Journal of an Eccentric Traveller

But let's start from my point of arrival, the pushing of human cattle onto the plane; my journey to Broome began after the Hong Kong tour. I arrived in Perth which after a long wait would take me to my home in Broome for the next few months. Any followers who previously read my tour of Hong Kong entry would know the troubles I endured just to be in China. This continued as gates in Perth switched from Sydney to Broome on several occasions, at one point both claiming to be using the same gate; number nine. I was far too entertained by the work of the late John Kennedy Toole and his book 'A Confederacy of Dunces' which my uncle had kindly given to me days before. Despite my weary pupils being glued to the pages, at intervals of chapters my head would almost subconsciously wander above the top of the book to ensure my gate was still number 9; like a suburban meerkat. Chapter four was lengthy, it made me laugh, mutter, and almost cry a little; resulting in my periscope of a head not realizing my gate had changed to number 11 with the last boarding call being made. This was no issue however as I carried on reading, kicking my remaining luggage across the hall in grunts with my cap on backwards; looking something of a degenerate Wayne Rooney if one didn't already exist.

As you blessed travelers know, the journey to our chosen destination is often the best part, with rare sights from the cabin windows and the sense of surprise for what's waiting there for us. For me it was my dear uncle Andy and his fiancee Sam, not to mention my new cousin baby Jaxon-Blake or "Jeebles". As opposed to lost luggage and sprints to a late flight, a grand victory. Despite leaving my UK home to live here for 6 months; touring other places in doing so, I always treasure family above all else. My uncle had moved out here some years ago. Alas, besides Christmas our family has been deprived of their presence in the sunny UK. After a long, lengthy eleven hour flight; my uncle put one arm around me in an awkwardly but warming fashion and said with a big grin "Hello Mate, Welcome to Broome!" as he picked out my luminous green luggage with the other hand. His accent had changed to a concoction of Australian, British slang which became comforting after the first minute. Samantha greeted me with hug and a tired Jaxon-Blake resting in between, it was the kind of relieved feeling you get when you aren't looking at a relative through a screen anymore via video chat. At that instance we left the airport for the long drive back to my new home; just a few hundred meters away. Upon landing on the small stretch of tarmac which apparently claimed status of being a runway, I couldn't help but notice just how small the airport was. One could almost mistake it for a warehouse or a large barn, the only thing that gave it away was the control tower; and of course the planes themselves. I hadn't even questioned at the time just how my family had gotten into the luggage hall, it was apparently open to the public. At the moment of knowing it's size I pondered thoughts of how I might return home from after my time in broome, from the airport; or whether I may have to recourse to a rubber dinghy and a compass, setting sail from the shores of Cable Beach to the USA.

The first thing I felt was the intensity of the roaring Australian heat, my exasperated condition had caused me to forget to take my outer layers off; I felt like a jacket potato wrapped in the yellow nylon jumper. As we passed through the streets of Broome, I noticed the huge contrast in terrain to that of my home in the United Kingdom. Humongous Boab trees lined the streets, like static elephant's reaching their trunks towards the heavens, as I said I was extremely fatigued at this point. The high street had an array of red and white shops lined across from one end to the other from local green grocers to pearling exhibitions. Broome boasts the ambiance of a small town life with added quirkiness with tales of bravery and treachery from the days of its pearling industry which to some degree runs today. Included in it's formation is Chinatown, hosting the oldest cinema in the world. I haven't yet been to any of Broome's attractions due to the lack of time. We drove through what seemed like a confounding estate of houses, an effulgent red dirt I now known as Pindan laces the contours of the land. The red menace soil is something you can never quite get out of your clothes. Coming from Chinatown, the airport lays on the left, with a vast array on nothing but outback on the right. During my flight from Perth to Broome it made me realize just how huge Australia really is to that of say; Europe.

Before I knew it I had arrived at what would be considered a holiday home to many including myself. My relatives home came complete with a pool, decking and outdoor lounge. Not to mention my room, fully equipped with a leather chair with a desk; for a travel writer such as myself I couldn't have asked for anything more. Sam & Andy had previously owned a camel farm just around the corner, operating tours across cable beach, just a few blocks away. However, with the arrival of our new family member, it proved too much. Samantha held on to the photography prospect of the business, accompanying another camel tour company on the same beach; known only as 'Broome Camel Safaris'. Sam needed a photographer for the tours, somebody to take away some of the work load, and here I am. Samantha is an outstanding intellectual, mother, and manager of my employment in her business. They wasted no time in taking me straight to the 'Broome Camel Safaris' farm, just after I had left my luggage at home. The farm was the hub of all things camel related. A stern protruding fence stood among the bushes as we drove across the red tracks of dirt; as we turned in through the gate, a sign hung on the fence with the words 'Broome Camel Safari's' "The camels in blue!" neatly drawn below it was the logo of the business; A train of camel's in the sunset which I had seen from some of Samantha's work some time ago. The large allotment of land was dusty; dessimated with old motor vehicles, some newer than others, a quad bike; desert beetle and even a public bus saying 'Out of Service'. My mind flowed with all the photographic potential these vehicles could provide. The next thing I heard sounded like the grotesque roar of a wounded bull, which turned out to be at least a dozen camels. I had never really seen a camel before, I knew of my family's work with them for the past couple of years in Australia. To one side was the calf's, the other half was retained by auburn giants, some lay clearing out their dullaa's in grunts( An inflatable sack which hangs from the roof of their mouths). Others were being trained by Alison the owner, the true camel lady of Broome. After I was introduced to Allison, Andy made his way until the yard and I took a ringside seat along with Sam and Jaxon. The camel's all looked with curiosity, their bottom lips hanging as they chewed the hay. Jaxon began to mimmick the camels chewing motions. Soon after, one camel in particular had a middle aged man on it's back, hidden under the large 'straw wok' looking hat was my uncle. He helped with the training of the camels to sit them up and down using Afghan commands such as "Hoosh!" and "Ibna!" the former sit and the latter stand.

As my eyes scanned across the plains, and the farm itself; it was a momentous feeling of reaching my desideratum after weeks of feeling lost back home. I had gone from pulling pints to potentially a camel farmer; at this moment in time anyway. Before this feeling of contentment could be fully exploited beneath the warm Australian sun, I was whisked into some old clothes and given a rake to get a feel for the job and the environment. This simply meant raking hay into a wheelbarrow, and emptying the contents as far from the yard as possible. This was to be accomplished with the aid of another chap. The man was indeed an aboriginal, named Garry. As it was my first encounter with an indigenous person I expected something a little more exotic like Miroslav for "eternal peace" or Kuparr meaning "red earth"; not Garry. Alas we shook hands and began with the work, myself in shorts and vest, Garry in thick white wash jeans and a black shirt; displaying his familiarity with the climate, in his own way mocking the petty sweat droplets rolling down my brow. Already I had began plunging the rake back and forth through the red pindan; striking a rock here and there. Every now and then I would here "Ibna!" or "hoosh down boy" as I looked up from my graft now and then. I tried working at a pace in which I was used to, but that was in a two degree climate. Today was thirty-two but I bared no exceptions; wanting to make a good impression to my new employer I had the reputation of my family in mind. Although training the camels was her first priority; her mind was set on taming the two ton wonders, not how fast I swung a rake. As I swooped the rake back and forth, I gingerly passed through the shrubs and bushes;the wheel barrow trundling in front. This was to dispose of the used straw, gingerly was an understatement as I had been told plenty of stories back home from relatives about the dangerous snakes found near the farms; King Browns for one. A cacophony of branches snapping sent me hurling towards the wheelbarrow due to my frivolous nerves. Only to be confronted by a kangaroo, the poor joey only wanted to see what the commotion was about. I had ran to the cargo container with whizzing metal spheres on its roof; grabbed my camera and snapped a shot before it ran off.

I felt beads of sweat rolling down my face, my face felt hot. In all of two hours work I had learned my first lesson from Australia; (1) Do not under estimate the heat.
A plunge in the pool back at the house eased my scalded face, like a cow prod being extinguished in a gaseous smog. My family's routine was fast paced, my dip in the watery utopia was short lived as I got showered, dressed, and headed out on the town for a taste of the night life in Australia. I was told by many that Broome is a place which is nothing like the rest of Australia, the quirky close-knitted town was appealing in the way that everyone knew one another. Including my family's friendship with the taxi driver, and the fish monger. Who I was later showing my marvelous drunken display of the worm. The bar I had been taken to was called "Roey's". A friendly local which hosted a wet t-shirt contest on the very day I first arrived. Upon entering, this was evident due to the sea of middle aged men; sitting in the shaded parts of the club. No doubt with camera's stashed upon their person, fiddling in their pockets for a happy ending with their thick ridged glasses; casting nothing but a reflection of the disco lights.
The work on the farm really had done a number on my face, giving my skin the texture of dried beef jerky. After seeing some photos taken that night of myself I had the appearance of two-face from the Batman comics. One side a sickly shade of red, the other side exposing a pale exported British face.
Some time after the show I don't really recall much, I recall dancing with a group of indigenous folk, laughing at one another's infamous dance moves as we made a poor oval of a dance circle.

I returned home, blind drunk, and began writing of the nights events in my leather bound journal; the result of this idea was found by my sober, droopy self in the morning, looking down in the journal at what looked liked the scribbling's of a moron.
Any person who has traveled long distance flights will know the horrors of jet lag, even after a couple of days I felt as though I were rocking back and forth on an invisible sea vessel. The transition to this new life was becoming more realistic than it's former surreal-feel. Still, small things over here seemed so bizarre, whilst in a clothes store the next day, the cashier said "its too warm in here I'm gonna have to close that door". This was unspoken of in the EU. The clammy;dank heat seemed to ooze its way through any doorway here. Days later, my uncle took me to Bard Creek; twenty-something miles away from the town and into the Australian outback. In the 4x4 I pressed my forehead against the air-condition chilled glass; observing the wonders of the outback as it whizzed by. I could imagine the blistering temperature outside, at a glance, giant termite hills possessed the figure of a static camel, sitting in the long grass. King brown's would scatter across the red dirt; narrowly missed by the lavish black tires of the 4x4.

We finally arrived at Bard Creek(Above) after the many twists and turns of bush. A dangerous atmosphere swayed in my mind of just how easy it could be to become lost in this vast land, the scariest part was that this was just a mere speck of Australia. As I stepped out of the car's arctic appeal I graced the red dirt with my sun screen spattered feet and began trekking down the small slope into the creek. I stepped along the sand where the tide had gone out ;leaving the seas contents in it's wake. As well as captivating blue skies and white sand threading in and out of the greenery of the outback; the ground seemed to be moving, pulsing even at every step me and my uncle made. Almost at the instance of seeing this phenomenon, hundreds of tiny black and red crabs began emerging from tiny holes all around us. These were called "Crazy Crabs", and to my surprise was allegedly a small group. The sounds of whining birds echoed throughout the creek, but those weren't birds. Andy told me it was the sounds of saltwater crocodiles, making their presence known ready to slide into the creek. But it was known alright; I ran out of the Creek, crushing as least many crazy crabs as possible, my frantic running/dodging made me look like the crabs themselves; my uncle strolled casually.

Myself and Andy drove back through the vast, dusty plains and drove up to the furthest points of Cable Beach; pointing out photo opportunities across the land, Andy knew a lot about the area which is Broome. The shores of West Australia had provided me with some awe-inspiring shots; as well as sea shells the size of footballs I had collected along the way. Hong-Kong had given me the idea of efficiency; so I used them as a foot rest whilst sitting in my arm chair, or the decayed ones as an ashtray for longs nights spent writing accompanied with a cigar or a sweet menthol tobacco.

Points of the land presented themselves on every corner of the horizon, Gantheaum point; Roebucks Bay, the list went on. All of them waiting to be explored, photographed and documented. For now I would try and find my bearings to send the documentation back home of these places, which at the time of writing this I have done some. Work has already presented itself with a hectic prospect and a rewarding finish after every 'shift' if you could call it that. For now I say goodbye until my next entry, which will document the natural phenomenon know as the "Staircase to The Moon", Prehistoric Prints and my personal escapades. Wherever you may be in the world, I wish you well and as always; thanks for reading.-R

If you want to read my tour of Australia so far you can follow my Travel Journal here by Googling: http://brighterside.travellerspoint.com/ or you can check out my Facebook page; Facebook: 'Brighterside Photography'. See you soon!-R

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That was of course until it all went down hill from there. I apologize for the bad typing at this point as I balance my laptop on my left knee and a bowl of noodles on my right. At the point of starting this I am currently sat in Hong-Kong airport for my flight back to Perth. But going back to the start of this journey. I made my way through customs and on to the plane after pining at things far too expensive to buy. I had my first flight from Manchester to London; sort of like an hour ride airbus kind of thing. Alas, this didn't turn up until at least 15 minutes after it was due to leave. Around 7pm I was on the plane to London when the pilot announced Heath row was far too busy to land, this resulted in the pilot doing three circles around the airport until he saw fit to land. Soon after it was 19:30pm and I was still in the airbus on the runway, with only 20 minutes to the right terminal, but my flight to Hong-Kong was due to leave in 15.
I passed through a series of doors, with worry decaying at my skinny pale face.

Either the attendant had a sixth sense or she felt sorry for the poor shambles of a man in the yellow hoodie. She pointed up the stairs and said "That way sir to gate C66 sir". Relieved as ever I began walking up the escalator, that was until she said "well, good luck with that." How reassuring; at which I began running/tripping up the escalator. On the second floor it became apparent to me that London Heathrow had became a typhoon; with clouds of whirring faces and fleeting luggage trolley's. For some reason my first instinct was to run up to the nearest cleaner to ask for directions; despite there being a help desk mere meters away. Maybe it was because he looked like Morgan Freeman because of his freckled bonce and smooth Memphis accent, that humored my child like mind. Regardless I asked the freckled look-a-like how to get to gate C66, with which he replied "Oh hell no man you gotta' go all the way down there and then catch a train, two stops along you wanna' get off that thing."I didn't know whether to laugh at the context and grab a photo with him or cry at the lengthy directions.

Without so much as a thank-you I began sprinting to gate C66, it was at this moment I remembered that I had cleaned up my shoes a few days before. So well that they turned the tiled floor of London Heathrow into my own personal ice-skating rink. In a few hours I had gone from having a shred of independence to the image of looking like Boris Johnson on 'Dancing on Ice', I could genuinely hear folks wetting themselves at my poor attempt of fighting the floor with my feet. The 100m stretch was done with, now it was just the train to go and I was Hong-Kong bound. That was if the middle aged woman to my right would stop using the train doors as a back scratch.

Whilst checking in hours earlier with an eccentric Indian man named Kash; he allowed me to choose between a seat with legroom at the exits, or at the very back of the plane with my own row. Of course I chose the row to myself which I was only dreaming of as I shoved the middle aged scratching post out the way of the train doors; making my escape onto the flight to Hong-Kong. Only of course to find the man I now know to be as John, making the most of my 'V.I.P' seating offer; thanks Kash. I crammed my larger than life backpack into the overhead storage, knowing full well it was too large, along with my camera kit which I had smuggled in for obvious photo opportunities. This would have been good if it weren't five rows down, the plane was full of cam' clicking tourists who had risked a beating when passing my overhead locker, especially in my frame of mind. Disturbing ownership aside, I had finally sat down; cooped up with the one named John. I heckled "two Jack Daniels and coke"! to the flight attendant as did John on the G&T's. We had both apparently had a shocker of a transfer flight; and both sought comfort in alcohol abuse on the next. I made the most of that flight after my triathlon at Heathrow, after drinking a reasonable amount of alcohol I spoke alot with John. As it was an eleven hour flight I didn't want to piss off my neighbor through small talk and hogging the arm rest. Turns out we both had a huge passion for travelling, and shared the same hate for opportunistic gondoliers in Venice. Hours later I found myself in a bit of a hangover whilst passing over Russia; the sun was peeking over the horizon. As it glistened on the ice pack on my head I shot five rows down for my camera in the overhead storage. Alas, after I took my camera to the cabin window I couldn't help notice; this marvelous opportunity of natures finest at 10,000 feet was snubbed by the bloated demeaning herd which are the 'business class'. Instead the larger males would be seen rolling down the blind on the window, reach for the air hostess's 'sweet meats' and grab another whisky, which is what they most probably payed an extra £3000 for. Below is a couple of shots of the sun through the cabin window.

It was now 5pm HK time after a long flight. But lo and behold, Hong-Kong was in sight; so I thought, couldn't really see it for the smog.
After leaving the plane the first thing I was met with was the heat, then the news that my baggage was still at Manchester airport. A bittersweet symphony but luckily I had my hand luggage and camera. Luckily for the flight attendant despite it not being her fault, I was too jet lagged to even care, it wasn't the end of the world and I still had my camera. I gave my relative Micky a call who I was staying with in HK, who didn't seem to pleased in the fact my luggage hadn't came with me; as we had arranged to meet straight from the airport. My floating, lagged and limp body passed through arrivals and to the baggage where I served them some slang outburst of annoyance. Turns out I wasn't the only one, an entire cloud of British tourists seemed to swarm around me and chant in unison as only the British could; "This int' right love!" or "what a crock of b*llocks!".

I had landed in Hong-Kong 5 minutes ago and had already started an angry mob of my own. Soon after, it had been arranged to have the luggage dropped off at my relatives the day after on the next HK flight. Indeed it did get delivered and I was indeed naked after a nap when the poor lady delivering the case arrived; at first I had answered the phone, not knowing it was the doorbell ringing. I almost signed her disgusted face instead of the delivery receipt. The lost luggage caused a number of issues to me as I needed my tripod for long exposure shots of the HK skyline, the tripod was in the case for the majority of my tour, the reason behind why I have a little number of photographs. Micky called me whilst at the desk and after a basic explanation of the process he said "Right, I'm up there now", the call ended abruptly.

Dazed and puzzled, I cooled down and headed for the arrivals exit hall, where a sea of cards with names on for doctors, clients, and other working class folk wavered at the crowds of arrivals passing through, non of them were Micky. I began to get increasingly worried as the sim in my phone had failed to work. The info desk could barely understand my request of making a call to a relatives phone, a phone that wouldn't connect to their mobile. This went on until I remembered that my laptop was in my hand luggage, using my noodle I bought a bog standard brew and sat in the cafe for the free wi-fi. It kept weaving in and out of signal but I managed to Skype Micky's other half, my aunt Lindsey. This triangle of bad connections went on for another hour whilst I paced up and down the airport for different exits which Micky might have been waiting at. The first of his instructions were to go to the bus station; bay 28. That would have been great if they wouldn't have refused me access, twice. The second option was to catch a blue taxi to 'Discovery Bay Tunnel', these instructions came in the form of my parents on Skype as I had lost contact with Lindsey, but they could reach her; what a mess of a four way conversation. After three hours or so of being abandoned not daring to leave Hong-Kong airport, I would have gladly tried my luck with riding a donkey to Micky's apartment. I stumbled to the taxi rank, my feet dragging with my new shoes squeaking, my infamous yellow jacket dragging along the floor as it collected the majority of the litter and dirt from the airport. But there it was, like a beautiful blue beacon; beckoning me towards it. Getting in without caution I had finally left HK airport and into the city. Sets of skyscrapers, towers of flats touching the clouds and neon signs blurred by in a haze of greenery and concrete.

After what seemed like a cut scene from back to the future, I was dropped off at Discovery Bay Tunnel and threw the driver a huge tip for pulling me from my nightmare, or so it seemed. There was a long stretch of tarmac with thick forestry at either side, with the loud humming of crickets. In the middle lay a structure which resembled something of a toll booth with no attendant, regardless I walked through with the notion that this must be the place Micky was meeting me at the end of the road. At this point I was glad I didn't have to lug my suitcase around, for an evening the heat was unbearable. I got about half a mile down after a number of buses had passed with no intention of stopping at the wave of my sweat soaked hand. The humming of crickets grew louder as I drifted towards the center of the road away from both sides of the forestry, I remember thinking 'this was it; this would just be my luck that I were to be eaten by some jungle cat after my hectic ordeal, snapped apart like a twiglet'. Before this thought had time to process into true fear it was given a firm push by a sign in front of me, which read in bold writing 'Absolutely no walking through Discovery Bay Tunnel'. Below that I presume it read the same in Chinese writing which made it look ten times more aggressive. Who should pull up behind me as the sweat grew but an officer of the law, who looked as though he were to tazer me then and there as he reached for something on his belt; the radio crackled with an angry female voice, most probably the attendant I didn't see at the toll booth. He explained that it wasn't a toll booth, it was a security check point, Micky had only gone and bought a place in the most fortified district of Hong-kong; a place that does not allow cars, only buses.

I was just happy I didn't get swatted like a fly with the tazer, although I'm guessing he ordered me to head back to the checkpoint from his hand gestures. I ran with my laptop bag hitting my backlegs and my camera swinging to and fro. Upon arrival a taxi pulled up, a large man exited with two bags, but no sign of Micky. I sat at the bus stop to the tunnel, only hoping that my friend would be on the other side waiting. As I was rifling through my wallet, observing the colourful luminous currency, a jolly booming voice came from behind me; its owner a trendy cockney man by the name of Micky. "Finally lad, where you been at?". At that moment he was the depiction of my guardian angel; holding a bag of clean designer clothes he had bought me at the instance of knowing my luggage had disappeared. We got on the bay 28 bus which had looked entirely different to the one I had try to catch.

Regardless of my 'once grey now black t-shirt', we headed straight for Mickey's local to meet some of his pals from the area that he had met in his 9 months there. heckles and cheers filled the seaside bar; Daz was the first, who greeted me with; "here he is!I'm going to get you absolutely c*nted!". The second Jimmy and the third Andy who said "so here's the lad who takes 4 hours to catch a bus!" these heckles were complimented with a series of pints, shots of tequila, and brandy soaked flamed chicken. I had gone from a HK slumdog to feeling like a beach side big shot. 'Hemmingway's by the Sea' was their local and any element of a pub back home with a rustic aesthetic for example was dashed into the sea. The air was filled with smells of fine cuisine, red and orange lamps lit the shoreline; accompanied by laughter from locals enjoying the atmosphere, whilst in the distance you could see the mountains surrounding the bay in every direction. The night went on until I couldn't drink or eat anymore, we spoke of aspirations and how each of them had made it here to Hong-Kong. A-lot of these stories were enough to take any man from his homeland to move out there. Daz and Jimmy trained local children how to play football; the place in which they achieved this they could point out from where we were sat, just across the harbor. Micky and Andy were both colleagues in the same company.

The tequila and warm air were a lethargic combination; so we headed back to the flat. The walkways to the building were lined with huge trees, leaning over the harbor. They were covered in thousands of lights leading throughout the streets, the closest I got to this at home was either lights at Christmas or a homeless guy with a flashlight swinging it around profusely. I had heard songs about Hong-kong, mainly from my all time band the Gorillaz. The lead sang about being 'up on the 19th floor' which strangely was the floor of Micky's apartment. Childish coincidences aside, my drunken head graced the pillow with a huge thud after staring out at the view until my eyes grew tired. Micky laughed and stumbled to bed after trying to give me a tour of the view; but I was far gone for conversation. Though I remember having a smile on my face at the thought of what was waiting our there for me tomorrow in Hong-Kong.

I woke up firstly to a view over HK when the sun was rising between the hills at the end of the harbour.
What meant to be a hunt for an English breakfast turned out to be observing and photographing strange delicacies at the local supermarket. Fishes were kept in tanks like an aquarium and sent straight to the chopping board; chickens feet diced and packaged like corn on the cob. I admired the way the Chinese were so efficient, but they could keep their efficiences or delicacies all for themselves. I dabble in cultures of other countries, but not chicken feet. The majority of packaging in shops all seem to bear bright and colorful lettering with crazy characters scrawled all over them which had no relation to the food itself; that would be great, if the majority of the population were on speed or LSD.

The day got better after we resorted to eggs Benedict by the beach; Micky had booked me in the cable cars to get a 360 view over Hong-Kong, but more importantly to see the 'Tian tan Buddah' and the temple of a thousand Buddhas which I had pined over so much at home. I was still aggressively jet lagged but I could think of nothing more inspiring. I had researched the village in the hills and marveled at the Buddah; seemingly sat on the side of the hill. We made our way into the cable car with little more than a camera, and a large family of Asians. The fog was so thick passing up there that for a moment you could imagine you were passing through the heavens themselves, everything had an eerie white glow. I could picture this Buddah picking us off the line like an ant; like I said I was extremely jet lagged at this point. But there it was, one of the biggest inspirations to me in all of Hong-Kong, to say I'm an agnostic at least; this was definitely one for the books. Below you can see the photos of the Tian Tan Buddah, using the hillside as it's personal beanbag. There were hundreds of different Chinese shops, boasting a gallery for chopsticks, fine Chinese cuisine; religious artifacts and memorabilia. Incense sticks the size of lampposts licked the air like a smoky car freshener; the temples were lined with thousands of flowers and lanterns. Above all else, I couldn't believe the sheer size of this gigantic Buddah; as though some giant taxi driver had dropped his lucky charm on the hills.


It was a pity that it was raining a fine mist the whole time, but it didn't bother me one bit; the only thing I was soaking in was the culture of China, which is what it's all about. I apologize to those who are only following this blog but I can't upload the entire album from Hong-Kong. These can be seen on my page; addressed subtly at the end of this entry. It was the first time Micky had been up in the hills of HK so it was new for him, whilst we strolled through, gazing at the stone monuments of warriors and dragons, we were already discussing what we would be up to that night. Although talks of alchohol and adultery made me feel bad as I took a shot of those praying to the Buddah whilst doing so. I passed a tree filled with wind chimes and fruits, each branch bearing a wish from travelers and general quotes which you can see below.
The first I had saw read: "True Happiness".

Before I knew it, my tour of the sky land Chinatown was coming to a descending end back into HK central. The buddah drifted away into the mist along with the large loud Asian family who had luckily got the cable car behind us. With a sigh of relief and exhaustion I dug my feet into the cushions opposite; and watched the skyscrapers flow by. To see HK from such an angle it almost looked like some sort of child's play set; the doodled runway with toy planes, small lakes for puddles with rich blue waters, and the towers of flats looked like lego strewn all over the landscape.

It was now 6pm, and with the same elegant charm, my head hit the pillow; it was only till the point at 7pm when the poor luggage lady appeared that night before we headed out to HK central for our night out. As cars and such had been disbanded in Discovery Bay, our only way into the city was to take the ferry, these were apparently an average vessel for the everyday commuter. It looked like first class compared to the transport which is accompanied by a gallery of used chewing gum on the buses. Night had fallen and the HK skyline was lighting up the entire shoreline; the buildings would flex with light as though showing off to one another as patterns of light scattered across. I regret to inform you I have no photo documentation of such a luminous sight as there was no point in which I could, the ferry was rocky and it was straight into the trendy bars from there to meet Micky's colleagues. Besides of course a few shots below.

We went from bar to bar, cocktail to cocktail, with a heavy contrast between each. The first being a Hawaii themed one, then a dark glossy bar where a chap named Daina had tried so hard to hide his gender. A few drinks eventually came to me jumping on stage asking the lead singer to play my all time favorite track, Mr Bright side. From what I can recollect I had also done the worm several times previously. With promises of singing it and explaining how much he enjoyed it to, I waited as he said until he returned, but he didn't. I turned around only to find poor Micky slumped on the stool where me and his friends had put him, gripping my camera as though it were precious cargo, I must say to that extent the camera did pretty well not to end up on the market the next morning. I grabbed Micky, took him to the nearest taxi, and headed home; we had a great night and I had met some fantastic locals in the big HK city, but we were drunk, so very very drunk. It was at this point we had somehow managed to land back at the start tunnel to Discovery Bay; I think the woman at the booth recognized me from the night before and it wasn't soon after me and Micky were joined by a short arrogant chap with what I thought was a prostitute under each arm. But the best part was Mickey's drunken outburst of saying "any money those girls are from 'Wang Chau'". Wang chau was renound for the red district, which I think is incidentally where the term "Wang" comes from. Sexual references aside we come to the end of my tour that night of Hong-Kong. I cannot recollect much from that night, nor can I give you all the photo's I wish I could. As I sat drunkenly slouching against my friend, I pondered in my head all the great things I had seen in Hong-Kong, to this day some I can't even remember whether it may have been jet lag or alcohol consumption despite it being over a week ago. But I will say this; it isn't the last I've seen of Hong-Kong. With that thought, for the third time; I elegantly bashed my head onto the seat of the bus, and thought of all the things waiting for me in my new life in Australia.

Thank-you to everyone who is following and reading my blog at this point, I apologize again for the late submission due to personal things that needed sorting out. The extent of this entry has lasted over a week, starting in Hong-Kong airport and ending now as I sit at my desk listening to the crickets; outside in this 36 degree heat. The town I'm currently in has many things, outdoor cinema's, outrageous Aboriginals, and 2 ton camels. You can read all of this and my journey through Australia so far this week in the 'Life and Times of Brighterside'. Thanks to anyone reading back home in the UK, I wouldn't document this if it weren't for wanting to send something back home to you. A huge thank-you to Micky for being to damn genrous and pretty much paying for the tour of Hong-Kong, great memories my friend.

If you want to see more of my photo's of the tour of Hong-Kong you can see them here:

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Thanks Again!-R

As all documentation I can make of my trips across Europe in 2012 has came to an end, this will be my last entry for the EU and the UK for now. All documented besides Octoberfest in Munich, Germany; but you guys don't want to hear how messy that was.
I don't honestly know how other travellers might feel, maybe because I've only done a few trips so far in my life. But a big reason behind why I book my journey's the last minute is because I simply don't like waiting, at most I will wait a fortnight. Sometimes this can work in your favour i.e last minute deals etc... or you might get bitten on the backside with extortionate prices capable of making Bill Gates cringe, maybe.

But planning a trip which you don't know the full duration of can only mean cutting every possible tie that may hold you back. In my case my job, my car, phone bill and any other restrictions. Which of course will be worth it in the end, and despite these factors I don't have anything that has really made me think twice about going across the globe. I think my effort of growing a small designer* moustache, not to mention sporting a pair of dashing thick frame black glasses, has resulted in me looking like an ugly imitation of Johnny Depp. Successfully driving all possibilities of female attention and relationships away like the plague. The waiting before a journey always irritates me so much. Because that period of time spent waiting without tools to do things here at home could have been spent meeting someone new, doing something different. But you're in transition, in limbo.
(* It's actually a despicable excuse for a moustache; looking like a caterpillar crossed my top lip.)

In all seriousness though, I personally believe you have two choices in life; or to gamble with as it were.
The first choice being that you can focus on a career path which might not be for you deep down but it will bring income and a steady lifestyle, satisfying financially. In doing so you put hobbies and passions aside and think sensibly, but the soul is otherwise dissatisfied with lust.
The second being a choice to follow what you know will be a tricky path. Taking a gamble against odd's which you know might not work out, in my case photography and travelling. As opposed to the first choice, for me a career in the forces.
The second choice is concerning as you may worry about financial issues, outcomes, success etc... But you are feeding the soul with new experiences, fulfilling your true ambitions and doing the things you love. What im trying to get across is that if you're like me, have minimal ties, material things holding you back from your ambitions; dont let them stop you. Cut the ties that don't have social implications. I write this last entry about this because I see more and more people suffering under choices that shouldn't be holding them back. People with families, mortgages, they're real ties; real responsibilities. Iv'e taken the plunge to get my inspiration from seeing the globe in my line of work, if that plan fails it doesn't really matter. It just means coming back and following that first choice, it sounds cheesy but If you never try you'll never know, without ties what can you lose? To those in my village who follow my work after reading this week's newsletter, I thank you very much for your support in my work. Hell to anyone who's reading this now, thanks it means alot.
Nothing would be worth documenting if it weren't to show my friends and family at home who I will miss over these next few months. I will be trying my best to give people back home my take on the world which I hope you will enjoy.
Beer and friends on the 21st followed by my departure on the 28th will be a damn good end to this month! On that note this is me signing off from the UK. Until next time, see you in Hong Kong at the start of my new blog.-R

Regardless of usually being so strict on the coursework deadlines, I was even more so surprised that my tutors Debbie and Mark were so keen to see me succeed in winning a place on the trip. Debbie fuelled my attempt through encouragement, with talks of her experiences at Auschwitz when she had visited the death camp a couple of years before. She said that such an experience had changed her life in such a positive way, and showed me photograph's of her stood at the gates of the camp with the snowy, eerie surrounding's of the camp. But in case I did manage to win, she left the details to a minimum as not to spoil it. Mark had given me my inspiration in the idea of making the letter not from my own perspective, but from a subject who would give the best depiction of the holocaust; the survivor.

This gave the introduction of the fictional survivor of the holocaust, Tomek. I had written the letter subjected around the opinions of the holocaust from Tomek, but the letter was created from the final journal entry in his last living moments before peacefully passing away. It was definitely a tear jerker, and before showing anyone like Mark or Debbie I knew my mum would be the first to crumble with emotion after reading Tomek's last journal entry. My bench mark for emotional grippage on the subject was my mother, so If I could show her first after finishing the report when heading home, I would be happy it would pull on the heart strings of the judge of the competition. If I could find the letter I had written that day I would have been sure to document it on here. All I remember is the end, in Tomek's last words "I have come to the end of my natural born life, which has seemed like an eternity since I escaped that awful camp. I can only be thankful that I will die in the comfort of my own home, and not in a cold pit, surrounded by the cold stench of death like the others in my family did. Spoczywaj w pokoju (Rest in Peace)". I had spent my morning break, lunch break, and the remainder of the evening in the college library. Ecstatic to add those last touches to Tomek's last entry. After exposing my mum to what was described as a moving piece of writing that evening, I knew that to some degree it was bound to pull on the heart strings of the judge. The next morning I handed the entry to my tutor, and waited. A week or so later I was told by Debbie that I was one of two students in the college that had won a place to visit Auschwitz Birkenau! I couldn't believe it! But I could when it turned out that nobody else besides myself and the other student had applied, making us both automatically win, oh well it's the thought that counts.

The weeks after that became a climax of excitement, fear and curiosity. We attended the seminars beforehand, being given lectures by one of the survivors themselves known as Ziggi, which was the closest preparation we could get to visiting the camp. At 2am on February 29th I left home with the other student Alex, offering to drive us both to the airport. We were met with a whole load of students from other colleges across the UK who had also been given the same opportunity as us. I was quick to mix in with the other students which was a surprise I was so social at 3am on a monday morning, whether it was the trip itself I was so thrilled about, or the amount of Haribo packed with E numbers I had just crammed down my gullet. We was also escorted by a teacher from the college I had never met before, which with all due respect had the personality of a teenage girl, eager to fit in with the kids.

Strange personas aside we boarded the plane to Auschwitz. I was sat with two posh female students from the London district and there was a high chance that the Haribo I ate would cascade form my mouth like a disgusting rainbow due to my flight sickness, things were panning out just great as usual.

After ensuring that I hadn't spilled a rainbow on the poor unsuspecting girls by gripping my stomach for a few hours, we landed in Poland. My first impressions were how the hell could anywhere be more grey and gloomier than the UK? It was 7am and we didn't hesitate to get straight on the bus and into the centre of Krakow to see one of the biggest Jewish graveyard's in Poland. If Auschwitz was anything like this place, I was eager to see what it had in store for me. The graveyard was sadly kept under lock and chain, some of the sights inside were beyond description, some gravestones had been smashed by those non-believers of the Jewish religion. Remnants of gravestones were scattered across the ground, in the bushes. Most peculiar of all, which I wouldn't have believed myself if not with someone else who saw. Upon heading away from the group to the back of the graveyard were two huge deer, prancing through the grounds, hiding behind the rows and rows of graves. Unfortunately to back up my sanity, I wasn't able to flip out my camera for a shot at the time. We spent an hour or so exploring the grounds, I payed my respects and felt the emotion of the place. Felt the pain and suffering, the negligence of those responsible, my anger was snuffed out by the peaceful surroundings. Below are a few pictures of the peaceful but unfortunate grounds of what remains of the graveyard in the centre of Krakow. These pictures can only depict a fraction of what the place was like in real life.

The occurrence of these gravestones being scattered across the ground with no claims to an owner was frequent. Sometimes the Jewish star was etched out and the mark of the Nazi swastika was carved into it. My heart sank at some of the sights, but I knew what this trip had in store for me. I knew of its content, as much as textbooks, or research could prepare me anyway. After leaving Krakow we headed for the death camp at Auschwitz Birkenau. Upon arrival it was a huge bleak looking building, with no signs. One could even mistake the place for a factory or something like that. Before entering the museum I saw a wall with names etched from every visitor who had came to to see the sights of Auschwitz. I added my name to that wall.

Upon entering the camp we was given a set of headphones so our tour guide could tell us of the sights we saw as we toured the camp. One would expect masses of crowds shouting, students talking; but non of that. Non of us spoke a single word. We looked and listened, nothing more. I just took it all in, the first thing I remember of Auschwitz was the fact that there was no noise at all, no birdsong, nothing. It was as though even nature knew of the horrors that occurred there, a lone bird sat in the tree not making a single sound.At first I found this curious, then became fearful of just why it was like this. Below is a photograph of the gates to the death camp, Auschwitz.

We went through the entirety of the camp, from the gas chambers themselves where the majority of jewish lives were ended, to the property left behind by those who perished. It ranged from the glasses, to even the hair confiscated from their poor shivering bodies as they were shaved before their demise. Forgive me if anyone is offended or too sensitive to such descriptions, but to those who are interested in my tour here it is the best depiction I can give. For those who are faint hearted and are easily upset by these things, I suggest to stop reading here.

With each room that we passed through, the content of each became more and more devastating. Even as I write this now it still brings a tear to my eye at just what despicable things the Nazi occupation were capable of. The first few rooms held the belongings of those who perished on the grounds of Auschwitz. From glasses to suitcases, false limbs to the shoes of children left behind.

Despite all of these awful sights, everybody remained silent. Seemingly unaffected, I remained calm and observational to its content. However, I couldn't say what it was about the last room of the property part of the museum, but it hit me hard. (Pictured above) Behind a plate of glass was a huge pile of suitcases which touched the ceiling, upon seeing it I just wept like a child into my sleeve, away from the rest of the group. I think this affected me due to the fact that some of these poor souls were in the mindset of going on holiday. One of the cruel jokes of the Nazi's was to tell the Jews they were simply being taken on holiday, to leave their suitcases where they were for the time being. After being crammed onto trains, the Nazi's would simply empty the contents of the suitcases onto the ground, with no regard for it's value, by which time the owner would be dead anyway. I researched the name of the case pictured, Franz Engel, Franz was a famous comedian at the time who toured Paris, but upon the Nazi's discovering his Jewish religion, he was captured and killed. A very moving sight, especially for a traveller like myself. These rooms full of possessions would sometimes be as large as a full scale bedroom, as you can see below. They were filled right to the top. To preserve the respect of those who perished, photographs of human remnants like hair etc could not be photographed by myself.

Pictured left is the despicable 'motto' of the Nazi occupation. Pictured right is the death camp framework which existed during the Holocaust, Auschwitz Birkenau being the biggest. Most are now in ruin, bombed by the british.

The next house had a very eerie feel to it, the bottom had a cellar with torture chambers, including a box where men and women would be made to stand back to back for days on end. Exhibits of the pyjamas the Jews were made to wear were placed in the shapes of the workers, looking as though the pyjamas were occupied. As I walked into the room it fell freezing cold, my breath appeared infront of me, you could almost picture what it was like on those cold, painful days on the yards working. Behind the figures were the photographs of the workers. You could compare the poor souls before and after, arriving fresh faced with ruby cheeks, resorted to a boney frail frame with all emotion drained. Bearing in mind that these rows of houses were in fact the living quarters for the Jews, just outside was a firing wall, here those to frail to work or those punished would be shot(Pictured below right. Just next to them were hanging posts, just low enough to the ground so that they were made to suffer for longer whilst they tried to touch their feet on the floor.

Before leaving the camp the last room to be seen was the gas chambers, I stepped into them myself and explored it's dark and wicked structure. The floors were hollowed out in some places for a furnace, serving as an efficient way to get rid of the bodies after they had been told they were just getting a wash to be clean for more work. I can only imagine how fearful they were as the gas came cascading through the shower heads, poor souls. Even being in the disused part with some shower heads destroyed I was eager to leave, the door upon exit had huge padlocks to ensure its occupants could not escape its crude intentions.

After seeing its heavily fortified walls, guard towers and sickening sights, Auschwitz had truly shocked me to the core. Never before had I seen something so moving in such a negative light. I was told that if you were to give a minutes prayer to everybody lost at Auschwitz Birkenau,you would be stood for three years. Never before had so much sadness and anger swept through my soul.

To my horror, this was only Auschwitz one. Shortly after our visit to the museum, we headed for Auschwitz two. This was the main hub where the Jews were kept before heading to work at Auschwitz one. Some may recognise the train tracks pictured below, these were often shown in films like Schindler's list, which was incidentally the most accurate perception of the holocaust according to one of it's eldest survivors, our speaker at the seminar; Ziggi. To the right below is a photo of the carrieages that dozens of Jews would be packed into upon arrival at the camp.

Auschwitz two was scarily huge, with many of it's jewish living quarters destroyed (Pictured below right). Each chimney you can see was a living quarter designed to keep 30 horses, but instead was housing for 300 jews. Packed into each one like animals.

Inside was no better, heaps of bunker beds stacked on top of one another. Toilets were simply a hole made in a concrete seat, forcing the Jews to do their business shoulder to shoulder, their dignity was tarnished and their privacy stripped.

Towards the end of our trip we headed to the very bottom of the tracks where a giant memorial lay, amongst the wreckage of the gas chambers, bombed by british pilots. The sun was setting along with my realisation that this really happened. I cannot document the entirety of my journey here, or else you would no doubt get bored of my journey. Below are photographs of the memorial, along with the wreckages of the gas chambers.

Although the day had been filled with so much sadness, anger, and despair of just how some human beings could do such things to one anther, the end of day was peaceful and awe inspiring. We visited a room which was filled with photographs of those who were lost in the holocaust, and some who survived. Even letters from children to their parents in hopes of finding them alive were portrayed on the walls. We were asked to pick which photograph related to us the most, below was mine. Pictured together was a mother, a father, sister and brother.

The day ended in the most ceremonial of ways, we read a prayer with a Jewish priest on the grounds of the memorial. Lit entirely by candles that we had each been given. As the holy words were spoken I thought of a lot of things in that moment, of the millions lost, of my family and friends. The general fact of having my loved ones around had never been so important to me. With each candle we had been given, we placed them leading from the bottom of the railway, all the way to the top. The sun had set, and I was heading back home, back to my family; which those who suffered had never gotten the chance to do on a daily basis. Below left is the sun setting over one of the guard towers at Auschwitz two. On the right is a photograph of the candles going from the bottom of the tracks to the top.

I was never the same again, never negligent, always appreciative. It was one of the awe- inspiring days of my life so far, Auschwitz Birkenau had changed me forever. This is why we must remember what happened in the holocaust, to ensure future generations know what happened in the holocaust. Mankind is capable of many things, this should never have been one of them. If you want to see my entire album of my tour of Auschwitz, Poland you can see it here at my Facebook page @
Thank-you for taking the time to read this, in hops you might take something from it. -R

Me pictured at the gates of Auschwitz one.

Those who choose to travel in life are those who benefit most from the worlds most scenic places, taking experiences from each individual we cross; in what we can only hope is in a positive light.
Although at this time I still have 33 days until my journey to Australia, I still had my friends trip to the UK to look forward to. Rutters (Pictured Below), my friend from the states arrived on the 16th of January, and stayed for ten days at my home with my family here in Carlton. From day one I had tried to make every moment of her stay here a surprise, starting with wearing a formal suit to the station to blend in with everyday boring business folk when I picked her up. Only to be spotted with a pint and a newspaper before I saw rutters first.
As im sure her inner monologue was at first "what an eccentric twat im outta' here" I think Rutters got the gesture of the surprise. From that day on I provided a letter each day with old english scripture in the form of my child-like hand writing in a sealed brown envelope, telling Rutter's just what she'd be doing each day of her stay. Despite the snow I think I covered all the vital sights and experiences from the UK, how to drink propa' tea, and of course say 'eyup' to our liz at the buckingham palace, not forgetting to throw a complimentary bag of dog shit at downing street, the usual London fodder. I hope that in her visit to Great Britain, my friend has enjoyed her stay more than anything else.

To say I haven't been anywhere besides my usual surrounding's this week, I also learned a lot about my own country. The importance of calling a place home, and just how rewarding it is to showcase your life, family, friends and surroundings' to someone who finds all of it so interesting. In showing my friend across my homeland and all of it's glory(sort of), it's given me a huge sense of self accomplishment, and just how proud I am to be a British citizen; living the life I live. So for these lessons learned I want to thank the friend I met by accident in Venice Stephanie Rutters, It's been a pleasure having you here with us. But like I said with the benefits of travellers, we carry the burden of saying goodbye to our favourite people, and places. Until next time of course. We all look forward to seeing you again, I'll be seeing you in the states in August 2013 for 'The Exchange Pt 2'.

Those who choose to travel in life are those who benefit most from the worlds most scenic places, taking experiences from each individual we cross; in what we can only hope is in a positive light.