Where Is Lena

Bombay bound

2011-11-13T03:30:00.000+11:00

Nearly a quarter of a century ago, through circumstances completely at odds with anything he could have predicted, my father was sent on a business trip to India.

My heavily pregnant mother gave her husband her blessing to leave the Soviet Union and head off to the great unknown, never imagining that the trip would turn out to be the catalyst that would change everything.

Three months later my dad returned from Incredible India with two leather jackets, several watches, plenty of baby goods for his yet unborn son, a thermometer that measured your temperature by being placed on your forehead, a now infamous pineapple, and (most importantly) a conviction that he had to leave the Soviet Union and start a better life.

That business trip turned into a tipping point for our family, and India became a beautiful fantasy for a wide-eyed four-year-old girl, who never quite grew out of it.

And now, all grown up, the little girl is finally following in her father's footsteps: I'm Bombay bound baby!

Pop-Up art reinvigorates Sydney's The Rocks

2011-11-04T23:06:00.006+11:00

Sometimes it seems tourists who come to Sydney experience a different city to us locals.

While we savor every mouthful at Gelato Messina, they lick sticky soft serves around Darling Harbour. We line up for Zushi, but they shoo away seagulls at the fish markets.

We can be so far apart it feels like they don't visit our home.

However, all that has changed with an Arts NSW movement called Pop-Up Project, which has brought the tourist hub of The Rocks and arty locals together.

The idea by the Sydney Harbour Foreshore Authority was to transform unused spaces within the precinct's heritage buildings into studios and pop-up shops for artists and designers.

The anticipated short stay has now been extended and the project is set to continue until at least the end of the year.

Fun vibe at The Rocks

For those involved with Pop-Up, it means continued exposure. The Rocks' residents enjoy the fun vibe Australia's oldest district deserves. And for the rest of us, it's a reason to meander around this forgotten corner of our city.

Artists, sculptors, fashion designers, jewelry makers, writers, foodies and a tailor have spent the past six months turning their spaces into an engaging platform to showcase their talents.

For some, like designer Wendy Murray, involvement in the project has meant taking their business to a new level.

Tailor Mark Marrone, who’s become a bit of a local celebrity over the past six months, says it’s the community vibe that’s given him the most pleasure.

“It’s created a spirit around here, and a sense of experience. It’s not just about the buying and selling, but about the engagement," Mark says.

Artistic studios are smothering the environment: Perran Costi, Christine Porter, Andrew Newman and Jason Sims from Gaffa as well as Red Room Company.

The resoundingly positive effect has been the art appreciation of residents and tourists who usually wouldn't have had the opportunity, or even the desire, to check out artworks.

The Pop-Up Project spaces are open for visits from Wednesday to Friday: 11 a.m.-7 p.m.,
Saturday and Sunday: 10 a.m.-7 p.m. You can also request a free guided tour by appointment requested at rockspup@shfa.nsw.gov.au.

Photos by Alex Reznick.

This article first appeared on CNNGo.

What's blood got to do with it..

2011-10-15T11:25:00.000+11:00

At the start of this week, in a bit to continue my social drive, I went for a coffee with a girl from work. On our way back we walked past the Red Cross Blood Bank, which happens to be next door to my office. She said "I think I'm going to go in and register" and I thought "what a brilliant plan!" Easiest way to do a bit of good ever! And it's not like your blood is just going to go to some bureaucratic nonsense, thereby making the giving effective with a capital F.

I registered my donation for Friday, got there at 10:40, had a big breakfast as promised, and gave away all the blood they wanted to take. In fact, I was so good at giving blood that several of the nurses complimented me on my excellent flow. Only one of them was hot and male, but who am I to turn away a compliment about some skill I never knew I had?

Anyway, with my juice box and lunch pack in tow (they give you all sorts of goodies when you give blood! A juice box - brilliant.) I skipped off to work, with one slightly sore arm, and one rather elated ego.

I then had a massive meeting over at my other office, so took a cab with three of my co-workers, and we all discussed my amazing blood flow and how I'm like an elite athlete of blood donation.

Anyway. To cut a rather short story to an even longer length, the meeting started. I was standing around with about 50 other people, listening to all sorts of important information, while having a glass of wine, when I suddenly started to feel a little sick.

Have no fear thought I, and slowly moved away to sit on a nearby desk. And about a minute later, with what was apparently a rather loud thud, i fainted and fell to the floor.

In front of 50 people. In the middle of a company meeting. Like the damsel in distress I always imagined myself not to be, I came to while lying on the floor in the middle of a circle of concerned coworkers. And now I am that girl. And I am that mortified.

Unit 4

2011-10-11T10:18:00.000+11:00

Combining gobsmacking acrobatics with colorful characters and a very clever use of the stage, The Reginald’s latest offering, Unit 4, is a great reminder of the fact the bigger doesn’t always mean better.

Working within what was clearly a limited budget, the production manages to be highly entertaining and surprising, leaving the audience thrilled after a fantastic night out.

Weaving together stories of different generations of residents in the same apartment, the simple but touching storylines are made electrifying by the highly skilled acrobatics of the three performers. Despite the restrictions of the small stage, the actors manage to fly through the air and leave the audience gasping.

The few awkward transitions between scenes and slightly predictable slapstick moments are easily forgiven within the context of what is a great play by the very talented physical theatre company Dislocate.

Until Oct 15, The Seymour Centre’s Reginald Theatre , cnr City Rd & Cleveland St, $20-27, sydney.edu.au/seymour/

This article first appeared with The Alternative Media Group.

You're all individuals..

2011-09-26T00:37:00.001+10:00

It's late and I'm feeling ranty. Not randy. Ranty.

I've recently become very aware that I'm just not cool enough for the Sydney hipster scene. But at the same time, I kinda feel a little too whacky for Sydney's non-hipster hidden corners. What to do?

In the hope of assisting me with my little problem, a friend decided to introduce me to Portlandia. Not being particularly hip, this had entirely escaped me until just yesterday. There's a whole world out there to keep up with. Who can blame me?

I had dragged him through Typo (I'm like so totally alternative that I can't stop buying their ironic items) and he in turn entertained me with a clip of Put a Bird on It.

Hilarious. Especially since my room, it appears, is full of items that have been made totally awesome with the simple addition of a bird.

Not content to simply have watched a complete piss-take of everything that I appear to be, and still sure that I could have an original response to things, I started singing "If you liked it then you should've put a bird on it" in my head, in a self-congratulatory, ironic kind of way.

Unfortunately today I found this.

“Should we all confess our sins to one another, we would all laugh at one another for our lack of originality.” - Kahlil Gibran

The zine scene: Underground world of self-publishing

2011-09-15T10:23:00.003+10:00

Self-publishing has been synonymous with anarchy and rebellion for as long as printing has been around.

Whether handing out self-written religious pamphlets, distributing anti-regime propaganda, or selling books that no mainstream publisher would dare take on, the desire to communicate ideas outside of anyone else's demands has always been attractive.

These days, the blogosphere challenges traditional news sources, YouTube gives an alternative to mass media exposure, while musicians and other creative types get their wares out through everything from Bandcamp to Etsy.

Having the option to self-publish brings control back to the individuals, while taking it out of the hands of an overarching minority.

Stepping slightly away from rebellion and anarchy, zines are self-published works filled with creative texts and images, both original and appropriated, and often distributed through fairs -- a throwback to the traditional trading of yesteryear.

A networked community, most zines are traded at fairs, which keep the ethos of self-publishing around.

Beef Knuckles

Animation artist Bryn Desmond-Jones works within a collective to create the Beef Knuckles zine -- filled with a hearty mix of comics, illustrations, stories, and jokes -- as well as The Ball Street Journal, drawn from characters in 'the loop.'

“I think people like zines because of the personal aspect they have,” says Desmond-Jones. “There's a real sense of the author, from the content to how the zine was made."

"More often zines are a short idea, something that wouldn't get made if it were a book or a TV show.”

It’s that "sense of the author", so unique to self-publishing, that creates an engagement with the reader, and emphasizes the personal aspect.

“I think they offer something niche and exclusive, something that not everyone is reading, which is becoming harder and harder to find in the ubiquitous world of Twitter, Tumblr and Facebook,” he says.

“They offer the escape of a great book, but on a smaller scale, and they certainly make riding the bus more enjoyable.”

Advising anyone who’s interested in the zine scene to give in a go, Desmond-Jones says, “If you've got an idea, make it. I guarantee someone will pick it up and want to read it."

"More than likely, they'll look a bit like you. Zines often attract a much more specific reader, usually a lot like the zine's author.”

Speakeasy

Lee Tran has been making the Speakeasy zine for 12 years, and sees the support of the zine community as integral to its appeal.

"Because it's such a DIY, low-budget activity, people are making zines for the love of it,” she says. “There's a sense of community, looking out for others, and tipping off other people when there's an upcoming zine fair on.

"There's no money or prestige in it, so people are making zines just for the fun and joy of it.”

Despite the rise of blog culture, the space occupied by zines doesn’t appear to have been compromised.

“Zines are so different to blogs in that anyone can start a blog -- there are so many ways to instantly create one: just add water,” says Tran. “Making a zine is a grueling, time-consuming affair, where lots of things go wrong -- they can be bound the wrong way, with pages not matching up, but still 100 zines to fold in (a manic) four hours."

“There’s also the physical and handmade appeal. There are things in my zines -- pictures that flip up, hand-taped photographs, individually stamped illustrations, eccentric Post-it notes -- that you can't reproduce in a blog with the same effect."

"Zines have a one-of-a-kind magic.”

Fayroze’s fabrics

The only limitation on a zine’s design is the artist’s imagination.

Fayroze Lutta makes zines out of a range of materials, including fabric. “I have never seen a fabric zine other than my own, but I decided fabric would have an interesting textural quality, harping back to childhood memories of cloth books,” she says.

“I also print on semi-transparent materials and put a white sheet of paper underneath to give another quality. I have added gocco covers to zines and put coloured plastic covers on a paper ones."

"Coming from a fine arts background, the idea of pushing a medium appeals to me.”

The fairest of the fairs

The majority of zines are traded at fairs, within a niche audience of readers, writers and creative types, embracing their quirky nature, and distinctive takes on the world.

The fact that anything goes is certainly part of the appeal, allowing the artists a freedom not to conform to any set style, and meaning that each new fair can bring surprises for both collectors and producers.

In May every year the Museum of Contemporary Art holds a massive zine fair as part of the Sydney Writers' Festival. The biggest zine fair in the southern hemisphere attracts audiences far outside of the cosy zine scene, and helps spread the world about this fantastic underground culture.

In the meantime there are plenty of smaller fairs for anyone who wants to sample what the scene has to offer.

The "This Is Not Art" festival in Newcastle will include a zine fair on October 2 in the King Street car park.

Down south, in Melbourne, the zine scene is taking off as part of the Melbourne Fringe Festival.

Upcoming zine fairs in Melbourne

Art: Noise, Wednesday September 21, The Blue Tile Lounge, 95 Smith St., Fitzroy

Vandals or Vanguards? Monday September 26, noon-1 p.m., RMIT Gallery, 344 Swanston St., Melbourne

Impact 7 Sticky Mini Zine Fair, Friday September 30, 10 a.m.-4 p.m., Monash Museum of Art (MUMA), Monash University, Caulfield

Ten years of 'You' Zine Fair, Friday September 30, 3 p.m.-5 p.m., at Sticky

I Heart Tintin, Tuesday October 4, 6 p.m.-8 p.m., The Castle Window, 681 Sydney Road, Brunswick

This article originally appeared on CNNGo.

How much would you pay for $20,000?

2011-09-01T13:44:00.001+10:00

The stack of money that sold for a wad of cash.

When does a bundle of cash pass as art?

“Currency,” a new work by Sydney artist, Denis Beaubois, went under the hammer at Deutscher and Hackett’s auction house in Melbourne last night.

If you’re confused by the image and believe that’s how much was paid for the art, you’re wrong. That’s the art: a stack of $100 bills totaling $20,000.

It sold for $21,350, including GST and buyer’s premium. So it probably went for a little less than it’s worth from a monetary perspective, although the taxman certainly won.

The material for the work was sourced through a "New Work - Established" grant from the Visual Arts and Craft section of the Australia Council for the Arts.

“Currency” is described as a conceptual art project that explores the tension between the economic value of the material, against the cultural value of the art object.

Or is all that just fancy words for a pile of bills?

According to the work’s description, "Currency" poses fundamental questions about value and values. It asks what is the role of contemporary art: whether its success is all about the money and if its value is in the ideas it generates, or just in the materials used.

So what ideas does such a pile of cash generate? What do you see when confronted with a pile of notes that size?

For some $20,000 is a ton of money - more than they’re likely to ever see in one spot, at one time. For others, it’s just the night’s takings from a behind-the-counter job, a deposit for a first home, or the cash payment for a new car.

“Currency” could be interpreted a bit like the children’s book, “The Emperor’s New Clothes.” Duped into believing he was wearing a magnificent new garment - although it was actually nonexistent - the emperor paraded in front of his court, who pretended to be impressed until a child shouted out: “Look! The emperor is naked.” Such an exclamation exposed the absurdity of the adults.

But being absurd adults, Beaubois' work does indeed inspire conversation, controversy, and debate - and isn’t that what art is all about?

Regardless of the price the art fetched, the currency of the art - or at least current relevance - was arguably assured.

This article first appeared on CNNGo.

Social media art brings virtual audiences into cyber galleries

2011-08-29T20:01:00.002+10:00

An Xiao -- in "The Artist is Kinda Present" at Escape, New York City -- Tweets a participant.

Twitter, Facebook and Skype have changed our world thanks to lots of "likes" and quite a few "follows".

So why should performance art be any different?

A cross-platform project called Portal is using social media to connect international artists and audiences -- both real world and online -- in Sydney, New York and Beijing during September.

Using Skype and Twitter, as well as the Portal website, local audiences can participate in live satellite events taking place in Sydney galleries, with complementary events planned abroad. The performances are being streamed live and are open for anyone to join online.

“Unlike traditional performance art, where artist and audience are present in the space together, this approach to performance allows audiences to connect with the work remotely,” said curator Janis Ferberg.

“Artists exploring social media performance, though still based in certain cities and performing to live audiences, also have a large following online," said Ferberg. "Globally dispersed audiences can interact with the work in real time without actually being physically there."

The first scheduled performance will be by Man Bartlett, a Brooklyn-based artist, presenting #FEEDFEED.

Envisaged as a networked potluck party extravaganza, Bartlett will ingest a range of things -- including actual food -- as gallery visitors in New York and Sydney interact with him and each other.

Art for art's sake, or social media popularity?
Performance artists around the world are now using social media platforms both as a medium and a subject matter for their work. It is acting as an integral part of how the works are shared with audiences and the meanings derived from the exchange.

But recently a debate has exploded on the art blogosphere, including on www.thelmagzine.com, about whether this movement is simply a vapid statement and an excuse to gain a few new Twitter followers.

Beijing-based artist An Xiao responded to these criticisms on www.hyperallergic.com. The artist pleaded with those who question the movement's validity to give it a chance.

"I invite anyone interested in social media art to really engage with the work," she said. "Don’t worry about where you live: you’ll be able to experience the show both online and in person."

"Spend time with each artist’s work, get to know it beyond a cursory look. It needs to be experienced beyond simply reading the concept and looking at images."

"Using social media is like one long durational performance."

In "24 hr #classaction," Man Bartlett blew up skinny balloons for

24 hours, then popped them all.

Man Bartlett’s #FEEDFEED will be held on September 17 from 11 a.m. and can be accessed via www.portalvideo.com and www.peleton.net.au.

An Xiao’s work Caochangdi 404 will be held on September 24 from 4 p.m.–5 p.m. in Sydney and can be accessed via the Portal Website or at the 4A Centre for Contemporary Art. It will be held in Beijing at the same time (2 p.m.–3 p.m. Beijing time)

Man Bartlett's proposal for performance #FeedFeed is a public, user-changable document at www.docs.google.com.

This article first appeared on CNNGo.

Russian Resurrection film festival

2011-08-28T20:06:00.003+10:00

Russia may not be everyone’s cup of samovar-brewed tea when it comes to rogue politics, human rights, or even a love of fur, but there’s one thing it gets right pretty much every time: and that’s cinematic culture.

Put it down to what you may, but the deep Russian soul sure can tell a good yarn, and capturing human suffering, joy and heartache is at the core of what the world’s biggest country does best.

The Russian Resurrection Film Festival, now in its eighth year, brings to our shores some of the best offerings from Russia’s thriving cinematic scene. Showcasing the latest box-office hits (such as comedies Six Degrees of Celebration and Lucky Trouble – starring supermodel-turned-actress Milla Jovovich), alongside classics (like Oscar-winner Moscow Does Not Believe in Tears and Station for Two – which generations of former Soviets can quote nearly word for word with their eyes closed), the diverse program promises to engage, amuse and delight.

The carefully selected range, which Festival Director Nicholas Maksymow has chosen, “with our viewers in mind, to create a more focussed and succinct program for 2011,” caters to everyone from lovers of art-house cinema, to expats, fiends of all things from the motherland, and those that just want to see some fantastic films from foreign shores.

Based at Paddington’s Chauvel cinema (with some sessions at Event Cinemas in Burwood and Bondi Junction), make sure you say ‘Da’ to this highlight of the film festival circuit.

Sep 1-14, various venues, visit russianresurrection.com for more details.

This article first appeared in the Alternative Media Group.

Secret Wars: Australia's high-energy art fights draw crowds

2011-08-20T02:13:00.002+10:00

In the closing moments of the Secret Wars finale, tensions are high.

The Sydney audience is divided, and the two finalists look exhausted. They've fought with every fiber of their beings, and now, as the clock strikes, they drop their artistic weapons and wait for the votes to be counted.

The judges' decision is final, and as Heesco is announced the winner, the crowd explodes into frenzied screams.

Adoring fans rush at the stage to adore the Melbourne-based, Mongolian street artist.

Paint will be spilled
Secret Wars is one of the major live art events sweeping Australia, and its popularity is soaring. Competitors face off with their pastels moving to hip-hop beats.

Referred to as “fight club for the arts,” Secret Wars is attracting audiences of different ages, cultural backgrounds and communities.

This year’s winner, Heesco, is relatively new to the live art scene, having first become involved through some live paintings in a Melbourne club last year.

Unlike the competitive nature of Secret Wars, the original event was more “a friendly jam with mates.”

“Melbourne is a vibrant place for street art, which does have that 'live' aspect to it,” Heesco says. “You often see people painting in a street somewhere with a bunch of mates.”

Performance anxiety
For an artist, "performing" in front of an audience brings a unique set of challenges.

“It can be pretty nerve wrecking,” Heesco concedes, describing his first Secret Wars round as “pretty hectic."

“It's good to have the crowd cheer you on though, and to have that instant feedback," he says. "All in all, it's a ton of fun, and I really enjoy the vibe and the energy of the live audience. It's incredible."

With a background in fine art and illustration, Heesco has managed to combine his drawing skills with an element of drama, perfecting the timing of the performance and using the tension of the unknown to keep the crowd on its toes till the final seconds.

Facing Heesco in the final was Sydney-based artist Sprinkles. As event promoters promised, paint did spill.

“You have to be pretty brave to put yourself and your work out there live for people to instantly see and critique,” Sprinkles says. “You're also letting people into your creative process, something that is usually a very personal and sometimes private thing.

“It’s a very different way to go about things. Art at times can be a very solitary and faceless process, so it’s a great change to work in a buzzing atmosphere.”

On stage, artists can feel like a rabbit in the headlights. With music blaring, drinks spilling and cameras popping, the pressure to perform is huge.

Contemporary live art

Far from the tension of the battlefield, a performance artist of a completely different nature also connects with a captive live audience.

Andrew Newman’s live performances can be described as absurd one act plays.

“There is no beginning, nor end, except for the gallery's opening hours," Newman explains. "It doesn't matter when you arrive, or how long you stay, and intermission starts as soon as you turn away from the art to grab a glass of wine."

Having created artworks both in front of audiences and within private spaces, Newman says the difference is in the atmosphere.

“A live performance always feels like more of an event, there is a thrill to it," he says. "You know people are paying attention.

“When you have your work hanging on the walls of a gallery, and see someone standing in front of it, sometimes you can't be sure if they're actually looking at the work or thinking about some itch in their foot. They may also be thinking about their itchy feet during a performance, but I'm too busy performing to care.”

“What is unique about the Sydney scene now is the humor," he continues. “Usually when people think of performance art, they think of the 1970s scene, which at the time consisted mostly of nudity, blood, vomit and various forms of self mutilation.

"These days it’s disco dancing, dating game shows and experimental stand-up. Now you're more likely to find an audience bellowing with laughter than grimacing.”

The live art scene certainly is expanding, and there are plenty of exciting performance events around the country that are bringing audiences together to engage with artists.

Live art events
Andrew Newman will be featured in a month of performance art at Peleton Gallery, performing alongside Ben Terakes on September 15.

Sprinkles will be painting live on Cockatoo Island for Project Ugly as part of the Outpost Festival in November.

Imperial Panda Festival in Surry Hills in artist warehouses and nightclubs during late summer.

Tiny Stadiums takes place on the streets of Erskineville and in disused shopfronts in autumn.

Photos in this story are courtesy of Alex Reznick.

This article first appeared on CNNGo.

Beauty or bust?

2011-07-29T18:43:00.000+10:00

A debate is raging in this country, and smack bang in the middle of it is a little girl who wears plenty of pink, gallons of glitter, and squillions of sequins.

Unlike plenty of other dolled up kids though, this one is famous world over, and, at the age of just six, is a seasoned entertainment professional.

Eden Wood is in Australia as part of the launch of our first ever child beauty pageant. Big business in the States, the glamorous competition has thus far avoided our little country. But, as of this weekend, we officially enter the world of toddlers, tantrums and tiaras.

Protests are being staged in front of the Town Hall where the pageant is set to be held, and there are concerns for the safety of Eden and her mum Mickie Wood.

So should child pageants be banned? Should Australia’s happy little Vegemites be protected from the ‘evil empire of vanity’? Is it time for the Nanny State to step in? Won’t somebody think of the children?

The truth is that while it's easy to vilify child beauty pageants, and call for their ban from our ‘innocent’ land, it could well lead to a slippery slope. Banning pageants might be the first step in protecting the innocence of children, but what will be the second?

Little girls in dance eisteddfods dress up in glittery costumes and wear makeup. In gymnastics competitions they strike unnatural poses and hold them for seemingly excessive amounts of time. In ballet classes it is clear that thinner is better. And swimming races? Well those kids are certainly not covering up.

Parents make choices about how far to push their children every single day. Whether it be screaming on the sidelines of a Saturday soccer match, frowning over a school report, or signing their child up for additional music lessons, there is no clear-cut line about where encouragement ends, and forcefulness begins.

Banning a competition from becoming available in Australia is not the answer. Encouraging good parenting is. Now the question is, how do you do that?

Chinese male cheerleader becomes internet sensation

2011-06-30T18:10:00.004+10:00

A video of a male cheerleader hopping, skipping and throwing his pom-poms in the air - like he just don't care - has become an instant internet sensation.

Assumed to be a student from Shandong University of Science and Technology, the man takes part in an all-girl cheer squad routine, wearing the standard skimpy female uniform - distinguishable only by his short crop, and what viewers have commented to be "much hair on his legs".

Stealing the spotlight in a brilliant solo, he makes just one slip-up while shaking, shimmying and dancing up a storm.

Enthusiastic comments from viewers on the Chinese video site YouKu.com (the local version of YouTube) have embraced the cheerleader, saying "In the year of gender variant, heroes are coming forth in large numbers."

This article first appeared at Yahoo!7 News.

My Wonderful Day

2011-05-30T13:23:00.003+10:00

Capturing the world through a child’s eyes is no easy task, and it’s all too easy to get it very, very wrong.

In the Ensemble Theatre’s new production, directed by Anna Crawford, the delicate balance of childish innocence and adult absurdity is played so well that it truly makes for a wonderful ride.

Alan Ayckbourn’s My Wonderful Day is set in the midst of an awkward, dysfunctional situation, as seen through what’s assumed to be the naive eyes of a child.

A little girl enters a world of adults, where she so clearly does not belong, and the audience is treated to a fantastic performance by a terrific cast.

Belinda Jombwe’s straight-laced take on nine-year-old Winnie creates the perfect mirror to the over-enthusiasm of the grown-ups that surround her, balancing out their desperate need to be accepted by a child who just won’t play their game.

Until Jun 25, Ensemble Theatre, 78 McDougall St Kirribilli, $27-67, 9929 0644, ensemble.com.au

This article first appeared with the Alternative Media Group.

Shine Kenya

2011-05-16T00:38:00.001+10:00

Just to set the scene, I’m writing this while sitting in the world’s most enormous armchair, inside a ridiculously opulent house, with an incredible history, in the middle of a beautiful game park. But that’s another story.

One of the major reasons for our expedition to Kenya is an incredible project called Shine. Based on the Australian Peer Support system, Shine is a mentoring program for primary school students, designed to allow kids to help each other through the tougher issues of life, to create a strong sense of self, and help them lead fulfilling lives as active members of their community.

Over the past four months Kellie has worked tirelessly to create a training program for the teachers of Tutu District – the area of Kenya that we’re staying in. And finally (after years of planning, months of preparing, weeks of stressing, and days of wanting to murder several of the people that we’ve had to work with to get the program up and running) over the past two days the inaugural Shine Kenya training program for 90 teachers from 45 different primary schools was run, with overwhelming success.

Over two days the teachers were trained in setting up a mentoring program in their schools, with group activities, fun games, and inspirational presentations. We had divided the participants into three, ensuring that as many of the women as possible were in their own group. After observing the way that men and women interact over the past couple of weeks, we had made an executive decision that putting the women on their own was the only way of ensuring that they would actually speak up, rather than just sitting back and letting the men talk over them.

The first group was therefore all women, the second group was mixed, and the third was all men.

The training program was clearly unlike anything that any of the teachers had been through before. Not only was it incredibly well organised, filled with copious amounts of stationery and snacks, and presented by white girls, but it also wasn’t the sober lecture style presentation that is the norm here. The moment that this became apparent will go down as one of my favourite memories of this trip. The activity goes like this: Your entire team must cross a 10 metre ‘river’ without ever touching the ground. The only thing that can be used to assist you in the river crossing is 3 sheets of newspaper. You have ten minutes to complete the task.

Watching 35 women break out of their shell, while laughing and cheering each other on, as they bent down to rip up pieces of newspaper and hopped across the ‘river’ – all while clutching their handbags – was absolutely incredible. And from that moment on, we’d won them over. The activities over the two days varied greatly, but the positive atmosphere in the room – from both the men and the women – was wonderful to observe.

On the second day, after giving the matter some thought, we decided to replace the Kenyan trainer for the male group with me. Talking to 25 men – mostly school principals – while trying to get them to engage in group activities, to make them think outside the box, and to make them open up, was (to put it lightly) rather challenging. But once I’d won them over, there was no going back. What is fascinating, is that only at the very end of the second day, did we find out that the entire time all the teachers thought that we were 18. To gain the respect of educated professionals is one thing. To gain that same respect when they believe you’re barely out of highschool is another thing altogether.

My absolutely favourite activity was called Managing a Group. After discussing some of the ways of tackling troublesome students, the teachers were presented with a sheet of paper illustrating what we’d presumed to be quite obvious personality types. Boy, were we wrong.

When asked how they would deal with Child A (the really enthusiastic listener, who is too shy to speak) the men told me that he needed extra help because he has such a large ear. It’s important to assist the disabled children.

Child B, the Hermione Granger know-it-all must get in trouble. She is sitting on the books and none of the other children can learn. Someone should get her a chair.

Child D, the class clown, should get in trouble for not wearing a school uniform. He should also be expelled because he is holding a gun. We do not have guns in primary schools.

And finally Child F, who is too cool for school, must get in trouble because he is wearing a hat in class. Now this was the final straw. I had managed to contain my laughter up to this point with some success, but here I couldn’t help it. “What do you mean he is wearing a hat!? It’s his hair!” I asked through teary eyes. The response was absolute shock at my absurd answer. “Nobody has hair like this! It has a propeller!”

Men.

The two days of Shine finished with all the necessary formalities, including prayer, speeches, and certificate presentations. When a representative of the Department of Education finished his closing speech, he thanked the Australians, saying “if you do not have husbands in your country, we have many fine men who will take care of you in Kenya.” The crowd erupted into applause. And finally, with a beautiful Manunu – the traditional thank you dance from all of the participants – Shine Kenya came to a close.

The seeds have been planted, and now we wait and see what the results will be for Kenya. As for me, helping to run this program has completely made me rethink my path in life ... but that too is another story.

The highs and lows

2011-05-08T23:50:00.003+10:00

After the high of the first full day, a wake-up call was clearly inevitable, and probably very necessary.

Kenya is a country of ample natural resources, and clearly much to offer. The rainy season is here and the fields are green, and appear to be full of lush crops. They grow endless varieties of fruits, coffee, rice, tea. Those who are well off, are very well off.

We are staying with wonder woman. From being raised in a mud hut, Mary has risen to incredible heights. Together with her late husband she achieved more in life than most people would imagine achieving in several generations. She has travelled, met world leaders, given back so much to her community, it would be impossible to calculate it all. She is 71 years old, but has more energy than anyone else here, and she is a force to be reckoned with.

While Mary is an absolute inspiration, all around her there seems to be an overwhelming culture of doing the bare minimum, of just going with the flow ... of ‘hakuna matata’.

Kids are at school from 8am till 5pm. And yet it appears that for the majority of the day they sit alone in classrooms, looking over their schoolbooks. Kids as young as 5 are in ‘revision periods’ – alone, with no adult supervision, or guidance – while their teachers sit in the staffroom, or walk around the grounds.

The cement floors of the classrooms instantly get covered in brown dust and mud. The light comes from large, open window frames – with no glass in them, and the walls in the majority of the rooms are bare. The kids in many of the classes are crowded in – one of the classes I taught had around 50 kids, many of them sharing tiny desks. At the end of each day the kids wash classroom floors with water. All the ground around the school turns into mud.

Things take a long, long time. There is a lot of talk, a lot of rhetoric – speeches sound like sermons. But very little actually seems to happen.

The frustrations are endless, but focusing on them won’t get me very far. The poverty is, of course, overwhelming in its scale, but focusing on that is also not right. We can’t fix everything, and anything we do really and truly is just a drop in the ocean, but for the individuals we meet, for the kids whose school we are working to change, I really hope that the difference is real. That it’s something they can hold on to, to propel themselves out of their situation, and towards a better life.

PS. If you'd like to have a chat about donating some money towards any of the projects running at Kiandu, send me an email. We're currently looking for some extra cash to put towards getting some books into the library - would love your help, and you'll have total control of any dollars you send across!!

Lessons learned

2011-05-06T04:49:00.001+10:00

First day in Kiandu. Walking down the dirt road, being greeted by everyone that goes pass, the weird white people make their way to the Primary School.

Going from classroom to classroom, they are introduced to kids, whose excitement is adorable. The kids laugh and point, loudly whispering and whacking each other on the back, practicing their minimal English. It’s all lovely.

The school is incredibly poor. Few classrooms have electricity, only half are cemented, and the kids sit at new wooden desks that are stamped with the company whose sponsorship allowed for their purchase. The desks are reminiscent of Old Sydney Town.

The library is filled with stacks and stacks of papers, and almost no books. The deputy principal has a poster on his door asking visitors not to offer him bribes.

Finally the bell rings and the kids rush out of their classrooms, and swarm. They ask for photos, they all want to shake hands, once they figure out what it means, they love high fives. The brave ones reach for the hair.

The school is in the midst of a construction project, being run by the weird white people. There is a greenhouse being built, to help grow crops in order to provide meals for the students. The trench around the greenhouse was dug by the parents over the weekend – after being threatened with paying the equivalent of $2 if they didn’t help out, 200 parents showed up to dig.

In the afternoon I’ve asked to start teaching drama classes. I return to the school, alone this time, the only weird white person.

The class I teach is eighth grade, though the kids ages range from 13 to 18. With no warning, and for the first time ever, the kids enter a drama workshop. There are 50 of us, we push the desks back, and start playing games. It’s tough to win them over, but every second in that classroom makes me realise how much I’ve missed this, how there’s nothing in the world quite as satisfying as seeing a child come out of their shell, and get excited about an idea.

The lesson goes for two hours, and hopefully leaves them with a taste for more.

As a final activity for the day we visit the High School, which is next door. The High School is a District School, which basically means it gets far more funding than the Primary School, which is a Local School. The grounds are very well maintained, the uniforms look clean, and the classrooms are all cemented. The kids are bigger, and therefore both more shy and more receptive.

The oldest kids in the school – the equivalent to 12th graders, but ranging in ages from 15 to 20 – invite us into their classroom, and bombard us with questions. When they find out I’m a journalist, the first question they all want to know is – Is Osama Bin Laden really dead?

And with that, day one comes to an end.

Hakuna matata

2011-05-05T04:40:00.001+10:00

It’s been a big week in the big wide world. What with Osama bin Laden being declared dead, Obama performing his hilarious comedy routine, and Gaddafi’s son being killed, things are, as they say, heating up.

But what’s this got to do with me? Well, for one, Osama’s death made me slightly paranoid (for the first time ever) and prompted me to actually register my whereabouts with DFAT.

Obama’s speech, which cracked me up, made me even more excited for my upcoming trip, and (very aptly) reminded me of a brilliant scene from The Lion King.

Let me backtrack slightly. About a week ago, I had the thought that bringing some movies to Kiandu with me, to have a couple of movie nights for the kids, would be a brilliant idea. Naturally, the first movie I thought of was The Lion King. When I told this to my brother, his shock was slightly baffling.

Turns out my brother decided then and there that I had racist underpinnings (apparently it’d be like going to Iran and only playing Alladin, or going to Israel and only playing Fiddler on the Roof). Naturally, this thought has been nagging at the back of my head for the last week, and on my flight over, I considered what exactly it could mean.

So imagine my surprise when we landed in Kenya, and (after some mild annoying bureaucratic frustrations at the airport) got picked up by the very lovely George – an ex-student of Kiandu Primary School who is now heavily involved in the school’s benefit projects.

On our three hour drive to Kiandu village (made longer by the fact that there are fuel shortages all over Kenya – see the Libya bit up the top) George taught us a song, the lyrics of which go through all the various Kenyan sayings and end with Hakuna Matata!

Imagine our surprise to learn that of all the clichés, this one is actually as Kenyan as it gets. Go Disney!

The drive to Kiandu was a brilliant first introduction to Kenya. “In Kenya, there is one road rule: Dive how you want,” explained George, before veering off the paved road, and onto a dirt track with oncoming traffic swerving to avoid him.

George’s driving skills got us into Kiandu in one piece, with fantastic commentary and singing along the way, and straight to Mary’s incredible house, where we will be staying for the next few weeks. And so, fed, showered, and rested, we are off to see the school, meet the kids, and make that difference.

The facts

2011-05-04T15:55:00.003+10:00

No, this is a not a herpes information pack.

According to Wikipedia, and therefore according to the world, the 'Five Ws' are the be-all and end-all of a good story.

"In journalism the Five Ws is a concept in news style and research that forms the basics of information-gathering. It is a formula for getting the ‘full’ story on something. For a report to be considered complete it must answer a checklist of six questions, each of which comprises an interrogative word."

So, interrogation here I go..

Who
A group of people have decided to go to Kenya for a short volunteering project. These include Melli – the incredible instigator of the Friends of Kiandu charity, whose tireless energy is seeing her returning to Kenya for the second time, to continue the work she started two years ago to reinvigorate and rebuild Kiandu Primary School. The 'who' also includes Kelly – who is taking time out of a super high-flying position with Red Bull to run a peer support program for teachers from throughout the district we're heading to. And finally, the 'who' also involves a family – high school principal Meg, her engineer husband Gary, and their teen daughter Marnie, who are in Africa already, helping the school with teaching skills, helping the town with engineering and water projects, and initiating a music program for the kids. And then there's me. I am heading over to assist with the projects the others are putting into place, as well as run drama workshops for the kids, a computer workshop for the adults in the village (with eight laptops in tow) and to take a bunch of pictures that we will then turn into a coffee-table book, to raise funds for the charity.

What
Two years ago Melli found herself wanting to do some sort of charity work that didn't involve paying $2000 to build houses in Cambodia, and after much research, discovered this little village in Kenya which wasn't getting any sort of assistance from the outside world, while being in very desperate need for it. So, with a few friends, Melli went over there and basically started from scratch – teaching the school how to fundraise, helping them raise enough money to pay their outstanding water bill (without which the school would have been shut down) and basically giving them the energy to realise that there was something there worth working for. Since then, her efforts have been embraced by the entire community, and the results are incredible.

Where
Kiandu is a village two hours’ drive north from the Kenyan capital of Nairobi. The big town near the village is called Nyeri, and the hilly region is supposed to be famous for its coffee. Score! It is apparently void of malaria because of the mountainous climate, and English is widely spoken. Basically, it’s like a volunteering dream come true.

When
The second coming (yes, that’s right, I do believe that we are just like god) is taking place right now, as I write this on my flight over to Kenya. We will be in Kiandu for three weeks, and there will hopefully be another expedition of teachers and volunteers in six months’ time to follow up on the work we’re doing.

Why
My involvement in this project happened because I was searching for a volunteering opportunity where I could use my own skills to make a difference, and not just tick a box on my to-do list of life’s little adventures. Going over to Africa to volunteer is something I’ve always wanted to do – but have never really found anything that worked for me as well as this. Although it’s incredibly short (really, three weeks is nothing in the greater scheme of things) it’s also totally grassroots and hands-on, and the results are entirely up to us – without having to answer to a huge organization, without having any beaurocratic crap to adhere to, we can take any idea, no matter how far-fetched, and just run with it. Which, for me, is perfect.

How
I found Friends of Kiandu while randomly wasting time online one day, around nine months ago. I got in touch with Melli, met up with her, and knew immediately that I wanted to be involved in this – that it was an incredible opportunity that I had to grab onto and stick with. It’s crazy to think that after talking about it for so long, thinking of how far away it all seemed, seeing it as a sort of fantasy, I’m now sitting on a flight, surrounded by Africans on all sides, flying over a seemingly endless desert landscape, and counting down the hours to Kenya.

Incendies

2011-05-01T13:30:00.000+10:00

The weight of facing an unbearable truth can choke you into silence. For the twins at the centre of this story, the truth of a family secret must be discovered to satisfy their dead mother’s final wishes.

Incendies is an intense journey – from the first moments to the last. Moving from the stark landscape of present day French Canada, to the heartbreak of wartorn Lebanon, it tells the tragic story of one woman’s defiant struggle to survive against oppression from tradition, religion and war.

The film is so incredibly beautiful that every frame feels like its own artwork. And the acting, especially that of mother Nawal Marwan – played by Lubna Azabal – is superb.

Refusing to gloss over any of the horrific realities of war, Incendies is a film that will stay with you long after the credits roll, with the weight of its secret passed on.

This article first appeared with the Alternative Media Group.

Monsieur Camembert: Turning Marrickville into Sydney's musical heart

2011-03-31T13:17:00.002+11:00

Change is in the air for Sydney’s live music scene, and it sounds damn good.

Under the radar, musicians are playing at warehouses and garages all over the city. This hidden soundtrack is creating new venues in the city’s corners.

At the forefront of this movement is triple ARIA Award winning "gyprock" band Monsieur Camembert - an institution of the city’s underground music scene since the 1990s.

Lead vocalist of Monsieur Camembert, Yaron Hallis, initiated an underground concert space in his warehouse home - the Qirkz. When the space was shut down by Marrickville Council, Sydney’s bohemian dream seemed to be over.

But the band moved down the road to an under-used club and is on the brink of merging its former space and new venue into a cultural hub.

Mr Cheese
Monsieur Camembert dabbled in gypsy music in the late 1990s, paving the way for many others.

“The gypsy influence was always our strongest, but also with a foot in the yesteryear ‘everything old is new again’ mentality, which is not exactly what a lot of people would associate with Sydney,” says Hallis.

"Mr Cheese" is somewhere between a ventriloquist come-to-life and a 19th-century gypsy indulging creative fantasies. The performances include multi-media performances that are comedic, classical and theatrical - typical of an anything-goes fringe approach.

The search for Camelot
After the band's underground space was closed, Camelot arrived.

“As fate would have it, there was a daggy little Macedonian club on the corner of the same street, which was up for grabs," Hallis says. "We grabbed it, gave it a massive face lift, and completely transformed it into what’s now become Camelot."

“It's arguably one of the premier venues that musicians are gravitating towards at the moment."

“The dream is that Camelot - the legal venue, and Qirkz - which is still the illegal venue, the underground space that we’re trying to legitimize - will coexist side by side," Hallis says.

"The street will become this amazing precinct that Sydney really hasn’t seen before, where people can go from one gig to another, within the same street, and to actually create a music hub in the heart of Marrickville," Hallis says.

“And beyond that, to close the street off once a month, and do street parties with stalls and stages. There are just so many opportunities for these things. And Qirkz is better poised than it ever was to be at the center of the whole thing."

“The wheels are in motion," he says. "It will definitely happen, it’s just a matter of how, and how long it’ll take."

Upcoming shows at Camelot
Thursday, March 31: Klezmer band "Beyond the Pale" (Canada)
Friday, April 1: The Bernie Hayes Quartet
Wednesday, April 13: Hot Jazz Allliance
Saturday, April 16: Encore performance from Katie Noonan and Elixir

Bookings: www.trybooking.com

Camelot is at 19 Marrickville Road, Marrickville, opposite Sydenham train station. Kids are welcome but must be accompanied by a responsible adult. The venue is fully licensed.

This article first appeared on CNNGO.

Barney's Version

2011-03-22T13:33:00.000+11:00

Every story has at least two sides, every event more than one version. Barney’s Version, the new film by Richard J. Lewis, based on Mordecai Richler’s prize-winning comic novel, is seen through the eyes of a man who is so unlovable in so many different ways, you somehow can’t help but take his side.

Laughing, crying and cringing, as Barney stumbles through his awkward love life, the version of events you come away with is centred around the fact that you’ve just seen something beautiful, and want to share it with others.

The performances (bar some minor characters) are flawless, the script hilarious. And Barney’s bitter-sweet life is a wonderful trip down memory lane.

This article first appeared with the Alternative Media Group.

Bigger than Jesus

2011-01-24T13:36:00.000+11:00

More often than not a play’s shock value is used to hide a rather empty core. If the audience is offended and disturbed enough, the buzz will ensure more viewers and ticket sales, and therefore essentially nothing else matters.

Bigger than Jesus is not one of those plays.

Shocking, brilliant, moving, and incredibly energetic, it manages to keep the audience completely captivated from the first moment to the last. Through humour, tears, fantastic lighting and stage design, Rick Miller’s play tells the historical story of Jesus, while questioning all the preconceived notions of who, what, and why he was, and how his name has managed to survive, when so many others did not.

Giving more questions than answers, preferring to ask rather than to preach,Bigger than Jesus is what if claims to me – a story of far bigger issues than Christianity. It is the tale of humanity, leaving you with a feeling of joy, of a shared experience, of everything that theatre should be, and so much more.

Just three words. See it. Now.

Until Jan 29, Wharf 1, Sydney Theatre Company, Hickson Rd, Walsh Bay, $30-50, 1300 668 812, sydneyfestival.org.au

This article first appeared with the Alternative Media Group.

Incidentally speaking

2011-01-23T13:41:00.001+11:00

Over 40 years ago, a film called The Incident told the story of two hoodlums psychologically terrorising stunned, helpless passengers on a New York City subway. Abusing one passenger after another, while the rest cower and look away, the film’s entire storyline was so cringe-worthy, so frustrating and uncomfortable, it felt like a horrible mirror being held up to show you the very worst of yourself.

What makes The Incident so painful to watch is the thought of “why don’t they just do something?!” There are more passengers than thugs, there are men present, if only they stood up and presented a united front, the two bullies would surely be put in their place. The film is terribly real. The basic story can happen on any given day, in any location, and – ever frustratingly – the response of the people will be exactly the same.

Riding on a bus in inner-city Sydney on Saturday afternoon, I was distracted from my book by a gang of ‘girls’ whose loud, disgusting behaviour was absolutely unavoidable. Screaming abuse at various passengers, these teenage girls picked on one victim after another, while everyone else looked the other way.

When a young Asian girl boarded the bus, she became their ideal target. Alone, small, a non-native English speaker, and unsure of how to respond, she was hassled over and over again, until one of them finally grabbed her sunglasses. Still, the rest of the passengers did nothing.

Unable to bare it any longer, I turned around to tell them to give the glasses back. They laughed in my face, and (knowing full well that I could not be a match for them) I walked over to the bus driver to tell him to do something. By the time he responded, they’d already run off, with the glasses, laughing and hurling more abuse.

Still, no one did anything.

To put things in perspective, there were men on the bus. Young, and seemingly fit and strong men. And the ‘gang’ were just a bunch of teenage girls, getting away with exactly as much as we let them get away with.

It’s been over four decades since The Incident laid bare the essential hypocrisy and alienation of our complacent society. And nothing has changed. Perhaps the very fact of our increasingly isolated lives is what breeds cowardice and indifference. It allows us to look the other way, at the very moments when we need to look at one another.

And so the question must be asked, if you were there, what would you do?

Just not cricket

2010-12-23T22:04:00.000+11:00

The love story was over before it ever really started, but the latest episode in the drama of Warnie's life will certainly remain an affair to remember.

Love him or loathe him, Shane Warne is surely one of the modern wonders of the universe. How this man managed to woo Liz Hurley, one of the hottest women in the world, only to lose her in what even she herself describes as something straight out of Jerry Springer, will forever remain a mystery.

However, that's pretty much the only mysterious thing about it, with entirely too many of the intimate details of their courting period displayed all over Twitter for all to see.

Who needs WikiLeaks when people are so eager and willing to put it all out there themselves? If more people lead by Warne's and Hurley's example, I fear Julian Assange will be put out of business.

Meanwhile, half way across the world, in a land where nobody cares about cricket, except one twittering lady whose nickname ‘The Ashes' has seen her fame skyrocket, a monumental law has been handed down.

"Don't ask, don't tell" may be a controversial policy in the US military, but it could have some perfectly sensible applications outside of it. A policy that Warnie might think about adopting. The sordid details of his flirtations all over Twitter, not to mention the endless sexting, are just a little too much information, and seriously - we didn't ask, so don't tell.

Warnie may know how to bowl a maiden over, but considering how often he gets caught out, he might want to reconsider his strategy. Not to mention that watching him grovel to get Hurley back is just a little off-putting:

"If you are lucky to find happiness, cherish it and fight for it. No matter what anyone says, if you know in your heart how you feel about anything or anyone, who cares what people think/say!!!"

Man up Warnie. That's quite enough spin.

This blog first appeared on Yahoo!7.

Last of the Red Hot Lovers

2010-12-06T13:41:00.000+11:00

You can’t really go wrong with staging a Neil Simon play at a beautiful theatre with a stellar cast. But how right can you go?

The Ensemble Theatre’s production of the Last of the Red Hot Lovers, starring Jamie Oxenbould and Sharon Millerchip, gets it very much right.

The energy of the actors is infectious, their delivery and timing spot on, and the response from the audience: that tantalising combination of roaring laughter and awkward discomfort, as they see their own deep-set secrets reflected back to them from the stage.

Mark Kilmury has directed the social comedy with a charming warmth and heart.

As Oxenbould’s Barney mumbles his way through failed seduction attempt, after failed seduction attempt – all while making sure no glass stains are left on his mother’s furniture, and the three objects of his affections – all played by the versatile Millerchip – look on with bafflement, amusement and disdain, the audience is left with a wonderfully satisfying night of theatre.

Until Jan 9, 78 MacDougall St, Kirribilli, $25-56, 9929 0644, ensemble.com.au

This article first appeared with the Alternative Media Group.

Bigger is better

2010-12-03T20:10:00.000+11:00

As far as romantic gestures go, bigger is always better, right? Well, I'd like to think so, but evidence seems to be pointing in the other direction.

Take the knock-back that the "email Romeo" recently suffered. After meeting a girl at a party, the passionate public servant (was there ever a more ironic combination of words?) sent out an emotional email to 7000 of his closest colleagues, in a quest to track down his mystery sweetheart.

Deciding that life was too short to wonder "what if", he faced reprimand from his bosses, ridicule from the cynical public, and probably countless awkward conversations with his friends. But he did it for love. Except that the object of his affections was just not that into him. Ouch.

But Steve Tucker, the romantic emailer, didn't put himself through nearly as much hell as the three lovestruck teens who spent 50 days lost at sea, all while trying to reach a young beauty from the island of Fakaoko. Admittedly (unlike Tucker), the teens seem to have been drunk when they made the decision to get into a dinghy, and sail 125 miles to surprise the object of their affections.

Drunkenness does tend to make slightly questionable plans seem like the height of sensibility. If only the people that promote the Social Media Sobriety Test would go one step further and create a Life-Changing Decision Sobriety Test. We would definitely all sleep better at night.

The French philosopher, Andre Gide, once said that "man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore." Samuely "Sam Perez" Peleha, Filo Filo, and Etueni Nasau certainly had the courage. Surviving on rainwater, raw fish and a seagull (whose capture they have mysteriously refused to explain to authorities thus far), their miraculous story reads like a mini version of the novel Life of Pi. The one thing missing is a Bengal Tiger.

When news of the boys' survival reached their island home, the community was overjoyed. Having already mourned their passing, their miraculous resurrection will now be celebrated with a feast, once the boys make their return journey on December 16. The question on everyone's lips must now be whether or not the beauty from Fakaoko will attend the celebration.

The romantic in me hopes she does. The pragmatist wonders how she'll choose between the three young men who risked all for her affections. And the plagiarist borrows once again from Adre Gide in saying that "It is better to be hated for what you are, than to be loved for what you are not." And, if what you are just happens to be an over-the-top romantic, then I say, bigger is definitely better.

This blog first appeared on Yahoo!7.

The Grenade

2010-11-01T13:48:00.000+11:00

In a world where mass paranoia is encouraged from every corner, it is refreshing to stumble upon a play that aims to poke fun of our fearful selves.The Grenade is the latest work from comic playwright Tony McNamara, described as, “A whodunit comedy of fidelity, marriage and inter-generational relationships.”

McNamara sees the play as a, “Slightly absurdist social comedy about a man who finds that someone has planted a hand grenade in his house, and how he responds to that.” Wanting to write a story about both politics and family, McNamara explores, “How our own thoughts can mess up our lives in a far worse way than the things that are actually happening around us.”

Finding the funny side of relatively dark topics, he fears that, “Society has lost its sense of humour about the reality of safety and powerlessness. With a constant stream of media telling you that you should be scared of just about everything, kids now grow up with that inherent sense of fear. I was interested in how that screws you up, how kids growing up in such an atmosphere feel, and whether it affects their ability to explore the world.”

Tony McNamara, one of Australia’s most successful playwrights, renowned for his wild-swinging satire and cheerful swipes at the darker side of human nature, will pull the pin on The Grenade at the Sydney Opera House from November 9.

Nov 9-Dec 12, Sydney Theatre Company, $30-80, 9250 1777, sydneytheatre.com.au

This article first appeared with the Alternative Media Group.

Ricketts Lane

2010-11-01T13:45:00.000+11:00

Anyone who’s ever lived in a sharehouse must surely have, at some point, sat across from their housemate and wondered if they were from another planet. On some particularly bad evenings, the housemate may even have started to morph into some sort of purple monster with bulbous eyes. Or perhaps that’s just me …

Well, imagine, if you will, my joy at discovering that it’s not just me at all. In a most respectable venue – the Sydney Opera House – there will soon be a comedy showcasing precisely what I’ve always suspected: that housemates are, in their very nature, from different worlds.

Winner of the Barry Award for Most Outstanding Show at this year’s Melbourne International Comedy Festival, Ricketts Lane stars Sammy J and Randy as two very different housemates with very different pasts.

Reuniting comedian Sammy J with puppeteer Heath McIvor, to bring their latest smash hit show to our city for the very first time, Ricketts Lane is described as a live sitcom with an HBO twist. Blending musical comedy, deft puppetry, and memorable characters, the show, according to Sammy J, “Is essentially the story of Randy and I living together, in a kind of ‘odd couple’ arrangement: the skinny, nerdy tax lawyer, and Randy – the foul-mouthed, drunken house-mate.

“We’re best mates, but we also constantly shit each other – so much like any house-sharing arrangement. The crux of the story is that I discover some skeletons in Randy’s closet and decide to prosecute him for tax fraud, which is a pretty heinous thing to do to your housemate.” Especially if that housemate is a big bit of purple foam.

Nov 11-20, Sydney Opera House, $39, 9250 7777, sydneyoperahouse.com

This article first appeared with the Alternative Media Group.

Happy days

2010-10-29T02:26:00.000+11:00

Despite the bitter taste of disappointment that the 'Sex and the City' film franchise left in my mouth, there is one scene that keeps being replayed in my head.

Carrie is reading Cinderella to Charlotte's daughter, and as those magic words "happily ever after" leave her mouth, the jaded 'woman scorned' aspect of her character comes to the fore, and she warns the five year old - "you know, things don't always happen like this in real life. I just think you should know that now."

No matter how happy we might be, within each of us is a cynical core, just waiting to break out. And nowhere is this more apparent than in the world of news and current affairs.

No news might be good news, but it'd certainly make for a pretty boring 6pm bulletin. And so we find ourselves, day after day, night after night, glued to our screens, observing the what humanity has to offer, and (secretly) loving every minute of it.

But suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, last week brought forth so much good news, I'm sure I wasn't the only one that didn't know how to take it. In a truly miraculous seven day period, we held our breath at the sci-fi footage of Chile's miners being lifted out of their imprisonment, one by one; rejoiced at the fantastic ending to the Delhi games (which had endured so much criticism and negativity in the lead-up, the success was made extra sweet); and finally marveled at the canonisation of Australia's first saint - regardless of whether it was within our faith, or without.

But this week, it was all back to reality. From sterilising the world's drug addicts; to scrutinising the love triangle of one rather mischievous miner; and feeling superior to Bill Clinton - as if you'd misplace the nuclear codes! The only thing I ever misplace is ... well, absolutely everything else.

What else? We didn't share in Kristy Fraser-Kirk's joy at settling her court case, choosing to focus instead on the fact that she wasn't going to give up the cash for charity; and we sniggered in bafflement at the French people who jumped from their second-floor apartments after seeing what they thought was Lucifer. The devil made me do it, indeed!

So, as far as I can tell, things are as they should be. But perhaps, one day, we'll look back at that good news week with the sense that "happily ever after" did happen once ... At least for a little while.

This blog first appeared on Yahoo!7.

The Sweetest Thing

2010-10-25T13:51:00.000+11:00

There are some things we can all relate to. Love definitely comes to mind. Family is probably up there. Nostalgia would be too. Chaos theory? Maybe not. So when I read about a new play at Belvoir St Downstairs Theatre that combines all those topics in one, my ears pricked up. The Sweetest Thing is a new play written by Verity Laughton and directed by Sarah Goodes. It is her fifth play in the intimate Downstairs Theatre, and her passion for the space is clear.

According to Goodes the size and shape of the theatre, “Lends itself to intimacy and simplicity, which is really lovely. Less is more down there, which naturally makes you strip away the excess, in order to fit.”

Within this intimate space, The Sweetest Thing sets out to explore an atmospheric story of love and life. The classic love story is seen through the lens of a fragmented, grieving family, tinged with childhood memories and thoughts of days gone by.

After the sudden death of her father, the story’s central character Sarah flees to New Zealand leaving the grief-stricken remains of her family behind in Australia. Teetering out of balance she finds herself falling in love and lust with Jimmy, a relationship that changes everything, forever.

Anything that aims to discuss our desire to control things in life, and how essentially out of control of them all we really are, is sure to resonate with a great number of control freaks (basically every one of us). We all have an idea of the outcome, and are outraged when it doesn’t turn out the way we wanted it to. So could The Sweetest Thing be collective therapy perhaps?

Oct 28-Nov 21, Belvoir St Downstairs, 25 Belvoir St, Surry Hills, $24-32, 9699 3444, belvoir.com.au

This article first appeared with the Alternative Media Group.

The sound of silence

2010-10-10T16:32:00.006+11:00

I’ve had ten days to plan exactly what I was going to write, but at no point did I actually picture myself writing it at a pub in Blackheath, late at night, with Katy Perry blasting from the speakers, a red wine beside me, and a very scantily clad woman trying to pick up the bearded fella next to the bar. But here I am.

When I decided to go away from the world for ten days, to a silent meditation retreat, the first response from most people was “Don’t be ridiculous! You won’t last an hour, and definitely not a day!” They would then suggest something along the lines of “why don’t you just sit in your room for an hour, and turn your phone off?” This suggestion was very reminiscent of my parents saying “why don’t you just ride around Centennial Park,” when I decided to cycle from Melbourne to Sydney, or “why don’t you just take the train to Canberra,” when I wanted to go on the Trans-Siberian.

The second response type was “oh, I know someone who did it. They came back a totally different person!” This was a little more worrying to me. After all, I wasn’t really going to Vipassana to become a totally different person. Being quite ok with the person I have been throughout my life, I just wanted a little time out, not a lobotomy.

A unique response came from my cousin, who was concerned that my old paranoia of giving birth to Britain’s tallest teenagers would rear its ugly head in the midst of such an intense experience. Now, since this is an ever-present fear (those teens really are very tall! And their parents are completely normal!), I didn’t really see how silence was going to cause me any grief in that particular department. But I did appreciate the thought. Thank you Tatty.

Of course, there were people who were supportive in just the right way (thanks guys!), but they were few and far between.

So why did I do it?

Well, it’s simple really. I desperately wanted a break. A break from my work, my phone, facebook, emails, my friends, my family, but mostly – myself. Everyone gets time out, away from me, but I never do. Having had an incredibly hectic five years, I just needed to get away. To stop, for the first time in half a decade – an incredibly long time, even for someone as addicted to drama as I am. To just stop, and reflect. Nothing else. And sure, it’s a slightly dramatic way to go about it, but one must be consistent – if nothing else.

Of course, as with all my undertakings, I had a last-minute panic attack. That build-up of anxiety where I realise that I’m about to do something that I committed myself to without really considering what was involved, and will now not back out of – no matter what – out of my incredible stubbornness. A stubbornness which I cannot shake off, no matter how much I might try (actually, I really haven’t tried very hard, so maybe I shouldn’t say that).

Anyway, the point is that I found myself packing on Wednesday afternoon with such a level of apprehension that my flatmate had to take control, delivering me to the station, and almost having to push me through the turnstiles herself. Thank you Vivi.

And so, there I was. Trains, like flights (but not quite the same because your phone still works), make me very calm. You start moving, and instantly all the things you didn’t get a chance to do before leaving, must be left behind. The wheels are in motion. Here we go.

Two hours later, at Blackheath, I was power-napped up and ready to go. But the road to Vipassana is long (no metaphors this time). So long, in fact, that you start to question whether you’re even heading in the right direction. The saving grace is that the trail of people in front of you, and behind, are all looking as baffled as you feel. And so you walk, and walk. And just as you’re sure you’ve missed something, a glorious, welcoming sign pops up.

And of course, just at that moment, my phone beeps. But I’m in Vipassana territory now. And with a sudden sense of Zen, I turn off that infernal beeping, vibrating source of misery, and enter the temple of silence.

It’s only the beginning
Except it’s not silent. Not at all. There are people sitting around a dining room, chatting! Chatting away, like they’re at a café. And anyway, they look totally normal! How can this be?! I didn’t come here for normal. I have plenty of normal back in Sydney!

First is a room full of men. No freaks. And then I walk through to a room of women, and …. Well, they are just so completely normal looking. It freaks me out more than anything else would have, I think.

But being phased by normality cannot possibly be my style, and so I sit. I fill out some forms, get given my room number, and wander down to find my bed.

In the dorm is a girl (so normal! What is going on!?), and she says hi. I ask, “Aren’t we supposed to be silent?” She laughs, and says “I know! What’s going on!?” And she’s so like me! She lives in Coogee, her shelf is full of Nivea products, she’s nervous and baffled, and her friends think she’s insane for doing this.

So suddenly everything seems kind of fine, and I head back to the dining room, excited by what lies ahead. I meet women from all corners of the globe, all excited and nervous and (I hate to repeat myself, but I really must), so very normal!

And finally, after dinner, we head to the meditation hall, giggling and chatting away, and as soon as we enter, it all changes.

The atmosphere shifts so profoundly, you can almost feel it. Noble silence has descended. For the next nine days we will not speak, not smile, not touch, not acknowledge each other in any way. We will also meditate for ten hours a day.

To be honest, the silence comes very naturally to me. For one who spends every waking moment chattering away, the sudden need to just shut the fuck up is quite liberating. What I do find incredibly hard is not acknowledging others in other ways. Smiling – my definitive characteristic and answer to everything – becomes taboo. Even a tilt of the head, a hand gesture, the most basic elements of interaction in a human society, are forbidden. I struggle.

Meditation, on the other hand, seems a piece of cake. Basically, every time I sit down, I fall asleep. Is this what meditation is? I focus on my breath, and instantly drop off. I sleep constantly. For the first two days, I do little else. I sleep during breaks, during meditation hours, at night. Who knew I was so tired? Perhaps, subconsciously, I did.

Mind over matter
Day three arrives. And suddenly, I’m done with sleeping. Not tired at all. Wide awake. Now things get hard. Now I have to actually meditate. I didn’t come here for meditation as such, so this is no easy task. I came for a break. I don’t know how to meditate. I can hardly concentrate for more than three seconds. I’m like a fish, with a particularly difficult case of A.D.D..

Problem.

But when there’s absolutely nothing else to do, one can’t help but listen. So I listen to instructions, and I begin concentrating on my breathing. I can’t sleep, so instead my mind starts going at a million miles an hour. I start remembering obscure moments, things I haven’t thought about in years. This is exactly what I wanted, what I came here for. I want to go through this overflowing mental bank and process what I’ve seen, where I’ve been. Who has come in and out of my life, what they’ve taught me, how they helped me, how they hurt me. I think I cannot possibly get through it all, and I’m probably right.

I spend countless hours with my mind for company. Truth be told, they’re wonderful hours. In my overly-verbalised life, my own opinions seem to be the only ones I don’t disagree with. For the first time in I don’t know how long, I don’t constantly feel like I have to defend myself, have to think of the right words to win an argument. It’s quite a relief. Myself and I have been through a lot together. We have plenty to laugh at, plenty to cry over. Lots of reminiscing to do. We talk, we sing, we shed a tear or two. We remember moments long forgotten, scenarios long buried. We do what we came here for.

But just as suddenly as this phase begins, it fizzles. I need new stimulus. My memories alone don’t seem to be enough.

And so, on day four, seemingly out of nowhere, and yet (on reflection) so clearly the next logical step, I truly meditate.

The Vipassana meditation is a beautiful, practical, simple concept. I am totally converted, and feel myself becoming calmer, becoming happier – whether or not this lasts is another question. On day four, I’m flying high.

Day five – I crash.

How can this be!? I am frustrated, annoyed, and I mope around for hours in bed.

Bed. A strange place.

When one is in a relationship, endless hours may be spent in bed. Fucking, fighting, feeding, fooling around (not necessarily in that order), the bed becomes the centre of a couple’s universe.

When one is single thought, bed is where you sleep. Life becomes far more vertical. Breakfast in bed for one seems a rather silly concept.

But when there’s nothing to do, the best place to do it, is in bed. Curled up under blankets, more and more thoughts come racing through. Countless plans are made, resolutions reached, imaginary conversations had. There is some snoozing, sure, but mostly just totally obscure thoughts. A clearing out of the hard-to-reach corners of the brain.

At first, the incredibly beautiful grounds of the Vipassana meditation centre provided the perfect backdrop for all this cleansing. Flowers, trees, birds and bees. Mountains, fresh air … it’s all so serene, your inner Zen can’t help but come out.

At some point thought, a few days after arriving, it begins to rain. My inner Buddha sits and watches the rain. Rejoicing at the idea that there’s something new to look at, I’m all peace and love. I plan to wait for the rain to pass, checking out the serenity, instead of braving it on my walk from the meditation hall back to my room. I would’ve been waiting for a long time, since the rain didn’t stop for the next four days, but luckily at that point a volunteer came along with a giant bunch of hodge-podge umbrellas.

Now, it’s not a particularly well-known fact, but the truth is that I have a few very peculiar passions in life. I enjoy red dice with white dots; quality tiles; half-Asian, half-Black children; and all things umbrella-related.

One of my favourite things about living in Japan was the opportunity to sample a new umbrella every day, sometimes several times a day. When umbrellas are so cheap, and all look pretty much the same, you never leave a bar, a restaurant, or even your work, with the same umbrella you came in with. It’s like an endless game you’re playing with an entire city, and I miss it!

So here, once again, the game began. But since there were about 50 women, and only 30 or so umbrellas, the game got a whole new aspect to it. Before leaving the hall, one would take an umbrella, open it, and wait to see if someone else wanted to join you. Without a word being spoken, or a gesture shared, you would walk together, sheltering from the rain, and then part ways. So simple. So effective.

How many times have I found myself soaking wet in Martin Place, while a businessman standing next to me, with an umbrella stretching half-way across the galaxy, averts his eyes and pretends not to notice how I longingly stare at the dry spot next to him? Many. I’m just saying.

Doing time
I remember how, a few years ago, I told a friend that I’d like to get arrested on day, just so I could have the experience of spending time in prison. Just a short time, mind you. Nothing excessive. I simply wanted to feel some of what imprisonment must mean.

Well, my rebel days are pretty much over, I think. And, as long as no major changes happen in the world, I can’t really see myself going to jail, so I'd say Vipassana is as close as I’m going to get.

So let’s do the comparisons. You’re in a confined area. You cannot leave. Men and women are separated, but you can spot them somewhere in the distance. You have a strict regiment, that you must stick to. You line up to get food ladled out to you. Your freedom of choice is essentially removed. Nobody smiles. You exercise for an hour each day, going around in circles. The boredom is mind-boggling. Of course, it’s not maximum-security, and there is a certain degree of trust. But you are watched, and every person is accounted for.

When there is nothing to do, the few options you do have, become absolute life-lines. Showering takes on a saintly aspect. Even during my busiest times, I take obscenely long showers. At Vipassana, they became completely ridiculous.

Eating is another one. The 5pm tea-time was my favourite example of human nature. At Vipassana, the last proper mean of the day is at 11. At 5, one gets tea and two pieces of fruit.

Picture yourself with this offering. How long can you possibly take to get through it? Five minutes? Ten?

Normally, I have a cup of tea while reading the paper, chatting to my flatmate, listening to music, sending an sms, and feeling guilty about the 25 other things I’m not doing. It takes about four minutes to get through a cup. The fruit, usually eaten while running late for the bus, typing an email on my phone, and humming some tune stuck in my head, maybe gets another three minutes. That is all.

But suddenly you have all the time in the world. And it’s your last meal of the day. So a ritual begins. It’s incredible to see 50 women take 45 minutes to cut up two pieces of fruit, pour themselves some tea, and then savour every moment, every mouthful, as if their sanity depends on it. Which, perhaps, it does.

And so, the days go by. Sometimes the mediation is better, sometimes worse. Sometimes you feel alone, and then a tiny piece of interaction occurs with another meditator – you stop to look at a frog that’s crossed your path together; you accidentally flick an apple at them over lunch, and see them smile out of the corner of your eye; you walk by the bathrooms at the same time and overhear a girl crying, and you cannot help but acknowledge each other. And then, for one instant, your sense of normality is restored.

Every night you watch a video of the head teacher discussing what you’ve been through that day. He is the Burmese man who brought the Vipassana teachings to the masses, and he is hilarious and wonderful – teaching, encouraging, amusing. You live for those videos, for the easy laughter they inspire. You want to keep his smiling face with you always. You want to take him home to dinner. His is the only voice you hear, so your mind begins to sound like him. It is an odd sensation.

And time does its thing. And the days go by.

The beginning of the end, the end of the beginning
Suddenly it’s the ninth day. And over the 45 minute tea, sitting on the balcony, surrounded by the sun and silence, you realise that this is the last silent break you will share together with these women. Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone …

And so, before you know it, day ten arrives. After the morning meditation, the Noble Silence is over. No one quite knows what to do. You come out of the hall a little shell-shocked. Then you exchange some smiles, a bit of a whisper. Someone let’s out a yelp, and the floodgates are open! Never has there been so much to say. Your mouth can’t work fast enough, your throat has forgotten how to make sounds. Hours fly by. These faces, that you’ve stared at for days, that you’ve made assumptions about, built up lives and characteristics for in your head, suddenly come to life, and it’s wonderful and easy, and you’re so happy! So happy!

You’ve shared so much, and yet you know nothing about each other – but you all understand. You’ve been through something huge, and you’ve changed in a way you’re not sure you quite understand yet, but you’re sure you’ll like.

There is so much laughter! So much noise and silliness … how I’ve missed it! I love these women! Now that I can hear them speak, I think I could easily stay for another ten days, just to hear their stories.

A Vipassana course, although ten days long, actually runs over 12 days. The day you arrive, and the day you leave, are not part of the count. But, of course, I already had plans for the early morning of the 12^th day, and had to leave slightly early. A leopard does not change its spots.

And so, with trademark insanity, I found myself sneaking out of Vipassana on the last night. The sneaking was not my idea. The women’s manager decided it would not be wise for the others to know that I was leaving … or so she said. I actually think she just enjoyed the ridiculous James Bond style scenario she invented, which meant I was forbidden to say goodbye, had to sneak through the industrial-sized kitchen, hide my bags in a random tent, and jump into a waiting taxi, which emerged from the misty night, as if in a dream. A fittingly surreal end to a bizarre journey.

I guess that there are many things one can do to change the patterns of one’s mind. I’ve tried a few over the years. There’s drugs, dancing, orgasms. There’s pushing yourself to ride up a hill in the middle of the desert, in 40 degree heat, when your body doesn’t feel like it’s your own, and your mind cannot process a single thought. There’s climbing a mountain in the middle of the night, so cold and tired, and out of your head with altitude sickness that the furthest thing from you is a functioning mind. And then there’s meditation. I don’t know if it’s the tool, but it’s certainly a tool, and one that – completely unexpectedly – seemed to work for me.

Unlike so many of the other spiritual experiences that I’ve taken part in, at Vipassana, I didn’t feel like I missed out on something because of a lack of faith. On my trek through the Camino de Santiago, I was constantly aware that had I had a connection to the beautiful churches I walked past every day, I would have received a completely different experience. While hiking up Mount Fuji, a part of me wished that the shrines along the way had some meaning for me, the way they did for so many others. Even on Friday nights at synagogues around the world, I found myself longing for the connection that the others in the congregation so obviously had. And yet here, in a place so seemingly removed from my life, I found that the lack of dogma totally spoke to me. It wasn’t about religion, wasn’t about this god, or that, just about you – and your own happiness, your own sanity of mind. Your own balance, your own reactions to the world around you. It made sense.

And so, perhaps a closing statement is necessary. But I’m not sure I have one, to be honest.

Am I glad I did it? Absolutely. Did I get what I wanted? Yes, and much, much more. Would I recommend it to others? To some yes, to some, no. Will I go back? I think so. Am I a different person? I doubt it, but it remains to be seen. Right now, I’m just looking for a little more conversation, a little more action, please.

The median is the message

2010-09-28T16:27:00.000+10:00

That Marshall McLuhan sure was a clever fellow. Far too clever for me, since I spent the majority of my years at university pretending to understand why the medium was the message, while secretly having panic attacks at the back of the lecture hall.

But I think I've got it now. And it's all to do with a small typo.

What McLuhan must've meant is that the median is the message. And the past month in Australia is the best proof one can get.

What is this ‘median' I speak of? Why it's the average of course. The middle ground, with no winner or loser, no upsets, no elations, just a nice flat run of the mill result.

According to this theory then, it is the median itself, not the content it carries, that should be the focus of study. It's not about how sporting teams are playing, or who we're electing (or not electing). It's about indecision. And it's in our national psyche.

So the message must be that we used to be indecisive, but now we're not so sure, right?

Julia Gillard, no stranger to the dissatisfaction of a drawn-out result, made an ominous prediction on Sunday morning. "Please, please, we cannot have a draw," she joked. Her worry being that "I'm not sure our nation's strong enough to take it." As a fall-back plan, in the event that the whole political thing doesn't work out, I really think she could take over from Harry the Croc with her predictive prowess.

Is it true that our nation's not strong enough to take it? I'd say there's no better country for it! Don't win or lose, just draw. After all, didn't we invent the tall poppy syndrome?

These drawn out weeks, with their lack of satisfaction, must be a sign from the gods above that in the land of Aus we are all equal. And none are more equal than others.

Here's to celebrating all that's anti-climactic, and to learning not to take it all so seriously. As our aptly named national icon, Dame Edna Everage, once put it, "Never be afraid to laugh at yourself, after all, you could be missing out on the joke of the century."

This blog first appeared on Yahoo!7.

Insufficient fair dinkumness

2010-09-15T18:22:00.001+10:00

Rob Oakeshott's speech was long. Very long, in fact. Though surely each and very one of us would do the same if we knew the entire nation was holding its collective breath and hanging on to our every word.

What I'd maybe do a little differently is not say "insufficient fair dinkumness," while making sure the listeners all knew I was standing by my beliefs. Let's just break that up. Insufficient. Fair. Dinkumness. After hearing him utter that phrase, I've thought of nothing else all week.

Top notch Aussie slang is hard to beat. Ask any migrant trying to navigate their way between "chuck a u-ey", "chuck a sickie", and "chuck a spas", and you're bound to gain a hilarious insight into the "strain" version of English.

But in this instance my problem is not with the expression itself (I'm actually pondering including it in my regular lexicon, so moved was I by it) but what it means. What is this "insufficient fair dinkumness" he speaks of? Is the average dinky-di Aussie all that fair dinkum these days?

As a show of my rather poor knowledge of my homeland's culture I actually had to look up "fair dinkum" and, according to my dictionary app, it is an "Australian adjective meaning genuine or authentic."

Perhaps this was Oakeshott's throwback to the saga of the "real Julia," but I doubt it.

To me, fair dinkumness would probably be more closely associated with overall decent behaviour. Australia seems to be on a decent behaviour mission at the moment, so it's all rather appropriate.

Everywhere you look we're up on our high horse, publicly denouncing the bad behavior of those in the media. Whether this behaviour is thoughtless tweeting, inappropriate facebook updates, unrequited groping, or smoking pages of holy books, Australia says no!

Never before has the opportunity existed for every single act of stupidity to come under the tireless gaze of the public, to be so readily scrutinised by the masses.

But do we actually hold ourselves up to quite the same standard of "fair dinkumness" as we expect those aforementioned characters to adhere to? I'd say probably not.

Deadset mate, it's just un-Australian. Fair dinkum!

This blog first appeared on Yahoo!7.

A stimulating package

2010-09-10T18:22:00.000+10:00

Call me a spoilt brat, but the truth is that the biggest effect the GFC had on my sheltered little world, was the fact K-Rudd gave me nearly a thousand bucks, which I promptly spent - while feeling like I was doing my bit for my nation. Easy come, easy go. This was the sort of stimulus package I could identify with, as my newly purchased goods were being packed up.

This was a while ago though, and the stimulating ideas of 2010 look quite different from the heyday of the Rudd era.

It's all about thinking outside the box. So, if you happen to be in Australia, that means looking to the outback. Here we are, housing the world's largest wild population of the Camelus dromedarius (the one-humped camel), and instead of making the most of this bizarre national gift, we're simply turning our backs on them.

Well, not anymore. Australians are being urged to eat more camel meat. Drink more camel milk, and wear more camel fur. All in the name of the economy. Apparently, there's some sort of use for camel urine as well, but i think that's really asking a bit much in the name of putting the nation before the individual.

Speaking of nation before individual, Russia has their own bright ideas for helping out the fragile economy - drink up comrades, and make sure you do it with a delicious ciggie hanging from your mouth. According to Russian finance minister Alexei Kudrin, those who smoke and drink are doing more to help the State.

Russians don't really need to be pushed to partake in the nation's favourite hobby, but once you justify something by making it a sacrifice for the greater good, any act can take on an almost religious fervor.

While increasing taxes is seen as a way to curb people's smoking addiction in the Western world, for Russia, money talks, giving a whole new meaning to the economy going up in smoke.

Greece on the other hand is taking the opposite approach - telling their countrymen to kick the nasty habit (once again, for the greater good). Help the crisis-hit economy by curbing the effect of smoking-related diseases on the nation's over-stretched public health system, say Hellenic authorities.

They might have very similar alphabets and orthodox churches, but clearly something in the national psyche of the Greeks and the Russians means they're polar opposites when it comes to cold, hard cash.

So here's what we do. You think of something you want or need, and then create a bit of a hype about how it'll help the nation, and even the world, in its hour of need. Want to go on a diet? Very good for the economy. It's in bad shape. Eat more chocolate? Even better for the poor economy. It's a little on the weak side. Love seeing vampires not making out with teen girls? Or wearing "vampire drag" - whatever that means? Well, it's simply amazing for the economy - brings in $9 billion for the world. Very stimulating indeed.

After all, when the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.

This blog first appeared on Yahoo!7.

The art of failing

2010-09-01T19:51:00.000+10:00

I read an article over the weekend, which praised the art of failure. Apparently, success is out. Failure is the new black. Post GFC, there's a new movement in town. The Great Failure Craze. Welcome.

The people are embracing failure as never before. We're seeing only good things come out of the ability to say "I failed." Companies see it as a way of investing in our creativity. Sportspeople are enjoying being more ‘human' to their fans, and politicians are, as ever, on the lookout for the brand new popularity movement in public opinion polls.

And after each failure, comes the realisation that things can only go up from here.

So here we are. Let's reflect on the week that was. Our leaders failed to inspire us, so we failed to elect them. Ben Cousins failed to stay away from drugs, and we failed to see that as a negative reflection on his sporting abilities - not to mention good looks. China failed to sort out its traffic jam for two weeks, so the poor truck drivers failed to get their illegal coal to its destinations. Paris Hilton failed to avoid more legal troubles, while we failed to stifle a yawn.

The great art of failure is not confined to those in the headlines. It's about all of us.

And in this particular movement, I'm way ahead of the crowd. As one who fails both regularly and enthusiastically, I can comfortably say, that there's nothing like the sense of relief that comes from realising you've completely and utterly failed. If the failure is only partial, it often hurts far more. It's only the truly momentous and complete failings that set us free.

How frightening the concept of failure would have been if I'd never experienced it. The pressure to be perfect would, I imagine, have felt like walking a tight rope whose end was also a noose hanging around one's neck. I'm getting jittery just thinking about it.

Is this what it's like to be flawless? How terrible! To never come up with a personal equivalent of the iSnack 2.0, or the original Coke Mother must be incredibly stifling. In fact, I can't help but fail to comprehend it.

Anyway, more importantly success is rarely, if ever, funny. It's not even particularly good for party chatter. Who ever remembers the person with the perfect hair and graceful entrance? On the other hand, the one that tumbles over their hem, setting off a domino effect of nonsense, is sure to go down a treat.

It's time to jump on the bandwagon. Everybody now, say it out loud: I fail, and I'm proud.

This blog first appeared on Yahoo!7.

Animal instincts

2010-08-23T23:53:00.000+10:00

I woke up on Sunday morning with the disastrous realisation that my phone had run out of battery. Panic! How would I know who our wonderful nation's new leader was without the all-knowing iPhone?

Not one to lose my cool under pressure though, I went to the next best news source. Forget televisions, computers, radio or even the paper (yes, they do still have those): I had a better plan.

I don't intend to get left behind when a new trend comes in, and the people world-over have spoken - the new trend is telepathetic animals. Oh sorry. Typo. Telepathic.

So I asked the cat "what's the story, Nicky?" I gave specific instructions - if we have a hung parliament, go and sit under the washing line. (I was going to tell him to go and stare at the neighbour that never seems to wear any pants, but thought I'd keep things PG.)

If Abbott's our new leader, on the other hand, go jump in the pool (not as a suicide act, but purely for symbolic reasons. Surely, in this scenario, the new national uniform would be the skimpy Speedo, and we may as well get in shape).

Nicky kept on sleeping.

This was not part of the equation. So I thought I'd give it another try, and turned to the dog.

The dog was given specific instructions too. Lick your right ear if we're leaning right. Left ear, if left. Nose if we're still undecided. He decided to lick my nose instead. Confusing.

So clearly the animals in my life are not of the future-predicting variety. This is a shame, because every other pet owner in the world seems to be cashing in on the predictive powers of their creatures of choice.

Even Paul the octopus couldn't stay away from the glitz and glamour of the telepathy spotlight, and has come out of retirement. This week he predicted that England will succeed in their bid to host the 2018 World Cup.

According to former England international John Barnes, who is also a fellow ambassador for England's bid, "Paul the Octopus is undoubtedly one of the biggest names in football, so news of him becoming an official England 2018 Ambassador is tremendous."

One of the biggest names in football. Seriously.

Closer to home, lives Dirty Harry the psychic crocodile. Asked who would win the election on Friday, he quickly snapped at the meat which was hung below a picture of Julia Gillard. Hung. Interesting. Perhaps the croc's handler was the real psychic with predictive powers, revealed in his choice of test for Dirty Harry.

As things stand, the nation, and its animal population, remains in limbo. We're on the edge of our seats, and all I'm asking is: could a real psychic animal please stand up?

This blog first appeared on Yahoo!7.

Taking flight

2010-08-17T01:35:00.000+10:00

As a child, my absolutely favourite movie was Aladdin. My brother and I must've watched it hundreds upon hundreds of times. On repeat. We'd play it from start to finish, look at each other with slightly guilt-ridden, questioning eyes, and with that unspoken understanding of siblings, rewind it back for another go.

I know that movie off by heart, and quote it constantly (it really is incredible how appropriate the evil Jafar can be in the modern adult world!). The part that's been in my mind non-stop this week though, is the moment when Aladdin first boards the magic carpet.

He's pissed off Genie, you see, and Genie's mad! "Excuse me?" the giant purple Genie draws out, "Are you lookin' at me? Did you rub my lamp? Did you wake me up, did you bring me here? And all of a sudden, you're walkin' out on me?" He's getting madder and madder, and as he does so, he takes on the form of a flight attendant (see what I'm getting at here?) grows lots and lots of arms, and runs through the standard safety checks. Being on a magic carpet, this is a less formal affair than us mere mortals, taking flight in conventional planes, would be used to.

"In case of emergency, the exits are here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, anywhere! Keep your hands and arms inside the carpet, weeee'rrrrrree ... outta here!"

And so, the carpet and its passengers fly out of the cave, where just moments before they were to be trapped in for all eternity, and head off into the distant desert.

The powerful Genie is both flight attendant and pilot in this instance. So he gets the sexy outfit, and the hilarious miming hand gestures, while commanding total respect as the ship's captain.

In real life, things are not quite so simple. Especially in the respect department.

Just one week ago, hardly anybody had heard of Steven Slater, the JetBlue flight attendant whose outburst has captured our imaginations and earned the New Yorker millions of fans around the world.

Why has this happened? I'd say it's the fact that no matter how much the rest of us fantasise about the perfect dramatic escape from our workplaces, we never do work up the courage to do it. And if we ever do leave at all, it's usually with our so-called tails hanging low.

I imagine Slater's desperate need for escape to be approximately equivalent to the frustration I'm feeling right now, while sitting on the couch and listening to the incessant, even spaced, incredibly loud hammering coming from upstairs. Anyone in the torture business should try to include this in their repertoire.

But I digress.

The accounts of Steven Slater's dramatic exit from his flight vary. Some say he verbally abused a passenger who'd tried to get their luggage out too early (how many of us have been guilty of that particular crime in the past?), others, that he'd been hit in the head. The truth is that it doesn't really matter, because the exit via an emergency slide, with a beer in hand, is hilarious. Wrong or right, truth or pure gossip, is another issue. The amusement factor is unquestionable.

Pilots definitely don't have to deal with this rubbish, and as passengers, we go all woozy when we see their uniforms - speaking in almost hushed tones as they walk by.

Just hearing the words "this is your captain speaking" makes us jump to attention. Kind of like we did in primary school, when the principal walked through the door. Sometimes I even find myself subconsciously wanting to tuck in my shirt when I hear that authoritative tone.

Flight attendants, on the other hand, get a bad wrap. And it's a shame. I mean, really, they're just there to do what seems to be a pretty thankless job, while cranky passengers roll their eyes, and pretend to turn off their handheld electronic devices. It's true, you do it as well.

If only we all had magic carpets to fly on, things might be different. No emergency exit slide would be required, luggage would be stored right there beside you, and legroom would be endless. Plus those Turkish carpets are very pretty, unlike the incredibly boring and bland interiors of your average budget airline.

Incidentally, Turkish airlines, have just announced that 28 of their flight attendants have been told to lose weight, or lose their jobs. The Genie was certainly never scrutinised in such a way. And he was a rather large purple blob, believe you me.

This blog first appeared on Yahoo!7.

The name game

2010-08-09T16:00:00.000+10:00

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, right? But what if the rose was named Adolf Hitler? And what if Adolf Hitler was actually a child living in New Jersey. Not so sweet, right?

This week the New Jersey parents who gave their children Nazi-inspired names lost custody of their kids after a state appeals court ruled that a history of domestic violence was putting the children at risk of abuse and neglect. This had nothing to do with the names, but perhaps the rather disturbing name choices can be seen as symptomatic of far more worrying problems in the family home.

Most Western countries have no restrictions on baby names, though Germany does stand out with some very strict rules in that department. I particularly love the rule that forbids any names that could cause future humiliation to the child. I'm not all that enthused about the nanny state side of things, but they're certainly on to something.

How many kids have suffered bullying all through their childhood just because of their parents' absolute disregard for the meaning of the name they chose? In my own school, I recall an unfortunate kid named Richard Head, who endured years of unnecessary torment.

But is the potential torment worse when parents intentionally choose names that they predict will affect the course their chil''s life will take? I think so.

A couple of years ago, The Wall Street Journal reported that new parents were choosing 'unique' names in order to make their children more prominent in Google searches. With this 'Google-ability' they hoped to increase their child's future value in all aspects of self-marketing - considering everything from the dating world, to job hunting.

My own parents thought long and hard for the perfect name for their little baby girl. Eventually (in what I consider to be one of the better episodes in the comedy of errors that is my life), after vetoing each and every name that either of them suggested, they settled on the sensible 'Lena'. In mother Russia, where I was born, this had absolutely no original value. The Russian version of 'Tom, Dick and Harry' would have to be 'Lena, Misha and Sasha'.

Furthermore, it somehow escaped my parents' attention that in naming their daughter Lena Zak they were giving her the exact same first and last name as her one and only aunt. From that day onwards (as a means of distinguishing between the two of us) I would forever be known as 'Little Lena' to my family.

Did this affect me? Perhaps. Did it encourage an eternal infantilism and make truly growing up an impossibility? Possibly. Could this be why, at the ripe old age of 27, I'm still being asked for ID every time I try to buy myself a drink? Maybe. Was this the result my parents were going for? Probably not.

According to Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner, the writers of Freakonomics, the predictive powers that parents believe the very act of naming their child will give them, have little basis in reality. A child's name, they say, "is an indicator - but not a cause - of his life path." And that life path will be far more reflective of who that child's parents are, than in what name they come up with.

In naming their child, parents can seem to be signaling their own expectations for that child's life, but statistically speaking, their actual name choice won't make a shred of difference.

Now, I can't tell you what to do, but if one day you do find yourself choosing between Amanda and Armani, Peter and President, or Nicole and Nike, maybe give the matter some thought. After all, a rose named Adolf is anything but sweet.

This blog first appeared on Yahoo!7.

Here to stay?

2010-08-03T03:09:00.000+10:00

Are we naturally monogamous creatures? Is there such a thing as truly falling in love for life? And is it just me, or are relationships all around getting shorter and shorter? These are the questions that have been plaguing my mind this week, as my parents celebrate their anniversary after 28 years of marital bliss, at some exotic location, half-way around the world.

Coincidentally, this is also the week that a new book, aiming to destroy the myth of marvelous monogamy has been released. Sex at Dawn, by Christopher Ryan and Cacilda Jetha, has set out to prove, once and for all, that we were simply not meant to mate for life. That monogamy should be seen as a lifestyle choice. Like being a vegan. Something that might seem morally superior on paper, but undoubtedly causes some unpleasant side-effects.

These side-effects are far-ranging. Divorce rates in the Western World are through the roof; ministers are being fired left, right and centre, as a result of our moral outrage at their 'promiscuous indecency'; the porn industry is raking in billions; Nike's ‘Just Do It' ads, starring Tiger Woods, will never again be thought of without an ironic smirk; and some poor woman in Ohio just made a most unfortunate Facebook stalking discovery that her husband had a whole other life - complete with wife and family.

But is all this mess avoidable? Well, according to Sex at Dawn it is. Apparently, humans are "a hypersexualised species hard-wired for promiscuity." It's all in the balls (scientifically speaking). According to the book, "the size of an animal's testicles have been shown to be directly related to the promiscuity of the females (in that species)." As the author explains, "the more promiscuous the female, the larger the male's testicles have to be." It's a numbers game, you see. And the one with the most sperm - wins.

Ryan has (half-jokingly) questioned whether the recent reductions in human sperm count could be an indication that monogamy could literally be responsible for "shrinking men's balls" ... and here I was thinking it's the excessive consumption of soy lattes.

Mel Gibson's recent fall from grace - and spiral to disgrace - seems to have started with the break-down of his 28 year marriage. Here he was, a happily married man, with that cheeky smile, and sensible (even if rather conservative) belief system, and the world was behind him. Enter affairs, divorce, alcohol-fuelled anti-Semitic rants, and being re-cast as a ‘racist misogynist', and suddenly - not so popular.

The brilliantly irony of this tale is that ‘our Mel' is named after the Irish Saint Mel - the patron saint for singles.

If only he'd never been forced to conform to societal pressure of monogamy at all costs. If only he'd been allowed to embrace Sex at Dawn's assertions that human beings are in fact the ‘randiest' creatures on the planet. Surely, in that case, all this repressed tension would never have exploded in such an unfashionably foul way.

The truth is though that we are the first species ever to systematically tame the natural purpose of sex - that of procreation - with countless contraceptive devices and inventions. So regardless of what we may or may not be naturally predisposed to do, that drive can't, and shouldn't really, be used as a justification for ongoing multiple partners. After all, we're hardly trying to carry out our biologically predetermined purpose of ensuring the survival of the fittest while drunkenly scouting a bar for tonight's one-night-stand.

But if it be due to nature or nurture, the pattern of partnership is unlikely to go away. And whether it be for the wrong reasons, or the right ones; for love, or the fantasy fairytale and Hollywood ending; it doesn't really matter. Love, as they say, is here to stay.

This blog first appeared on Yahoo!7.

From Russia with lust

2010-07-26T22:07:00.000+10:00

Let's be frank. Spies are hot. Even when they're not hot, they're hot. Like firemen, but with better outfits. And when the hot spies are actually hot, well then the world goes gaga.

And boy have we been going gaga for the hot Russian spy, Anna Chapman! Her apparently minor role in 'the biggest espionage intrigue since the heyday of the Cold War' has not had any affect on the buzz of interest around her, which simply refuses to die down.

The fact is, everyone loves a good spy story. There's the mystery, the sexy locations in the world's most glamorous hot-spots, the outfits, the exotic names, the secret identities, the complex passwords, the techie tools, and of course there's Bond. James Bond.

But perhaps the concept of the 'spy saga' is a little dated? Do secret information-gathering missions really have a place in a world where every moment of every life seems to be so well documented all over Twitter, Facebook, YouTube and all the rest?

Maybe it's just a dissatisfied sense of nostalgia that's keeping us from changing the channel, flicking the page, and going, "been there, Red that".

Or maybe it's the simple fact that sex sells. Period.

This week, Russia's president Vladimir Putin, himself no stranger neither to the world of spying (being a former KGB agent), nor the glamorous role of sex symbol (the Russians seem to find the idea of their bare-chested male leaders far less repulsive than we do Down Under - whether this says more about the leaders in question, or their policies on freedom of speech, is a separate issue), met with his country's recently returned spies for what is reported to have been 'a traditional sing-along'.

Following the meeting, the President assured the public that he was certain the spies "will have an interesting and bright life."

Personally, I couldn't agree more. Though I do think the bright lights of "life" might shine on Miss Chapman with a slightly rosier tint than on her other, less photogenic, former colleagues.

Already Russian tabloids are referring to her as "Agent 90-60-90" in reference to her hourglass figure. Her figure has been further immortalised in a set of action figurines. The fact that they look nothing like her seems to be beside the point. They are topless. And holding guns.

In a most unusual twist of fate, this weekend also saw the release of Angelina Jolie's new movie - based on the unlikely tale of a hot Russian spy in America. How very timely! In case the parallels were too subtle for the average viewer though, Jolie made sure that Miss Chapman was invited to the premier.

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times," Anna wrote in a recent Facebook status update. As the voyeur in each of us continues the 'I Spy Anna' game, one thing is for sure - for better or worse, when it comes to Anna Chapman, the sultry spy - it's only the beginning.

This blog first appeared on Yahoo!7.

A veiled threat

2010-07-19T22:39:00.000+10:00

For some time now, I have been noticing an overwhelming rise in the wearing of a certain type of garb that greatly offends me. Now, don't get me wrong - I'm as open-minded as they come - but within reason. And reason is exactly what seems to be going out the window.
There have to be some standards, some markers of what is and isn't acceptable to our modern-day, Western society, and this is just not on.

I propose putting it to a vote, and then, based on the results (which I can only assume will point favourably towards my own line of thinking), I suggest passing a law prohibiting the public display of any items of clothing from the Ed Hardy label.

That's right. You heard me. I know it seems extreme, but really it's only your overt political correctness, so ingrained in every fibre of your being, that's stopping you from agreeing with me!

Ed Hardy, for those who do not know (and who can blame you?), is a brand of clothing which borders on the obscene, not just for its ridiculous price tags, but also for the flashiness of its 'vintage tattoo' themed designs - with tacky tigers, sickening skulls, horrid hearts, and sordid sparkly detailing.

I mean, not only are they aesthetically unappealing, they're clearly offensive, and in fact - a danger to society.

Have you seen the size of those caps? Well they cover half the face, making it impossible to properly see the wearer, who is further protected from being recognised by the distasteful brightness of the excess colouring of his matching Ed Hardy shirt - blinding all who cross his path, and leaving them exposed to all sorts of mistreatment.

And surely no one is actually choosing to wear something quite so hideous? I mean, it's clearly pressure from certain marginal sectors of society that's making all those young people think they have to dress in this way. And who is benefitting? Well certainly not the overall community.

According to the modern cultural bible "Stuff White People Like", the 124th-highest rating hobby for the majority of our nation is hating people who wear Ed Hardy. Well, clearly there can be no further argument. If you choose to come to our country, you must adapt to our way of life. You must wear clothing that fits in with our values, and does not make you stand out from the crowd.

This is a vital issue, and I say - it is time to do something about it.

For some strange reason though there has been a lot of discussion this week focusing instead on the banning of the burqa from our public spaces. 82-per-cent of voters in a Yahoo!7 survey made it clear that they want the ban to go through.

But I say, let's focus on the bigger issue. Considering the numbers under discussion, clearly the far more pressing danger to our fragile society is this monstrous act against fashion.

It's simply un-Australian. So as Hardy as it is, we must act now people, before it's too late.

This blog first appeared on Yahoo!7.

Reading into things ...

2010-07-19T09:23:00.000+10:00

I'm sitting in a cafe and reading a book that's making me cry. The book is about that one subject for which, no matter how many times you've been exposed to the story, there is no cushioning of its horror. The book is about Nazi germany. Sitting at my table are two men, one a professor, a visiting lecturer at Sydney uni - a German professor. Behind me are 2 couples. Uni students. One of the couples is telling the othe one about a friend of theirs, a Jewish girl, who has just moved to a new apartment, and who (last night) confessed to them that she was afraid to tell her new German housemate that she's Jewish. "Is she crazy?!" asks the other couple ... They all laugh. Maybe slightly uncomfortably. Or maybe I'm just reading into things ...

A comparative essay on Russian dining, Aussie style..

2010-06-23T15:31:00.008+10:00

Why do I have an aversion to all things Russian?

No, that's not quite right. I have an aversion to very specific aspects of Russian culture "Down Under".

I hate the lack of assimilation. Though at the same time I hate total assimilation and complete ignorance of one's past just as much. I hate the Russian fashion, but love a fab kitsch Russian hat with a fur trim. I hate the pop music blasting from the done up cars of ridiculous Russian youths, but happily listen to the beautiful lyrics of songs from my parents' generation and sing along to endless cartoon jingles.

I am totally turned off by Gorizont and get nauseous when I come across Russian news, but I do attend the yearly Russian film festival with an almost religious fervour. I long to visit the country of my birth, though I am repulsed by each and every piece of news that comes from there.

I turn into a silent mime the second I come across another Russian at a mall, and yet try to speak the language as much as I can with my family, throwing in constant linguistic references when talking to my friends. Many of whom are Russians. I see myself as totally removed from the community, and yet seem to know an obscene amount of people in it – and keep up with as much of the ridiculous gossip as I possibly can.

What is going on?!

With these questions on my mind, I embarked upon my "week of immersion". The saying goes "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em", and join them I did.

Starting with The Coachmen.

Formerly known as the Russian Coachman, this was once a place where I spent so much of my time, I knew literally every nook and cranny. Once upon a time, as my childhood was ending, friendships that would always remain innocent and pure in my memories were being played out on plush seats, nostalgic songs were being sung, my brother was falling asleep on velvet chairs, adults were getting drunk, declarations of love were being made. Dances were being danced, and awkward first kisses were being stolen in corners ... Oh, and my great-grandma was being given a box of Karma Sutra chocolates for her 90th birthday.

Well that was then. This is now.

No more familiarity, no more being part of the in crowd, no more favourite family friend being host. Now The Coachmen is just a cliché of what once was. Plush seats, dressed up dolls. Samovari and zakuski. It's girls dancing the cancan with nothing Russian about them (except their family names); buxom waitresses and slightly overcooked meat; and very thin slices of cake. It's not a place I would go of my own accord, but it's really not that bad. And the dancing – 7 to 77 year olds boogying it up on the dance floor ... Well that's priceless!

Next stop. Romance.

The restaurant. Not the concept. Unfortunately.

According to my mum, in the motherland, an eating establishment could be classified under 3 different categories – that of a Restaurant (the highest quality); a Cafe (middle range) and a Stolovaya (basically a hall with tables in it).

Well, Romance, with all its brilliant decorations, would most probably pass for a Stolovaya.

Regardless of this, it is PACKED. I must say that the food is not as good as at Coachmen – which is surprising, given the food wasn't that great at there either. The wait staff are also less friendly, and don't sing along with us when my Grandma's birthday cake comes out. Though, in fairness, there are 15 other tables with birthday celebrations going on, and perhaps they are over the Huppy Burzday song ...

On the other hand, this owner knows us, and so we are "svoi" – we belong. Of course all guests are equal, but some are more equal than others, and here we are those some. This doesn't really mean that we get bigger slices of cake or anything, but it does mean that they delay the loud singer from going on stage by 10 minutes so that we can have our private celebrations for my Grandma in our little corner.

But when she goes on, boy is she noticeable! Everyone hits the dance floor, and the only two non-Russians in the whole place stand out like sore thumbs as they try to navigate their way between the terrible renditions of daggy Russian pop and the even daggier and more terrible versions of English classics ... I vill servive! Sure you vill.

Finally, we save the best for last.

Now, perhaps this is cheating, so it doesn't exactly count, but it's not like I'm likely to go to Odessa anytime soon (at least not the one on Bondi Road) so my one and only visit for the last decade will just have to be good enough.

Ah Odessa, as we wrote in my mum's party invitation: "Bondi's premier venue for the who's who" ... Maybe we hyperbolised somewhat. What are you gonna do?

So Odessa, formerly known as Skaska, which is what it was back in the day when my ballroom dancing concerts were held there, is the place that you drive by on a Saturday night and see endless Russians milling about outside, smoking, chatting, wearing more bling than should strictly be allowed to appear in public all at the same time.

This is not really my kinda place, but boy was it great! Perhaps this has more to do with the crowd. 85 of my mum's most intimately close friends, not to mention topless cocktail waiters, and a divine tower of cupcakes. Well, who wouldn't enjoy that!?

The cosmos were endless, the caviar plentiful, the dancing constant, and the hilarity almost overwhelming.

The point? Well, there is no point. Except that I've had my fill of all things Russian for at least another decade. But if it just so happens that a life-or-death situation will force me into attending one of these establishments before that, well – I'm prepared. Always ready, go the Reds.

If anything can go wrong, it will..

2009-12-19T05:06:00.002+11:00

That's the theory, right? And it's a good one. And I'm all about proving theories right - especially the good ones. And what better day to choose than yesterday?

Except yesterday really starts the day before. Getting on the train, after work, and going to my embarrassing main source of daily news - the Mx - I discovered that Sydney's bus drivers were threatening to strike if they didn't get the $1/hour pay rise that they were demanding. "Yeah! Stick it to the man!" thought I, as I turned to the fashion pages, and forgot all about it.

Having left all my packing for NZ until the last minute (some things never do change), and continuing to procrastinate well into the night with endless re-runs of Sex and the City, I then spent many miserable hours washing clothes, drying clothes, packing and complaining about the unbearable heat during which I was supposed to put winter jackets into my over-stuffed suitcase.

Finally ready for bed (leaving most of the packing to be done in the morning), I went to say goodnight to my dad, who casually informed me that the strike was going ahead, scheduled for 24 hours, starting at 4am.

"Fantastic!" thought I. Luckily, my dad's working from home at the moment, and could give me a lift to the train station. Problem solved.

In the wee hours of the morning, ready to start the day fresh with a whole lotta packing, I woke up to the miserableness of a grey, rainy, depressing day. No worries, I had the perfect outfit to go with the theme - you see, yesterday was my work Christmas party.

Ready to leave at a relatively decent hour, with my packing miraculously completed, we drove off, through the now pouring rain, towards Central Station. As we were driving in near silence - my dad being very much BC, it was easy to spot the occasional strange sound coming from the car. The car had just been fixed for the fourth time in as many months, as my dad's battle with his insurance company continued to rage, and I thought: "Yeah! Stick it to the man!"

I arrived at work only 40 minutes late. Compared to the other bus commuters, I was actually borderline early. Wonderful.

At 11:30, with the rain coming down in bucket-loads, we left for our Christmas lunch. In cabs. Brilliant.

The plan - which had originally included my taking a bus from the Christmas party to meet my dad and drive with him to the airport, to take my 5:10pm flight - had been altered slightly. It was still a good one though. And totally workable. My brother had taken the car, needing to go to work, and not having access to a bus. He promised to bring it back home at 2:30, leaving my dad plenty of time to come and get me, and take me all the way to the airport. Brilliant.

At 11:45, upon arrival to the restaurant, I started to get drunk. Healthy.

At 2:45, my dad called to say that the car had broken down.

At 3, I left, with a cab voucher from my boss, intent on taking the train to the airport, and meeting my dad there - he would take a cab.

At 3:25, I had finished my walk/run (in heels) to the train station. There hadn't been a cab in sight.

At 4, I ran to the check-in-counter, just as the flight was about to close.

At 4:30 I boarded. In heels and a skirt. Like a total sl%t/B-grade celeb.

At 11:30 (NZ time) I landed in Christchurch and bumped into my family friends.

At 11:45, the customs people made me unpack my entire bag in order to have a look at a pair of hiking boots I hadn't worn in 4 months.

At midnight, after taking a cab to my roadside motel near the airport (I had cleverly tried to save $8 and had therefore booked the one motel in the vicinity without free airport transfers), and wanting to pay and head to be, I realised my wallet was missing.

In a panic, I made my poor driver floor it back to the airport. 'Floor it' is a very loose term in NZ.

Arriving at the airport, I left all my things in his car, made him turn off the meter while he waited for me, and ran back to the airport.

At 12:20, someone finally came to help me. I assured her the wallet had been with my when the bag first went onto the customs scanner, but had been missing since.

She went back into the customs section, and came back out (15 minutes later) with a policeman. Not a good sign.

In tears by this stage, I made a police report, a panicked, hysterical phone-call to Matan, and then walked back together with the cop to the poor cabby, who'd now been waiting for me for 30 minutes.

As the cop tried to reason with the cabby to give me his account details so I could transfer the money the next day, the poor man nearly cried - we would've made quite the pair!

Finally, after agreeing, he went to take my suitcase out of the boot. Lo and behold - my wallet was dangling on the end of the suitcase - hanging on for dear life!

The cop was overjoyed! He even gave me a hug and said "Welcome to NZ!"

The cabby was less impressed, but finally did the route to the motel with me for the third time, threw me out as quickly as possible, and drove off into the night.

1am now. I went to knock on the door. No answer. Knocked some more, still no answer.

Panic started setting in.

I walked around the motel, screamed a little, kicked some doors, screamed some more, then really gave the door a good thrashing.

Out of nowhere, the motel owner came out, finding a hysterical woman - still in her party outfit - having a fit in front of his establishment. He poured me a drink.

And so the saga ended.

A momentous start to what is sure to be a momentous trip.. let's see how day 2 goes.

How cats change as they get older

2009-12-01T11:31:00.000+11:00

Nine lives or not, cats age. They age and change, and the process is - on the one hand - rather traumatic for the cat's owner; but on the other - quite beautiful and calming.

Cat people are a special breed - they seem to enjoy feeling second-rate in their own home, enjoy being completely dominated by a tiny, furry creature, and enjoy the rare bursts of satisfaction that come from the creature's gestures and glances of approval.

So it is no surprise that the same people start to feel a sense of their own mortality as they watch their beloved pet's descent into old age.

My parents are two such people. Their beautiful cat, a black Persian with piercing orange eyes and the flattest face ever to grace the world outside of printed pages, is (and has been for some time now) the master of the house. He's the one that wakes up first in the morning, and demands to be let into their bedroom for a morning cuddle. He then demands to be let out again. After that, he demands a meal, demands a stretch on the warm outdoor tiles, and demands the occasional pat while sitting in my father's lap.

Unlike their dog, who can easily be distracted from his various demands with a carefully aimed toy, which can then keep him entertained for hours, the cat's brain is above and beyond such petty trickery.

Once upon a time, the cat, who was then a kitten, was a wild creature. He would chase anything that moved, run up the ethnic carpets hanging on the walls, and stay perched right at the top of said walls, hanging on by his nails for dear life, while suspiciously eyeing the nearby spiders. He would jump onto the highest surfaces, clean his copious amounts of fur day, after day, after day, run away from the garden to chase small bugs and birds, and bring his prey for us as gifts.

Those were the days!

Things are different now. Now, his bushy fur hides a very bony body underneath. Now, he sleeps constantly. He wouldn't chase anything if his life depended on it, and jumping over a barricade to reach his food (a barricade that exists to keep the dog out) takes some serious contemplation on his part.

His whiskers are greying, some of his teeth are gone, and the spring in his step is no longer quite there. He seems messier somehow.

But with that comes a newfound love for his owners. Whereas once he spent the majority of his day pursuing various private endeavours, he is now completely attached to family. He's happy to sit silently side by side with my father, hour after hour, requiring only the occasional moment of attention to keep him going. His tastes are simpler than they once were, and the gourmet cat food is a luxury he no longer cares for. There was a time, not that long ago, that a new toy would grab his attention and enthusiasm for days, but no more. He seems to have enough memories in his little head to keep his thoughts occupied day after day.

The truth is he seems to have reached a golden age of content. So what of the golden years? This feline's feelin' fine.

This article first appeared on Helium.

What a way to make a living..

2009-11-24T15:17:00.005+11:00

One should never become friends with one’s co-workers on facebook. It can only lead to problems. But what can you do once you’ve received a request to be friends with someone? You certainly cannot ignore it and pretend you NEVER go online, when you clearly spend 8 hours a day sitting in front of a computer screen and pretending to work.. and once one does befriend these co-workers, how can one avoid the overwhelming temptation to write about them on their blog!?

After my third cup of double-strength coffee for the day, sitting so low in my chair that i should technically be lying on the floor, how can I really resist this one possible avenue for the endless amounts of venting i so desperately want to do!?

How is it possible that in the workplace, perfectly normal people suddenly seem to morph into deranged, neurotic versions of themselves? How can seemingly harmless, non-sequential issues such as “should we have the radio on” turn into a 20 minute, 15 email debate, which eventually results in the deafening silence continuing – with only the endless tapping on keyboards as a replacement for some sort of rhythmic beat?

How can the world’s most annoying person repeat the same stories day in, day out? How can EVERY DAY begin with her explanations about the reasons for today’s particular back-ache, head-ache, dirty-hair, tired-feet, sore-wrists, upset-stomach, weight-gain, weather-weariness, lunch-choice, heat-stroke, cold-and-flu, shopping-woes, TV-viewing, and so on, and on, and on?

And the clock ticks 10. And the tapping continues. And so on, and on, and on.

Must be Laos, Laos, Laos

2009-08-08T15:02:00.014+10:00

Laos was a first for me for many reasons. My first time to travel completely on my own for such a significant period, but also my first real encounter with overwhelmingly severe poverty - not picturesque, not a lifestyle choice, and not limited to a few individuals. Poverty on a mass scale, and life stories that are full of sadness and suffering, in numbers that I hadn't imagined. But despite all that, Laos was full of smiles, laughter, and more kindness than I possibly could have expected.

It was the people I met that made these last weeks so interesting, and it is them that I'd like to write about.

The first Lao character to come across my path was the driver's assistant on my 20 hour hell bus journey from Hanoi to Vientiane. While I split my time evenly between vomiting and trying not to vomit, this beautiful woman, dressed in a green sarong and matching suit jacket, managed to look perfectly presentable the entire time, kept the driver entertained with endless chatter, shared her fruit with me, didn't bat an eyelid when the bus pulled over and every single occupant got out to pee by the side of the road (none of this pretentious bathroom rubbish), and finally made us stop next to a shrine to light incense while 40 people patiently waited in the bus.

After not using my voice for nearly 4 days, I finally had my first conversation in Laos with a lovely Australian expat, living in Vientiane, working as a freelance media advisor, and generally loving life ... and to think, I could almost have been him ...

Running with my tuk-tuk driver from the monsoon rain a couple of days later, we were embraced by the market sellers who were so excited to have a foreigner under their shelter that they almost spilt their entire supply of precious lao-lao rice wine - it felt like I could hear them thinking "look at that! foreigners - they're just like us! they also shelter from the rain!" ... perhaps a column for the local version of NW?

Having travelled to Thakhek, in the less touristy south of Laos, I was impressed by the Spanish couple on my bus who refused to take a tuk-tuk after the driver kicked out a local woman and her child, hoping to make more money off the tourists instead. Joining them for dinner later that night, I was further impressed to discover that they'd cycled half the world in their past travels. Anyone want to join me to ride Madagascar sometime? =)

I was very grateful to the shy receptionist guy at the Thakhek guesthouse who (after looking around to make sure no one could hear him) informed me that I was getting ripped off on the price I'd been quoted to hire a driver and motorbike. He wished he could do it, he told me sadly, but in the mornings (after an overnight shift at the hotel) he worked his second job, at a factory. Instead he sent me off to catch local transport - a converted truck with benches at the back - for the next 7 hours. There, a lovely older couple kindly offered to share their very smelly fish wrapped in banana leaf.

Arriving at Kong Lor cave much, much later that day, finally ready to see what the Lonely Planet described as "a river disappearing at the edge of a monolithic limestone mountain and running 7km through a pitch-black winding cave ... truly one of the natural wonders of Laos," I was not entirely prepared for my 15 year old local guide to suddenly try to kiss me, before apologetically explaining "I love you?"

Back at Kong Lor village, seemingly the only white person for miles around, I left my homestay to go for a wonder, and soon met a lovely girl full of enthusiasm to practice her English. The 24 year old girl, a mother of two, living in a bamboo hut the size of my parents' bathroom, with only 6 years of schooling behind her, is learning English from a textbook every night after putting her kids to sleep. She kindly invited me first to bathe with her kids (and the rest of the village) in the river - on second thought, it was perhaps for the entertainment value it afforded to the locals to see me struggle to wash while keeping my sarong even slightly secured - and then invited me for dinner, which she cooked on a fire in one corner of her home.

Later on she joined me at the house where I was staying for the night - the house belonging to her in-laws, and playing host to another man, a Lao tourist guide who spoke excellent English and was able to translate for me as I communicated with the other women in the family. The women couldn't believe that I, as a woman, would travel alone. Let alone the fact that I wasn't married, had such light skin, thin hair, and a job that I'd quit to go waltzing off around the world. Different worlds! Fortunately though we managed to find common ground in discussing the fact that my boyfriend was clearly a lunatic for going to travel in Kamchatka. See, women the world over can agree on some things.. =)

The guide himself told me that he works for a company that takes guided treks to a nearby waterfall, with very low prices due to the fact that Australia embassy funds them. Why? Because a year ago an Australian man decided to go to the waterfall alone, and ended up getting lost for the next 11 days, and being found in a comatose state by the local guides after being attacked by flesh-eating lizards. Needless to say, when I got there, I hired a guide.

Backtracking though, the guide took me to meet some men from the region - all workers in the District Department (whatever that means) who were in town for the night, and would clearly enjoy the novelty of meeting a falang. And so the falang obediently went and had a lovely evening, talking to 10 men about the differences in our countries, in our cultures, whether tourism is good for Laos, whether she's married, whether she'd like to marry one of them, or perhaps one of their sons? Grandsons? The most vocal suitor, a lovely, jolly man, full of humour and silliness was wearing a towel, casually draped over his shoulder. It was only later that I realised his entire arm was missing.

Laos is the mostly heavily bombed country of all time, and many of the bombs have not been cleared even today. The number of people with missing limbs is so huge, you see them so often in the small villages, that it starts to (in the mostly bizarrely warped way) seem more normal than seeing a person without limbs missing. The sadness of it is overwhelming. In the morning, the guesthouse owner did a special ceremony for me to ensure good luck for my journey. As he tied a string around my hand, I realised for the first time that he was missing the ends of all his fingers.

Trekking out to the waterfall later that day, my guide was a single Lao woman in her 30s, carrying a machete, and hacking her way through the jungle for 4 hours while explaining to me that although the average marriage age in the country is less than 18, and although a 2004 United Nations report estimated that almost 27% of women in the country, between the ages of 15-19 are married, divorced or widowed, she doesn't want to marry until she finds a man who doesn't drink, who works, and who is interesting enough to sustain more than one conversation. Go figure!

Taking her out for a thank-you lunch (after she managed to get me back from the gruelling 4 hour hike in one piece) a well-dressed man started talking to us. He was from the Vientiane but had come to the region for a job interview. There is a new dam being built nearby, and many people come to the village looking for work. He was very excited to see a foreigner, but too shy to practice his English. Suddenly, as we were about to leave, he asked if I wanted a lift back to Vientiane on his motorbike, and without further ado, we were off.

The man was so excited to have me sitting behind him, he kept turning around to try and practice a word or two, as I forcefully continued to remind him to look a the road. The ride really was beautiful, but unfortunately it started pouring rain within a few minutes of our leaving, prompting Lena to worry even more. Slowly though, I relaxed into my role of motorbike passenger/celebrity as endless locals would do a double-take, realise a foreigner was passing by, and wave while shouting "Sabaidee!"

Finally all was going well, the rain stopped, when just as suddenly, we had a flat tire. Pulling up to the closest tiny village, and seeing a tiny toddler who'd clearly never seen a foreigner in her life, I managed to (for the first time in my life) drive a child to inconsolable tears with only my looks. Talent. Meanwhile, my driver, who couldn't fix the tire, left it to the experts, and instead pulled out his English book and started a practice conversation. "Did you ever try sushi?" "Yes, in Vientiane one time." "I do not enjoy the taste of raw fish." "Yes, I too prefer the food of Lao."

The next day I took a bus to backpacker central - Vang Vieng. Surrounded by drunk 19 year old British backpackers, some of whom had spent over a hundred days tubing down the river from one bar to another, the only thing that saved me from the very real possibility of suicide was meeting two Israeli characters who happily kept me amused for the next few days with their insistence on improving my Hebrew in exchange for my assistance in improving their chances with the ladies. Unfortunately, both sides failed.

In the beautiful city of Luang Prabang I met a crazy Russian girl, who was so excited to speak to someone in her native language that I almost felt like I was with "svoimi liudmi". That is, until I saw the hotel she was staying at, and realised that no matter how much I may be able to communicate with her, in Laos, we lived in completely different worlds.

A guide on another trek told me about his family. Coming from a very remote village in the very north of Laos, and being part of the Hmong minority, his family had grown opium for generations. His grandparents were addicts, and therefore his family was incredibly poor, so his parents made sure never to smoke. Their education was nonexistent, however, and so, not knowing how to stop, they had 12 children, while living in total poverty. Half of these had died due to malnutrition and various diseases, and in 1993 the government forced the entire village to move to a different location, closer to roads, and therefore more accessible to public services. The government also changed their farming practices so the family would grow rubber instead. My guide was the first person in his family to ever finish primary school, high school and now university. And he was planning to go back to his village in September to be a teacher at the local school. He will make sure to have no more than two children.

Taking a slow-boat from Luang Prabang, I was adopted by a wonderful French family - two sisters, and their cousins, who made me nostalgic for my own family, and the possibility of us travelling together again. While travelling in a rather large group of 4, they completely took me in as a fifth wheel, listened, shared, discussed, and kept me company for the next few (wonderful!) days.

On the same (very) slow boat was a German family backpacking through Laos with 3 kids under the age of 9. This in itself was crazy enough, but more interestingly, the father was the first German I'd ever met who asked me about my family's experience in the Holocaust, and openly discussed his feelings and thoughts on his country's past, the future of German education, and the necessity of awareness for the later generations.

Finally, arriving at Huay Xai, the border town with Thailand, we decided to do a final trek from a nearby village, and a homestay with the Lua minority tribe. Our guide was the local teacher, who had decided to learn English three years ago, from a book. He told us about his oldest daughter, who'd married a man from another, faraway tribe. The man had lived with the family for 3 years before deciding to go back to his people. He was big, our guide explained. So when he decided to take their son with him, there was nothing they could do. His daughter had no rights to her son and wouldn't see him until the boy would be old enough to decide for himself where he wanted to live.

Laos was confronting. I guess that's the best word to sum it all up.

Cảm ơn Vietnam

2009-07-22T20:03:00.008+10:00

Vietnam was filled with endless moments of beauty, laughter, discomfort, happiness, and occasional fears for our lives. The moments are far too many to list in detail, but some jump out and beg to be recorded.

Vietnam was arriving at Ho Chi Minh airport, exchanging money and having my very first conversation on Vietnamese soil. “You are sad about Michael Jackson?” asks the money-exchange lady. Unsure that I’ve understood her correctly, I look puzzled. “Michael Jackson. King of Pop. He die. I am very sad,” she explains. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I say and walk out into the unbearable heat of Ho Chi Minh City.

Two seconds later Vietnam becomes running (slowly) behind a guy who’s grabbed my backpack and is rushing off to what he calls his “taxi” – an old, beaten up car, which he kindly charges me twice the going rate for the pleasure of riding in. Once I’m inside, and discover to my immense displeasure that there are no seatbelts, I ask “No seatbelt?” – and my new knight in sweaty armour turns around to face me, while driving at full speed through the craziest traffic I’ve ever seen, and says “No seatbelt! But MANY accident!! HAHAHA!” Lena turns white.

Vietnam was being brought by this maniac to my first couchsurfing host – after reversing 3 blocks up a one-way street, to arrive at a beautiful building, with a receptionist, doorman, cleaning lady, my own room, a friendly cat, and air conditioning. All the luxuries of life and a 16 hour jetlagged sleep.

Vietnam was more motorbikes than I could ever imagine. Carrying more people, wearing more bizarre, colourful useless helmets (no helmets for the kids though), balancing more random items between them, and weaving in and out of more directions than I had ever thought possible.

Vietnam was airport arrivals, with tiny chattering ladies in crazy outfits, pushing with far more strength than their size would suggest to be the first to see their loved ones. And Maya. And talking, and talking, and talking. Until the cows came home, and way beyond. And then some more.

Vietnam was floating down the Mekong, listening to our funny, friendly guide, and being enthralled in his anecdotes of the young Vietnamese couples, who sit on ‘romantic’ benches lining the sewage rivers, where the stench is so bad “sometime they can’t kiss!” but where they find the only ‘privacy’ their cramped lives allow for.

Vietnam was pondering whether or not to buy a special beauty cream, made from milking the queen bee, and assured to make your skin ‘pinky and smooth’. It was watching people drink snake wine, and, after swallowing the shot, seeing their disbelieving eyes when the guy pulled out a dead bird – complete with feathers – from the middle of the large bottle that they had just drunk from – “extra flavor!’

Vietnam was the pleasant discovery of Vietnamese coffee – of that mysterious something that made it so delicious, combined with ice and condensed milk.. mmmm.. and cup, after cup, after cup of sweet, sweet caffeine..

Vietnam was smiles. At first puzzling, and seemingly unreal, but eventually too oft repeated to be an act. It was the enthusiasm of children to practice any English they knew – usually just to say “Hello.” To wave and giggle and smile, and smile again. Not to point and say “gaijin”, not to hide behind their mother while staring dumbfounded, but just to smile. Sweetly and happily. And then to go back to their games.

Vietnam was a woman, in the floating markets in the Mekong Delta, steering a boat full of pineapples with a large paddle, while texting on her mobile and smiling to herself distractedly. Driving and texting. Happens everywhere.

Vietnam was desperately trying (and failing) to capture 2 very important photos – a family of 4 on a motorbike, with the younger child (no helmet) standing up on the seat in between the two parent; and the road sign of “Child and flying midget child ahead” – so much confusion!

Vietnam was the fear of getting on the back of that first motorbike. The adrenaline of riding through the crazy streets, and the shaking hands once it was over. But more than that, Vietnam was the confirmation of one of the things I most love about travelling: The first time you do something, it is scary, dangerous, new, different, unfamiliar, and testing of your very notions of what you are capable of. The next time you do it, it’s just second-nature.

Vietnam was lying under a palm-leaf umbrella, on beach chairs, looking out at the beauty all around, while local boys climbed palm-trees, cut down coconuts and cooled them in the ocean. Swimming in the warm water, drying instantly on the sand, wanting so much to tan just a little, while all around, the Vietnamese women cover every inch of their body so that not even a millimeter may be (god forbid!) exposed to those evil rays!

Vietnam was coming to terms with the fact that we’re not 19. That, for us, this is not ‘that trip’. That we’ve been there, done that.

Vietnam was Maya, finally back on a scooter, riding along a winding cliff-side road, with me no longer holding on for dear life, but instead enjoying every moment. Stopping only for the local traffic – a herd of lonesome, wondering cows who seemed to be lost and slightly outside their comfort zone.

Vietnam was trying to come to terms – or perhaps to an understanding – of what communism means in this country. From the negativity and open criticism of our guide in the south, to the absolute optimism of a new Vietnamese citizen – a Russian man in his 30s, who had nothing but hatred for the motherland, having suffered at her hands more than anyone should, while speaking endless words of praise for his new country, where every citizen, according to him, is free to do what he wants, to live how he wants, and to act how he wants. And finally, the opinions of our guide in the North, whose love for Uncle Ho was matched only by her assurance that anything negative than one could see in the country was the fault of certain individuals, and the government was doing all in its power to fix it. And that those who had left Vietnam after the war had deserted the country when it needed them most.

Vietnam was hot.

Vietnam was very hot even.

Vietnam was rice. Rice fields, rice plants, rice seasons, rice mountains, rice noodles, sticky rice, sweet rice, plain rice, fried rice, rice wine, black rice, coconut rice, rice bowls, rice stocks, rice bags, rice, rice and more rice.

Vietnam was hilltribe women laughing and chatting away on the trek from Sapa. 22 year old girls, with two children, husbands, perfect English learned from tourists and plenty of practical advice about life. “Your boyfriend is from your village? No? Better have boyfriend from your village. Good for family.”

Vietnam was a bizarre Chinese TV show about flying monkeys, a pig that turns into a man, falls in love with a princess, and fights off her 3 black-cloak clad brothers. All dubbed in Vietnamese. With just one woman doing voices for every part.

Vietnam was hiking in the pouring rain, glad for the relief from the sticky heat. Crossing flooded roads by asking a passing motorbike to hop on the back. Sliding down endless mud tracks. Being giggled at by baffled locals.

Vietnam was feeling like queens. Swimming in the clear warm waters of Baitalong Bay, with not a soul in sight, surrounded by thousands of limestone islands, having eaten a giant lunch, and with 4 staff at our beck and call. All before getting back on board our private ship and watching fish fly ahead of us while sunbathing on the deck. Tough life.

Vietnam was staying with a wonderful 74 year old retired fisherman and his wife. Studying his face, admiring her beautiful hair, smiling at each other over and over again, with not a common word between us. And, strangely, not being kissed hello or goodbye, but instead sniffed. Very sweetly. But certainly sniffed. A first.

Vietnam was cycling through torrential rain, laughing and pedaling, pedaling and laughing. Passing kids in raincoats, motorbikes, water buffalo, rice paddies, drenched to the bone, but always laughing – and not understanding what harm there could be in getting soaked in such warm weather.

And finally, Vietnam was a frantic taxi ride back to the hotel in Hanoi, having realised that I’d forgotten my passport, while about to board a 20 hour bus to Laos, feeling sick as a dog, unable to tolerate the heat, the noise, the intensity of it all. But all’s well that ends well. Especially when it comes to passports. And antibiotics.

Third time lucky..

2009-07-15T10:09:00.001+10:00

What could feel more inspiring than sitting on a sleeper train, leaving the mountains of Sapa, heading to the craziness of Hanoi, and having the luxury of pulling out your teeny-tiny laptop and tapping away? Tough life, I’m telling you!

So here I am. Actually the whole luxurious compartment has come as a bit of a surprise – we were expecting a hard sleeper, which in itself is a step up from what we had last time – a “soft seat” which was about half the size of your average low-cost airline economy-class chair, and with the added bonus of the light not being turned off for the entire length of the night trip. Why? I cannot say. Painful? You bet.

But actually, this was also a step up from the previous train journey where we rocked up to the station, expecting to just find the tickets we needed, and were shocked to discover that there were none to be had. This basically meant that our first train journey together had to be spent on opposite ends of the train – one in a soft lounge-style, and the other in what we refer to as “hard seat” – a 90% angled wooden chair, shared with entirely too many people, and making economy seem like a throne suited for some sort of monarch. But I must say, the man who sat next to me was so lovely, and so enthusiastic about sitting next to a foreigner, that he moved to the floor in the middle of the night just so that I could have the entire bench to myself. Or it may be that I kicked him so many times, or drooled on his shoulder so many times, that he had no choice but to move. Either or.

So how to write about Vietnam? I simply don’t know where to begin. I never actually had a particular desire to come to Vietnam, except for an unfulfilled dream of cycling through the country one day. My only actual experience (before this trip) was the 10 painful hours I spent in Ho Chi Minh airport. Twice. Painful to say the least. Basically Vietnam was not my top priority, and now I am very happy to say (as I so often do these days) – I was wrong.

The rocking of the train is putting me to sleep. And now I remember why I thought I’d have so much time to do so many things on the trans-siberian, and instead I spent an obscene amount of time sleeping. Yawn. Seems the Vietnam round-up will have to wait..

Excuses, excuses..

2009-07-11T01:54:00.002+10:00

Here’s what happens: you find yourself in Paris with so much to say but no real time to write. You want to describe being there for the 3^rd time in 2 years, you want to describe the beauty of a city that doesn’t get repetitive even for a second, and you want to do it all with wit and eloquence. So then you think that perhaps it’d be better to wait till Berlin, which you haven’t been to in a while.

Then you get to Berlin. It’s crazy and full of all the energy and youthful craziness that you remember, but there’s no time to write. You want to describe the graffiti, the punks, the large food portions, hanging out with two larger than life men, being treated to a ‘different’ moral code over drinks by a random moron from Austria, waking up with your worst hangover ever and heading to a trans-atlantic flight, and saying farewell to your lover through hazy eyes that can only see the inside of a toilet bowl that you’ve just tried to vomit in. Attractive. But you fail.

So then you think, ‘I know! New York! I’ll have PLENTY of time for all sorts of essays on all sorts of themes!’ And so you head to America, for the first time ever, full of clichéd assumptions, but still shocked that so many are actually true. You’re overwhelmed by the size of everyone and everything, but you’re also touched by endless friendliness in what you expected to be a city full of attitude and rudeness. You plan to write. You’re sure you’ll update everyone really soon.

After all, what is weirder than staying on Brighton Beach – little Russia by the sea, or spending time with people you haven’t seen in 2, 3, 4, 5 or even 10 years? What is more interesting than seeing all the places you’ve seen hundreds of times on TV and film right there in front of you? Or the shoes! Won’t somebody please think of the shoes!? And the hair! The endless displays of the world’s most bizarre hair styles.. Or the obscene portions of turkey. Why does anybody need quite so much? Or the world’s worst parenting – with constant screaming, endlessly ignoring bored children’s cries for attention, keeping kids up till all hours of the night, and all while being just 16 years old yourself.. Or even the dancing and singing – the musicality of seemingly everyone which constantly makes you feel like a straighty-180..

Well, you think, you have plenty of time to get to all that. You just want to get through your month in NY and then write about it. Makes sense. Things don’t turn out that way though, and the day after your parents arrive, while walking along the Brighton Beach Boulevard (see Pap, I learn!) you hear a familiar whistle, and like an obedient puppy your turn around to find none other than your crazy boyfriend, out of nowhere, with a guitar, singing his hear out and getting all the chords wrong in the excitement. While the countless Russian grandmothers sit around and watch from every unimpressed angle.

So the plan changes. There you are, a reunion of sorts.. celebrating birthdays, going out to restaurants, failing at getting anyone any sort of good presents, staying on random film students’ couches and spare beds, seeing NY from an all new ‘romantic’ angle, and generally having a blast.. and suddenly it’s time to say goodbye.. to MY & NY.

Next stop: Boston. Wow! This is the first bus stop in America! And the first garbage bin! And the first broken window! Kidding. Boston is.. pretty. Very pretty. With lovely buildings and excellent landscaping. And lots of history. And many firsts. And Jill! And Yas! And their Porto-Rican neighbourhood! And friends, and music, and cafes, and rain. And more rain. And then some more. And a quacking duck tour. And rain. And now a flight.

And here we are in San Francisco – and you feel square! You feel un-pierced, un-tattooed, un-gay and generally straight from every angle. Except when you meet your dad’s coworkers and thank his lucky stars that he managed to meet people in his life who were not fated to spend their entire time on this planet surrounded by nerdy programmers. Wow. Programmers in San Francisco. Doesn’t make sense. And you want to write about the evil GPS, about driving around in lengthy circles, only to end up back at the same spot an hour later. You want to write about the incredible Castro cinema, about a fantastic Lesbian movie that made you very confused about stem cell research, about the delicious Mexican food, about never assuming that you can talk about people in Russian, about the unexpected benefits of running late, and about the difficulties that come with having a strong definition of yourself as an adult and as a traveler when being introduced to everyone as your parents’ daughter. Complex.

And then we’re in LA. And you say farewell to mum and dad and hello to Evan. And you see the land of even more movies and TV shows, and you get as close as I ever will to the boys from Entourage (which is really not very close), and you eat and eat and eat some more, and are overwhelmed by the feistiness of people – “can I have a cigarette?” “No, it’s my last one.” “So give me that one!” “But I’m smoking it!” “What do you need to smoke for!? Everyone hates smokers!” “No.” “Why not!?” And then there’s the mourning for Michael Jackson, and Iranian revolution? What Iranian revolution?

And suddenly, without any real warning, you’re in Vietnam. Now how did that happen!?

French family famile

2009-05-28T23:36:00.004+10:00

I sometimes find it difficult to pinpoint what it is that makes a particular experience particularly hilarious when I look back at it. This should technically be an encouragement for me to write things soon after they happen, rather than 3 weeks, 2 countries, and 1 continent later, but laziness is as laziness does, and so, here I am.

As is often pointed out to me, and no matter how much I try to deny it during the heat of any random argument, we have a very small family. Small enough that my brother and my two first cousins were raised, in many ways, as siblings. Without enough siblings of our own to fight, annoy and even like, we happily took on those roles in each other's lives.

The small differences between us, when we were children - our ages, tastes, opinions and dreams - have made us grow into adults with relatively significant divides, wrapped up very neatly in a strong bond of love and laughter.

And so, with those differences accompanying us on our various journeys, we (the three female members of the younger generation of the Mishpucha) hopped into a van owned by a chain-smoking French man, just outside of Paris, one fine spring day.

Heading south to a beautiful village named Sarlat, our spirits were high, and the chatter - endless.

Tatty, Natasha and I, able to discuss at great length everything from facial wash and handbags, to gossip and family dramas, to unemployment and assertiveness, and (naturally) to relationships, spent a great many hours overanalysing every aspect of our lives while our long-suffering men did their best to not kill us.

Each taking their own mode of escape out of the hullabaloo, Julien - Tatty's French boyfriend, spent the ride being entertained by the aforementioned chain-smoking driver, Harry - Natasha's Greek Australian husband, quietly enjoyed the view, while Matan read his way through half a book, prefering motion sickness to endless chatter.

And so, in this way, with minimal casualties, we arrived in Sarlat, to the tiny farm in the countryside, Julien's childhood home, which had literally been taken out of a fairytale. Julien's parents, the two smallest, cutest, friendliest people I have ever met, greeted us with so much enthusiasm and love, that the room was filled with more hugs, kisses, laughter and noise than I could possibly have imagined.

And so, the cultural experiments began. With five languages going around the table at the same time, endless misunderstandings and culture clashes, the stroke of midnight meant that my birthday had begun, and it was time for dinner.

With bowls of soup in front of all of us, Matan, trying to do his bit, thought he could pour the wine. Not so. Wine is poured after the soup, into the soup bowl, with the final remnants of soup, to be drunk in a tradition named Chabrol. Strange. When the bottle of wine ends, the French get excited because the person who got the last drop is getting married this year. The Russians need the bottle to be off the table, because an empty bottle is bad luck.

The men drink Pastis. The Israeli, used to drinking cheap Arak, doesn't mix his Pastis with water or ice. Julien's father nearly has a heart attack, and can't wait to tell his friend from town, who will certainly "fall on his arse!" The Israeli then decides it's time for a magic trick, and starts pulling seemingly endless paper from his mouth. Metres and metres come out, and everyone (from each corner of the earth) is equally impressed. Julien's father, unable to contain himself, challenges the Israeli to a "duel" - seeing who can do more pushups, with a clap in between each one. The 60 year old man goes first, and suddenly all the men are whipping off their shirts in a display of manhood, while the women egg them on. Who needs language to communicate!?

The next day, after touring the stunning countryside of Perigrod, complete with endless castles, towns built into cliffs, and fat geese ready for stuffing, we played patonque. The French bowls, which turns even the least competitive person into an "expert" teamed the cousins together, facing Julien's mum and the Israeli - a winning combination if ever there was one! In the adjoining lane, Julien and Remi faced Julien's father and Le Grec. After round one, as the cousins and the French boys had their arses kicked, the lane next to us became a model for cross-cultural understanding, as the two teams, without a single word in common, managed to play an entire game of patonque with perfect understanding and teamwork. Again, I ask, who needs language to communicate!?

Finally, that night, dinner was truly a cross-cultural affair. Under the guidance of Natasha, and with a desired effect that would certainly make the rest of the mishpucha proud, the Russians and the Greek cooked Olivye - or Russian Salad, as it's commonly referred to, as well as stuffed eggs and Hochipuri. The Israeli cooked a Shakshuka - a great success. And the French served everyone's favourite French Onion soup and crepes.

The question is: what does it say about us that we are really such living cliches? I'm just not sure..

Thank you!

2009-05-07T08:21:00.000+10:00

I apologise in advance, because I'm about to get a little bit Kate Winslet at the Oscars, but I have so many thank you's to say, that I can't avoid getting a little emotional.

Nat and I set out to do a rather huge mission, and we didn't manage to complete it in quite the way we'd planned. What we did manage to do though was have an incredible trip through the entire (loose term) south of Israel, encountering so many people that helped us in so many countless ways, that I am certain this trip will remain in our memories for life.

And on that note, I'd like to say thank you to the following people.

Nat. Thank you for being crazy enough to want to do this trip, and putting up with more than anyone should have to throughout it. And, of course, for your constant enthusiasm!! Matan. Thank you for being our support vehicle in every possible way. Mum & Dad. Thank you for not murdering me when I came up with yet another absurd idea for a trip. Ilya. Thank you for never losing faith in your mantra: "Lena, please don't do anything stupid." Maya. Thank you for endless missions to every camping store in Sydney, for the brilliant backpack, and for calling me at all the low points to pick me right back up. Yula. Thank you for your patience in dealing with every possible flight change on the planet. Kevin Rudd. Thank you for the stimulus package which made the purchase of my fab camera possible! Miguel. Thank you for the bike lock which kept up our illusions of safety. Louise & Jay. Thank you for teaching Nat how to use a GPS. We would probably still be in the desert without it! SBS. Thank you for lending Nat a camera. We would definitely not have found ourselves in half the situations we did, if we were without it. Race Recall. Thank you for the coolest toy that ever existed! Bruria & Yami. Thank you for your endless patience with us – and with the appalling state that we manage to get your cars into. Mishpucha Mazin. Thank you for being my second family, and for your wonderful bike, which rode like a tank! Mika & Omer. Thank you for lending us our other tank, despite your cynicism over my reasons for coming to Israel in the first place! Yoav & Omer. Thank you for keeping Matan entertained in the desert while he acted as our support vehicle. And for introducing us to the grapefruit drink which changed our lives! 1^st Night Accommodation. Thank you for explaining the stupidity of our original plan, and for giving us the possibility of actually having a great ride. Yossi. Thank you for being our guardian angel. We really cannot thank you enough. Haya & her Arsim Sons. Thank you for making sure we got showered, fed and rested – especially at a time when at least one of those things looked very doubtful. Malka. Thank you for giving us beautiful accommodation, and trusting two very uncouth, smelly girls on their word. Malka's Card-Playing Posse. Thank you for giving us advice on riding in the desert during 40 degree heat. Yosef. Thank you for the directions of how best to ride along the border with Jordan. Ayala. Thank you for the lovely and delicious meals, for telling us when to shut up and eat, and for explaining so much about life on the Moshavs. Water Technicians. Thank you for warning us about the scorpion problem in the desert. Army Jeep Foursome. Thank you for making sure we were ok, and for giving us water – and not laughing too much when I tried to drink it instead of washing my face with it. Water Excavation Man. Thank you for being such a good sport about being interviewed, and for sharing your (slightly gross) coffee with us. Mishpucha Slavin. Thank you for being so kind to us. For telling us about Lotan, and showing us Lotan's Way. Hazeva Zimmer Owners. For letting us stay in their beautiful accommodation and not charging us a cent for the privilege, thank you. Old Russian Couple. Thank you for letting us sit together so we could get back into the swing of being joined at the hip. Boring Security Guard. Thank you for making us realise that we're extremely lucky to have met so many interesting people, and only one of you. Tal & Co at Moshav Faran. Thank you for a totally unique accommodation experience, and for lots of interesting conversation. Asaf & Barak. Thank you for delicious coffee in the middle of a sandstorm. Eli. Thank you for picking us up in your van, and for making space for our bikes in between your organic fertiliser. Kibbutz Lotan. Thank you for being such a special oasis in the middle of the desert. Itai, Yonatan (and his mum), Dalit, Kaia and the rest of the Green Apprenticeshippers. Thank you for being so welcoming, for explaining artichokes and green living, and for enthusiastically listening to my never-ending tale. Mike. Thank you for being such a good sport when it came to your interview. Kibbutz Sofar's Date Pickers. Thank you for letting us go up to the tops of the palm trees with you, to see the best view in the world. Haim. Thank you for hosting us, in your own special way. Ron. Thank you for adopting us for the day; for driving us around for hours; for putting up with endless doctor's waiting rooms, bureaucrats, and tears; for giving us food and shelter; and for doing it all without needing or wanting anything in return. THANK YOU!

The last hoorah ...

2009-05-06T18:37:00.001+10:00

The thing about travelling that I love (though sometimes hate) is that enough things happen in one day to fill a year's worth of memories and impression.

Yesterday was one of those days.

It started at 6am, when we woke up to have our new friends from Kibbutz Lotan show us around their quarters. The new friends – who are all students at the Kibbutz's unique Green Apprenticeship program, showed us their fully sustainable living quarters (complete with composting toilets and solar ovens) before taking us to their morning class of making benches out of recycled tires and mud.

After the lesson, as we got ready to leave, we realised that we have no sunscreen, and there's none to be bought. Luckily, an older British couple happen to come by right at that moment. They are here on holidays, so have plenty of sunscreen to spare. They come to Kibbutz Lotan every year from the north of England to chillax in the desert while their friend goes bird watching. Bird watching is big business in Israel as the entire bird population of the northern hemisphere migrates to Africa for the winter directly through the Holy Land; and then does it all over again the other way. See, even the birds think Israel's the belly-button of the world!

Leaving them, we rode on towards Eilat – a day that we had been assured would be easy and carefree.

Taking an immediate wrong turn, we rode straight into a family of Oryxes (or animals that we're assuming to be Oryxes, for lack of any other known possibilities).

Finally finding ourselves on the right track, we rode on and on, got some unimpressive yoghurt from the biggest dairy farm in the desert, and, as the day started to get very, very hot, stopped by a date plantation, in the shade of an enormous tree.

Nat, who is easily reenergised by the thought of a good story, went off to explore the possibility of getting ourselves up on a date picking machine, and discovered a sort of camp house for the Kibbutz workers, which was complete with couches, books, shesh-besh, clean water, and boxes of dates.

While chilling in there, and trying to figure out what to do next, I looked over behind Nat, to see a GIANT something slowly moving by. In a state of shock, and unable to pronounce the name of the thing that was gliding by, I just stared with eyes wide open, while flapping my mouth, and with no sounds coming out. Nat suddenly realised something was up. Immediately on guard (and ready to kick some ass) she turned around, panicked, flipped her arms around, dropped my camera and screamed. At which point the words finally came out of me – PEACOCK!! A goddamn peacock had just casually strolled through the living room of our little house on the prairie. I mean, honestly.

After getting over the hilarity of that particular absurdity, we decided the time was ripe to get a move on. Getting up and ready, our way was suddenly blocked by a massive beetle. Now, this may sound absurd to the reader, but it really was a giant beetle, and it really did refuse to let us get anywhere near our bikes for a good 10 minutes. 10 minutes is a ridiculously long time to be held hostage by something that's a thousand times smaller than you, but we managed.

So there we were, being held hostage, when suddenly an Italian Kibbutznik comes out of nowhere, rescues us from our unyielding guard, and (after explaining to us that his connection to Israel stems from the fact that his grandfather was killed by the Nazis while attempting to rescue Jews as part of a partisan movement) takes us to where the dates are being picked, pointing us towards some other Kibbutzniks.

I think I should set the scene a bit. The Israeli desert is bizarre. It's this constantly changing landscape, which looks so empty and void of life, but is sliced through by plantations, keeping up the "making the desert bloom" stigma of the nation. On one side, the desert mountains you see, are actual Jordan, and they seem so close that you feel like you could throw a stone and get it half way to Petra.

In front of these incredible Jordanian mountains, you have these enormous palm tree forests stretching to the sky, and amongst them you have young people from all over the world, listening to loud music, wearing second hand army tshirts, and picking dates. It's just a crazy combination.

So these very young people, pull up next to us in their date picking machine, and (without us even asking) tell us to hop on, because they're about to have a break from picking. A break means that they go all the way up to the top of the trees and chill out under the leaves of the palms as it's the only place where one can find shade. So up we go.

OH&S? What OH&S?

And there we are, in this metal contraption, first above the level of the trees (to see "the best view in the world" as the plants stretch all the way to the border with Jordan) and then underneath, chilling out, chewing the fat, filming …

And so our date adventure comes to a natural close, we come back down to the ground, and encounter our friend, the Italian.

The Italian has just found an eagle to rescue and wants to show us. The story with the eagles is that, as with all the other birds, the eagles migrate through Israel, and the weaker young ones get so tired en route that many of them simply don't make it out of the country, dying from hunger and weakness as they're unable to hunt. Our Italian friend finds them, rescues them, feeds them sugar water through a straw, and gives them over to a foundation who take care of them and (hopefully) release them back into the wild.

At this point it really was time to leave, and so, finally we left Kibbutz Somar (which is referred to as the Anarchists' Kibbutz). Riding through the desert, but slowly moving towards better and better paths, with the sun setting on our right and casting a beautiful warm glow over everything, and Eilat fast approaching, we were on top of the world!

Here’s the thing though. When we decided to come to Israel to do this insane trip, every person we spoke to had some sort of warning – all of which were very valid: bikes breaking down; running out of water; dehydration; crazy Israeli drivers; not understanding maps properly; going through army firing ranges; riding past unsafe Bedouin villages; possible violence outbreaks with our Palestinian brethren; impossible terrain; lack of language skills; general weakness and lack of riding experience; etc, etc, etc.

Let me tell you the one thing that NO ONE warned me about. Vicious dogs attacking you in the middle of nowhere, as you're about to get to Eilat.

Let me also tell you what happened to me as we were turning onto the final road to Eilat. A vicious dog came running toward me, and as I did my best to remain calm and keep pedaling, it bit into my juicy thigh, drew blood, and ran off on its merry way.

Fuck.

Sorry.

I rode as far as I could, got off my bike and fully had a breakdown. I was in so much shock, and pain, and bitter anger, and Nat was just the best doctor ever – she would also have been an excellent hit-man at that point as she was ready to go back and kick the stupid dog's arse with her tripod, but we figured it was neither the time nor the place.

Two painkillers later, we were on our way.

A friend of a friend of Nat's had said that we could stay with him, but to do that we had to go the whole way through Eilat, and then some. With the sun long gone, and the pitch black, we rode the length of the rather gross city, got out the other side, rode along a massive army base, past the port (where an armed security guard came to warn us about not taking photos – seriously disturbing to be facing a machine gun in the middle of the night), past the hotels, past the diving village, past the Aroma café (how we wished we could stop!), past the Bedouin tents which offered us accommodation for 25 Shekels a night (though probably without the little dignity we had left, come morning), past more desert, past Nat stacking it head over front wheel by the side of the highway), and finally to our new host – Haim.

Haim, who lives in the desert, in a tent. Lives. Like all the time.

So in other words, the night we finished our epic ride ended up being the only night that we didn't have a shower or dinner. Didn't manage to celebrate our accomplishment in any way shape or form, and didn't go to sleep laughing.

But of course everything looks better (or at least less disturbing and more ridiculous) in the morning, and so, here we are. Out of the desert, in that very same Aroma, listening to great music, looking out at the Red Sea, pigging out on delicious foods, and being offered to get our bikes fixed, to shower at the adjacent hotel, and to get any advice on where to go and what to do from the incredibly nice café owner – Ron.

What is it I keep saying? I've always depended on the kindness of strangers …

Could it be luck?

2009-05-04T18:21:00.000+10:00

It has dawned on me that there may be a very logical reason for why every place we've stayed at so far has been absolutely incredible. The reason may simply be that any sign of cleanliness and walls comes as such an overwhelming luxury after the filthiness of spending a day in the desert, that we are just mistaking our relief for adoration.

Maybe.

On the other hand, it may just be that we are extremely lucky.

Last night, for example, we stayed in a massive camp of Bedouin tents, complete with luxurious couches and chill-out areas, a fully functioning kitchen, beautiful bathrooms, and absolutely noone else around except for us and the guy working there, who ended up having dinner, wine, joints and conversation with us until late into the night. Tough life.

We did pay for it today though, by riding through a rather intense wind storm. With sand and dust flying at us from all directions, we were completely unable to move at times, because the wind was just so much stronger than us.

We eventually had to abandon ship, ride along to the highway and hitch-hike with a religious man in a van full of organic fertiliser, who we managed to interview in broken Hebrew on the importance of organic food for people's health all over the world. Go FOOD mag knowledge!

And now here we are – at Kibbutz Lotan. This place is just so cool, it's crazy. The whole place is made out of some type of mud, and looks like one giant art project. The homes are huts, the details on them are beautiful, and the whole purpose is not actually in the aesthetics, but more in the ecological benefits. Being in the middle of the desert – which reaches to around 50 degrees Celcius in the summer – means that saving even 5 or 10 degrees through the natural building materials, is a really big deal.

And now we're off to explore.

On the road again

2009-05-03T18:01:00.000+10:00

Let's call this moment – Lena's Little Whinge. And I want it to be clear that in no way do I wish for my aunt to disown me, but I simply cannot keep this inside any longer.

There is a certain camping and travel goods company that I hate. Hate is a strong word, and I do not wish to use it lightly. However, this certain company (let's call them Kathmandu) sucks.

They suck for many different reasons. Firstly, they're overpriced. Secondly, their staff know nothing about anything. And thirdly their bladder – ie. drinking system for cyclists – leaks! It leaks constantly and without relief. This is a BIG problem in the middle of the desert on a very hot day, as you try (and miserably fail) to conserve every drop.
I constantly have a big wet patch on my leg, and as the patch grows bigger, my anger gets set to explode.

I have now taken to riding with the tube from the bladder in my mouth at all times, which is unattractive to say the least. Chances are that this will lead me to some bitter end, like sucking my thumb or taking up a baby bottle for the rest of my life!

OK. Whinge over. It's hummus time!

In Israel, is it rude to ... ?

2009-05-01T18:59:00.000+10:00

Nat: Can I ask a question?
Matan: Of course Nat.
Nat: In Israel, is it rude to pee on the street?
Matan: No. But it depends where.
Nat: If the street is a main street?
Matan: A bit rude.
Nat: If the street is a main street in Jerusalem?
Matan: In a parking lot, or just with your back turned?
Nat: With your back turned, but if an unsuspecting person just happens to be walking along, and just happens to look to the side, from an angle that occurs because of the curve of the street, then you would see what's being held in the man's hands.
Matan: Well, that might be rude.
Nat: What if you see the man shake himself in clear detail?
Matan: But he can't help that.
Nat: Alright, well what if the man is a full on black hatted Haredi??

PS. Nat, I'm sorry! I just couldn't resist, it was too funny!!

I met him in the heart of the desert ...

2009-04-29T22:34:00.002+10:00

I originally wrote this nearly a week ago, but with my famous talent for being super efficient and organised, I am yet to publish it. Though perhaps it's quite appropriate to do it today, as today is Yom Haaztmaut – Israel's Independence Day – which symbolically follows Yom Hazikaron – Memorial Day for the IDF. It's been an intense couple of days: ceremonies, candles, flowers, songs and speeches, all followed by music, dancing, alcohol and general misbehaviour. In other words, a typical set of Israeli extremes …

I came to Israel for the first time in 1998, during the short period of my teen-hood that came before I'd started to rebel against everything my right-wing, private, Jewish highschool stood for. Those were the days when the Zionist ideal was so essentially ingrained in me that when we landed at the old Ben Gurion airport, I got onto the tarmac and kissed the ground – now that I think about it, I'm really not sure how my parents have put up with my various insanities for all these years!

That first trip to Israel was life-changing for me not so much because of Israel itself, but because I remember specific details of growing up, of the changes in me from childhood into something slightly less innocent, slightly more worldly. Slightly being the operative word.

One of the things I remember most from that time was the super cool, super hot, super adult soldiers, who were absolutely everywhere. They were so big, so 'other' … so out of reach and untouchable.

My next experience with Israeli soldiers happened quite a few years later when we adopted a bunch of backpackers in Sydney a few months before my first big trip. These guys were once again super cool, super hot, super adult ... though quite a bit less out of reach. What they did have was a maturity that I had never encountered in young men before. Sure, they were silly and smoked more weed than anyone should have the capacity to consume, but they'd certainly seen things, and done things, and could do even more. And once again the spark of my love of Israeli soldiers was ignited.

Less than a year later I met Matan. He was just a kid, a boy with his last taste of carelessness before the army, excited for the adventures ahead of him. For the next four years I saw the army through his eyes – I read with curiosity and amazement as he matured, as the experiences shaped his thoughts, his ideals, and his abilities. And when I arrived in Israel in 2007, the army somehow seemed like a totally natural part of growing up. I spent so much time hanging out with boys in uniform, discussing life on this base and that; walked around holding hands with Matan while his casually hung rifle whacked me in the back of the leg; joked with his commanders about the fact that they'd recently traveled to Lebanon without a visa, and casually browsed their 'happy snaps' on their ipods. In some twisted way, it kind of became normal.

The thing that overwhelmed me the most at that time was the image of young girls, fully made up and wearing their Gucci glasses, and missing only the matching Louis Vuiton handbags – replacing them instead with more of those casually slung rifles.

In December last year I came back to Israel, and the thing that moved me the most (if we ignore the small but significant personal crises that were erupting at the time), was how very young all the soldiers seemed. They were just boys, just kids playing dress-up, and seeing them was weird. It was like I'd changed and grown, but they'd remained frozen in time. And then, a few days after I arrived, those same kids went off to war in Gaza, and from that children's game, some of them did not return.

And now, here I am again. Only a few months later, and with many new questions to ask and wonder about.

Yesterday, on the last day of our first session of cycling, Nat and I found ourselves in the middle of nowhere, in 38 degree heat, riding along the Jordanian border. At some point, far off in the distance we saw an army jeep, and eventually it approached us. The four guys got out, chatted to us for a bit, asked if we had enough water, and drove off to continue their border patrol. After they were gone, Nat asked if I'd been at all scared of the fact that as two girls, literally all alone for miles, we were talking to four young, fully armed guys; and I realised that the thought hadn't even crossed my mind. Questioning why that was, I also realised that the situation would have been very different had they been from any other army in the world, and I would have been much more on guard, and much less comfortable and carefree. And why that is, I'm really not sure.

After Matan finally rescued us from ourselves and the desert yesterday, he took me to have a quick shower at a moshav in the middle of the Negev. We'd planned on being there for just five minutes, before continuing on our merry way to watch the sunset off some desert cliffs and camp for the night.

The house he took me to was the home of a former soldier of his who had died in the last Lebanon war.

Lotan's parents are some of the warmest people I've ever met. They have a beautiful home, a ridiculously obese dog, a garden in the centre of the living room, cute statues made by his mother, a talking and dancing African parrot, and a presence that immediately calms you.

After giving me a towel, Lotan's mother – Iris – led us out of the house and towards a separate construction, which we later realised was an old semi-trailer that had been turned into living quarters. This trailer, in the memory of Lotan, was actually renovated by him while he was still alive, and is filled with his photos, his quotes, and often his visitors and friends, who come to just be there, keeping his memory alive.

I know that war is eventually numbers. It's numbers killed on this side, numbers saved on that. It's the bigger picture. But in that house yesterday, crying for a boy who I'd never met, but who, from all the facts I have, seems to have been absolutely incredible, made it all so personal, so tragic.

There must surely be nothing sadder than a parent burying their child – under any circumstances – but some parents manage to take something so horrible and turn it into something else. Lotan's parents have created a charity initiative, in his name, assisting problem children and teenagers through various therapy projects in the desert. Bringing kids from all over Israel and giving them the opportunity to spend time in the beautiful Arava desert, while learning skills, testing endurance, building teamwork, and encouraging confidence and personal growth, the project takes this horrible loss and helps hundreds of others in the name of one boy.

After seeing a video about Lotan's Way, his parents drove us to the top of a mountain in the desert, where they have created a memorial for Lotan. A special officers' chair from a tank stands looking out at the desert, with books of letters from his friends and loved ones lying in a box beside it. The sun sets behind you, and the quiet, endless emptiness of the desert makes you feel very small, very alone. Or maybe that was just me.

It's a strange feeling to cry for someone you never met, especially while standing next to those for whom he meant so much. I feel almost like I don't have the right of this privilege, and yet I couldn't help it, and the tears just kept coming and coming.

I'm not really sure what my point in writing all of this was, now that I've come to the end of the story. I guess I just wish that things were different here ... but then who doesn't?

The end of the beginning ...

2009-04-22T22:37:00.003+10:00

Day 4. Also known as the end of the beginning, or the final section of the first part of our epic journey.

Currently sitting under a tiny tree in the middle of the day, in the only shade we've managed to find, so far, along the border between Israel and Jordan. Nat has ridden away (towards the border but well short of the mines) to try and get some reception, while I try to make the best of our rather dismal lunch conditions.

Today's weather is supposed to reach 40 degrees, which is upsetting. But it could be worse. At least we didn't take the original route for today which went totally inside the desert, and instead took this road, more traveled (ie. One or two cars every hour or so..) but with potential for quick and easy rescue.

My bit of shade is next to some sort of water desalination unit, which seem to come up every km or so, and into which a car has just driven with a man checking levels and things. The last people who did that looked totally in shock at our stupid plans, asked me if we'd ridden all the way from Australia, seemed unimpressed with my Spot (the device that sends out our exact location through satellite tracking), and told me to watch out for scorpions. All in all an upsetting combination.

Last night, after an absolutely intense day of riding, we stayed at a beautiful moshav called Noet Hakikar, which is literally a tiny green oasis in the middle of scorching, disgusting desert. The woman we stayed with, who had an absolutely fantastic collection of owls, was so, so nice to us. We arrived like the sweaty, disgusting morons that we are, into this beautiful house, with a hilarious dog, heaps of cats, a cute adult tricycle out the front, and a proper 4 bedroom apartment upstairs just for us.

Small interlude: Nat came back from her phone mission, admired the brilliant camp with maps laid out to double as blankets and branches cut off for extra head room, and, just as we were discussing the endless love between us, a wild camel started approaching!! Like a real life, WILD CAMEL!! It was soooooooooooooo cute!! It just came past, chewed on random bushes, checked us out for a while, and then headed off into the desert.

And so I'm back. So the woman with the apartment, talks to us in our appalling broken Hebrew, when we suddenly realise that actually we have absolutely no cash, and there is nowhere to get money out for miles upon miles, and no one accepts credit cards. As we say in mother Russia – Blin. Now, I don't know what a typical solution to such a problem would be, but here the solution was that the woman called Matan, organised with him that he'd bring her cash tomorrow, and gave us an extra 200 shekels so we could go and have some dinner! Is that normal!? She was amazing.

After showering and becoming slightly more human like, we went off to eat. The only restaurant in the moshav is run by a woman called Ayala, who cooks a mix of Israeli and Tunisian food, and presents it in such a beautiful way, that the whole experience is just wonderful! Plus, with our (and especially Nat's) endless questions and spatterings of Hebrew, she understood straight away how to deal with us, and told us to shut up and eat. It was quite funny.

Anyway, she then sat with us for ages and told us her story. She is living in this moshav for the past 5 years, while dreaming of moving to a city – ANY city – but her husband wants to stay there, and because she's not actually part of the moshav, but is just renting there, she had to close down the restaurant which she had before in her house because the moshav authorities told her to… and she LOVED that restaurant. She was a lovely lady. And she taught us a lot about the workings of the moshav – like that if you start one, there's Canadian sponsors who give financial backing, plus many other benefits. Her husband tried to start one 8 years ago, in the middle of the desert – just him and a friend, and then others joined, but she hated it so much, she told his "it's either me or the moshav." They moved.

I just don't understand who these people are that are willing to put themselves and their families in the middle of the desert. Is it ideology? Cos I'm sure it’s not for quality of life. And more importantly, it's no longer really a necessity like it was 50 years ago. And yet they do it. Just bizarre.

God it's hot! And I'm in the shade! It's 1:45. Maybe we’ll get a move on at about 2/ 2:30 to try and see some more stuff.

Nat didn’t want to ride today, but my stubbornness won her over in the end (probably because yesterday, while in the middle of absolutely nowhere, she didn't allow me to insist on continuing to head further into the desert, at 3 pm, with water supplies dwindling, and instead made the VERY smart move of heading towards the road, and she felt like I deserve to get my way today). And so here we are.

But it's been a great ride! First we took a wrong turn and headed up to some army barracks, where the soldiers were (as usual) totally unimpressed with us and told us it was a really bad idea to ride alone along the border with Jordan, then, along the border with Jordan, we came across watermelon farms, with discarded watermelons by the side of the road, and broke open an absolutely delicious, perfect, juicy, sweet watermelon ... yum! It was just so good!!

Anyway, that's the day. The road was pretty good for the first bit, but it's harder now. A few of the cars that have gone past have stopped, some to give advice and encouragement, some to give serious warnings, and others to say "bruchim habaim" (welcome) ... it's nice.

It's been really good to meet people and actually be forced to speak Hebrew, to understand and listen and struggle my way through – though still a lot of the time they speak either English or Russian, it's at least a start, even just for the first few minutes.

If I have to sum up this experience so far, I would say that although I'm glad it's happened, I'm not sure it was the smartest thing I've ever done. When we cycle in the Negev next week, it'll have to be much more planned, with much less room for error. My body is a bit of a wreck at the moment and I'm very, very tired.

There was a moment yesterday, after we'd come out of this stunning winding path through sandy cliffs (which was hard and hot as hell), rode down a long, flat, beautiful stretch of road in the middle of absolutely nowhere, with silence and heat all around, in absolute euphoria at the perfection of it all, when suddenly we couldn't figure out the correct route on the map. And just like that, this horrid feeling of doom descends, and of course it's total paranoia, and it's totally excessive, and of course nothing really serious would happen, and we still had enough water, and a GPS, and a Spot, and our brains (ish) but for about 10 minutes there I lost it. Absolutely. Which was scary in itself. Though Nat was amazing about it ... though she did insist on filming me having a total breakdown. Ah well, you win some, you lose some..

I've always depended on the kindness of strangers ...

2009-04-22T05:29:00.001+10:00

Sitting under a tree, in the shade, waiting for Nat to ride back from the nearest petrol station with some water – following an important lesson learnt from yesterday.

Yossi, our guardian angel, came to meet us this morning with breakfast foods.. how can someone be so damn nice to complete strangers? It's amazing! What movie is it from – I've always depended on the kindness of strangers ... oh wait, not a movie – Steeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeellllllllllllllllaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

After yesterday's intense day, I think today is going to be easier, though hotter. There's a siren today for Yom Hashoah at 10. If we hear it, we can stop for a minute's silence. That'll be nice.

The very start of a day's riding is very, very hard. So far all 3 days have started massively uphill. Although today was not as bad as the other two, and it looks flat for a little while – though maybe I've spoken too soon.

It's nice to know that besides Matan, we now also have a support vehicle in the shape of Yossi. On the first day, after we realised that there was absolutely no way we'd make the whole distance we'd planned, Matan told us to just keep riding until 6, and then he'd come and find us. And as the sun started to set at about 6:30 we stopped on top of a big mountain, with 360 degree views of the desert around us and waited for our knight in blue, shining armour to arrive and pick us up. Watching him drive up for ages (you can see that bright, bright blue about a million miles away when the only thing that surrounds it is the earthy red of the desert in the sunset) was just such a feeling of rescue – let's be frank, he certainly does make an entrance!

Driving from there to the place we were planning on staying in took forever. Driving in the desert at night is always scary, but to add to it, in the pitch black, we suddenly came across a long line of oil spillage, leading up to an abandoned car – scary and weird as it was, Matan's reaction frightened the bejesus out of both of us. He flashed his lights on and off a few times, got his gun out, looked around frantically for a while and then drove super, super fast to get outa there. Super fast, off road, in the desert at night, while holding a gun with one hand, just to reiterate …

Anyway, afterwards we asked him about it, and he explained it was because of the Bedouins – who are opportunity takers – and who would use the opportunity of an abandoned car, which is such a distraction, to their own advantage. We were both silent for a while after that.

Ah, Matan. How can one person be the embodiment of all the extremes possible? It's so clichéd, and he'd so love this, but he literally is a human Israel. He is everything I love and hate, everything that inspires and frustrates me, and everything that I want to be, and want to stay away from.. and the decisions continue to evade me..

Let's roll.

The wheels on the bike go round and round.. sort of..

2009-04-21T00:52:00.002+10:00

The funny thing about Israel is that you can never predict how your day will end.. that's probably not limited to the holy moly land, but it's certainly heightened here.

Nat and I are sitting at a Russian restaurant near the Dead Sea. The woman in the beauty shop next door just totally abused me (in Russian, what else..) for not understanding that everything around here is closed because of Yom Hashoah – Holocaust Remembrance Day – and I totally abused her back! How things have changed from Irkutsk in 2006!!

We just ate Schi – not as good as my grandma's, but still not bad after a full day's riding.. but we'll get to that..

So we were driven here by a dude who we think must be the son of the landlady who Matan rented us a place from for the night. He's a typical Arse – ie. the local version of a wog. If we were in Oz, he'd be from Bankstown, and, in fairness, I never would have climbed into his car. As things are though, we're here, and – for better or worse – are more trusting of randoms, and therefore drove at 120km per hour, listening to M&M on full volume, until Nat (go Nat!!) got angry and told him off in brilliantly spoken Hebrew.. love it! (As a post script, when said guy came to pick us up on the way back, he did drive at a very decent speed, listened to Israeli music at a very decent volume, and very decently apologised to Nat for his bad behaviour earlier. As a post, post note though, he did ask me – without any English – to go for a walk with him along the Yam Hamelach (Dead Sea) because "you are beautiful" and when I said that I have a "haver" he told me it's possible to have many "haverim" and he doesn't want to be THE haver, only A haver.. the door is now locked. =)

The place where we were driven from to the restaurant, the Zimmer (holiday house), is in Neve Zoar – a little town next to the big hotels of the quickly disappearing Dead Sea – hotels that are generally full of Russians here to work on their tans and body scrubs.

Our original plan, as we mentioned possibly a gazillion times to anyone who'd listen, was to ride from one end of the country to the other. However, riding from one end to the other should technically have involved a shitload of planning, possibly quite a lot of physical preparation, and perhaps an actual idea of the difficulty involved. Having had none of those, we were in for a big surprise. Fortunately, Matan came to the rescue, and explained to the two morons posing as pro cyclists that a) it was currently raining and muddy in the north, b) the plan of riding 60kms a day was absolutely unrealistic, c) that the desert would get way too hot if we waited any longer to start, and d) had we actually bothered to read the website that we were basing our entire trip on, we would have discovered that most of the route was on roads, and half of it was in the middle of various firing ranges..

So, change of plans.

Firstly, we left way later than intended – first there were certain matters of the heart to contend with, then Nat had to make a quick stopover to Ramallah, and then it took us about 10 hours to pack two tiny (but very cool) backpacks, with enough techy toys to get us into Beauty and the Geek any day..

Secondly, we changed the route completely. We decided to start in the middle of Israel, at the start of the desert, and head south. And then, depending on how far we come, we'll go back up north and do the other half.

Anyway, with this plan we started yesterday. Not at 7 am, as planned, after sending our first Spot, but at 1:30, during the hottest part of the day, after being dropped off by our Support Vehicle – aka Matan – and discovering that, actually, riding through the desert is INCREDIBLY hard work!!

There's this Leunig cartoon that I keep thinking of, where the ups are just so good, and the lows are so low.. well, in cycling, I've realised, there is just something so overwhelming about those highs and lows.. climbing up a goddamn mountain in the middle of the desert, with rocks, and heat and sweat and very little else, makes you feel like an absolute idiot for deciding to do this.. and honestly, the only thing going through my mind is "what possessed me!?" … But then, after the awful climb (and let's not underestimate for a second just how truly horrid it is) the ground becomes flat, and you ride like the wind, truly, and for those moments, in the middle of this incredibly, intimidating, daunting desert, with the wind in your.. well, helmet really, and only bits of deer pooh on the path for company, all that awfulness is totally forgotten, and you're there, and it's amazing.. and you say things like "how can I be so lucky!? What did I do to deserve this!?" … and then 5 minutes later, you're climbing up a goddamn hill again.

Anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself, or behind, or whatever. It's late and I have so much to write, and all I want to do is sleep!

So back to the Zimmer. We were brought here by Yossi. Yossi the Ranger (the new Ricki the Ranger) who picked us up by the side of the road, after we descended from the steepest mountain I could imagine, taking 2 hours to get down to Dead Sea level, all because of the thousands upon thousands of giant rocks and boulders to clamber over.. not being particularly skilled at going downhill at the best of times, having a bike, navigating stones, dealing with slightly bloodied arms and legs after Nat fell on top of me (nobody panic!) and watching the sun set behind you while fearing that you'll be stuck in the desert overnight with no water, really doesn't help.

So Yossi. Yossi found us and turned out to be an absolute guardian angel. Having cycled from the north to the south of Israel when he was 16, and having found himself stuck just short of Eilat with no water for 3 hours, and with no one stopping to help him, he promised himself that when he grew up, got his own car, and found someone in need of help, he'd do all he can. Enter yours truly, and her trusty side-kick, and you have – literally – the most amazing person that could possibly have come to us at that time. Not only did he chuck our bikes and gear and even tripod into his car (after Nat casually mentioned that it was NOT a weapon.. cos, you know, everyone in Israel has a weapon.. and he answered back by showing us his gun stuck in his belt), not only did he drive us all the way to our weird, weird place of rest for the night, but he also stopped along the way and bought us drinks, ice cream, and snacks. And then, the way I repaid him, was that while he was negotiating with the Arse to drive us to get some food, I spotted a mosquito on his chest, and whacked it with all my might – much to the bewilderment of all in the room.. ah, Yossi..

So the reason we were frantically clambering down the hill, was that our one – most important – instruction for the day was to get out of the desert before sunset. This was our unquestionable mission, and we completed it with total dedication, after having run out of water, and discovering a newfound love of the tiniest bits of shade under sporadic desert blooms.

So far, the one constant factor that remains – besides the heat, that is – is endless laughter and silliness.. and so we ride on.. and now I sleeeeeep!!

Still here, still jewish..

2008-12-18T16:17:00.002+11:00

I am so restless, one could quote my grandmother and say I have a large needle up my ass.. but then, one wouldn't sound quite as effective, cos one would be translating..

Anyway, the point is that being at work, without an immediate deadline, makes me lethargic. Plus a beer at lunch doesn't exactly help. But then it's Christmas, and time to get into the swing of things..

It's funny, once I made the decision to start writing again, it seemed so natural. Any decision, it seems, once it's made, means the weight of the world is suddenly lifted off your shoulders, and you can follow that chosen path without question.. or maybe that's just me.. and I guess I'm no longer talking about writing, but other (slightly more substantial) decisions.

But what I actually wanted to do was add a photo. This photo.

So the reason for this photo is that I took it one day while sitting at a bus stop, after my brother boarded a bus.. It was the most incredible sunset.. the sky just looked amazing. Seriously. And I just sat there and realised that if I was overseas, I'd be whipping out my camera and capturing it and writing about it and committing it to memory, and yet here, I don't do that. So I resolved to do something about it.

And here I am.

But there's other things also. Like stupid funny stories. Before, I'd write them all down. Now - they just get filed away, to be eventually forgotten.

Like the other day (well, maybe a few weeks ago, let's be frank).. I was sitting at work, minding my own business, when one of the guys in the office started talking to me about film festivals, and when I expressed my annoyance at not attending the recent Jewish Film Festival, he expressed his shock by saying "Are you still Jewish!?" .. "Am I still Jewish!?" I responded, with a well-raised eye-brow..

Well, all hell broke loose at this point, as, over the office barracades several responses were heard simultaneously.. ranging from laughter, to politically correct discomfort, and finally to "Well, it's really not something you can get rid of that easily!" - from a fellow still-jew..

The poor guy who'd originally made the comment tried to cover it up by saying "Well, I thought maybe you were Russian Orthodox!"

The response from the fellow still-jew.. "Let me tell you, Russian Orthodox girls don't speak to their mothers six times a day!"

And that, I think, pretty much sums up my work life..

Best get back to it I guess..

It's been a while..

2008-12-14T16:52:00.000+11:00

What to write when you haven't written for about a gazillion years? It's a tough one..

And when to write when you never seem to have any time? Even tougher..

The perfect solution just presented itself.

A. My mother is stressed about the fact that we have guests coming to celebrate my brother's 21st in an hour.

B. The table needs setting.

C. There's this brilliant video, a masterpiece for the ages, and it really should be shared with the world.. and not just the facebook world, which is somewhat limited after all..

So here tis.

Ilya - in all his glory.

PS. That really wasn't so tough after all!! I'm back baby! =)

I make you happy - aka War and Peace the second..

2008-03-24T16:52:00.000+11:00

Being a "Food" editor makes one a lazy, lazy bum.. and so, without being able to come up with a single inspiring word - unless it has something to do with the lack of iodine in the diet of the average New Zealander - I am publishing here a "piece" (shall we say) by the one and only Matan Yaffe.. But I totally edited, so I still deserve like 3% credit.. But only 3, because the length of it is still enough to make it the next War and Peace.. which would perhaps have been a better title.. yep..

Here we go..

"So, as you all know or not know, my wonderful girlfriend has a blog in which she writes about her everyday life and random things that are going on with her, with us and with her, and with us, etc..
as her significant other, I feel that it's a complete injustice that you can all hear only one side of the story, which means - everything she chooses to write about (in her not entirely unbiased way), but you are not well-informed that behind this little cute girl named Lena, who smiles all the time, there is actually a giant monster that comes out only in front of me. (Yeah right!!)

That realization led me to understand that I am not special, well, I take it back, I am special but on the women issue - it's not only me, it's all of us, every man (and his dog) that's had some type of a relationship must understand that we're dealing with something that will still be light years away from any breakthrough, long after science will discover what every single gene is responsible for - the mystery of the typical woman's brain..

I would like to tell the world about a normal, perfectly ordinary day in my life, in order to expose the truth behind this monster named Lena. Maybe through this action, I will encourage other long-suffering men to do the same, and slowly but surely we will break this mask that the female gender managed to put on our faces, just because they:
a) can give us sex;
b) are cute; and
c) can give us sex.

So anyway, after a completely retarded fight that there's really no need to tell you whose fault it was, and then another fight about that person's ability to say "I was wrong" or even possibly face the inevitable madness of saying "I am sorry," your fearless slave to womankind was walking along in the streets of Sydney, completely baffled by the woman who was walking along next to him and her "once in every 5 minutes" mood swings (with no justifiable excuses - we're after the 'full moon', she has a brand new great job, and quite an understanding boyfriend, and all together life is not that bad..). Getting to a point of desperation, the fearless slave suddenly remembered a conversation with one of Lena's friends where she told him that Lena told her that she feels sorry for her man for having to put up with her.

Now. This may seem like a very foolish thing to write about but that moment was significant and I'll tell you why..

50% of our fights are about stupid issues and the other 50%, as I mentioned (but I feel it's an important point of the story so I'll elaborate), are the fights that we both know she's acting like a "female version of a common household pet" (not that I'd ever say that) but she is still trying to defend her point or prove me wrong - anything but admitting that she was wrong - even when it's slightly more clear than the great yellow sun that shines in the sky..

Anyway, with that in mind, I am going back to this friend's comment and realizing that maybe there is some progress with my chosen woman, maybe there is hope for humanity and maybe the ability to learn and to be better does exist - although she will never say a sentence like that to me but from the friend's comment I can understand that the awareness does exist and what stops the process of cutting our fights by half is simply pride, and with that I can maybe learn how to live. So we both know that she is a mental patient and we both acknowledge that she was a moron and the proof of that is that a day later she is going to her best friend and confessing that she's shocked by how I put up with her..

Walking on the streets of Sydney this train of thought doesn't take more than a few seconds, and I smile and tell my woman (who is now in a very cute and smiley mood which makes me wonder whether I imagined the whole thing and I am the one with the problem - a trick they often try to use..) that the only thing that really consoles me and makes me happy is that I know that no matter how much she'll deny it - I know that she knows that she's not alright and Maya told me. So there!

So I think I finally got her, with my best happy/satisfied/mildly-disappointed look, I look forward to see what she can possibly say now..

Just imagine my shock when suddenly, out of my whole train of thought, and this great feeling that we might actually reach some understanding, the only thing that she chooses to hear is (again with the cute smile..) "I make you happy..."

Stay tuned for the next chapter of Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, by Matan Yaffe and Lena Zak.. just remember, that Lena's chapters will be SHORTER and slightly more to the point.. but Matan's will be much more informative and philosophically inclined..

Matan Down Under - Part 3

Photographii..

2008-02-26T11:14:00.000+11:00

Another month of insanity, another album somewhat depicting it.. As we used to say in primary school, first is the worst, second is the best, third is the one (there were some disagreements on this point) with the hairy chest/the golden princess.. wait till the third, and we can all finally settle the matter together..

Matan Down Under - Part 2

Do vstrechi.. xx newly-employed-Lena..

Working like a dog..

2008-02-15T10:23:00.000+11:00

Just a quick summary of the week..

On Monday, as I mentioned, mum and dad left. The dog ran away, and was found with minimal drama.

On Tuesday, running late to an interview, I realised that the dog had broken down the barriers and run away once again. It was brought back by a friendly neighbour by the time I arrived home.

On Wednesday, in an effort to truly bond with the animal, we went for a jog nice and early in the morning, and got caught in a hail storm. The animal's strange resemblance to a rat became even clearer.

On Thursday (Valentines day) at 3am, the next-door neighbour rang the doorbell and delivered the animal that had somehow broken out through a hole in our mutual fence. After fixing all the holes, we went off to enjoy our day, only to return and find a note on the door from the other neighbour - the dog had burrowed through the other side of the fence. Fixing every single hole yet again, this time at 11pm, we got a knock on the door from yesterday's neighbour to tell us that she would never have believed it had she not seen it while passing the house, but the dog is jumping over a 1 metre barricade through the gate. Keep in mind that the dog is the size of 2 rats combined.

The result: After barricading ourselves in with 2 metre high wooden boards, our house appears to look like a fortress. I feel the dog should consider a career as a James Bond stunt-double.

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my parents for the great gift of being left at home alone.. =)

Woof..

A little bit of history repeated..

2008-02-12T10:35:00.000+11:00

Last week, at a very strange social function, a woman who I hadn't seen in god knows how many years, asked me if I'd already turned 15. It was a small shock to the system, as back-handed a compliment as you can get methinks, but there you have it.

I am clearly slightly older than 15 - perhaps not in maturity but certainly in the number of moisturisers I use.. and anyway, I recall that a number of years ago, I had a birthday party celebrating my last year of official immaturity as I turned 17.

Jane and I decided to have a party in our own (slightly bizarre) style and invited all the incomplete buckwheats we knew. Jane's mum did us a wonderful favour and left us alone in the house for an entire weekend and only gave us one warning: "Please don't burn down the house!" were here final words before she departed to the rather relaxed Blue Mountains.

"How strange" thought the teenagers, and forgot all about the warning, until several hours into the party they realised that the outdoor table was on fire due to a slightly malfunctioning candle and the hole in the middle of the wooden slats was becoming bigger and scarier by the second.

What we did was freaked out. Majorly. We then rebuilt the table, but the scars (on the light table and on our dark and heavy conscience) remained till this day.

True story.

What's the point? Well, the thing is that yesterday my parents decided to give me a wonderful 2-months-in-Oz gift and went away to the States. Before leaving the house my mother looked with teary eyes at her beloved (not at me, silly! At the pitiable excuse for an animal that is our wonderful dog Freddy) and made sure that I would take care of him as if he were my own diamond-encrusted child..

Jump forward a few hours when I came home in the evening with the sinking feeling that there were no happy barks to greet me.. starting to worry slightly, I ran around with all the enthusiasm I had and yelled out "Freddy, Freddy!" and even tried an occasional whistle, before a full-blown panic set in.

Running around South Coogee and describing a very small creature with very large, crimped ears was an experience in itself. One that I do not look forward to repeating. And then there was the meeting of the neighbours.. Now. We have lived in this house for around 6 years, and although I've been away for nearly 4 of those, it's rather in-excusable that I don't know anyone who lives old Byrne Avenue - well, no more!

By the time Fredster was found, I'd encountered the man who wears long skirts around the house, the woman across the road who demanded to know whether I was married, the kids next door who gave me excellent advice on pet-care while practicing the double base, the couple across the road who knew Freddy on a first-name basis.. and then, there was my life-saver - the French man 3 doors down who produced my treasure with a look of extreme satisfaction..

Ah, all together now.. neighbours, everybody needs good neighbours.. with a little understanding, you can find the perfect (insert word here), that's when good neighbours, become good friends..

I still call Australia home..

2008-02-04T18:21:00.000+11:00

It's hard to write about the feeling of returning home. Actually it's probably not as hard as actually doing it, so I guess I'll survive this particular part of the ordeal. So here we go.

I've been to cities that never close down, from Tokyo to Paris and Old London Town, but no matter how wide or how far I roam, I still call Australia home.. I wonder why that seems like such an unoriginal thought?

I came back to Australia on December 12th, 17 years and 6 days after my first arrival, and after nearly 3 years of roaming the streets of foreign lands. This time I came back with a wonderful souvenir of my trip. As a souvenir it's priceless, and certainly an original item to bring back home! It's excellent because it reminds me so much of so many of my experiences overseas, but it also needs slightly more attention and care than the occasional clean with my feathery duster.. It's name, as I'm sure you can imagine, is Matan.

Bringing back a souvenir such as this makes one look at things quite differently. Coming from Israel, coming straight from the army, and finding oneself in the land down under is bizarre - being involved in watching someone see your country with such different eyes to yours, for the first time, is equally bizarre.

On our second or third day in Oz, walking down the street, we saw a large advertising poster for a local paper - in scary, large letters was the black-and-white declaration:

"NATIONAL DISGRACE - OUR KIDS ROTTEN TEETH"

Matan, in his infinite wisdom, turned to me to say "good country you live in.."

Coming from a country of 6 million to a city of 6 million means that people are less involved (read less in-your-face) and more polite (read colder). But at the same time, within the maze of multiculturalism Matan seems to constantly bump into his fellows - whether it be a Singaporian Jew at the local hardware store, a guy he was in the army with 3 years ago on a bus at 4:30am on New Year's Eve, or a lesbian couple in the middle of country NSW who lived in Israel for 15 years and have thus named their horse Motek - what are the chances?!

Then there's the typical Aussie expression "No Worries" - it doesn't get more green and gold than that! But looked at through a foreigners eyes it's quite bizarre - where else in the world are there so few worries? Certainly you'd never here that answer in Israel - "I have plenty of worries" would probably be more like it, followed by a long and detailed list of exactly what those worries are..

A rather important aspect of this whole coming to Australia business has been just that - business, and so Matan and I are both in pursuit of a job. So after some time we sat down, put our heads together and wrote Matan's resume - which made him seem somewhat like a Zionist Rambo. It's very pretty and full of important information - it lacks just one thing. A typical scene goes something like this: Matan walks into a cafe. Matan smiles and asks if there is any work available. The owner of the cafe asks if he has a resume and Matan proudly gives said owner his masterpiece. The owner is intrigued, and reads through it word for word. After several minutes of interest, of discovering things about tanks, about being an officer, about dealing with soldiers from difficult backgrounds, the owner looks up and asks the all-important question - "But can you operate the machine?" The scene cuts to a glowing Espresso Machine in the corner of the counter. Standing and puffing away like a modern god.. well, what else can he say? No worries!

So yes. To put it simply, reverse culture shock prevailed for our first month down under, but as the heat decreases, as Matan stops accidentally opening the passenger door every time he gets in the car (and pretending that it was a gesture of chivalry), as the prices become less of a shock to the system and more of an annoying but unavoidable itch, and as the skin cancer ads start becoming just another set of background images, we are slowly but surely adjusting and starting to love this sun-burnt country, this land of sweeping planes..

Matan Down Under - part 1

"The mind grows where the mind goes."
Bruce Northam

Photos shmotos..

2008-01-29T15:28:00.000+11:00

Here we are, another album.. You'd think that with having no job to speak of, a social life that rivals that of a koala (bring out the violins) and a country that moves at the pace of a turtle taking a much-needed holiday, I would have published these photos rather earlier.. but you'd be wrong..

So here they are. These are photos from our month of travels in Portugal, Barcelona, Paris, Amsterdam (!), Israel and Hong Kong.. it's a hard-not life.. seriously..

I should also note that a large majority of the photos taken during that time were devoted to coming up with a "HAPPY BIRTHDAY ILYA!" message, letter by letter, country by country, effort by effort - if you read any sort of bitterness in that sentence, I really can't imagine where it would come from.. =)

So here we are..

Random Month of Randomness

Cheers big ears..

Better late than never..

2008-01-11T15:02:00.001+11:00

So it is my rather lengthy pleasure to finally put up the photos from the Camino de Santiago..

Camino de Santiago

It seems so long ago, it's not even funny! Since then we've travelled Europe for nearly a month, been back to Israel, stopped over for a short and sweet taste of Hong Kong, and proceeded to settle into life down under.

Life down under started as a majorly black comedy, and at times seems to be continuing along the same path, but with more and more moments of sanity inbetween.

That's enough for now. There is definitely more coming up though. Stay tuned kids for next week's instalment.

Controversial with a Capital C..

2007-11-21T01:05:00.000+11:00

This is not going to be a long blog. Actually, what I have to say is not something that I ever predicted would be written here. It's about that rather controversial holy land, the one with the flowing milk and honey, the one whose inhabitants sometimes refer to themselves as "against the rest of the world" while craving humus and pita. You know the one.

So travelling with someone (let's call him Matan Y .. No, that's too obvious. Better make it M Yaffe..) who happens to be from the promised land, has it's obvious, shall we say, "complications" ... Naturally, the answer to the very simple question "where are you from?" leads to an immediate reaction. Good, bad, excited, surprised - whatever. The one thing that's certain is that it's never neutral. We're not talking about Australia, after all.

Throughout my time travelling this big, wide world, I've always tried to limit myself from having conversations in which I had too much of a personal interest, unless I knew for sure that the person with whom the conversation would be had was worth my time. If you ignore the poor sentence structure of that sentence, I think it generally makes sense.

Anyway, such luxury is not awarded when you answer the simple "where are you from?" question with an answer that starts in "Is" and ends in "rael" .. what happens instead is usually quite predictable - a political discussion, a religious discussion, the occasional random french man saying "god bless your country," a Spanish hippy showing with her hand and fist a sign of pressing down on something, etc, etc. Nothing to write home about.

In the past 3 days though, something bizarre has occurred. Talking to some upper-class Portuguese medical students, whose high opinion of themselves was matched only by their low regard for anyone else, we learned two new ways of looking at the controversial country.

1. "Oh, I wouldn't travel to Israel because it's like the undeveloped middle east nations. Something between Morocco and Tunisia. Dirty and people always hassling you to buy things and thinking it's an advanced place when it's obviously third-world."

Hmmm..

2. "You have compulsory military service? Why would you need that?"

Hmmm hmmm..

After trying our best to deal with this situation, with as much humour as we could master, we were faced with a third discussion. This time with a seemingly very nice person whose head was simply located too far in the clouds - perhaps closer to the moon than the earth.

3. "Why do women only serve two years in the army? They should be allowed to fight if they want. The men in the tanks should deal with the fact that women have their periods and learn to shift their way of thinking and challenge the preconceptions they've been raised with and that way we can all be equal and not be oppressed by the standards and sexual definitions that society places on us. It's all about the education. It has to start before the army, before the age of six, with the toys that children play with - obviously there's no difference between men and women. If the Israeli army could deal with these facts, they'd have far less problems."

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm..

Generally I do believe that the two of us, with our powers combined, can deal with most things. We can debate till 3am with people of any other opinion, we can learn to look at the world in a different way, we can take on board a perspective that never occurred to us. But what, can I ask, is one to do with complete stupidity? Honestly. Once again, for only the 2nd time in our life together, we are lost for words.

Help.

One fine day..

2007-11-12T05:49:00.000+11:00

Surely the most annoying thing in the world is the computer freezing while you're in the middle of an excellent thought-process being spilled out of you with every tap of the keyboard?? Like honestly - what is more annoying? Well, unfortunately, this rather frustrating, bad-mood-inducing, tantrum-inspiring event just took place right here, right now - in the middle of Portugal with nothing but other people's smoke and soccer-shouts and trains going by for company. However, I will not let this unfortunate event get the better of me. I will be strong (thought cynical) and attempt to get back to my verbal diarrhoea about the events that took place just yesterday.

So. Yesterday was December 10th. It was our six month anniversary and we'd planned a lovely insanity-free day. No balagans allowed. Unfortunately though, when dealing with the two of us, such things rarely come as a given.

A little background information: Since finishing the Camino de Santiago, we had spent five days being wined and dined and generally taken care of by our couchsurfing host in a stunningly trendy townhouse in a rather beautiful part of the rather pretty city of Santiago. Our fabulously camp host made sure to tell us not to bother ourselves with the dishes as we they'd be taken care of by the maid in the morning, and left us pretty much to our own devices - except to occasionally take us to a bar, or to lunch or to an art gallery opening. The highlight of our initial introduction was an episode out of any demented sketch comedy - our tartan-print clad host explained to us that he can go to work at any time he likes because "Ii'm the boss" which Matan, with his poor understanding of heavily accented English interpreted to mean "I'm divorced" and proceeded to enquire for the next 10 minutes about our new friend's ex-wife and when and where the two of them were married, much to the confusion of the two men, and much to the hilarity of the little woman (moi).

Anyway, back to yesterday. So the day started rather well. Matan woke up at some ridiculously early hour to cook a celebratory breakfast while the sleeping beauty did what she does best (ie. slept). The breakfast was also meant to play the role of a big, big thank you for our amazing time. Unfortunately, in the midst of omelette ("You can't just write 'omelette!' It was a masterpiece! An 'omelette' - any idiot can make!" Matan) preparations, the other couchsurfing guest - a Byron hippie - came down the stairs and discovered my man hard at work. My man, having spent entirely too much time around yours truly, and thus developing an unnatural politeness, found himself inviting Lady Byron to dine with us.

Soon I graced the party with my presence and the morning meal began. Our host - due to his insane and near-starvational dietary habits - had half a mouthful of the delicious concoction, Matan and I had half of what we'd usually eat, and the "fourth wheel on a tricycle" had 3/4 of Matan's portion, while the poor boy looked on with tears in his eyes.

Eventually I worked up the courage to bring up a subject that had been on our minds for quite some time. While appreciating the artwork depicting 3 men in biker jackets and little else engaging in some serious business, I asked our host where exactly his preferences lay. He explained that he was straight "but maybe not in 10 years". Confusion ensued.

It was time to pack up and leave.

Of course we were running extremely late. We had a train to catch to Vigo and had just 15 minutes to make it, so our host decided to give us a lift. Dressed as usual in our most unstylish backpacker rags (besides Matan's new trendy jeans with multicoloured buttons) we came outside to be met by a beautiful, limited edition, 1960's Jaguar. Of course.

We made the train, arrived in Vigo, discovered that the only train to Portugal was in 8 hours (you'd think we were trying to get to Australia! Seriously!) and decided to walk to the bus station. Getting to the bus station was not a short stroll in the park, and so we stopped for lunch. It just so happened, that the bar we chose to stop in had the nicest, quietest, calmest bartender in the world, and 2 loony regulars - one of whom happened to speak excellent English. Having fallen in love with the bartender we decided to present him with a mysterious gift, and the man, completely overwhelmed and lost for words, insisted on giving us a free drink. Over a cup of tea we ended up spending an hour hanging out with our new friends, being hugged and kissed at an alarming rate and blessed and complimented in a million different ways, while discussing everything from global warming to the political situation in Venezuela.

And once again, we were off.

Unfortunately, when we arrived at the bus station, we discovered that the bus to Portugal left at the exact same time as the train. Thus our only option was to hitchhike.. and after just 10 minutes standing on the highway we were picked up by a lovely young man with a picture of an Indian woman hanging above his rear-view mirror. After a simple enquiry about the woman, we found ourselves receiving an in-depth lecture about meditation, yoga, energies, finding true inner peace, etc, etc. Before we quite knew what had happened, he'd called his mother to tell her he was bringing some friends for coffee, and soon we were in a little town 20kms from the border with Portugal, in some dude's apartment, shoes off, on the floor, with his hands waving around in some intricate patterns in front of our puzzled faces while meditating and channeling energies (and trying not to crack up laughing) with Indian chanting and incense in the background, before being fed disgusting empanadas and leaving with hugs and kisses from the mother.

Right. 20kms to go.

After a slightly longer time by the side of the road, we were picked up by two lovely girls and their lawyer friend, and finally crossed into Portugal (!!) and were dropped off at a town where we'd definitely be able to get someone to take us to our coastal village where we'd booked our celebratory hotel.

Waiting, waiting. Waiting some more.

Suddenly a woman in perhaps her 50s pulls up, smiles, ushers us into the car, and without a single word of English proceeds to talk to us at the speed of a shinkansen train about god knows what for the next 40 minutes! She continually pokes Matan in the belly, tries to write things down on paper (while on a HIGHWAY) until Matan decides enough is enough and grabs the steering wheel and the hand-break to help things stay on track. She has more to say to us than anyone I've ever met! It's such a ridiculous situation that we're actually (for possibly the first time EVER) both lost for words. She's fully into the one-sided conversation, doesn't stop for a breath, keeps on poking and generally being a mental patient while driving like a total nutcase.

Meanwhile, on our right, is the most beautiful sunset I've ever seen. We're approaching the Atlantic ocean, driving along the mouth of the river that separates Portugal and Galicia, the water is so still it looks like glass, the fishing boats anchored all along it are reflected perfectly, and the golden sunset stretches so far across, in such incredible colours that it takes our breath away.

And finally we arrive. Welcome to Portugal.

"It can be difficult sometimes discerning where adventure stops and stupidity begins." Bruce Northam

Santiago!!!

2007-11-06T22:06:00.000+11:00

It's been exactly a month since we embarked on the Camino de Santiago, and yesterday we finally made it.. Thank god! Hiking, I have come to realise, is something I can do in short, excitable bursts.. but a month of following occassional yellow arrows, while complaining about my sore feet, head, and everything in between, is not my idea of an ideal hobby.

Still.. the Camino was an amazing experience.. meeting hundreds of other pilgrims, from all sorts of backgrounds and with all sorts of reasons for taking on such a mission, being greeting by friendly locals every single day who never got tired of wishing us a "bon camino" even though literally thousands upon thousands of people would've passed them before us.

It's strange, but the Camino is something that is so unlike other trips. Usually, the thing driving you in seach of adventure is the fact that you're doing something unique, something that hasn't been done by anyone, or at least not that many someones. Here though, the beauty is that every single step that you take has been taken by others for thousands of years. There's such a weight of history, of being part of a flow of ants, of doing something so simple - walking.

People do the camino for lots of reasons, finding their personal legend and all sorts of spiritual nonsense.. We didn't. For us it was something to do. For many of the people around us, it was the peak of a dream. I can't even imagine what reaching Santiago means for them, and the flood of emotions that must overwhelm them when they get here.

For me the emotions involve the fact that I no longer have to spend my nights sharing rooms with snoring old men, that the kindness of volunteers all along the road will now not apply to me, that I will now be just a traveller, not a pilgrim, the fact that perhaps, without the yellow camino arrows to be our guide, we'll be more inclined to take the road less travelled..

Why didn't you ask?!

2007-10-17T04:30:00.001+10:00

a.k.a. "The difference between men and women - as witnessed by one of Matan's (more than) best friends, Jay, who travelled with us on the Road to Santiago for a week."

As you may be aware, Matan and I are on our way to Santiago. It's a long, long walk. What it gives one is PLENTY of time to get to know the person you are walking with (along with many other things which I unfortunately have no time to get into right now)..

Now I have three scenarios which I feel illustrate some of the things Matan and I have learned about each other..

1. It's taken me some time, but I have come to the conclusion (as I so often do) that my mother was completely correct in saying that the difference between men and women is that men are all about solutions. You tell your problems to another woman, she listens and shares her own problems - in this way, you deal. Men, on the other hand, are all about solving puzzles. Who needs them!? (I mean the solutions..)

I have a bad habit, I admit it. It's something Jane and I have in common actually. When I wake up, I tend to start complaining. It's not particularly wearisome complaining, it comes with a lot of energy and enthusiasm. Things like "my life sucks", "my legs hurt", "the world is shit", "i need to do my laundry", "I'm starving to death".. etc, etc. After getting to know me somewhat, Mr fix-it (Matan) has learned to ignore this little issue. Jay, on the other hand, on his first morning of hiking with us, seemed unaware of the correct procedure. He started giving me solutions. "Let's go have breakfast", "we can do laundry in the next town", "what's wrong with the world really?", "maybe we just need to take it easy today", etc, etc. So after a while, I was like "JAY! Why are you answering all my issues for me!? Just ignore it!" Jay thought about it and responded, "Well, you wake up in the morning, and you really seem to have a lot of problems." ... Men. Honestly.

2. Apparently the way we express requests in English is quite strange for an Israeli. I hardly ever say "Can you give me the something-or-other." Instead I'll say "do you want to buy me a coffee", "do you want to carry my bag" .. at first this drove Matan mental. "Yes, there's nothing I want to do more than give you the sandwich I was about to bite into. Really, I've been waiting my whole life to carry your encyclopedia for you!", etc, etc. But by now everybody is used to this phrasing and we fully understand each other.

Anyway, so one night, late in a refuge, I start subtly telling the men that I wouldn't mind having some tea. After a while it still doesn't click, and when Jay ventures into the kitchen, I grab my opportunity. "Oh, are you going to make tea?!" Jay looks slightly puzzled and says, "no, I was going to charge my phone." After I continue to stare at him expectantly for another 10 minutes, something does click (in russian we have an expression for this "dashlo kak da zhirafa" - it reached him like a giraffe), and he says "but I can make tea if you want". I smile and say "only if you want to." Matan falls off the bed in a state of shock. ... Men. Honestly.

3. Matan, being the big, strong man that he is, carries my jeans in his bag. Sometimes, like yesterday for example, I need my jeans when he happens to not be around. Obviously, I go to his bed, get out his stuff, put it on the only shelf-space that's available (which happens to be where my bag is lying), get out my jeans, and forget about the whole thing. It seems rather simple. Two hours later, Matan comes to me with the sad news that he forgot his mp3 player at the last town we were in. Instead of being the crazy woman I can at times be, I very calmly tell him that it's no big deal, that these things happen, that we'll get it back, that Jane forgot her ipod in the middle of siberia (a place far more likely to have things stolen than middle-of-nowhere spain), blah blah blah.. No worries.

Later, I ask Matan whether or not he is definitely sure he left the zune player thing in Viana, and Matan goes into a long and detailed explanation of his amazingly effective photographic memory. Lena, as always, is very impressed. Matan explains that he does not have a photo in his head of himself putting the zune into his bag. Fair enough. Later still, Matan goes to shower, while Jay and Lena hang out and discuss various life matters. A short while passes and Matan returns with a crazed look in his eye. What's the matter? Apparently, when Matan went to shower, he discovered that he'd also left his toiletries bag in Viana. Then his underwear, his jeans and his towel. Not possible, he thought. Surely, he didn't suddenly turn into his sister overnight. All of a sudden, a nagging thought hits him, Matan turns his head to the right, and, to his slight bafflement, finds all those items he's "lost" lying on my bag. After Matan tells us this story, him and Jay turn to me with astonishment to say "why didn't you tell him?!" But clearly, the more important question is "Why didn't he ask!?" ... Men. Honestly.

Matantionary by Alex Zak

2007-10-05T17:36:00.000+10:00

Well I'm not sure if it's appropriate to write it here, however I was going to write something for Matan, and, suddenly, here it is - Matan's posting! What a coincidence!

As you may guessed, Matantionary stands for Matan's dictionary.

Dedication

We spent two weeks with Matan in Israel. These two weeks were part our 25th anniversary trip. I don’t know why and how we, without knowing this young man, trusted him organizing our big 25th. But we did it and he did it with all his heart and passion and love and laugh and seriousness - giving all 150% as in everything he does! Thank you Matan and Happy Birthday!

English dictionary according to Matan or Four in a jeep (To Say Nothing of а Dog)

Compiled and published by Alex Zak after two weeks spent with Matan, my wife Julia, our daughter Lena and Matan’s dog Becky travelling in Matan’s 4wd up and down Israel.

Introduction

This dictionary is not very traditional – or it’s not traditional at all. It contains … but you will see it in a minute.

It is organised in a conventional way – word or phrase from Matan’s vocabulary followed by an explanation. Some entries are combineд together. In this case they may be followed by a comment.BTW, I don’t pretend that I can cover the entire Matan’s dictionary – at the end we spent just two weeks together. Therefore anyone who knows Matan and is willing to contribute is more than welcome.

This should be it, let’s start.

Matantionary

Look - polite form of “shut-up”
listen - less polite form of “shut-up”
no-no-no - the strongest (for Matan) form of “shut-up”
first of all - let me try to explain (polite form of “shut-up”)
second of all - let me explain (less polite form of “shut-up”)
third of all - let me finally explain (even less polite form of “shut-up”)
Author’s comments: having inherited from his mum a desire to educate people, Matan has developed an approach to use these forms of numerical expressions to explain different events in life. Some witnesses (victims?) mentioned to us the “thirty seventh of all” however due to a limited time we spent with Matan we cannot confirm that.
… the best - ordering in a restaurant. Matan doesn’t read menus in restaurants. As he never pretends that he knows something what he doesn’t he realized that this is just such a waste – if you do know what you want, why to read, and if you don’t why not to ask “bring me the best”? It’s soo simple and effective! (not cost effective though but who cares? Matan doesn’t!)
Ahi - a legendary form of referring to a male of certain age/social status/dress code/etc etc. We could not work out who is ‘ahi” and who is not. Matan could not explain it either (?!) So we suspect some sort of conspiracy – a secret “Ahi society” which we are not members of, or, maybe even a new religion – “Ahiism”?
Author’s comments: We were wondering why Matan’s vocabulary doesn’t possess an “ahi” equivalent to address to a female. Really, how does he approach females to ask for directions? The answer has fascinated us – he doesn’t… They (females) ask him “how can I help you” just after (sometimes even before) he looks at them! As languages’ studies prove – if there is no need to express an idiom in a language, then the language just doesn’t have a word for this idiom! An example – try to find a word for “privacy” in Russian!

Names

Lany - you should hear how Matan pronounces this “Lany” when he talks to Lena! Did I mention that “Lany” is “Lena” in Matan’s language? Why is it “Lany”? I don’t know but it sounds very soft and nearly as good as my own «Lenochka”!
Yul - this one I can explain. After few hours of unsuccessful tries to pronounce Julia in Russian Matan gave up (ooh my god, did I say that?!) and asked for alternatives. (This demonstrates one of Matan’s numerous qualities – he can reevaluate his drive for perfection in everything and may decide to come up with a “plan B”). In this case “plan B” resulted in Yul – it was easy, simple to pronounce, funny and much shorter – which considering number of times per day Matan was using this word ended up in considerable time savings.
Alex - very rarely used, only when the rest of the crew (excluding Becky) were not around
Becks - same as Becky. Indicates enormous Becky’s growth since she was found, saved and named – she is much bigger now and deserves plurals.
Yura - while it refers to Yura Mazin, for Matan this name has a special meaning. After a song where Matan performed as a leading singer (“Eh Yura, ty Yura, ty Yura, ty Yura”) was published on YouTube, Matan has been approached by several Russian recording companies offering recording contracts. The conditions of these offers were undisclosed. This is what you call “overnight success!”

Miscellaneous

a couple of - a “show-off” way to say “two”. It’s not actually from Matan’s vocabulary. Why?You’re right – he doesn’t show off!
make a cup of tea - Ooh, this is definitely from Matan’s vocabulary! And some of us remember this very well! Unfortunately when we heard this phrase first time in Golan Heights being disembarked from our 4wd a night before our 25th anniversary in the middle of nowhere which in a half an hour became the middle of a large military training, so when we heard the “make a cup of tea” we did not know that it’s a polite form of “leave me alone, I’ve got an urgent business to attend”!

Conclusion

This concludes the first edition of Matantionary. The publishers hope that they have managed to gather few words and phrases which present an unusual view of a young man who impressed us so much in these two weeks in July-August 2007 – Matan Yaffe.

Farewell France..

2007-10-04T07:47:00.000+10:00

Our time in France has come to an end.. it was a bizarre month, full of ups and downs, full of learning - both in the rugby stadium and outside of it - and after the dramas of that final day in Lyon, I feel like I can look back on the time in France as much, much more than what I wrote then.. my overwhelming impression was definitely not of being slapped by some dufus, but of spending a month in a foreign place in a way I never had the opportunity to do before.. of living in my own apartment, of constantly driving through the French country-side, of taking only first-class trains, of drinking endless cups of coffee, of eating endless baguettes, of learning that cooking is really not that hard, and of finally finishing Harry Potter, of being romanced in the city of the romans, of learning how to order goat-cheese like a pro, and of it all finally being over with the excitement of the next chapter opening ahead of us..

France

Tomorrow we start the Camino de Santiago.. my first ever pilgramage.. perhaps I will come back more enlightened than after crawling through Buddha's nostril in Nara.. who knows..

Matan yaffe said...

2007-09-24T18:51:00.000+10:00

I have never responded to your blog and I think that I'll never will but time will tell.

I don't even fully understand the consequences of responding to your blog, I don't know if everyone will see it or only you but it doesn't really matter because I am writing for you not for anyone else, the reason that I chose to write here in the blog is because I write specifically about your article as a person, as just another human being, simply as Matan Yaffe and not as Lenas boyfriend. this, is not personal.
I apologize in advance if the "commentary zone" suppose to be for short and silly commentary but I have lots to say and it's not silly and I think I am quite finish with this introduction after I captured the best of your attention.

I chose to respond now because it's different - on values you are writing so on values I'll respond, and forgive me all the native English speakers for there is no spelling check in this.. whatever it's called, so there will be mistakes, I am sure you'll be able to deal with it.

so, Lena , I read and I thought, even though I didn't really needed to, I know the answer and it is quite simple, I agree, there was nothing you could have done, this time, but it doesn't mean that there is nothing that can be done generally speaking, and what I mean is this:

as a shock and disappointment that it will be to you parents there are 3 kinds of people, not 2:

when something happens, good, bad it doesn't matter, there is the kind that will simply won't see or wouldn't care, because it has different thing on his mind or different values which is acceptable.

The 2nd kind is the kind that do something but we'll go back to that later on.
the 3nd kind is the most dangerous kind, it's the kind that stays apathetic, the kind that see the values that he believes in smashing by other people and chose to look away, chose to ignore say how horrible it is and then move on, chose to stand and look and let the world that he believes in destroyed but those that where always and will always exist; lets call them - the bad people.

not even for one second I am saying in this case you needed to do anything, it was useless, the people that I am talking about are all the other people in that mall; all those people that saw and heard and knew and chose to walk away, chose to ignore the problem and hoping that this will make it go away. so you might ask why am I writing to you for? Which bring me to my final point which is that, so many times in our life lany, we, are those people from the mall.. we see bad things but it's never "personal" (as you know my affection and meaning for this word) but suddenly when it's personal, it's so hard; suddenly when it's you - Lena zak, all the people that know you start to freak out but the real question (and I am not judging anyone)is how would they react if they would see it happens to a random person in the street? would they still be so upset about it? will they do actually something? and it's not necessarily that specific case, it can be anything, so many times in our life we see bad things and we are doing absolutely nothing to fix it, try to answer that honestly, to your self alone, how much are we really doing to make the world just a bit better, as time goes by we are becoming stronger and weaker - stronger with our thounge - we are talking so much but weaker in our actions, we can criticize really well, we know how to point on all the bad things, we know how to wast our time and energy on all the wrong things, we know how to devote our self to "face book" but we forgot how to look a person in his face, how to standup for our values.I am not saying that I would, I don't know, I know that if I was next to you I would break this guy jaw no matter the consequences but I would like to believe that i would also react if it would have been happening to another girl and I was around, and I am not saying now that we should start beating up everyone that step out of line but we have to react! the world will never be a nice and happy place, but if we want to make it at least a bit better than we have to do what we can in out little piece of land, lany, one day we'll bring kids to this world, all your friends will probably do that as well, I just want to make sure that when we will, we'll also know that we did everything we could to improve the world just a bit, and call me naive or whatever, I do believe that if you do good, and not just talk ll day long but also try to change a bit, just where you can, then eventually it'll come back to you, even if you don't know that, it doesn't matter, trust mt, it will.

we can't stay apathetic and remember only when it touches us, as you said that I sometime say, you got a "punch to the face", use it my dear, learn from it, next time when something is bothering you or you see something wrong don't stay apathetic, react, even if you think that your reaction is small and meaningless, it's not, it'll change much more than you are ewer of, because you only need one strong person in every situation, and by strong I don't mean physically strong but mentally strong, people are looking for a leader Lany, you just need the first brave person to react and you'll see how the rest will follow, people are to lazy in order to get up and do something (and it's important that you won't miss understand me, I am not talking about protest and join feminist organizations now, I am talking about immediate respond, to make it clear on the spot that what ever the bad thing that happened, we are not apathetic to it, we are not ignoring, we do care!) but if someone will start the wave, he'll give the rest the right and the legitimation to do something as well, and maybe, just maybe your reaction which is "meaningless" will give another person the push to react the next time he will see something wrong that is done and maybe on that time, he will save life, or even more, he'll save at least for a while until we'll all wake up, the good and the beauty of the human society..

one more thing, you said that that is what you will remember from Lyon every time you'll look back, well I'll tell you something, you are wrong, us, human being, have a tend to be a bit overdramatic, especially if thoes 2 people are Lena zak and Matan yaffe - as both of our articals prove, but as people, we also have the natural instict to move on and let go the bad things in their place, in this quality we can find both the beauty and the danger, the beuty of being stronger and with more abilities to handel "life" and the danger of being apathetic to this "life".
take the good out of it, that will come naturally, you'll remember from Lyon our great times alon, that I know, but in the same time, try to beat the bad, don't lose the same passion you had when you wrote your dramatic blog to try and change something.

Love you a lot.

A lasting impression..

2007-09-24T03:28:00.000+10:00

I debated with myself for so long about whether to write this post or not, that the issue slowly but surely fizzled into nothing till I found myself in front of the computer ready to type.

So here I am.

I left my apartment late in the afternoon today, my last full day in Lyon. I was on a mission to do some last-day shopping, but found everything - absolutely everything - closed on Sunday.

Walking out of the mall, I headed in a direction I had never tried before. While reading a message on my phone, I suddenly became aware of being very close to another, shall we say, person. Before I had any time to fully react to the situation, the fucking bastard had slapped me as hard as he could on the ass, and walked off, to the jeering of his gorilla mates.

There was absolutely nothing for me to do. My immediate reaction of swearing at him, felt stupid in the moment, and now seems completely insufficient and foolish - especially considering the moron didn't even understand my eloquent English (what a stupid expression it is to say "pardon my French"!).

I felt completely lost and unable to understand what had just happened, or that it could happen to invincible me of all people, in broad daylight, surrounded by people! At first all I could do was concentrate on the fact that crying was not an option.

So instead I focused on my fury.

Who the hell does that piece of scum think he is!? What gives him the right!? How does such a thought even cross his deranged mind!?

Wearing jeans and a t-shirt, I was not dressed inappropriately, was not 'asking for it' in any way. Although, had I been wearing a mini-skirt with high heels and a thick layer of make-up, his action would not have been less despicable.

When those poor excuses for human beings leer and stare like the drooling dogs that they are, I can pretend they don't exist. When they wolf-whistle and cat-call, I can look the other way. But when a piece of shit like that actually places his filthy paw on me, hard enough so that I can stiff feel its echo 10, 15, 20 minutes later, well then, it's a different story!

And yet it's not. What, in that situation, could I have done, besides walking away with my tail between my legs?

How absolutely wrong it is that it is I who is still thinking about that awful moment, while he has surely enjoyed the sick pleasure countless more times! How ironic that this will be my strongest memory of Lyon, the story I will repeat over and over again, while the background of 13th century alleyways and riverside cafes fades further and further away?

What rot!

The frustration and injustice of it all could have kept me on a rant for hours, but instead a funny thing happened.

Well, not exactly funny in the traditional sense..

Concentrating on my fury and letting my feet carry me through the back streets of Lyon, I very nearly collided with a woman whose face was pointed in shock and concentration to the sky. Surrounded by dozens of people in the same position, I suddenly realised that they were all looking at a fire-truck across the road which, with its ladder up high, was attempting the rescue of an elderly person from a fifth storey window.

And just like that, in the exact same time it had taken me to be as angry as I'd ever been, I was brought back down to earth with a jolt of well-proportioned reality.

PS. I didn't write any of this for anyone - and you know who I'm talking to - to worry any more about me than they already do.. I'm fine.. Sometimes a "punch in the face," in the wise words of Matan, is all a person needs to be reminded of where and who they are.. That's all..

Try-ing times

2007-09-20T23:55:00.000+10:00

It's a lovely day today. Sunny, calm. The Georgian rugby team, I have just been informed, has decided to cancel their media opportunity to provide their players with some much-needed rest and to let them wonder around the lovely city of Lyon in an unsupervised fashion. Excellent.

So here I am. Matan has left me to go and frolic in the Alps (as if the Alps are better than hanging out with the Georgians, please!) and my exciting scoop on the upcoming birthdays of the players will have to wait until tomorrow to be put into action..

It's funny what spending 3 weeks following a bunch of very large men with unpronounceable names will do for a person's sense of perspective.. like it's totally fine that I spent the first week convincing player after player that I wasn't in fact there to grab their autograph (as incredibly difficult as it was to repeatedly say this with a straight face, I'm proud to say I managed..), or to deal with the fact that when Matan and I enter a training, at least 6 people make a bee-line to shake Matan's hand and show their mutual bonds in masculinity, while I stand on the side and attempt to interview every man and his dog, all to the sounds of jeering from every other man and his dog..

My personal contact on the team's management rolls his eyes so much every time I call that I can actually hear them over the phone.. though today, I was assured by another member of the delegation that Mr eye-rolls misses me terribly and talks about me all the time, and only seems rough and nasty on the outside, but is in fact all kindness and sweetness under the gruffyness.. hmph..

A typical conversation..
Wanna-be reporter girl - "Hi Mr Eye-Rolls, it's Wanna-be reporter girl."
Mr Eye-Rolls - "Oh, you. Yeah."
Wanna-be reporter girl - "Have you saved my number already? I've only been calling you twice a day for three weeks! What an honour!"
Mr Eye-Rolls - "No, no. But you do call occasionally.."
Wanna-be reporter girl - "Well, yes. But it could be worse, I'm sure."
Mr Eye-Rolls - "Yes, yes. One thing is certain. It could always be worse.."

BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!

Haha, no, I really do love them all.. How can you not?

Lelo, Lelo, Sakartvelo!

Georgia earn presidential decree

2007-09-20T15:34:00.000+10:00

Flying high: Georgia captain Ilia Zedginidze

LYON, 20 September - Georgia's sterling efforts at the world cup have sparked an unprecedented wave of interest in the sport at the top of the country's political chain.

Georgia president Mikheil Saakashvili has announced plans to build at least 10 rugby stadiums over the next 12 months.

He also pledged to finance a top-flight competition in recognition of the exposure the IRB Rugby World Cup has given Georgia.

Speaking after his team's valiant 14-10 loss to Ireland on Saturday, Georgia captain Ilia Zedginidze reinforced the need for the country to forge their own championship.

"(Even though) playing in France allows the players to develop themselves really well, and for this we are really grateful to France, in Georgia there are not many structures for rugby to develop," Zedginidze said.

"In the next five years we have to do much more for the internal competition in Georgia."

Aiming for No.1
Zedginidze believes Georgia's improved standing in the international rankings - they've moved up one spot to 16th - is the most important result from the tournament.

"I hope that rugby will become the number-one sport in Georgia," Zedginidze said.

"Now everybody plays football and for our national team we have to choose 30 people out of less than 500 senior players.

"If you look at our younger players, we have some very good 11, 12 and 13 year-olds. They're as good as the French or English boys.

"In the future we will pay more attention to developing that age group so that we can become as strong as the French, English or any of the top sides. That's our objective."

This article first appeared on the Official RWC site.

War sees Shkinin wing his way to rugby

2007-09-17T15:47:00.001+10:00

New hero: Giorgi Shkinin celebrates
his try

VILLEFRANCHE, 17 September - After scoring Georgia's first try at the IRB Rugby World Cup, and being named man of the match in Saturday's 14-10 defeat to Ireland, Giorgi Shkinin is modestly accepting the attention while remaining focused on the task ahead.

However, after the match, with Georgia's flag draped over his shoulders and circling the pitch with his team-mates, Shkinin, 24, looked every bit the star.

"This feeling is unforgettable," he said, clutching his man of the match trophy and promising to "display it in the most visible place in my home, and have it as part of the inheritance for generations to come".

Shkinin's rugby career started at 16 when a neighbour convinced him to give up swimming and join him at rugby training for local team Hooligana ('Hooligans').

From childhood Shkinin was in a local swim squad, but when Georgia's war broke out in the early 1990s it was no longer an option.

"During war, there's no pools," he explained.

After the war Shkinin returned to swimming, but it was too late for him to be accepted into a squad.

The Hooligans, whose name comes from the nickname of former Georgian rugby player Mikheil Koridze, who died in the civil war, became a second family to Shkinin. He now plays for Blois in France.

"The Hooligans meant everything to me. They were a family and the bonds between us were something irreplaceable. But to play on the national team is a sportsman's dream.

"Every single one of us gives their all. When you see your team-mates run and fall on their face, push themselves to every limit, you can't help but be the same," Shkinin said.

Though Namibia have been dubbed Georgia's only real opponents in Pool D, both sides' performance against Ireland showed they are capable of much more.

"Now maybe the others will think of us as worthy opponents," Shkinin said. "We're doing all we can so they don't think of Georgia and Namibia as just a passing phase to be dealt with on the way to more important things."

Georgia's objective now is to have faith in themselves.

"The realisation that we can take those moments and grab the game into our own hands is new for us. When we found ourselves with 3-6 against Argentina (in their first Pool D match), we just weren't ready for that moment," said Shkinin.

"We came back from half time and were so obsessed with the points we already had, we couldn't continue performing. With Ireland it was different."

This article first appeared on the Official RWC site.

Swiss cheesy..

2007-09-12T20:19:00.000+10:00

It's been a crazy month or so.. I've left Israel, travelled with my parents through Switzerland, and now we find ourselves in Lyon, hanging with the Georgian Rugby team, reading Harry Potter, and generally having a random old time..

Here are the photos from Switzerland.. There is much to say of course, but no time to say it.. one day..

=) Lena.