Melbourne: Part One

MELBOURNE PART ONE:

"Peculiar trait,” thought Grant, “that you could sleep with their wives, despoil their daughters, sponge on them, defraud them, do almost anything that would mean at least ostracism in normal society, and they would barely seem to notice it. But refuse to drink with them and you immediately become a mortal enemy.” --Australian Author, Kenneth Cook

A recent issue of The Utne Reader had an article called “Invading Our Own Privacy.” It was about how the government or telemarketers or insurance agencies don't have to snoop anymore. People just reveal themselves through blogs, MySpace and other cyber-whining. There have been legal persecutions, firings, school expulsions and more. Just because of what people reveal on the internet. The article laments that there has never been less privacy than there is now... and most people like it that way.

I'm not sure this is all bad. I like the right to be private, but in many ways I agree with Ghandi. He said, “If you live your life with no secrets, you never need to fear discovery.”

In that spirit, I confess that I'm a hypochondriac. I've said it. I'm out.

For me, every headache is a stroke. Every upper intestine gas bulge is a heart attack. Every lump is cancer. Stiff muscles? Arthritis! I start each day with a fistful of vitamins, amino acids and minerals. I travel with a pharmacopoeia of exotic organic preventatives. I bring every bruise to the AIDS Clinic...

The plane from Christchurch back to Melbourne takes about four hours. It's back to the book promotion tour for me.

Before I leave New Zealand, I go out for brunch with Vera. I'm a nervous airporter, so I want to actually get to the airport the 2 hours before departing time that no one seems to care about when you finally get there. I can't chat. I want to eat and run. I feel my blood pressure rising in anticipation of the trip. If it goes unchecked I'll have an aneurysm. Fortunately, Vera insists we at least sit in the grass and watch the ducks by the river. I'm glad she does. I need a little duck before I get to Melbourne.

At the bus station: an hour before the next bus. I pace. Look at the clock in my cellphone. Pace some more. Finally, the bus. Then to the airport for the usual security hell. The two hours at the airport gives me time to worry about entry into Australia. My initial encounter with Aussie customs was so horrible that just the thought of going through that again rumbles the lunch I had with Vera. I rehearse the story in my mind.

[Aside #1: by coincidence, I see Vera again in New York, on her way back from Germany. I know, it's a bit out of the way, but I'm worth it, no? We go see a German movie, Lives of Others. There is a scene where the communist interrogator explains to his class that the way you can tell if someone's lying is by their repetitious answers. If the person always repeats the same story in exactly the same way, he's lying. He has rehearsed his lines and cannot deviate from them. If a person is telling the truth, he will vary the words some. Use different phrases. Maybe even change the details a little from one interrogation to another. That's why interrogators keep repeating their questions. They want to see if the answers change or if their subject is lying. Of course, I don't know any of this while I'm busy at the airport, rehearsing my exact response to the customs officer. Line by line. Word by word.

“Promote books? What books? You see officer, I'm only here for a vacation while visiting my friend in New Zealand. I just came back and now am spending a few days in Melbourne before I go back to the US.... Yes officer, I'm only here for a vacation while visiting my friend in New Zealand.... Yes officer, I'm only...]

We land in Melbourne. I stand in line with my passport.

[Immigration advice #1: Customs is smoother if you go through the red door. Just pick something stupid to declare, a pack of cigarettes, a little bottle of booze, anything that will make the officer either laugh at your honesty or shake her head at your stupidity. They'll say, “Don't worry about that, just go ahead.” and let you walk out.]

In Cairns, there were no doors-- red or green. I was stuck.

Now, I'm in Melbourne. There are no doors here either, but there is a sign that says Please inform the customs agent if you have recently been on a farm or close to livestock.

Yes! That's my escape. I'm at that front of the line. Now, I hand my passport to the man behind the window.

[ Immigration advice #2: you should try to get in line in front of a window with a large hostile- looking agent behind the glass. Those guys have nothing to fear, nothing to prove, and probably believe that no guilty person would ever stand in front of them. NEVER go to an attractive female immigration officer. It's the kiss of death.]

“I've been in New Zealand,” I tell the gruff-looking guy on the other side of the glass. “I went to a penguin reserve and traveled in the back country. There were lots of sheep.”

“That's all right,” he says. “Just go to line B and explain it to a customs officer.”

I collect my bags and go to line B.

“I was in the countryside in New Zealand,” I tell him. “You know. Sheep.”

“Which shoes were you wearing?” he asks.

I point to the boots on my feet.

“Could you lift them up so I could see the soles?”

I raise one foot at a time.

“Ok,” he says. “Thanks, and welcome to Melbourne. You can leave that way.”

Works like a charm.

I walk out of the immigration zone and and into the terminal lobby. Inside the terminal, I'm supposed to meet this guy named Rich. That's all I know. I've never seen him before. My bags sit on an airport trolley. I now wheel them through the waiting area, looking for Rich.

A few people are seated looking at their watches. A few others stand, anxiously surveying the deplaning passengers. I'm hoping for a spontaneous connection.

My picture has been interneted around enough and I always dress like the cover of one of my books. Someone will recognize me.

When I was 16, it might have been possible to walk from strange man to strange man in an airport and ask, “Are you Rich?” Who knows who I might have wound up with? But 40+ years later, I feel really uncomfortable doing the same thing.

Instead, I stalk. I look for someone young, punkish and expectant. Here's someone. An attractive young man, vaguely oriental, with a wide studded belt, slung at an angle over his hips. I wheel my luggage trolley in his direction. Give him a good stare. He looks away. I come closer. He clicks his tongue, trudges to a bench and sits down hard.

Okay, here's someone else. Squat, slightly plump with a head that connects directly to his broad square shoulders. He's talking on a cellphone. I walk toward him. Head straight at 'im. His eyes widen as he sees me and my trolley on a collision path. Deftly, he steps to the side, like a toreador avoiding a charging bull. Nope, not him.

I go back to the kid with the studded belt. He's sits on a chair, still looking at his watch. I pull up next to him. Just stand there. Give him the sideways glance.

“Yo Rich!” I psychically transmit to him. “It's me your waiting for. Don't you know me? Yoo hoo? Ever been buttmeat for an American before? I'll treat you right.”

I don't actually say any of this, but I force the thought through my eyes so hard he glances up at me. Then he stands up, shakes his head, and heads for the safety of another part of the airport. Not Rich, I guess.

It's half an hour after I'm scheduled to land. I call Shawn in Sydney. He answers with He's on his way, Mykel.” I thank him, and hang up. Fifteen minutes later, I text message Shawn.

What does he look like? I ask.

The answer: Haven't the faintest.

Suddenly, the outside revolving door revolves. A large guy with a shock of dirty blond hair, a chipped front tooth, and a Goliath-stride rushes into the lobby.

He looks around, sees me, and walks up to me.

“Mykel?” he asks.

It's Rich.

From the terminal, Rich walks me to his car. We pile my bags in and take off.

“It's lucky you have a car,” I tell him. “Lots of my friends, especially in New York, don't have cars.”

“It's my brother's car,” says Rich, “He's not too keen on me borrowing it.”

“That's not very brotherly,” I say. “Maybe you should get your own car.”

“I totaled my car,” he says. “Not drunk driving, I just had this epileptic seizure while I was driving. Pow! I was flying off the road over a field, somebody's lawn, woke up with the car wrapped around a pole. The cops had to bring this machine like a giant can opener and cut me out. Know what I mean?”

“How often do you get these seizures?” I ask him, tightening my seatbelt... then loosening it again.

“I never know,” he answers. “There's just no way of knowing.”

[Aside #2: Maybe the day before I die, I'll figure out how I've lived this long. I hope I'll have time to let you know.]

Inside Rich's apartment: the wall next to the door is filled with LPs. At right angles, on the hinge side, is the stereo, CD player and a 7” singles rack. There's a couch next to a large table. In the middle of the room is a stack of boxes looking very much like the boxes of ARTLESS CDs in the hall of my apartment. Who could've figured on the digital revolution? People would stop buying CD's and let their computers just move electrons.

I set down my bags, flinching slightly at a twitch in my shoulder. Maybe I have rheumatism.

“Looks like my place,” I tell Rich. “I can't sell my CDs either. I got boxes of 'em lying around, just like you.”

“Yeah,” he says, “only those aren't CDs. They're dialysis equipment. I'm on a waiting list for a kidney transplant. I only have one kidney and that doesn't work very well. I need to get flushed out every night. That's the flush.”

I don't remember what I say at this point. I don't think it's anything particularly brilliant.

“It works like this,” he continues, knowing I'm curious. He also knows I'm not exactly sure of the protocol of asking about artificial kidneys or urine/blood processing.

“Most dialysis machines work in a few hours. They hook up to a vein and your entire bloodstream passes through the machine. Those machines leave you beat, worn out, like you've just lost to Les Darcy. (Who?) This one works different. See, you know your body is just like this pit. It's kind of hollow inside, stuffed with guts and stuff. Know what I mean?”

I nod.

He continues, “Between your guts and the inside of your belly is this bloody tissue called a peritoneum. It's just a white sheet of gop with millions of little blood vessels running through it. All those blood vessels are close to the surface and ready to be scrubbed. Know what I mean?”

I nod.

He continues, “ so I have this valve built into my side here, like a plug in a blow up sex doll.”

“I know what you mean,” I tell him.

He continues, “It goes right into the peritoneum. I keep it covered during the day, but at night I just plug in a huge bag of salt water. It flushes around my insides, washing the blood through the walls of that bloody tissue. After a few hours of washing, that machine there...” he gestures to what looks like a metal night table with a meter, “will suck out the water that now has gunk in it. That's all the stuff that's usually filtered out by the kidneys. Then, it'll squirt in another bag of salt water and do it again. All this happens while I sleep. It takes about 10 hours, but afterwards I feel right as rain. Know what I mean?”

He lifts his shirt up to show me a square patch of gauze taped to his belly.

“Ummm... you got anything to drink?” I ask. “I gotta take my vitamins. I don't want to get sick while I'm away. I donno, I'm rarely sick, but I always feel like there's something wrong.”

“I'm the opposite,” he says going to the kitchen sink. “No kidneys, epilepsy, everything you can imagine wrong. I don't even think about it.”

Rich is the manager for FIBBERS aka Exile on Smith Street, one of the places I'll be “playing” in Melbourne. I'm scheduled to go on before punk trivia hosted by a noted celebrity musician and one of the few Egyptian-Negroes in Australia.

After we're settled, Rich takes me to my first Melbourne bar. He buys me a local beer, Melbourne Bitter, and a plate of roo stew. Both are satisfying if not spectacular. That's just the start, however, of a pretty spectacular night.

“I want to take you to the CBGBs of Melbourne,” says Rich. “It's called The Tote! This being Monday, there's probably not a lot going on... but you should see it.”

So we take a cab to this bar in a slightly seedy-but-hip part of town. Inside, the first thing that hits me is the cigarette smoke. It's wonderful. Although (except for 6 months in junior high school) I was never a smoker, the smell of cigarettes and the spirit of drinking go together in my mind as sure as the smell of twat and the spirit of eating.

The next thing that hits me is the music. Bruce fuckin' Springsteen. Not only from the jukebox, but on a widescreen projection TV. The music is competing Borns (To Run and In The USA). There's another TV, this one on top of a refrigerator, silently showing another Bruce Springsteen video.

“Didn't you say this was the Melbourne CBGBs?” I ask. “I don't remember a Bruce Springsteen night at CBGBs.”

At the bar are five or six girls. They're smiling, chatting, unaware of our presence. Rich taps one of them, a large blonde wearing a tight dress..

“Hey Rachel,” he says, “what's up with this Springsteen shit? This guy came all the way from New York. I brought him here to see Melbourne's CBGBs... and he sees Bruce fuckin' Springsteen?”

I can see pink rising from Rachel's neck into her face. The other girls turn to look at us with embarrassed-yet-amused looks on their faces. Rachel's look does not have the amused aspect.

“W...well... you see... it was just us in the bar. And it turns out we're all Bruce Springsteen fans... oh I know... It's not musically correct... but... anyway... nobody else was here, so we asked Jack...” she nods toward the skinny young bartender, “we asked him if he had any Bruce Springsteen stuff... it's not like that's all we listen to... it's just that...”

I can't help laughing. Rich too. We order a couple beers and then go around the corner where Bruce is at a less piercing volume. There are no seats in this part of the bar, so we stand around a large high table and drink.

If they make movies on how to identify junkies. On what to look for when you want to spot someone on the stuff. On how to spot someone so juiced they they wouldn't know it if you stuck a pitchfork into their kidneys. The lead actress in that movie walks up to me next.

When I say dirty blond hair, I'm not talking color, I'm talking hygiene. About 5' eight, both arms covered in tattoos that appear copied out of books on Buddhism and bird-watching. Her jaw seems reconstructed by a discount surgeon, who removed part of the bone to sell on the black market. High cheekbones, and a grey t-shirt over a white t-shirt complete the look. She sways back and forth as she speaks.

“Can I talk to you?” she asks me without caring what my answer is. “Hey, I don't like to say, but I gotta tell someone. Ya' know what I'm saying? I mean it's my birthday. I don't celebrate or tell anyone. Ya' know what I'm saying? I'm .....”

She introduces herself, but I don't catch the name. Maybe she mumbles it. Maybe I don't want to hear it. So I'll just refer to her as The Birthday Girl.

“I mean, I need someone to buy me a drink,” she says. “Ya know what I'm saying?”

“What are you saying?” I ask her, hoping the drugs in her veins will confuse her enough to know that not even Americans can be that stupid. I'm wrong.

“You saying you're not gonna buy a girl a beer for her birthday?” she asks. “Is that what you're saying?”

“Sorry,” I tell her putting on my thickest New Yawk accent. “I's just dat I got offa da plane an' I ain't got no Aussie greenbacks. Ya know what I'm tawkin' 'bout? I mean fuggeddabouddit.”

“And pool,” she continues. “I need someone to play pool with. You play pool? You a good player? I came with my friends. They just left me. Left me. Can you believe it? I'll play you for drinks. Let's play some pool. Ya know what I'm saying?”

I see her hands clench into a fist. I fear that tonight I will lose at least a tooth.

“I don' play no pool,” I tell her keeping up the New Yawk tawk. “I admire da game. I wish I kud play. Pool is cool, ya know? But sorry. I don' do no pool.”

“So,” she says, “you won't buy me a beer. You won't play pool with me... and it's my birthday.”

Now her entire arm is tense. The knuckles on her clenched fist are as white as The Klan. I can feel my own approaching death.

I run over and hide behind Rich who's amusedly watching the whole thing.

“I'll buy you a drink,” he says to The Birthday Girl. “And I'll play pool with you.”

Wow! Saved. He's my hero!

While Rich and The Birthday Girl play pool, I converse with a dark-haired goddess who I'll call, Kitten, and her nearly equally attractive boyfriend whose name I may still get. Rachel joins us. The beers keep coming and my first night in Melbourne is turning a bit riotous. Springsteen stops. The beer doesn't.

Here's a chronology of the evening at The Tote:

10 pm

The crew gets together for a picture.

L-R Standing: Kitten, The Bartender, Me, Rachel, Rich
Kneeling: The Birthday Girl

11 PM

After a few brews, it's a bit harder for the girls to stand. Looks like they're going for the lower
reaches. No such luck. Rich treats all around. The Birthday Girl is in love with him

Midnight: We're a row of dominoes waiting to fall.

1 AM

The gloves come off. The inhibitions go to hell.
And I don't remember much else of what happens.

But wow! I can't remember a better first night in a new city. At least one that did not involve some action below the waist.

Somehow, we get back to Rich's place. I quickly fall asleep on the livingroom couch only vaguely aware of a whirring/sucking machine sound coming from Rich's bedroom. I feel a pain in my lower back. I wonder if I have kidney problems. Maybe I'll need a transplant. I'd better see a doctor.

(more on Melbourne in the next chapter)

Mykel in New Zealand

Mykel in New Zealand

March 14

I slip my hand inside. Pushing upwards, I proceed on touch alone. Straining, my fingertips reach the the goal. A brief jerk of pleasure. Found it. I feel upwards, around the curvature. Then I look for the break, the opening, the edge. None. I move more, twisting my hand in the narrow slot. Still no edge, no break.

A frigid breeze comes from somewhere, bashing itself against my naked thighs. A chill runs up my spine as I push my hand upwards. There it is. The hard roundness I'm seeking. Still no opening. I dig in my nails... and tear. One two three. There is a ripping, as I pull down hard. Finally, the toilet paper comes out of the opening and I can clean myself off.

And clean I need to. It's not that the New Zealand food is so bowel stimulating. It's that whenever I travel something happens to my digestive tract. Other people suffer jet lag. I suffer digestion lag. I am not like other people.

I can go days without the smallest production, then all of a sudden KERPOW! I'm a barely walking ad for Imodium.

I type these words as the only whiteguy in an “Authentic Polynesian” restaurant somewhere in the suburbs of Wellington New Zealand.

The hefty customers look a lot like native Hawaiians. Square, broad-faced, vaguely oriental with darker skin and a much lower center of gravity than the average Japanese. They're speaking something (Maori?) that I have no clue about. The question intonation seems to be the same as English. Whenever the voice goes up, there's a short answer.

“Are you Canadian?” the woman behind the counter asks me.

New Zealanders are a little different from their brothers across the pond. Where a key feature of Australians was lack of curiosity, New Zealanders will often ask “Are you Canadian?”

At first I don't get it. Whoever guesses anyone is Canadian? It's not like the Canadians have a special way of talking, except for eh? and a weird o-sound.

My pal Vera explains it.

“People used to ask, are you American?” she says, “but the Canadians got so pissed off being mistaken for Americans, that nobody says that anymore. We ask if you're Canadian, because Canadians care. Americans don't give a shit if people think they're Canadian. They don't even know what a Canadian is.”

The Polynesian place turns out to be a surprise unpleasantry. At first the woman behind the counter is really interested. I explain that I didn't know Polynesian food. She shows me a styrofoam container. Three items, eight dollars.

“You chose,” I say.

She smiles and takes a little bit of some rice dish, a little chicken and a little of something mysterious, with clear noodles in a brown sauce.

I sit down next to a socket, plug in, type these words and eat. A few other people come in and order. I'm at one of two tables in the place. No one is at the other table. I just eat and type. Then, the patroness complains about me using her electricity. This is the first time that has ever happened to me. I try to plug in wherever I go. Caught off guard, I apologize, unplug and continue typing.

“Are you still typing?” she asks a few minutes later.

I show her the unplugged plug. I'm on battery power now. She says nothing.

When my styrofoam container is empty. The woman comes over.

“Are you done?” she asks with a falling intonation. Something closer to You are done!

Weird. It's so peaceful around here. Beautiful weather today. I hear sparrows in the background. The sun is shining. There's a thin scatter of fluffy white clouds. Everywhere in the country has a spectacular view. Mountains, the ocean. Like a postcard. But the people don't seem happy. I don't get it.

Now, I'm outside a coffee shop. In a small courtyard between the actual shop and a church with kind of stained glass windows, that look as if they're covered with stained-glass-window-colored decals. Unlike New York, where people walk around with determinedly neutral expressions, people here seem hostile. Make eye contact and get a scowl in return. And all the internet connections around here are secure. No open access. Everything tight as a virgin. Odd.

[Later Krissie tells tells me the Polynesian reaction was normal New Zealand. Sometimes restaurants charge you for plugging in.]

“Is that because they're cheap, or because electricity is so expensive here?” I ask.

“It's because they think you're taking advantage,” she explains.

Yow! I guess it IS a different mentality here. In Australia, taking advantage is the name of the game.

In Wellington, my hosts are Mr. and Ms Sterile. Actually it's Chrissie and Kieran, but they're in a band called MR. STERILE. Kieran is pronounced like KAREN. It's some sort of Scottish name, like half the names here. The country LOOKS like Scotland, for Feargan's sake.

Kieran has set up my shows in New Zealand. He's done a ton of work for me. He does a ton of work for everybody passing through. And his pay? Maybe I buy him a beer. I don't remember. That's it. It's guys like this who give me faith in punkrock. Shaun in Sydney is another one. They are Gods!

Kieran meets me at the Wellington Airport and drives me to their place. Walking in is a breath of cold air. It's colder inside than out.

“That's the way we do it in New Zealand,” says Kieran. “We don't believe in that house insulation stuff. We believe in personal insulation. If you get cold, just put on another sweater.”

I notice that there are pots on the floor, on the cabinets, everywhere.

“We called the landlord,” he says. “The leaks have been fixed. We'll call again to have them fixed again. It'll take a few times.”

For a God, he sure could use a better landlord.

The first reading is in a Wellington community center library run by some anarchist punks. It's my first reading with other readers. No bands, just a couple poets, and me.

One of the poets is kind enough to heckle. It makes the evening much more enjoyable. A good sized crowd too, at least it looks like it in such a small place. I sell a t-shirt and made $20 from the door money. Not bad.

Fine crowd reaction too!

There's even someone with a SKREWDRIVER t-shirt. (I wore it just to piss off the anarchists, he says.)

Ah, you can always count on punks.

The second show is with MR. STERILE. What great fun! Noise! Costumes. Saxophone! A band you've gotta experience, as much as listen to.

After the two shows in Wellington, I fly to Dunedin (pronounced dun-EE-dun). This is a university town.

The bar, called THE ARC, is a huge bar/cafe. In the front, they sell coffee, pizza, cakes and beer. In the back is a stage and the show area.

The beer in New Zealand is pretty good so far. I really like this Monteith's. They have both a porter and a Summer beer. Though it says honey on the label, it's not really sweet. I guess I'm lucky to be able to try it, because officially it isn't summer anymore.

In New Zealand and Australia... like in Japan. Summer ends at the beginning of the month, rather than the equinox. As it is March 14th. That means autumn is 14 days old.

As for seasons. It's been like traveling across the calendar, as well as across the globe. When I landed in Cairns 2 weeks ago, it was hot, sticky, summer in the worse sense of the word. Then as I traveled south, the weather moderated from tropical to sub. Brisbane was still warm, with shower-every-day stickiness. Sydney was pretty much ideal. Like late spring. T-shirts and jeans... and you've already seen the sea and surf pix.

From Australia to New Zealand is a shock. When the plane lands in Christchurch it's a nice spring evening. Around 70^oF. When I wake up the next morning, the wind howls, the rain blows, the surf pounds. Like a hurricane.

March 17

I sit here in the kitchen typing. Sitting on the floor next to me, are
the girls: Lilly 6, Hana 11. It's 7:10AM. I've been up for at least
an hour... probably more. In the bathroom, taking a shower while last

night's beer and Thai food build up in my bowels, is mom. Upstairs dad gets ready to grab the bathroom before my bladder kicks in to join the painful bowels in family unity.

Vera's family is combining a good deed with a vacation. They've rented a motel room in Dunedin and plan to drive me back, the long way, so we can do tourist stuff. I'll have to cancel a show in Christchurch to do it, but since they're not going back until tomorrow, there's nothing I can do. It turns out to be a good choice anyway.

In the motel, Mom just came out and told me to take a shower. I think I'll sit it out awhile. See if I can get away with skipping it all day. Maybe if mom is too involved in taking care of her other kids, I can slip by.

I shouldn't complain. (Moi? Complain?) Vera and company have been GREAT to me. The trip from Duneden is spectacular! THANKS GUYS!!!! YOU'RE TERRIFIC!

There are too many great sights to describe in detail. You can see some of the pictures on the flickr website. I recommend you JOIN FLICKR too. That way we can exchange pix. There's even a setting for those kind of pix.

One picture I do want to show you is really important to me. It is photographic evidence that I reached one of my life's major goals. That is to see a live penguin outside of a zoo. Actually, I see several.

We go to a penguin nature preserve. I wish I had my telephoto lens. The penguins here don't cluster like in the movies. They're pretty independent. You have to look for them.

But you do get a guide who can spot 'em in the distance and point 'em out.

The preserve itself, is a large area that's part of a sheep farm. Everywhere in New Zealnd is part of a sheep farm.

Since penguins are sensitive, the reserve dug a series of underground tunnels covered in net, with a few bridges crossing over them.

The watchers go single file in the tunnels. We move underground from spot to spot. Then peep out of bird blinds into the distance to watch the characters.

I feel like a spy. Although the views are mostly in the distance, it's as fun as a roller coaster ride.

From the penguin reserve we go into the New Zealand countryside. There are lots of mountains, rocks, and sheep.

Everywhere you look is another magnificent sheepscape. We often stop to go rock climbing or browsing in a little country store.

Back in Christchurch, the next day, I fly off to Melbourne. That means again going through Australian immigration. I'm not looking forward to that!

More soon.... ish.

--Mykel

The Worst Company In The World

THE WORST COMPANY IN THE WORLD

I've been meaning to write about THE WORST COMPANY IN THE WORLD. I mentioned them in my last entry. By worst company, I don't mean morally, politically or environmentally. For that you can take your pick:

Wal-mart
Microsoft
Nike
Pfizer
McDonalds
Starbucks
Exxon-Mobile

You know, the usual suspects.

I'm talking about worst company for its customers. I'm talking about the worst company to do business with. That company is called YES! OPTUS. It's an Australian telecom company.

In Brisbane, I buy a YES! OPTUS SIMS chip for my cellphone. My U.S. phone service, T-Mobile (actually a German company, and a good one), allows you to change chips once a year. It saves money while traveling.

In order to activate the new chip you have to check in on the web or call a special activation number. According to the booklet that accompanies the chip, to keep your previous number, you have to call from your cellphone.

I go outside the electronics store where I bought the chip. I dial the number. I get a recording that tells me how much faster activation would be over the web. Then it plays music for 5 minutes.

Finally, someone with a very heavy Indian accent answers the phone. [Aside: A New York comedienne said that the reason all those Indian cab drivers always talk on cellphone headsets is that they're moonlighting, doing tech support for IT companies.]

“Good day,” he says, “my name is Jim. And how can I assist you today?”

[Aside: Why is it that these guys are forced to take American/English names? Do they think it fools the customers? This guy is Jim, like I'm Abdul.]

Jim wants my name. I give it to him.

“That's Michael D-as in door, O-as in Open...” he starts.

“No, Board,” I correct, “Like a piece of wood. You know B-as in Boy, O-as in Opera, A-as in Apple, R-as in Rabbit, D-as in doll.”

“I'm being sorry, sir,” he says. “So that's T-as in Toy, O as in Orange...”

Eventually, he gets it.

And your Australian address?

“I don't have an Australian address,” I tell him. “I'm traveling and I won't be in one place for more than 3 days.”

“I'm being very sorry, I'm sure,” he says. “I cannot activate your card without an address in Australia.”

I look up at the street sign in front of where I'm sitting.

“183 Boundary Street,” I say. “In Brisbane.”

“Thank you for that information,” he says. “And the post code?”

“I don't know the post code,” I tell him. “Why do you need the post code? It's a phone. I'm not getting mail here.”

“I'm being very sorry,” he says. “I cannot activate your card without a post code.”

“I'll call back,” I tell him.

“Have a good day,” he says.

When I get back to my hosts apartment, I gather the necessary information and call back. Again I'm tortured by the announcement and hold time.

When someone finally answers, she's got an even thicker accent requiring me to ask for repetition every third or fourth word.

“Good day to you sir,” she says. “My name is Mary. How can I assist you?”

With several whats, excuse mes, and could you repeat thats? I get the information to the woman, including my postcode.

“And I'd like to keep my current number,” I tell her.

“Please be holding on sir,” she says. “That's a different department. Have a good day.”

On hold. More music. A voice.

“Good day to you, sir,” says the voice, “My name is Larry. How can I assist you?”

“I want to keep my current phone number,” I tell him.

“I'll be happy to help you,” he says. “My I have your name?”

I tell him.

“That's V-as in Victor, O-as in Orange...”

Eventually he gets it.

“And your address.”

I give it to him.

“And the post code,”

I'm ready and give it to him... with a touch of triumph.

“And the name of your current telephone company?”

“T-mobile.” I answer.

“And your account number?” he asks.

“You mean my current phone number?” I reply.

“No sir,” he says. “I need your account number.”

“My account is in New York,” I tell him. “Who knows their phone company account number?”

“I'm being very sorry sir,” he says. “We cannot switch your number without an account number. It should be on your bill.”

“My bills are in New York,” I tell him. “Who travels with their old telephone bills?”

“I'm being very sorry sir,” he says. “We need your account number to allow you to keep your old number.”

“Okay,” I tell him, “I'll call New York and get the number and call back.”

“That would be fine sir. No worries.”

“Yeah, right.” I say.

“Have a good day,” he says.

I spend real money on a call to T-Mobile in New York.

“You need your account number to keep your old phone number?” says the pleasant woman there. “I never heard of that before.”

“Don't get me started,” I tell her.

With German efficiency, I have my account number in a few minutes. I again make the dreaded phonecall to YES!

After the long recorded message tells me to go to the website, there's more music, someone answers.

“Hello,” says the Indian woman, “My name is Jane. How can I assist you?”

“I want to activate my SIMS card,” I tell her, “but I want to keep my old number so I need to speak to another department.”

“No worries, sir,” she says. “May I have your name?”

I give it to her.

“That's Michael D-as in door, O-as in Open...” she starts.

Eventually, she gets it.

“Yes sir,” she says, “I understand you are calling to activate your SIMS card.”

“That's right,” I tell her, “and I need to keep my old number.”

“I'm being sorry, sir,” she says. “Our system is down right now. Could you please be so kind as to call back in an hour. We will be happy to take care of it for you.”

“Why did you need my name to tell me the system is down?” I ask.

“It is most polite to know with whom you're speaking,” she says.

“I'll call back,” I say.

“Have a good day,” she says.

It's 3 PM. I call back at 4. The system is still down. “Please be so kind as to call back in one hour.”

I call back at 5. The system is still down. Call back in an hour.

I call back at 6. The system is still down. Call back in an hour.

I call back at 7. The system is still down. Call back in an hour.

I call back at 8. The recording is different from the one before. An Australian accented message tells me: Thank you for calling Yes! Optus. Our offices are now closed. Please call back tomorrow morning after 8:30. We'll be here, eager to assist you.

I wonder if Australian law allows me to sue for a stroke or heart attack.

At 8:35 the next morning:

Thank you for calling Yes! Optus. Due to unusually high call volume, your call may not be answered for [click] 15 minutes [click]. We suggest you use our website or you might want to call back at another time. Of course, you can hold on and your call will be answered by the next available service agent.

I hold. It's twenty minutes before someone answers.

“Hello,” says the Indian woman. “My name is Sally. How can I assist you?”

“I want to activate my SIMS chip,” I tell her. “But I want to keep my old phone number, so I think I need to speak to a different department.”

“Yes sir,” she says, “and what is your name?”

“Michael Smith,” I tell her.

“Certainly, Mr. Smith,” she says. “I'll be happy to switch you.”

Ah! A minute saved.

A man's voice this time.

“Hello,” he says, “my name is Ralph. How can I assist you?”

Ralph?

“My name is Mykel Board,” I tell him. “That's B-as in boring, A-as in annoyed, O-as in 'orrible, R-as in rotten, D-as in dumb.”

Eventually, he gets it.

“Yes, Mr. Board,” he says. “How can I be of assistance?”

“I want to activate my SIMS chip and keep my old phone number,” I tell him.

“Certainly,” he says. “Can I have your address?”

I give it to him... with the postcode.

“And your previous phone company?”

I tell him T-Mobile.

“And your previous phone number?”

“Phone number?” I say. “I thought you needed an account number.”

“No, sir,” he says, “I need your phone number to transfer it.”

I tell him my T-Mobile phone number.

“That's Australia, then 064..”

“No,” I correct him, “it's a U.S. number. The country code is ONE.”

“Please be holding for a few minutes,” he clicks off and the YES! OPTUS message returns, telling me how much quicker things would be on the website.

After 2 or three minutes of this he returns.

“I am being sorry,” he says. “You cannot transfer that number. You have to get a new number with YES! OPTUS. Would you like me to transfer you to that department.”

Can he hear my sobs?

“Please, do that,” I say, barely keeping control.

“No worries,” he answers.

[Do they train them in Australian English? If I called him from New York, would he say, I'd be happy to?]

I'm back to the basic activation department.

“Hello,” says the Indian woman, “My name is Nancy. How can I assist you?”

“I'd like to activate my SIMS card,” I tell her. “My name is Mykel Board.
That's B-as in Boy...”

Eventually she gets it.

My new phone number-- but only until March 25 is Australia: 043-561-097. Call me if you dare. Have a good day.

My website is at: www.mykelboard.com

Mykel in Sydney

Mykel's Australia-New Zealand Adventure
SYDNEY



March 9, 2007

One of the delights of senility, is that each day brings with it new surprises. Many are the same surprises that yesterday brought, but since you can't remember them, the world is as new as... as... I forget.

I write this sitting under an “illy” umbrella outside of a kabob shop somewhere in downtown Sydney. I just spent a couple of hours in the Sydney Museum of Science. It's a fascinating place that, among other things, presents the history and wonders of Australian technology. Lot's of lever pulling and button pushing. Most of the exhibits don't work.

I've got about half an hour before I try to public transport my way back to Shaun's, then to be driven to see Ilka and Liz, my next-door neighbors-- in Japan-- in 1989.

Before the museum, I just did my third radio interview of this trip. The DJ/interviewer was a tall, young thin young man. Much different from the box-shaped local footers I've gotten used to. Up until my audio intercourse with the guy, I thought the girls had it all over the boys here.

Now, I'm not so sure.

The interview went well. DJ Mr. Wonderful made a CD of it for me. I'll make it a pod-cast someday.

Shaun tells me that my next stop, Melbourne, will only be for a few hours. I change planes in the airport and go off to New Zealand to see Vera and do a few shows on the northern island. Then back to Christchurch. (I want to see a synagogue in Christchurch. That should be a good picture), then back to Melbourne. Then to Cairns, Tokyo, and New York.

The most famous landmark in Sydney is the Opera House. When you picture the city, if you picture it, that's what you think of. It's famous and beautiful. Just like me.

I stop typing to take a nibble from my fish and chips plate. The food in Australia is nothing to blog about, though I did taste my first kangaroo (in Australia) yesterday. It does not taste like chicken. It tastes like beef.

--BREAK--

I now write this a coffeeshop in the Melbourne airport. Next to me are a few traveling girls. One of them continually directs her tubercular cough in my direction. It's one of the greatest signs of affection I've had since I arrived.

There's no internet reception here, even if you pay. That means I don't know when this will finally be posted. Just so you know, the Instant Time Zone clock on my computer says it's 09:47 on March 12, 2007.

I did have a chance to wish my father happy birthday, calling through my computer via Skype. It was tough to get the day and time right, but I did it without too much trouble. There's not much I manage to do without trouble, though. Take Virgin Airlines... please!

The plane is scheduled to leave at 8:15. I hate being last-minute, especially with a plane. I always have trouble with security, customs, or something. I'm the eternal RANDOM, who's RANDOMLY selected for a special screening for explosives, shoe bombs, or large amounts of intestinal gas.

A little girl has started screaming while on line waiting for her latte. The more I travel, the more I think we should skip a generation. Just dump every kid from zero to six years old. Use 'em for landfill, or dump 'em on McDonald island to fend for themselves like in Lord of The Flies. We could have a buffer of relative quiet.

Oh yeah, Virgin. I have a printout for e-check-in. It's got a nice little bar code that you put under the reader in the machine and print out your boarding pass. Being Virgin Airlines, there are at least two dozen of these helpful machines. Six of them without Sorry out of order signs on them. After waiting on line behind one of the machines, I put my barcode under the flickering laser.

Hello Mykel Board (actually, it says Michael Board), your reservation is for 8:15. Please choose your seat. I look at the seat diagram and touch a window seat about halfway down on the right.

Thank you, please wait.

The screen changes to a large PLEASE WAIT. After a minute, comes another sign. We cannot process your request at this time. Please see a Virgin Check-in agent.

There are no Virgin agents.

There is a large line of people bringing bags to the BAGGAGE RELEASE area. There are a dozen Baggage Release agents here. There is one agent at the INTERNATIONAL CHECK-IN. There is a window that says GENERAL CHECK-IN. No one is at that window.

[Computer batteries getting low here, I've got to find a socket. Not an easy job: wondering around like a terrorist looking for convenient places to plant explosives. I must look pretty suspicious. Eventually I ask. The only sockets are on center posts far from anywhere to actually sit down. I now type this sitting on the floor, legs crossed, computer balanced on the insides of my knees]

Back to Virgin:

I hijack someone in uniform dashing past me.

“The Virgin machine rejected me,” I say. “What should I do?”

“Go there,” she says over her shoulder, pointing vaguely toward a coin telephone.

“Thanks!” I shout after her.

“No worries,” she says.

[Aside: Australians say no worries instead of you're welcome. They also say it like an American teen-age girl might say like, you know, or whatever. It's one of their more irritating habits. I mean, who the fuck do they think they are with no worries? I'm dying of dysentery. No worries. Terrorists have attacked the Sydney Opera House. No worries. Evil customs guards have ripped apart my baggage. No worries. Hey, I have worries.]

The closest logical place to the indicated coin telephone is the INTERNATIONAL CHECK-IN window. I wait on line and when I finally get to the window.

“I'm not going internationally,” I say. “But I couldn't check in by machine.”

I hand her my confirmation print-out.

“Oh I see,” she says. “Your flight's been canceled. No worries.”

She continues, “You can take an earlier flight at 7:45AM or a later flight at 9:15 AM.”
Since I have to wait 8 hours in Melbourne as it is, I decide to take the later flight.

The agent types some things into her computer. Another agent comes over to talk to her.

“I'm sorry,” she says. “The empty seats on the 9:15 flight are being reserved for the passengers who come late to the canceled 8:15 flight. So, what you say we put you on the 7:45 flight?

“No worries,” I don't say.

Let's go back to Sydney. While I'm there, I stay with Shaun, who, for the first 2 days, I call Chris. He doesn't correct me, figuring it'd be better for his reputation if I gave people the wrong name. Here's our pictures together. Let this follow him to his next trip past customs.

Shaun is an active guy. Unlike my Brisbane hosts, he's always on the go--and not just for me. He's setting up shows, taking care of delivering records, working at something. Not my image of typical Australians, who're so laid back they make Los Angelans look like Japanese by comparison.

“I'm English,” says Shaun.

Oh, I get it.

My first show is in a kind of mainstream club. Not crowded, but fun. The best part was that the club was on a street called YURONG LANE. I shit you not!


Yesterday, I did the second show at a club called THE PITZ.


It was quite an unusual line-up:




The first show, the night before, went very well. I sold a bunch of books, got a few cents from the door money, talked with a lot of people. No groupies, but I did sing a SKREWDRIVER song with a guy visiting from Wales. The crowd wasn't bad and they even reacted.


For the second show, the matinee, the crowd was much less enthusiastic.


Still, I sold out of books, sold a few t-shirts, and talked with this cool kid from Korea about Korean bands I never heard of. Shaun took good care of me, shuttling me here and there, making sure I knew where to get on and off, like a mother might take care of her child just reaching that age of independence. Thanks Chris... er... Shaun.

My other adventure in Sydney was visiting Ilka and Liz, along with their brood.

Ah, what a story that is.

As I said, Ilka and Liz were my next door neighbors in Japan in 1989.

We lived in a gaijin (foreigner) house in a seedy part of Tokyo. We became good friends. They were on my new year's card list ever since, though I only heard from them once during all that time.

When I found that I was going to Australia, I Googled... and waddaya know? There's Ilka. (How many Ilka Talos are there in Australia, right?) Now he's a hotshot in some Aussie telecom company. Good guy to have as a host.

I email him.

“I can't believe it!” comes the answer. “I've spent 18 years avoiding you! Changed my city, my address, considered gender reassignment surgery. And you found me!”

“Beauty of the internet,” I tell him.

First I visit Ilka at his company. Huge office, lot's of employees, none of whom call him sir, but all of whom look like they should. We go in Ilka's Mercedes to meet Liz. Then we go back to meet the kids.

For a bit, Ilka looks that harried businessman, but in short time it's easy to see success hasn't spoiled him.

“Mykel,” he says over a great dinner Liz made from greens, beef and some red shoots. “It's great to see you. You look just the same as when we lived in Japan. Like a dessicated coconut.”

“Ok,” I think, “time to give the kids some lessons in American culture.”

“Hey kids,” I tell them, “I want to tell you about this special American tradition. It's a secret and until now, nobody outside America knew about it.”

They crowd around me, waiting for the secret information.

“It's the Egg God,” I tell them. “It's a way American children can get anything they want. Ice cream, cake, a new bicycle... you name it.”

“Even a beer like Daddy?” asks Hugo.

“Especially a beer like Daddy,” I say.

“Here's how it works,” I continue. “Late at night, after Mommy and Daddy have gone to sleep, you take all the eggs out of the refrigerator. Then you stand in the middle of the livingroom and throw the eggs as high as you can. While you throw the eggs, you shout, Catch, Egg God! Catch! If the Egg God likes you he'll catch the eggs before they fall on the ground. Then you can get anything you want.”

“He's taking the piss,” says Ilka.

“I'm not taking the piss,” I say. “But you will be... often... when you get free beer from the Egg God.”

I negotiate with the kids. They tell me that next week is Multicultural Week in school. I suggest they tell their entire class about The Egg God and ask students to try it at home and report who the Egg God likes and who he doesn't like. I'm still waiting for the report.

Besides an entertaining dinner, Ilka reveals that, as well as an entrepreneur, he's a lifeguard. Surfing every day before work, once a week he stands by the shore, mostly naked, to “trade saliva with fallen children.” Sounds like my kid of job... except that you have to know how to swim.

Still, I'd really like to go to the beach. Jumping into the ocean and letting the wave scrape my body on the sand is one of my life's enjoyments. In New York, my pal David warned me against it.

“It's the most poisonous water in the world,” he said. “There are green octopodi that'll kill you with one suck. Then there are man-o-wars, tile fish and Blue Bottles.”

“Blue Bottles? Left over beer cans?” I asked. “Maybe you'll cut yourself?”

“They're jellyfish!” He screamed at me. “They have long tendrills. They wrap themselves around your leg. Sting you up and down... like you've stepped into a wasps nest. It's horrible.”
I ask Ilka about it.

“No worries, mate,” he says. “This is a rich white area. The poisonous fish aren't allowed around here. It's against the law. They only hang out in the poor areas. ”

Seems reasonable to me, so I agree to a trip to the beach. We park in the private lot and then walk off to find the sand and the sea.

Before those, we find a sign.

“I'm gonna die!” I tell him. I can't go swimming with those tendrils.”

“No problem, mate,” says Ilka, “they keep away from Jews.”

Ok, I'll risk it.

Ilka goes over to talk with his fellow lifeguards. They're all dressed in a kind of yellow and red uniform. Colors New Yorkers would rather be washed up on shore in than actually seen wearing in public while they're alive.

Could you imaging how dumb someone would look in a long-sleeve yellow and red uniform, with bare feet, flowing shorts, carrying a dumb yellow float? Worse than that, they have these embarrassing little swim caps that tie under the chin. I can't imagine how someone could be seen in public in such a thing.


Well, getting into the life-saving spirit does have its privileges. For example, the locals will now sell me copies of those specialty publications I would never have had access to otherwise.

All-in-all the visit with Ilka and his family was the highpoint of this trip so far. They are great people despite their wealth and athletic ability. And welcome to crunch together on my couch in New York any time.

I also got to meet a member of one of my all-time favorite Australian bands: THE HARD-ONS. Ray was playing in another band the same night I was reading, but he stopped to talk with me and even let me take a picture with him.

Ho ho, little did he know that it would be splashed all over the internet universe. Or maybe he did know.


Next report from NEW ZEALAND.

Mykel in Brisbane

Mykel's Australia-New Zealand Adventure
BRISBANE


I'm stranded on my own, stranded far from home --The Saints (Australia's most famous punk band)

One thing that I've seen all over here in Australia is the lack of separation between people and nature. The Japanese pride themselves on being one with nature. They consider themselves part of the world, not isolated from it like Americans.

But the Japanese fetish with cleanliness and comfort keeps them from the unclean and the uncomfortable parts of nature. In Australia-- or at least in Queensland where I am now-- we have true nature, everywhere. And the locals are proud of it. Kylie tells me that the people of Queensland voted against Daylight Savings Time in the 90's because “they were afraid it would confuse the cows.”

As to nature? Every building I've been in has bugs. Ants, flies, mosquitoes. They run rampant. I write this in the Brisbane airport, brushing a fly from the computer LCD.

People don't use screens. Ants roam freely on the bathroom and kitchen floors. A gecko may run up the wall, while all kinds of arachnids make themselves homes in who-knows-what piece of clothing. No wonder people here don't wear shoes. Sandals let you see what you're stepping into. I shot a little movie of the bathroom floor at Krylie's.

Now back to my adventures:

The hell continues. I write this now in Brisbane. I'm sitting by myself in a living room. I've just killed a mosquito, spattering it's abdomen, filled with my blood, on my own forearm. There are two bedrooms with the door closed. Behind each one is one of the girls who lives in this place. I don't know the town. I don't know the public transportation. I can't leave.

Above my head, a gecko on the wall makes chirping sounds like some electronic device signaling an error. My attempt to take a picture of it gives my camera a THIS CARD CANNOT BE READ error message. NONE of the 3 cards I have with me can be read. I change the batteries reformat the cards, nothing. But that's not the end. It's only the icing on the bullet.

Last night, I did a reading at a show in a bar. I took in a hundred bucks Australian. Not so bad. But I left the pages from my reading at the show. I was to go pick 'em up today, but both girls are asleep or something and unavailable. I can't do anything without them.

Chris, the organizer for the club, said I could have stayed with him. He appeared briefly at the show last night, excused himself as being under the influence of XTC and disappeared. It was not my ecstasy. Oh yeah, instead of you're welcome, Australians say No worries. Yeah, right.

Kylie, who, for some reason I continually call Kristie, has made an effort. She took me to a radio interview today... after I woke her up to get me there.

Earlier: I go to the local community radio station. Kylie drives me. I'm scheduled for an interview at noon. No I'm not. The two girls who host the Art to Lunch show have never heard of me.

“What did you say your name was? And what do you do?”

They squeeze me in anyway. I talk a nice 15 minutes while they fiddle for questions. After the interview, I call Kylie to pick me up. I have to use the station phone. My own cellphone costs a fortune to use in Australia.

Kylie says she'll be awhile. She's waiting for a phonecall. I feel so stranded, my only options are to rely on someone else. Jezus! I'd be mad as hell if I had to traipse around town chauffeuring some balding egomaniac who can't figure out how to use the buses. I can't believe I'm getting upset because I have to wait awhile. Stop it, Mykel!

I take a walk to THE MALL. In Australia, THE MALL is not a suburban nightmare of STRAWBERRYS and MACYS. Here, it's a section of street that's blocked off for pedestrian use. A nice strolling place where you can stop to have a cup of coffee or a kebab. That I do. When I get back to the radio station. Kylie is there, waiting in the driveway like a chauffeur. Boy do I feel guilty. Here are Kylie and her roommate Carmel. At least I think that's her name. I'm not very good with names.


Background: I “met” Kylie on MySpace when I typed in Punk and Australia. I asked her if I could send her stuff to keep for me. I didn't want to bring it through customs. That was lucky! She said I'd be able to stay there and would check around to get me some shows. She did that too... with the help of XTC Chris.

Kylie met me at the airport in Brisbane. She picked me up, drove me to her place. Took me to a barbecue, then to the club I had my reading. So I owe! I owe! I'd love to pay back. Take her out for a dinner, something. She stays locked in her room.

“You must have a lot of people coming through from MySpace,” I tell her.

“Not anymore,” she says. “I deleted the account. The whole fuckin' thing. Gone.”

“Oh.”

Flash to late last night. Started drinking at the punk BBQ. Cool lot of folks in black t-shirts, with funny haircuts and a baby. Drinking is pretty heavy here. Nice porter: COOPER, and cheap local beer XXXX (pronounced FOUR-EX, like the British condoms).

[Aside: When I first got to town, I saw these XXXX signs all over the place. I figured it was porno, strip shows, you know, the good stuff. Yow! I was thinking, my kind of town. Ah well, but at least it's beer.]

I teach the BBQ Aussies what canoe beer means.

[Aside 2: For those readers who are not familiar with the term, canoe beer comes from the joke, Q. Why is drinking Coors light like sex in a canoe?
A. Because it's fuckin' close to water.]

“Oh you mean Fosters?” said one of the punks... now working on his P.h.d.

“It's Australian for beer, mate,” I answer.

After getting strongly soused at the BBQ, it's time to go to the reading/punk show. Kylie drives me, drops me off, goes back home to drop off her car, and take public transportation back.

“I might have something to drink.”

A responsible drinker.

The show goes off well. I sell a couple of books, get some contacts. Leave all my reading material at the club. It's never found.

While in Brisbane, I do get to the Wildlife Sanctuary, a depressing place more like a jail than a sanctuary. You can feed the kangaroos, though. I mean what did I come all this way for if not that!!



See that josie (baby marsupial) in the pouch? Wrong end out? Only I could get a kangaroo with a baby stuck in the pouch ass out.

I also learned that there are no ostriches in Australia. The closest they have are Emus, which are darker and hairier than Ostriches. They're also scary looking and not very friendly.


Oh yeah, in Brisbane I also bought a SIMS card for my cellphone. I wanted to be able to make calls for less than the $2.94 a minute T-mobile charges me for international calls. Unfortunately, I bought the card from Yes! Optus... the worst company in the world.

But you'll find out more about that in a later installment.

AUSTRALIA 3: Mykel's Australia / New Zealand adventures

Mykel's Australia-New Zealand Adventure
Episode 3

The nail that sticks up gets hammered down. --Australian proverb

I really hate this town (Cairns) and it's gonna take a fuck of a lot to convince me otherwise about Australia in general.Are the people here are stupid or malicious? I don't know. What I do know is their overwhelming lack of curiosity. I've never seen it anywhere else in the world.

It seems so normal to me: “I detect a bit of an accent. Where're you from?”

It seems so normal to sit next to someone at a bar and say, “Hmmm, you don't look like you're from around here. My name's Sam, and you?”

I am not wearing shorts. I do not have sandals. I'm wearing black levis with army boots. I have a fedora. I talk like Travis Bickel, not Crockadile Dundee. Aren't you the least bit curious? Aren't you even polite enough to talk? To cheer up a stranger?

Other tourists exchange stories with me. I meet this guy Alfred, from Saibai, one of the Strait Islands, between Australia and Papua New Guinea. 500 people on his island. He tells me his story. Amazing. Tri-lingual. His first language was Kalakawuya. He also speaks the Creole of the islands and English. He matches my image of an aborigine. If I can figure out how to do it, I'll put a link to a short movie of him introducing himself in Kalakawuya.

He's not a native to THIS ISLAND, the world's largest. The natives here, just don't give a shit.

They smile a lot. And speak with a friendly rising intonation as they give you a hard time. Every sentence is like a question. Makes you want to smack 'em.

Right now I'm back at the airport. Sitting in a breakfast place, having finished my $5 fruit salad. To my right are really loud German tourists. Retired, from the looks of it. In order to get to the food area, you have to go through the x-rays. Then you have to go back out, check in for your flight. Then go through the x-ray machines again. Jeezus. I came early to try to get a pre-paid SIMS chip for my cellphone. I figured an airport would be the best place to pick one up. I figured wrong. And am in security limbo eating fruit salad.

Ah yes, the airport. The story. The hell all of you has been waiting for. My entry into the land down under... hey I shudda figured. Hell? Down under? Oh, I get it!

Let's back up. After packing my bags 2 weeks in advance. Pocketing my camera with a new 1.5 Gig card... a gift from my sister, putting on my trenchcoat and fedora, I'm off at 1AM on Feb 22 to wait for the shuttle to my 5:30AM flight from Newark to Houston. At 2:15 AM, the van shows up.

A 4 hour planeride from New York to Houston. A planeride full of screaming babies, shuffling card players, coughers and sneezers. Then, an 8 hour planride from Houston to Honolulu. Then, a 7 hour planeride from Honolulu to Guam. Finally, a 5 hour planeride from Guam to Cairns. Each take-off is scheduled for less than 60 minutes after the previous plane was supposed to land. All the planes are late.

So that's 4 and 8 and 7 and 5. My mathematical mind puts that at exactly 24 (22 sleepless) hours in the air. Not counting the gate to gate runs. Not counting the wait for the van the day before or that, since I left at 2AM, I hadn't slept for 15 hours before the trip started. You can imagine the condition I was in when I finally arrived in Cairns and went through customs and immigration. No you can't.

I'm always nervous at customs. It's either the cause of, or (and?) the result of previous encounters. I guess I don't have an honest face. I've been stopped, questioned, stripped, enough times to make a dozen TV specials.

So I'm on the foreigners line waiting to go through customs at Cairns airport. The immigration agents are interesting. All women. The only place I've seen this in the 43 borders I've crossed. This is only one.

Sometimes they find something. In East Germany they found the Commie money I was smuggling in $20 of forbidden currency. In England, when I was 20, it was the jar of vitamins. They opened it, sniffed it, asked me about it. I was sweating bullets. How did they know, that bottle had been stolen! Naw, they didn't.

I always find something to worry about. Even if I don't have Commie money or a bottle of stolen vitamins, there's always something. Here I was worried about my ETA. That's a kind of electronic visa that you have to purchase before you get to Australia. I called and registered by phone. I MasterCarded the required $30.

“Can I have a confirmation number or something?” I ask.

“You don't need one,” said the voice from the other side of the phone. “You've paid and I've recorded that.”

“But what if it gets lost, or there's a mistake?” I ask, confident of my bad luck.

“It's impossible to get lost,” said the exasperated voice. “It's in the computer! It can't get lost.”

Ah, that gave me confidence.

Sudden note, the announcer from Virgin Blue has a British, not Australian accent....

I now write aboard a JetStar flight from Cairns to Brisbane-- on my way to the sixth airport in 2 days. I've got to get a longer life battery for the computer. It would be a great chance to write if the battery would last a whole trip. It would also be a great chance to read, but books are too heavy and there's a severe weight limit on non-US budget airlines. Back to customs

As I approach, the Australian line ends, and I'm shuffled over to the former Australian-only guard. She's slightly chubby, with her dark brown hair pulled into a bun behind her round face. I hand her my passport. She types my name into her computer.

“Yes, Mr. Board,” I have your information right here. And what is the purpose of your visit to Australia.”

“I'm actually visiting a friend in New Zealand,” I tell her (true). “I decided to make a trip of it and see the country while I'm here. I'll do a little sight-seeing, then visit my friend.” (not exactly the whole story.

“Ok,” she says, “that's all.” And she stamps the passport. I thank her and walk through the line to go to the baggage claim area. That's when the hell begins.

Is it something about the trench coat and boots in the middle of shorts and sandals? If I were a smuggler or terrorist, would I dress like a smuggler or terrorist? Come on guys! Maybe they think I'm super clever. They think I think that they'd never stop someone who looks like a criminal, because that person would never be a criminal. So they're surprising me, and stopping me.

A thin blond woman with extremely large teeth smiles at me when I enter the area with my bags.

“Do you have any checked baggage?” she asks.

She smiles wider as she asks the question and continues smiling through the following third degree. It is not the sadistic smile of Ilsa She-wolf of the SS. Rather it is the vague, empty, smiling-is-all-I-do smile of the Stepford Wives. [Break here. If you don't know those movies, see them. Then return to this blog.]

“Could you come with me to this inspection station?” she says, using a question intonation, but obviously not asking a question. “Let's chat on the way, shall we?”

Every sentence, question or not, ends in a rising intonation like annoying valley girl talk. Here, the intonation is more sinister than stupid.

“You're here on vacation? Is that right?”

I nod.

“And your job is...?”

“I teach English I say. I've got a card. Would you like one?”

“Yes, I would?” she says.

I hand her one.

“And you're here on vacation? Is that right?” she says.

I nod.

“You said you were going to visit a friend in New Zealand?”

“That's right,” I tell her.

“Can I see that ticket? The one to New Zealand?” Again, this is not a request.

I fish through my bags, pull out the confirmation of the New Zealand flight and hand it to her. She looks it over and hands it back to me.

“And while you're here, what are you going to be doing? You're here on holiday?”

That's right, I nod.

“And what exactly do you plan to do here?” she intones.

“Oh lots of stuff,” I say, “I'll go to the beach and...”

I frantically try to remember what was in the guidebook. An awful book, called INSIGHT GUIDE. It gives you a nice overview of the land, pretty pictures, some stories of local adventurers, but nothing you can use to bullshit a customs guard. Nothing about what's in the town, nothing about the local clubs, celebrities, statues. Where I can get a picture taken with a kangaroo. Nothing like that.”

“...I want to have my picture taken with a kangaroo.”

By this time we're at the special inspection station.

“I'm required by law to ask you these questions, do you understand?”

“Yes,” I reply.

She points to the customs form. “You've signed this form and this is your signature?”

“Yes,” I say.

“And you understand the nature of the form and all the questions on the form?”

“Yes,” I say.

“And everything you've said is true?”

“Yes,” I say.

She nods, still smiling.

“Please open that bag?”

I open the bag and take out the few books I brought with me. I also take out my personal diary, the OLD PUNKS NEVER DIE, THEY JUST WRITE BOOKS t-shirts, half a dozen wishful thinking condoms, and a bunch of promo postcards for my books.

Picks up my diary and thumbs through it. Then she goes for a sheaf of paper: the text of my readings. Sex with animals and extensive drug use. She asks, nothing, only raises her eyebrows and reaches for the promo postcards.

“And these are?”

“Oh, I wrote a couple books,” I tell her. “I figured while I'm traveling, I could do some promotion.”

“You're here to promote your books?”

“No, I just thought I might... I can talk about the books while I'm here, can't I? If I don't earn any money I'm not working, right?”

“This is Australia,” says the customs agent, “customs and immigration are separate. I'll get an immigration agent who can answer your question?”

She leaves, returning soon with the woman who first stamped by passport.

“You told me you were coming for tourist reasons,” said the woman. “Now I hear you're going to promote your books. According to Australian law, you are not permitted to work: paid or unpaid. You're not permitted to do anything that has the appearance of work. You may stop in a bookstore casually, but if you have a series of meetings with bookstore, don't come back and say immigration allowed it. We did not. Do you know the penalty for immigration violation?”

Death? Castration? Hanging? 30 hours of Hillary Clinton speeches? I say nothing.

“Your visa will be canceled. You will be deported. You will not be able to return to Australia for 3 years.”

“I understand,” I say.

“You may go now?” says the customs lady. “Out the hall turn right. There are the taxis”

For the rest of the trip I'll be looking over my shoulder. This does not bode well for things to come. The boding seems to be correct.


--------------------------------


ONE MORE CAIRNS NOTE:


The Cairns Weekend Post is like The New York Post. I don't know if it's a Murdoch paper, but it should be. The headlines today are about how the police want 50,000 stun-guns. A post survey said 95% of their readers thought it was a good idea. (An earlier survey said that 80% of The Post readers support the return to cainning in school.) That's not odd. Most cities have their right-wing pandering tabloids. What is odd is that this one has a letter from the mayor of Cairns. The mayor tells the readers that global warming is a fake, and even if it's not, Australia is only a small country and keeping jobs is more important than protecting some emu somewhere.

Back to Mykel's Homepage

Australia 2: Mykel's Australia-New Zealand Adventure

Mykel's Australia-New Zealand Adventure

Episode 2

March 1 2007:

I grab the crying tot by her pink bib, twisting it around her neck, picking her up off her mother's lap and carrying her to the emergency exit... the one over the wings. With one hand, I pull the lever that opens the exit, bracing myself against the seat to keep from being sucked out of the plane. Using the bib like the tail of a lasso, I spin the kid over my head before letting go. A slight gurgle bubbles from the flying child as it sails past the wing gracefully plunging, arching downwards toward the blue pacific waters... I wish.

What am I doing here? On a flight from Houston to Hawaii. A packed 767, in an aisle seat in the middle section, behind the only seat tilted back. I'm in a pissy mood. Slight headache from caffeine withdrawal and lack of sleep. Not only is the woman ahead of me enough of a bitch to lean her seat back, she's the one with the baby.

My next enterprise: KID-FREE AIRLINES. Who wouldn't pay $20 more to be free from the screaming, bleating, demons? I can't imagine why people fucked in pre-condom days. The consequences would make it just not worth it. A-I-D-S? Hah! The real tragedy is K-I-D-S!

Besides the baby, there's a cough-til-you puke guy two rows up and a card shuffler who not only shuffles at a volume greater than the engines of this plane, but whacks the cards after each shuffle, possibly as a way of infusing luck into his solitaire hand.

And what am I doing here? Why am I on a flight from Houston to Hawaii when I'm going from New York to Australia? It's 11:49 somewhere in the world. That's the time my computer shows in the little digital clock in the corner. The map on the plane video screen shows us nearing in the middle of Mexico. Is it 11:49 here? or is that New York time?

Before transfering to this train, I walked the entire length of the airport. Landed on the New York Houston leg of the trip with a barely hour to spare.

Hold on, they're coming with lunch.... a cheeseburger, a bag of potato chips, a cinnamon chocolate “streusel” the size of my nose, with enough fat to bring on my stroke 10 years too early. I eat the cheeseburger... and the three leaves of lettuce they call a salad. I don't eat the potato chips or the streusel.

We're now over the central mountains of Mexico. The kid is worse. Not crying, but ear-splitting screams. Like it's being tortured. Why torture it? Just kill it! Make everyone happy.

The guy next to me is watching Stranger Than Fiction on the mini-screen built into the back of every seat. My eyes keep wandering to it, even though it doesn't seem like such a good movie. I guess it's Dustin Hoffman. I love to watch that guy act. My screen flashes that we have 7 more hours until we reach Honolulu.

Until 2 hours ago, I had no idea I'd be going to Hawaii. My ticket gave me 3 boarding passes. One from Newark to Houston. One from Houston to Guam. One from Guam to Cairns, Australia. Even this is odd. Look at a map. I don't know why they do it. But it was cheap.
So I made the arrangements 6 months in advance.

“I see you're using frequent flier miles,” said the Continental customer torture agent. “We'll see what we can do about finding you some way to get there. You know, Continental only flies to Cairns.”

“Is that in Australia?” I asked.

“Heh, heh,” comes the reply.

[I declare WAR on the woman ahead of me. She just pushed her seat back again. I should have bought knee-defenders. She keeps bumping her seat back. Every time she does, I'm going to lean on the table attached to her chair. Pavlov's dog.
Hmmm, maybe I'll try dead baby jokes too.]

“So,” says the Continental inquisitor, “I think I've got something figured out. You could fly from Newark to Houston. Then we have a flight to Guam. And from Guam there's a flight to Cairns. That looks like it.”

The plane leaves Newark at 5:30... in the morning. Then I have one hour in Houston... if the plane's on time. In Guam, I wait 6 hours. Then arrive in Australia at the convenient hour of 12:30 AM.

For me to get to Newark at 3:30 (2 hour before check-in) I need to leave NYC an hour before that.

There are no trains at that time of night, or morning. That means call SUPERSHUTTLE and ask 'em to pick me up at 1:30. (Their site says to figure 1:30-1:45 to account for traffic.) At 1AM I'm down at the door ready. At 1:50, I call the company to find out where the ride is. At 2:00 the driver calls me and says he'll be late.

Waddaya mean WILL be late, you're already late.

Somehow he gets me and his other two passengers in the van to Newark Airport by 3:00.

The airport is closed.

A few people on a few uncomfortable chairs sit waiting for someone at the ticket counter. The electronic check-in machines all have one of those Microsoft progress bars in the front. UPDATING they all say. TRY AGAIN LATER. At 3:30, the bars are gone. I try again.

Your ticket needs special attention. Please check-in with Airport personnel.

The computer battery runs out here....

After a quick partial recharge in Honolulu, I'm off again. My timing is off too, as I check the schedule. That six hour wait in Guam is 45 minutes. If the plane is on time. I don't know how I could have made such a... yeah I do.

Back on the plane. The seat next to me is empty, this time. There is a crying baby. Not quite the screamer from last time, but one who should be strangled just the same...

Flash, the screen in front of me gives a landing time of 7:14 now. It seems we've run into headwinds. The most secure transfer, I thought. Is now the most precarious. I'll prepare everything in hand when I leave. The gate has to be at the other side of the Guam airport. I wouldn't be surprised if it were the other side of the island. (ETA now 7:15). Actually, I could handle a day in Guam. If they pay for the hotel. I'd have to call my Cairn hosts and the Youth Hostel, but I could handle it. It's the way back that would be a tragedy. I'd miss my party in Tokyo.

We get to Guam with 20 minutes until the next flight leaves. No problem. I'm there with enough time to breath.

Suddenly, I think I get it. All flights are scheduled within an hour of each other. They all wait until the others arrive. I shudda relaxed. No I shuddna! Gee-zuz. Guam to Cairns is fine. An attractive Australian girl shares my row. But my first hour in Cairns is among the worst hours of anywhere in my life. More on that later.


To Mykel's Homepage

AUSTRALIA 1: waiting for the Supershuttle

This is the first post in my Australia-New Zealand odyssey. I've got about 3 hours until the Supershuttle comes to get me here in New York. The schedule is NY to Houston... I've then got an hour to catch the plane to Guam, then 5 hours to catch the one to Australia.


Keep returning to this blog for... er... blow by blow descriptions of my adventures. When I find it, I'll include the link to Berry's travel blog in Thailand.


The goals:

nookie: of course
picture with a kangaroo: for next years New Year's Card
make some bucks with book and t-shirt sales
meet some cool people
drink some cool beer
see some weird animals
go to the beach

and oh, did I say nookie?

--Mykel

How I Spent My New Year's Eve

HOW I SPENT MY NEW YEAR'S EVE
2007




Because of the peculiarities of the
blogging site, I have to put some
space between the graphic below
and the top of the page. That's
is so the graphic doesn't run
into Google's text. Sorry about
that. Also sorry that this one is
NOT blind-friendly. I, however,
am blind-friendly, and will not
let this happen in the future.

A REAL ad in a car magazine!

Just a short one this time.
(That's what SHE said!).

I just ran into this AMAZING ad in the current edition of
the AAA Magazine for New York members.

What year is this?
Can this product be sold? Take a look-- it's
REAL! I promise. I really saw it!!!






on Bananas??????
Holy Natives Batman!