative site – Busrage.com. Dublin Bus confirms dodgy brakes on some buses, and How full does a bus have to be to call itself full?.

Have a great week

Chris

George - one of the most successful fraudsters in history

2008-10-02T07:28:00.000+10:00

This man has successfully posed as the American president since 2001. He has pulled off an incredible variety of politically suicidal stunts and his latest effort is possibly one of the best.

Thousands of people lose their homes. George appears to do nothing, apart from talking up the US economy. A little while later, millions of people have lost their homes. Still nothing.

A few bankers lose their shirts. George and the Federal Reserve hand over billions and billions of dollars to prop them up. Suddenly, lots of bankers and stockbrokers have lost their shirts, and George is looking to hand them nearly a trillion dollars.

What I don't understand is this -> if he has a trillion dollars to spare (and I think the only way he could is to get the U.S mint printing 24 hours a day), why doesn't he buy up the houses that have been foreclosed, and rent them back to the previous owners, or even more radically, give them back. Surely the same amount would be spent, people would have a place to live, and the banks and stockbrokers would no longer be carrying a trillion dollars worth of debt. The real estate market and stock markets might even recover. Sounds politically astute to me. But I'm sure the answer would be, 'that's not the way we do things here.'

I love conspiracy theories, so I'll throw one out there: I wonder if the whole thing is an exercise to create the biggest market manipulation the world has ever seen. If it is, expect US real estate and stocks to be up substantially again, sometime next year, along with banker/stockbroker purchases of Porsches, Mercedes Benzes and condominiums by the sea. Alternatively, it really is an economic crisis, but Congress is so sick of Bush's 'the sky is falling/our country's security is at stake/cry wolf' statements that they don't believe him. Who knows?

WALL•E - a kid's movie or more?

2008-09-21T18:32:00.000+10:00

Kerryn and I went to see Wall E at the movies yesterday. Like Toy Story, it's funny and charming, and it's aimed at children. I must have a lot of kid-like tendencies myself, because I really enjoyed it. It has poignant messages about the Earth - after working for 700 years, the robot Wall E still hasn't been able to clean up the mess that humans made before they left to live in space. He's become a little bit bored by the time an environmental robot called Eve shows up to check the planet for signs of plant life. He follows her back to the humans' spaceship, to find a world where all the work is done by robots and the humans are taking it pretty easy. With a bit of imagination, it's easy to see how this could really happen... check it out!

Public Toilets in a world of Global Warming

2008-09-21T17:35:00.000+10:00

Recently, Brian at our office carried out some structural design for a public toilet block to be built at one of the beaches in Queensland. Believe it or not, the design for a decent toilet block in these times requires a multi-disciplinary approach, with input from the local Council, an architect, a structural engineer and a hydraulics engineer. Anyway, Brian thought he'd finished, when a forwarded email came through from the Council: "John: Am concerned about potential [ocean] wave action against the structure. Perhaps the structural engineer should consider a lightweight design with piled foundations. Please get them to have another look."

"What on earth are they talking about? Are these toilets right next to the beach?" I asked.

"No - the building will be well back from the beach. I think they're worried about climate change," replied Brian.

"You mean they're worried about the ocean rising and knocking over the toilet block?"

"Ah - yes."

"Er - I think they're coming at this from the wrong angle. If climate change really becomes a problem, we'll all be rushing to build giant sea-walls and dykes to keep the ocean out. No-one is going to be worried if a dunny block is still standing! " I was stunned that a Council was able to accept that climate change was likely, but unable to think of better ways to cope with the problem. Surely they could look at ways to save on their energy usage, and reduce the pollution from their fleet of vehicles. What hope do we have if all that can be done is to build a dunny block that can withstand a tsunami?

Chris starts work on a second book

2008-08-17T15:40:00.000+10:00

After his Irish sojourn, Chris moved back to Australia, bought a house and settled into a career with a large engineering firm. Whilst he finds this satisfying, everyday life leaves him with little ‘to write home about’.

When an Irish friend invites Chris and Kerryn to a wedding in Scotland, Chris rushes out to buy airline tickets. He travels through England and Scotland, continuing the journey of self-discovery he began in Ireland. He reunites with Tanya and Brian, his friends from Dublin. He gets lost on the seemingly endless English ring road system. He tries Yorkshire pudding, haggis and kilt-wearing. And he realises that some of his rough edges seemed to have been rubbed off.

The second book, with the working title, ‘a few Tealeaves short of a Cuppa’, will be the story of Chris’ latest journey.

Chaos in a kilt for Chris

2008-08-05T02:47:00.000+10:00

On Friday, my wife, Kerryn and I attended our friends’ wedding in Perth, Scotland. I put on a kilt for the first time in my life, with a fair bit of resistance. The groom had never worn one either (he wasn’t Scottish), and he wanted lots of support from his friends. Kerryn ambushed me a few months ago by ringing him and saying I was very excited about wearing Scotland’s national costume. Not funny, Kerryn.

I picked the gear up from a tailor in Perth and listened carefully to his instructions about how to wear it. I had one hour to get ready; a chartered bus was going to collect us at 1.00PM. I showered at our hotel, put the kilt on. My fingers struggled with all of the buckles and fastening belts - I had to reach around behind myself to fasten each item. It took me ages to tighten the kilt and add the sporran and belt.
‘What about the shirt?’ asked Kerryn.
‘That comes afterwards, as far as I know,’ I replied. I checked myself in the mirror. The tartan stripes on the kilt seemed to run diagonally, rather than vertically. I contorted my upper body again and threw myself around to pull the stripes into place. My face was streaming with sweat. ‘Phew, I think that’s the hard part done.’

It was 12:45PM. I grabbed the shirt and the jacket. As I buttoned the shirt, I could see a problem developing. It was so long that it hung over the kilt down to my thighs. Even worse, the jacket only hung to my belly button. I swore to myself - there was no way the shirt went over the outside of the kilt. I’d have to take it all off again and put the shirt on first. I jumped up and down, shaking my fists. By 12:55PM, I’d put on the shirt, and reinstated the kilt, belt and sporran. I hurriedly pulled on the jacket and then looked at the shirt in dismay. The sleeves were hanging out of the jacket arms by about 5 inches. ‘Kerryn, help!!!!’

I’m saving the rest of the story for my second book, but I can tell you that we got to the wedding and there was a fair bit of laughter at my expense.

Brunei and the Sultan, on a stopover

2008-07-24T19:39:00.000+10:00

The entire journey from Australia to England takes about 24 hours of flight. As far as I know, all of the airlines stop at least once to refuel and transfer passengers. You can stay on the plane and do the entire 24 hours in one step, or stop for a night or two to recuperate. Kerryn and I recently stopped in Brunei for two days.

Brunei is a small country located on the island of Borneo, just east of Singapore. 95% of the country’s export revenue comes from its crude oil and natural gas reserves. The head of government is His Majesty, the 29th Sultan of Brunei, who has been the country’s leader since his father abdicated in 1967. The country is unusual for the region - its population is only about 350,000. The majority of the population is Muslim, including the Sultan himself.

I have to admit that I felt some trepidation about visiting Brunei: the Western media hasn’t been kind to Muslims in recent years. However, I know that the media tends to focus on the negative news, so I wanted to see a Muslim nation for myself. The articles I’d read about the Sultan made me sceptical, but curious. The Brunei-based writers spoke of a savvy, visionary and illustrious leader who was loved by his people. It sounded like propaganda to me. I became alarmed when we arrived in Brunei’s capital, where we saw full-building images of the Sultan. But my nervousness was ill-founded. People smiled and wished me a good day as we walked the streets. Even the policemen were friendly and helpful. In terms of culture, I only noticed a couple of differences to home. Muslim women wore shawls over their hair, but women of other religions weren’t expected to, except when they wanted to visit a mosque. The other thing I noticed was the absence of bars, bottle shops and nightclubs, which (on the positive side) means that Brunei doesn’t have any problems with teen alcohol abuse.

‘Is fuel subsidised here?’ I asked a taxi driver.
‘Oh yes – diesel costs 30 [Brunei] cents a litre (about 23 cents Australian). Petrol costs 50 cents a litre.’
‘That is so cheap! Diesel is $1.70 a litre at home, and petrol is $1.50,’ I replied.
(Unsurprisingly, Brunei traffic is a bit of a problem, with most people favouring cars over the purple coloured buses that provide public transport.)
Our driver chuckled, ‘You pay tax at home?’
‘Yes, too much. Everyone in the world thinks they pay too much tax, I suppose’
‘We pay no [income] tax here. Health care is free. Education is free. All provided by the Sultan.’

By chance, we happened to be in Brunei on the weekend that held a parade for the Sultan’s birthday. Thousands of people came out to wave flags and meet the Sultan, who was about to drive past to join the parade.
‘Where are you from?’ asked an onlooker who appeared Chinese.
‘Australia,’ I replied.
‘How long you here?’
‘Er, two days,’ I said.
‘Then you are very lucky to see this,’ he said. ‘For me, it is every year, so no longer as exciting.’
‘It’s amazing you can get this close to him. And that so many people want to see him. I don’t think this many Australians would come to see our Prime Minister.’
‘No, you probably couldn’t get near him [Australia’s PM]. He would have so much security. Do you know, if you come back during the month of Ramadan, the Sultan opens his palace and you can meet him! He will have conversation with you and shake your hand.’
‘He sounds very approachable.’

It was starting to make sense. The Sultan made himself accessible to his people. The country had pretty good infrastructure – motorways, hospitals and schools – and no-one had paid a jot of tax for it. But I believe the Sultan’s greatest feat has been his treatment of the population living in the water villages (known as the Kampong Ayer) around the capital. These villages look like shanty towns built on stilts over the water. The stilts of many homes are leaning, and some of the roofs are rusting badly. People have lived in the water villages for hundreds of years. It is a way of life for them. Kerryn and I took a boat ride around the villages and I quizzed the driver as he negotiated his way under flimsy walkway bridges. ‘Do the children have schools to go to?’
‘Yes yes, but not today [Sunday]. Tomorrow. There’s a school,’ he pointed to a well constructed building on piers. ‘Little school only – for little – ah,’ he said, indicating the height of a primary school child with his hand.
‘Over there – big school, for big ones [high school]. Tomorrow at seven [the starting hour for education]. You understand?’ he added.
I nodded.
‘You speak Malay?’ he asked.
‘No, sorry,’ I shook my head.
‘I only speak little English,’ he said apologetically. He was doing a far better job of conversing with me in English than I could in Malay. I only knew one word – Salamet Pagi - ‘Good morning’. This wasn’t much use, as it was the afternoon.
‘Do any of the houses ever burn down?’ I asked. He looked at me uncomprehendingly.
‘Is there ever big fire?’ I tried.
‘Water?’ he asked, pointing at the river.
‘No, er,’ I tried to emulate the cracking roar of a fire, and gestured upwards with my hands to indicate smoke.
‘Yes. Men come, spread water over house with .’ He pointed out a building in the distance. I could see it was a fire station, with two trucks and a fire fighting launch boat.
‘Look, look,’ he pointed at some children playing on the porch of one house.
‘Hello!’ they shouted and waved when they saw us, with big smiles on their faces.
‘Hello!’ I yelled back, waving.
Interestingly, there were satellite dishes on many of the houses or a TV antenna. Often I could see both. Fresh water pipes were bolted to the side of the walkways linking each house to the next. And there was a hospital built on the land just behind one of the largest groups of homes. Timber boats with pointed prows and extraordinarily large outboard motors (subsidised petrol again) sped past in both directions, with the drivers waving and smiling at us.

It seemed to me that the people living here were happy and industrious. The Sultan had made an astute decision to accept their lifestyle. He’d taken the services to them, rather than forcing them to live differently. He’d given them education, health, police and fire services, all built over the water. So many other governments (my own, particularly) have relocated their minority peoples and tried to make them live a Western lifestyle, usually without success. Kudos to the Sultan. But with all the adoration from his people, I wonder how he’ll cope when he decides to step aside and let his son take on the role?

Brunei is worth a visit. The city centre may not hold the excitements and attractions that are usually provided for tourists, but I think observing the people makes up for it. Yes, the paint on some buildings is a little faded and the carpets within could do with an update. But it is well-serviced for Westerners. The food available in restaurants is excellent and cheap ($25 AUD for an Indian meal for two, which would have cost more than $50 in Australia). And the country is on the edge of Borneo, one of the last true wilderness areas in the world, with unique species like the proboscis monkey. Give it a try, next time you’re taking a stopover.

First Aid administered by dead sea creatures

2008-07-16T22:08:00.000+10:00

My wife and I went to dinner in Noosa the other night with her parents – let’s call them Jim and Jane. Jim and Jane’s friends, Brian and Bron, came along. The restaurant on Thomas Street had a funky atmosphere, and the conversation warmed up as our dishes were brought out.

Bron excused herself to visit the bathroom. We talked for another quarter of an hour, until Jane asked, ‘Where’s Bron?’
The young restaurant owner walked over to our table. ‘Brian, could I have a talk with you outside?’
‘Oh dear, this sounds bad?’ asked Brian as he stood up.
‘Nothing too serious,’ replied the owner.
It turned out that Bron had missed a step outside and fallen, hitting her face and right elbow. Brian looked flustered and Bron looked pale and bruised.
‘I’ll take Bron and Brian home, and you three go and get some ice cream,’ said Jane, grabbing Bron’s right elbow to guide support her.
‘Ow, Arhhhhh’ shrieked Bron. ‘That’s my sore arm!’
If you’ve read my book, ‘a few Drops short of a Pint’, you may have noticed that my lovely wife could sometimes be erratic and unpredictable. It was clear which parent she’d inherited those traits from.

The remaining three of us arrived later at the holiday unit her parents were renting, to be confronted by the locked foyer door. Jim tried to call Jane on the phone. ‘She’s not answering.’
The ice creams started to drip. Jim tried calling again, unsuccessfully. Then his phone rang. ‘We’re down here with the ice cream and we can’t get in, because you’ve got the key. Can you come down and let us in?’ he answered.
Jane bounded down the steps to open the foyer door. We walked back up to the entry door of their unit.
‘Do you have a key?’ asked Jim.
‘Er no – I left it somewhere inside,’ replied Jane, unapologetically, as she knocked on the door. ‘Bron’s having a bath and is upset. I think Brian’s in the bathroom trying to calm her down.’
The ice creams had become soft, dripping on the floor.
‘Oh this is just great,’ muttered Jim, as Jane banged on the door again.
‘I’ve been busy,’ defended Jane. ‘I looked in the freezer for some ice for Bron’s bruises, but couldn’t find any. I had to offer them a bag of frozen prawn heads or a plastic carton of ice cream.

I’m not surprised that Bron declined both choices. She may have felt embarrassed about her fall, but it probably paled in significance to the idea of holding a bag of dead spiky prawns against her face.

Well, we’re off to England and Scotland for three weeks, to attend our friends’ wedding and hopefully get some ideas for my second book. I’ll try to post a couple of updates along the way.

Cheers
Chris

Riding on the buuus

2008-06-29T13:49:00.000+10:00

Dublin Bus' night service is called Nitelink, and is put on for the partygoes who stay out till very, very late (Friday and Saturday are the big nights to go out in Dublin, but Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday are pretty busy as well). While Dubliners may complain about late buses and awful service from the drivers, it's good to see that Dublin Bus' advertisers have a sense of humour. Their Nitelink buses have allegedly been running amusing campaigns like these for the last two or three years.

In a way, the advertising campaign is a brilliant way of saving money. Why put on more services or friendly drivers, when a good advertisement might keep the passengers from thinking about how late they are?

Sadly though, it's clear that Dublin Bus remains the inefficient hopeless service that it was when I lived there in 2002. See this blog (April 2008) from a passenger:

"This morning i was getting on a 145 in stillorgan. The bus in question didnt even have 1 person standing up. I was just about to enter my ticket into the machine when the bus driver started screaming and i quote "get off the bus, get off the bus" "we are full!!! I said GET OFF". (There was only me left to get on-how much space can one person take up?) At half eight in the morning tell me who could put up with that." http://busrage.com/forum/topic/5304#post-5348

When Kerryn and I lived in Dublin, bus drivers drove past frantically waving people standing at different bus stops (in the rain). The bus services were always running late, and to make up time, some drivers would shortcut their route. This cut several minutes from their time, but it also cut several passengers off from their intended destination!

It's true that passengers say thanks as they pass the driver to get off a Dublin bus, but in my case this was short for 'Thanks, driver for not abusing me' or 'thank God I'm still alive.'

Phone company frustration

2008-06-15T11:10:00.000+10:00

When my company moved to our new office (Christmas 2007), I rang the phone company, ‘Telstra’, to get our phone lines moved from the old office to the new one. The phone lines changed over on the right day, apparently without any problems.

Four months later, we realised that some of the bills hadn’t shown up. After hunting around, we found that some of the bills had gone to the old office. Others had been sent to a director’s home address. He rang Telstra. The male assistant immediately noticed we had money outstanding on our account. ‘I can’t do anything with your account until you pay the outstanding bills.’

‘The reason we haven’t paid them is because you’ve been sending them to the wrong address. That’s why I’m calling.’ ‘Well, it must be some problem with the account address,’ replied the assistant.
‘Yes. [That’s what I just said.] We sent Telstra a letter two months ago, advising you of this information. We asked you to update your records so that the accounts would be billed to the new address.’
‘Well, Telstra is a big organisation. A letter could easily go to the wrong person and be missed,’ said the assistant.
‘That’s funny – I was talking to another Government department the other day. We hadn’t replied to a letter they had sent to us. They told me that once a letter had been sent with Australia Post, it was legally deemed to be received.’
‘I can’t comment on what government departments say. We aren’t a government organisation anymore,’ stonewalled the assistant.

Two weeks later, I was frustrated (but not surprised) to hear the address problems hadn’t been completely sorted out with Telstra, the company whose advertisements chant "I am, We are, You are Australian". The company that loses its own mail and blames its customers for the mistake. I truly hope that is not what it takes to be Australian.

(Telstra Logo from The T-Shirt Shop Australia)

Do Travel Writers Go to Hell?

2008-05-31T11:02:00.000+10:00

I just finished Thomas Kohnstamm’s book, 'Do Travel Writers Go to Hell? I found myself rushing home from work to read the next chapter. The way he lived his life and the method of research he used to write LP’s guide book for Brazil were great - for shock value.

Being a travel writer myself, I understand how difficult it is to get all the facts straight, especially when you’re only visiting a place for a day or a few hours. In my own book, 'a few Drops short of a Pint', I wrote about sharing a house with a guy called 'Marcel'. 'Marcel' had moved from France to Dublin, to live with his Irish girlfriend. According to me, she dumped him after a short time and moved out. But when 'Marcel' read my book, he emailed me, saying: "Marcel left his Irish girlfriend at the time [not the other way around]!" I also attacked two consulting engineer companies: the ridiculous Dublin-based one that I worked for, and a major worldwide organisation that rejected me. I was very careful to change the names of these companies. It's easy to upset someone when you're writing about real people and places.

If I’d been Thomas, I'd have changed LP's name to something fictional. (‘Marcel’ certainly isn’t my housemate’s name, and we’re still friends.) I hope he didn’t use the real name of the drug dealer who offered him a share in the business. I’d also have used a pseudonym instead of my own name (so that neither LP nor the South American drug dealer could find me). Of course, having read Thomas’ book, I think it's his style to burn bridges and never go back. I admire his courage.

It’s unlikely that he'll be employed by any guide book company again. I don't believe this will worry him greatly, but I also don’t think he intended to cause harm to LP. Although he often behaves like an idiot in his book, he appears to be driven by [his own] ethics.

The book, 'Do Travel Writers Go to Hell', is a different take on the travel narrative. Thomas has pretty much carved out his own genre, with sex, drugs, intrigue and deception. Some of the situations that Thomas gets himself into are [almost] unbelievable. It's worth a look, particularly if you normally like reading fiction.

Thanks UQ Brisbane - Sunday 18th May

2008-05-16T16:22:00.001+10:00

Today I dropped in on one of the Travel Writing classes run by my editor, Lauren Daniels, at the University of Queensland. I talked to her students about my book, 'a Few Drops short of a Pint', and the publishing process. Lauren's class asked some great questions and I really enjoyed the morning.

I truly believe that writing is a skill that can be learned. I certainly wasn't born with the skills myself! Here are some key things that helped me get there:-

a) I had something to say, and I wanted to take the reader along with me. As Lauren said, the manuscript began as 'my story'. It evolved into 'our story', and then became 'the story'. 'The story' becomes much bigger than the author. In my case, the manuscript took me to places I hadn't expected at all when I'd began.
b) I got some education in the area of writing. I attended adult education courses and found a good coach to guide me.
c) I started writing down whatever rubbish I could: it really was rubbish! I then edited it and kept editing it.

d) I kept at it. Woody Allen says 80% of success is showing up. I worked on the manuscript each week, and took the coaching from my friends, editor and publisher to improve my writing. This wasn't always easy for me. When I got frustrated, I had to remind myself of the reason I was doing it - because I had something to say.
e) I had the support of friends who read the manuscript and gave me feedback (not easy for them or for me!). I also had friends who continually asked me how the book was going.
f) I took personal development classes to understand my reactions to life and other people. This let me cope with the constructive criticism I received along the way.

If you have an inkling that you'd like to write, start writing! It is possible to have your day job and have your dreams too.

Engineers practising medicine?

2008-05-16T07:00:00.000+10:00

The office I work in is located above an X-ray and Imaging centre, and a Doctor's practice. Because the local Council won't allow large or numerous signs on new buildings, it isn't uncommon for people to get lost and end up at our door. Annie, our secretary, usually redirects them to the right office.

Yesterday, she walked past my desk. 'There was a man at the door who wanted to give blood. I said to him this was the wrong office. He said the sign downstairs was pointing up at our office, so this must be the right place. He wouldn't leave. I think he must have thought I didn't understand what kind of office I worked in."

"Well, we can take his blood if he really wants us to," I replied.

"Ask him to sit down and say someone will come out shortly. And let's leave him there for hours," added a colleague, smiling.

"You're missing a new opportunity, Annie. Ask him which vein he wants the blood taken from and then prick him with a large compass divider or something," suggested another workmate.

Lucky we don't treat our own clients like that!

The Inner Northern Busway opens in Brisbane

2008-05-05T14:16:00.000+10:00

I was one of the lead structural engineers that worked on the busway from Queen St to Roma Street in Brisbane. It was opened on 4th May 2008 by the Queensland Premier,
Anna Bligh.

I was proud to see how well the project had been put together, and
very happy that so many people come along to see it. I'm certain the busway system will transform Brisbane's traffic issues in the next few years.

Thanks to Mary Ryans in Paddington for hosting my author event

2008-05-05T11:00:00.000+10:00

Thanks, Mary Ryans

Kerryn and I were in Paddington, Brisbane on Thursday night to talk about 'a few Drops short of a Pint'. It was a great night. 38 people came along, and listened to me practise my newfound gift of the gab (I kissed the Blarney Stone for the first time last year). Mary Ryans put on the wine, OJ and food. At the end, Stef (Mary Ryans event organiser) gave a timely speech to the audience: 'It's really tough for new authors to be noticed, so if you like the book, please tell all your friends about it."
Thanks to all of you who came along. Hopefully I can return the favour sometime, to those of you who are writing your own books.