Some of Victoria’s bushfire affected areas, one year later…

Thanks to everybody who filled in my recent Reader Survey. I received some excellent guidance and pointers from readers, and I’ll endeavour to take many of the recommendations on-board to improve your experience at The Professional Hobo.

Here are a few of the things I learned from you:

Why You Visit The Professional Hobo

A large contingent of readers are intrigued by the nomadic lifestyle and are either living vicariously through mine, or are trying to figure out how to do it themselves. The fact that I’ve escaped the 9-5 routine after the age of 30 is another point of interest to many.

My Week-In-The-Life series is also quite popular, having been cited by a few readers as a favourite. I’m glad that you like it as much as I do; I love learning about the daily routines of travelers – it’s so different for everybody, and it’s worth celebrating.

I was pleased to see how many readers are in the throes of planning their own trips and read my site for inspiration and travel/travel planning tips. I write many of the travel tips for other publications, but I always link to them in my regular Roundups.

The marriage of personal finance and travel. As a former Certified Financial Planner, I’ve taken to the road armed with financial strategies and planning mechanisms to ensure I travel responsibly and sustainably. Again I don’t touch upon a huge amount of finances on this site in particular, but as a published personal finance author, you’ll continue to see lots of links to my work at Wise Bread and Amex Open Forum, with more such articles coming and new work with other financial industry leaders in the next year.

What You Think is Missing from The Professional Hobo

The overwhelmingly common response here was that I need to publish more photos. Done! I’ll post more photos of my journey along with my (witty and engaging) articles from now on!

Some people are also looking for more specific information about how I travel, how I find opportunities, and how much it costs. Although some of this appears in other articles I write (and link to in my Roundups), I can also do more of it on this site. I’ll be traveling extensively and actively this year, so I will keep track of my expenses to create profiles of how much each destination costs given my travel style, preferences, and opportunities.

And despite the request for more how-to information, I’m also being told not to deviate too far from the roots of this site – which are travelogue-based. So don’t worry – I’ll continue to share personal experiences of my journeys along with some sage tips as to how I did it.

How I Can Help You

Lots of people feel I can assist by providing inspiration and motivation to help adopt the travel lifestyle yourselves. Whew – no small task!

It gets better: The next most common response was along the lines outlining my personal challenges to living on the road. Where does my support come from, and is it sufficient? What is “home” on the road, and how do I find its comforts? And is the full-time travel life as rosy as it appears to be on paper?

I have a knack for being a little gritty with my writing (especially in times of crisis), so I find it interesting that I’m being encouraged to keep showing the less-than-perfect side of the travel coin. Without being too negative, I’ll try to objectively illustrate the full scope of full-time travel – the good, the bad, and yes, occasionally the ugly.

The third way I learned I can help you is to continue to provide tips and travel advice. As I’ve indicated earlier, people who are looking for this should pay particular attention to my regular Roundups, which contain links to articles I’ve written on many of these topics.

Reader Survey Winner

As an incentive and “thank you” for filling out my survey, I randomly drew the name of a survey respondent on March 15^th (when I closed out the survey), to be mailed a signed copy of the best-selling 10,001 Ways to Live Large on a Small Budget,co-authored by yours truly.

Congratulations to Amanda from USA for winning the draw! I’ve mailed your copy, which you can expect in the next week or so. Amanda loves global music, travel, and you can ask her how awesome my book is on Twitter @msuniqueslounge.

My 2010 Travel Plans

My travels are an ever-evolving entity. So what I say here may not actually come to pass this year. But seeing that I’ll be on the road in a day or so, it’s time I let you in on the current plan:

Kelly (my boyfriend) has a few career opportunities in Australia that he can’t ignore, which has enticed him to stay a little longer. But I have itchy feet and a business/brand name/passion/lifelong dream involving full-time travel that is falling by the wayside in the process. So we’ve come to a decision: Kelly will stay in Australia until December doing his thing, and I’ll take advantage of some travel opportunities that have come my way and do my thing. In November we’ll reunite, and in December we’ll continue our travels together.

Throw some Aussie visa issues into the mix, and the separation is going to be longer than it might otherwise have been; my visa expires before the end of March, and I don’t know when (or sssshhhh: if) I’ll be allowed to return. I am hoping that six months’ absence will suffice. I’ll be writing a post shortly about just how these visa (and other) issues came to pass, and how I planned my year of traveling in less than two weeks.

So now, where to go:

Having had just a taste of New Zealand while shooting a television show for 11 days, I’ve (unsurprisingly) fallen in love with the country, and decided to go back for a while. I already have a work-trade gig lined up for April, and some friends in Auckland, Rotorua, Wellington, and Christchurch to visit.

In June, I’ll be using the mega frequent flyer miles I earned in December to book flights to Europe and back. This is an open-jaw ticket (flying into Madrid and out of Amsterdam), and…drum roll please….is booked in business class. So I spent about $1,200(US) on Christmas presents and supplies and got over $8,000 in flights, with enough miles left over for a domestic flight. Thank you, Chris Guillebeau. Your e-book and frequent flyer updates rock!

My European plans are as yet undetermined, but I’m lining up some work-trade opportunities in Spain, house-sitting opportunities wherever, my parents and some friends may be making the trip from Canada, and I’ll stay with local friends and enjoy hospitality exchanges as I meander around over about four months.

Then, assuming a new Aussie visa comes through, I’ll return to Australia and experience the world-class train rides through the outback (The Ghan and The Indian Pacific), check out Western Australia, and reconnect with Kelly. Shortly thereafter, the world will be our oyster – once again.

I feel strange committing these plans to paper, since they were conceived only a few weeks ago, and locations dreamed up within the last week. As I’ve said before though: ‘Life Happens while you’re busy making plans’, and although these plans are best-laid – for now – they are still subject to change. I guess we’ll see how things go – as always, you’ll be the first to know!

Related posts:

1. READER SURVEY: WIN A Signed Copy of 10,001 Ways to Live Large on a Small Budget!
2. While I Travel, Do I Sell my House, or Rent it Out? (Reader Questions Answered)
3. How I Planned a Year of Travel in Less Than 2 Weeks

“This is an odd spot for a campground,” I commented.

“It’s not a campground,” Nora said. “It’s the Australian Aboriginal Embassy.”

Huh? That’s some kind of embassy.

Nora admitted that she didn’t know much more about it than that, and so we slowed our pace as we walked by. With laundry hanging on lines strung between trees and tents, it appeared that people lived there, so out of respect we limited ourselves to sidelong glances at this curious settlement while we passed by.

Seeing an information sign on an easel at the end, we took the opportunity to stop, read the sign, and peer beyond it to see what the place was about. While we stood there, Mike approached us.

After exchanging pleasantries and learning that he’s lived here for the last three weeks, he sensed our unanswered questions.

“Would you like to learn more about our embassy?” he said. “I can get my Auntie. She knows heaps more than I do.” Nora and I glanced at each other and with a sparkle in our eyes said yes – knowing this would either be a gem of an afternoon or an uncomfortable dud.

A minute later, Sheralee sauntered up to us. She was wearing one old boot, the other foot being bare. Her outfit was clean, but shabby. She wore dark sunglasses, and her overbite revealed yellow crooked teeth with large gaps where teeth had once been.

She addressed us in a friendly and forward manner. “Mike here tells me you wanna know more about our embassy,” she started. We nodded, temporarily speechless and wondering what we’d gotten ourselves into. Sheralee put us at ease by smiling and bidding us to follow her.

Instead of walking toward the tents, she wandered over to the steps in front of the parliament building. On the way she exchanged pleasantries with a businessman who was sitting on the steps, and obviously knew her.

When we stopped we found ourselves looking down at a section of pavement with faded paintings on it.

“This is where it all began,” she said. “38 years ago, we lit a fire here and sat around it.” She pointed to the faded artwork and described what the aboriginal dots, lines, and symbols meant. “We were protesting and advocating for the rights of Australia’s aboriginal people. They tried to take us away, to move us, to hide us, but we wouldn’t go away. Eventually we moved the fire down there [she pointed to a spot 10 metres away, where a small fire was burning], and they reluctantly allowed us to stay here.”

There is always at least one person living on-site twenty-four hours a day, and as many as hundreds at times of high protest. From the looks of it, a handful of people were currently residing there. It was imperative that the fire be constantly tended, as it had been burning for 38 solid years.

She (half) joked that parliament didn’t much like the sight of them on their front lawn, so they built a new parliament building behind the old one.

I was confused. “So…the Australian government allows you to stay here in protest, but hasn’t granted you a meeting yet?”

Sheralee was ambiguous, but indicated that they still hadn’t been heard, in that there weren’t satisfactory results yet. I asked what would have to happen for this 38 year protest – the world’s longest standing protest – to end.

She said they want their land, a treaty, and sovereignty. Getting into specifics was impossible, as it seemed to involve more depth and detail than was intended for this impromptu tour.

Shortly thereafter we were joined by a local British fellow who seemed to know Sheralee. He had his wife and two foreign university students in tow, and introduced Sheralee to the students – a girl from Japan and another from China. Sheralee welcomed everybody to the conversation and led us down the steps to the fire.

Hand-painted signs prohibiting alcohol and smoking surrounded the fire, which was obviously a sacred area. We lowered our heads in respect as we entered the circle. All the while, the British man tittered and talked nervously. He tried to make small talk and demonstrate his “extensive” knowledge about all things aboriginal, but the more he talked, the more he demonstrated how little he knew.

Sheralee handed each of us some eucalyptus leaves. “These leaves, eucalyptus leaves, are cleansing for us. We use them in dances, and ceremonies. Sometimes you see us shaking them and saying ‘Coo!’ when we want to clear the bad energy”. For emphasis, she rhythmically shook the eucalyptus branch and accented it with a “Coo!”

I imagined the nervous energy dissipating with this gesture. We all smiled, and tried our hands at ‘coo’-ing.

“These eucalyptus leaves are cleansing and healing. We rub it between our hands for the oil, and we burn it too.” She invited us each to throw our leaves in the fire, and to stand in the smoke and let it wash over us for cleansing.

With some degree of ceremony, we performed this ritual. But the smoke was not to be controlled, and as the moments passed, we all just stood in a circle around the fire and allowed the smoke to come around to each of us of its own volition.

We continued to chat about the aboriginal people’s history, land, and traditions, as well as current events (aboriginal and otherwise). Of interest to me was the reason Sheralee only wears one boot: so that she can use her bare foot to connect with the earth in aboriginal tradition.

Periodically after an off-beat comment from our nervous British friend, Sheralee took a step back, did a small dance while shaking the eucalyptus branch she still had in her hand, and said “Coo”! We felt the bad energy being whisked away, and pursed our lips to prevent giggling.

The more I listened to Sheralee, the more I realized she was educated, well-traveled, experienced, and well-spoken. My initial impression based on her personal appearance was mistaken. I reveled in this realization. As a traveler, I’ve always prided myself on having an open mind, and yet here I had allowed pre-conceived notions and appearances to cloud my judgment. It’s these qualities that (at least in part) led to aboriginal issues in Australia to begin with. And here we all were, standing around a 38 year old fire to remind us.

After conversing around the fire for close to an hour, silence fell upon us. It seemed that this was the end of our tour of the aboriginal tent embassy. We took a few pictures, all shook hands and hugged, and then we each wandered off in different directions.

Related posts:

1. Australian Expressions of Pleasure
2. Canadian versus Australian Coins
3. Australian Seagulls, Spider Bites, and Blue Mountains

So…what better time than now for a reader survey! I want to kick The Professional Hobo into a new gear, and in order to serve you best, I need to know a little more about who you are and what you need. This survey will invaluably help me do just that, so I can deliver on what you ask for.

At just seven questions, I’ve tried to keep it short and relatively painless.

And if simply loving my Site isn’t enough of an impetus to complete the survey, here’s the golden carrot: I’m giving away a free signed copy of 10,001 Ways to Live Large on a Small Budget to one lucky reader who completes this survey, shipped free of charge to wherever you are. The winner will be randomly chosen in just over a week’s time on Monday, March 15^th and notified by e-mail. All you have to do to enter is complete the survey!

Please click here to take the survey.

PS – To my e-mail subscribers: you are very important to me! Please click through to take the survey. Thanks!

Related posts:

1. Reader Survey Results, Our Winner, and My Travel Plans for 2010
2. While I Travel, Do I Sell my House, or Rent it Out? (Reader Questions Answered)
3. Where We Live

Hello folks! Before we see where I’ve had my words of wisdom published in the last month, I’d like to give you a little update as to my short-term travel itinerary: on Sunday I’ll be on a plane to New Zealand for a whirlwind 10 day tour of the North Island for a nationally syndicated television show called Alive. For their first episode, they had Tim Ferriss (among others) on, so I feel pretty honoured to be invited to tag along for a week and a half of solid adventure. I’ve seen the itinerary, and it’s extensive!

After that, I’ll return to Australia, where I’ll formulate and announce my next round of travel plans. This year promises to be a busy one!

And now that we have that out of the way, please enjoy this roundup of published pieces. There are lots in the hopper…I’ll keep you posted, of course.

Wise Bread

How to Avoid Getting Your Credit Card Canceled

Your credit card could be canceled this year, and quite possibly without any notice either. Don’t get stuck with a canceled card at the cashier; read this article and arm yourself with information and advice to avoid having your credit card canceled just when you need it the most.

Financial IQ Test: How Healthy is Your Budget?

Budgeting is one of the hardest things for any of us to do well – and stick to. It requires discipline, attention to detail, and persistence. But it doesn’t have to be impossible; and effective budgeting can actually be quite empowering. Here’s a Financial IQ Test to help you determine how healthy your approach to budgeting is, with some resource articles to help you improve on identified areas of weakness.

AMEX Open Forum

18 Ways to Save and Go Green in the Office

The office kitchen is an often used yet underutilized resource for you and your employees. It is a gathering place, and one that provides a sense of home in an otherwise sterile work environment. It is also a place of consumption — not only the consumption of food, but also the unnecessary consumption of resources. Create an office kitchen that is environmentally friendly, and not only will you save money, but you will also lead by example and inspire employees to take these sound practices into their own homes. Here are some easy ways you can go green in the office kitchen, and save a few bucks while you’re at it.

Car Sharing for Businesses: Save Money and Go Green

Car sharing is taking off among individuals in urban centers who need a car but prefer not to own one. This trend is also gaining popularity with businesses, which use car sharing services to replace their in-house fleet, or to provide workplace and employee-use vehicles that are otherwise unaffordable. Commercial car sharing can even increase workplace productivity, save money, and of course – help the environment.

Related posts:

1. Roundup: August 16th-31st
2. Roundup: February
3. Roundup: March 1st-15th

Canberra (pronounced more like “Can-bra” with the emphasis on the “can”), gets a bad rap.

“Why would you want to go there?” was a question I had to answer more than once about visiting Australia’s capital city. Most of the people asking this question were Aussies themselves. For many tourists, Canberra doesn’t even make their radar screen.

And although Canberra may not be home to as much excitement and variety as Melbourne or Sydney, I quite enjoyed my time there.

Of course, a good chunk of what made Canberra the awesome place that it was, was the incredible hospitality and company of my Canadian friend who now lives there – whose name is also Nora. Wait – it gets weirder: we discovered while visiting together that we actually went to the same performing arts high school, and we were both drama majors. Thank you, Mr. Yates, for being the cue that we may have shared the same science teacher!

(Cue in Twilight Zone music now)…

Okay, strange coincidences aside, here are a few miscellaneous observations about Canberra, Australia’s capital city:

Canberra is very much a planned city. Canberra’s creator (Walter Burley Griffin) scribbled out the initial design on a cotton cloth in 1912 as part of a design competition. He won – and now his garden city design is enjoyed by Canberra’s 341,000 residents.

Canberra is very green. Griffin intentionally designed wide avenues and tree-lined streets to make Canberra a nature-filled city. Practically in the middle of it all are two mountains: Mount Majura and Mount Ainslie, both of which (despite the radio towers and weather stations on top) are havens for nature enthusiasts and nature itself.

Canberra is very…round. The main roads of Canberra are arranged in concentric circles. This wreaked havoc with my internal compass, and I’ll admit I spent most of our time in Canberra completely lost and wondering which way was North. .

Rush hour lasts about 20 minutes. And even in the height of traffic, it doesn’t take you much longer than 20 minutes to get anywhere in the city. It has the feel of a big city and small town at the same time.

Canberra is not very easy to get to, or from. Sure, traveling there from Sydney is a non-event with buses and trains regularly running the four hour trip. But traveling from Canberra to Melbourne – the next closest major city – (without flying) involves an 11 hour journey consisting of multiple buses and/or trains. When I commented on this idiosyncrasy, Nora (not me, the other one) drew parallels to Canada’s capital city of Ottawa. There seems to be a method to the madness of keeping a capital city a little bit out of the way, for security reasons if nothing else.

While at the bus station near downtown (if you can call it that), I found “Rudd Street”, presumably named after Australia’s current Prime Minister, Kevin Rudd (who as you may recall, I go way back with). Considering this was a fairly centrally located street that must have been recently named, I have to wonder how many other unnamed streets there are in prominent locations, waiting for a Prime Minister to come along and bless them with their identity.

Despite what seems like a high cost of living (I was shocked at real estate and rental prices), Canberra is a very “liveable” city. Outdoor and sport enthusiasts appreciate the nature trails and mountains (both in the city limits and very close at hand), it is easy to get to most places (with a car), and it is safe and friendly.

All the museums have free admission. The only exception to this rule is when a famous exhibit is being showcased, in which case a special fee is levied. I think this is a fabulous feature, for both locals and visitors, and I wish that Ottawa’s plethora of interesting museums could follow suit.

And interesting museums, indeed! I only saw a tiny smattering of what Canberra’s museums have to offer, but it is extensive. The War Memorial Museum in particular gets great accolades.

Where Canberra gets its bad rap is because it lacks nightlife and is (not my words) “full of stuffy public servants”. Alas, most of the people I met were fantastic, and I didn’t go out drinking at night, so I can’t truly verify or nullify either of these accusations. What I do maintain, however, is that Canberra is a very liveable city, and a great addition to my personal Australian landscape.

Related posts:

1. Australian Seagulls, Spider Bites, and Blue Mountains
2. The Manly Scenic Walkway, and How to Catch a Bus in Sydney
3. The Australian Aboriginal Tent Embassy: A 38 Year Protest

First, we took advantage of a gorgeous day (the first that wasn’t rainy in ages) to visit the Blue Mountains. Although they weren’t particularly blue (they’re supposed to have a blue-ish hue to them from all the eucalyptus oil in the air, but it wasn’t apparent on this day – likely because of previous rain), they were indeed beautiful.

One of the towns nestled around the Blue Mountains is Leura, with a small population and a huge collection of boutique shops perfect for window shopping. Stop at the Red Door Café for a wonderful meal if you’re in the area.

On the second consecutive beautiful day, we took advantage of the sunshine and visited Wollongong to enjoy prawns on the beach and to meet some Aussie seagulls. Wollongong has miles upon miles of surf-friendly beaches, and after school, it isn’t uncommon to see hoards of students in their uniforms headed for the beach with schoolbags on their backs and surf boards/boogie boards under their arms.

If you have seen the movie Finding Nemo, you’ll identify with the world-wide call of the seagull: Mine, Mine, Mine! Well here at Wollongong while we enjoyed our delicious prawns, the Aussie seagulls crowded us, looking for handouts in typical seagull-style. But this time, instead of Mine, Mine, Mine, I’m sure I heard their own individual Aussie incantation: Mate, Mate, Mate!

No, really. I did.

And if that wasn’t amusing enough, the oversized and gangly pelican that eventually joined our mob of seagulls looking for food rounded out the fun!

And now, for the spider part of the story.

As you may recall, I’ve not had the best of luck with critters that bite and sting. In my first two weeks in Hawaii, I managed to get attacked by centipedes twice, the second onslaught rendering me incapable of walking for a short time.

So with my luck and now being amongst the highest concentration of icky spiders and snakes of anywhere in the world, I had wondered how I’ve survived this long in Australia largely unscathed. Now, I don’t have to wonder any more.

One night, a spider – or spiders – must have decided was I just too delicious for words, because I awoke in the morning with dozens (quite literally) of bites. 37 bites to be exact. Although I don’t know what kind of spider it was, I’m willing to bet it wasn’t poisonous since I’m not dead yet.

But each day since then has been an adventure in discovering how these bites have mutated. First, it was the standard symptoms: itching and swelling. But a week later when I’d have suspected they would have largely dissipated, they were instead mutating in gruesome and slightly painful ways.

Fevers and other internal physical symptoms aside (!), these bites were hours of entertainment. Some of the bites resembled blood blisters, while others turned hard and became raised from the skin. The heat, redness, and swollen hard skin radiating from each bite rounded out the look.

Still thinking this was all quite a bit of fun (indeed, I have a perverse idea of what “fun” is), I showed my war wounds to a few Aussies, who highly suggested I seek medical attention – immediately.

(The pictures below were taken when I was still amused by them, the day before I asked for advice. Just imagine those bites as bigger, darker, and all over my body, and you get the idea!)

Not having Australian medical coverage and having dealt with travel insurance and hospital visits not once, but twice since leaving Canada, the thought of going to yet another hospital sent shivers down my spine. After the Dengue fever fiasco I had resolved that unless I was on the brink of death, I would not file any insurance claims and would pay cash for whatever medical attention I needed.

So instead of going to the hospital, I went to the pharmacy to get a second opinion.

And they told me to go to the hospital.

Defeated, I asked my host if she would like to show me a part of Canberra that not many tourists get to see: the inside of an emergency room. But we didn’t get very far; after being told by ER administration that it would cost $400 for the simple privilege of seeing a doctor (tests and incidentals are extra), I promptly replied that I’d rather die from the bites and reeled out of there.

Instead we found a medical clinic which charged a quarter of that amount, and 20 minutes later I walked out with a prescription for some antibiotics that would kick the heck out of whatever infection seemed to have a hold on me and was now making my body turn an interesting purple colour.

Days later, there is little evidence of the 37 bites of which I was so proud. And truthfully, I’m not even sure they were spider bites, although it’s an educated guess based on previous (isolated) spider bites. My body continues to be pillaged by antibiotics, but overall I survived the incident largely unscathed. I’m actually kind of disappointed I don’t have some grotesque scar to show as a war wound!

Sometimes they say the best travel adventures are mis-adventures. With a smile on my face, I can now say I’ve been attacked by Australian spiders (or something like it; let’s just say they were spiders, shall we? It sounds better for effect) and survived the incident. On to the next adventure – hi ho!

Related posts:

1. Centipede Bites: The Worst Hawaii has to Offer
2. Eek! The Australian Huntsman
3. Canadian versus Australian Coins

Russell Slater is a freelance journalist currently hopping on a bus, eating a baguette and listening to his walkman. It’s no surprise then that he likes writing about travel, food and music. He is a regular contributor to Uruguay Now, Brazzil, Matador Travel and A Different League, writes occasionally for a number of other websites. Please enjoy a week-in-the-life of Russell, as he sniffs out honey in Argentina.

Ever since I first tasted the honey in Argentina, I have been unable to forget it. Honey has always been one of my favourite food stuffs, not least because it has helped me through some horrendous pollen blizzards during many an English summer. It truly is the food of goods, able to make anything taste great (I dare you to try pasta with just honey and cinnamon).

This fascination with Argentinean honey has led me to Concordia, in the Entre Rios province of Argentina. I have come to find out how they make such good honey. I also want to improve my Spanish and get to know some of the locals, but the honey is my main priority. Through some contacts I made when I was last here I have managed to get a phone number for a beekeeper who has agreed to let me shadow him for a couple of weeks and learn the ropes.

Day 1

It seems I have not planned this well, for it is the first day of my diary and I am on a bus. Nothing ever seems to work out the way it was planned. This is especially true when you forgot to plan anything in the first place. The good news though is that I am on an Argentine bus and not a Brazilian one. Without experiencing either of these buses it may seem like there would be very little difference between them. How wrong you could be! To ride a Brazilian bus is to fit your entire body into a space that only a stray dog could find comfortable, to constantly look up at the bus conductor as he walks by and wonder if he’s going to give you that packet of biscuits you’ve been waiting so long for, to maybe offer you a pillow or a sheet, or just to tell you that the toilet is now functioning. None of these things will happen.

So as I plump up my pillow, pull my blanket up to my waist and prepare to tuck into the rice, milanesa, bread and milk-based dessert that has just been served to me, I am considerably happier on a bus than I have been for a while.

Day 2

When I wake up it is light. We stop on a main road and almost everyone gets off. I tentatively ask the conductor if this is ‘Concordia.’ I cross my fingers for a ‘no’ but he goes for the opposite.

I get my bags and stand by the side of the road as the bus drives off. There’s a couple of roads that lead off from the one I’m on, but seem to head into the great nothing. I see a taxi driver in the distance so make my way towards him. I ask him where Concordia is. He tells me it’s “far… very far.” When I ask if there’s a bus going that way he tells me only one bus runs each day, and it passed by about two hours ago. Never one to pay for a taxi unless it is 100% necessary I obligingly throw my stuff in the boot and head off to Concordia.

It seems I arrived on the worst possible day. It is Monday, Tuesday is a National holiday, yesterday was Sunday. I am in some kind of holiday vacuum. Technically it’s a work day, but the chance of people coming to work between two days off is about as likely as finding a Brazilian Stoke City Football Club Supporters Club.

This prolonged holiday also carries with it the added bonus that almost everywhere in the city is full. Finding somewhere to stay is already looking slightly iffy. There are no hostels in Concordia and the cheapest hotels are around 70 pesos. After just paying 25 pesos for a hostel in Puerto Iguazu I wasn’t looking forward to the price hike. I had also looked into the possibility of couchsurfing during my time here but could only find three people on the site, of which only one replied. She then proceeded to send me on a wild merry-go-round of directions to make phone calls to various places in the city, which she would no longer be at because she sent the message about five hours ago and due to the lack of Internet cafes during the holidays I was a little late in replying. As she failed to answer the very basic question, “is there any possibility of staying with you?” I decided to give up the trail.

I eventually find a posada (guesthouse) that seems okay. It is a lot more than I want to pay, but I am tired and they have Internet and a bath, and the girl on reception is ultimately enough reason alone to stay, so I do.

I ring the beekeeper every couple of hours but there is no reply. I guess his phone is on holiday too.

Day 3

In my head the idea of a week spent reaching Concordia and learning to beekeep would be full of excitement. I have been known to have a loose grasp of excitement previously (the lights in my eyes when presented with a crossword or a chocolate digestive being cases in point) but constantly facing the answering machines of absent Argentinians hour after hour is not it.

I manage to speak to Alcides and somehow understand that his high-pitched country voice is trying to tell me something, directions not surprisingly, and so I scribble something down that seems like a plan, and cross my fingers for tomorrow.

Day 4

After rigorously exploring the bright lights of Concordia I am finally able to go and meet Alcides. I follow his instruction carefully. I am to take the 12pm bus to La Criolla, get off at the terminal and give him a call. When I arrive in La Criolla the terminal has a strange look about it. I walk around. It is quite clearly closed, wrapped so tightly in protective plastic it resembles a packed lunch. Chances of getting inside are slim to none. I wonder how I am going to make that call. I look around but there is little sign of life.

After a while a couple of school kids come walking down the street. Maybe it is the first time they have ever heard the word ‘telephone’ because they look at me as if I am carrying the ‘New World’ upon my shoulders. ‘Maybe there is a telephone on another street’ seems to be the best I can get out of them and I continue walking. My clothes begin to make more and more noise as I become more aware of the burgeoning quiet around me. While contemplating taking a U-Turn into another avenue of vague nothingness, I notice a sign in the distance, something a little bit official. As each step makes the words more visible I realise it is for the Police department and pick myself up into something of a gallop.

The officer’s quick-witted quirps are so sharp they leave me in a complete mire of misunderstanding, wishing I’d chosen to ask the dirt on the ground instead. Once he realises his job is to help people, he asks me exactly what it is I want. I tell him I am after a phone. They want to know who I am going to call so I tell him Alcides. He takes me inside where two men are watching television. After many puzzled looks one of them, a tall man resembling one of those deep military rucksacks stufed with clothes, trundles off down the road to another house to call Alcides for me. “He’ll be here in a minute” he tells me when he gets back.

It is a relief when Alcides arrives and even more of a relief when he asks if I want to go straight out into the field. I am ready to do something after dawdling about for a couple of days.

A short half-an-hour and various swigs of matte later I find myself in beekeeper’s robes in the middle of the Argentinian countrside.

Today’s task is to kill all of the queen bees. This involves finding them first. Each hive contains one queen bee and up to two or three million normal bees. Plus, the only difference between the queen and the rest is that she is slightly longer, more cone-shaped and is a bit more red in colour. Surprisingly I soon get the hang of it and am picking out the queen from each hive in seconds flat.

We finish up about 5pm and go back to Alcides’ place. There I meet one of the great flaws of my plan. The next bus to Concordia, where I am staying, is in three hours at 8pm. This wouldn’t have been a problem except it seemed that Alcides does not really have any place to relax. So we spend half an hour standing by the orange tree, another half an hour by the roses, a full 45 minutes watching cattle auctions on TV (and they say Argentinians are obsessed with meat!) and another half an hour by the car. This leaves me with just 45 minutes left, which with a rather radical change in pace, we decide to stand by the backdoor. Maybe this shouldn’t be a problem, Alcides is a really nice guy, but there are only so many questions I can think of regarding bees, Argentina, the countryside, football and anything else he might be interested in, and almost all of these questions are met with one-word answers and very little else.

Day 5

Today’s task is to create new queen bees, which involves taking a very dodgy-looking egg-like substance, mixing it with a little honey and a tiny bee embryo and placing it in a wax panel, which is then inserted into the hive. In about 4 or 5 days new queens will be born, and since new queens mean more honey this is a very good thing indeed. After spending roughly two hours setting-up these new queen-bees-to-be, Alcides retrieves a panel of fresh honey from one of the hives and then cuts a huge chunk out of it. I shove the whole thing in my gob in one foul swoop. It really is the sweetest thing I have ever tasted in my life. Sweet but not sickly. I take another chunk and savour the taste of the honey before spitting out the wax that remains. We take the rest of the panel to Alcides’ house where he squeezes it into a jar for me to take home.

I also get my first bee sting. A small amount of honey had deposited itself in my beard after my tasting session. This must smell great for the bees flying around as they all flock to my face to have a sniff. Eventually one gets caught in the carpet of my chin and retaliates with a quick sting. After 5 minutes of numbness I feel normal again, and really begin to wonder what all the fuss is about. It is by far the least painful bite or sting I have ever received. Still, it doesn’t stop me from running into the van every time another bee starts flying around my face (Alcides tells me this is definitely the best method of escape, and he is right, they really don’t like the inside of vans for some reason!)

I don’t get back to Concordia until 9pm. I am staying at the Bowles club, at 50 pesos by far the cheapest place I can find (despite still being above my budget) but after arriving for the second night it has already begun to depress me. With nowhere to relax other than a small, un-cleaned room with stained white plasterboard walls, iron bars for windows and lukewarm shower, it is quite far from being a nice place to bed down after a hard day of working with bees in the Argentine sun.

So, I decide to go around every hotel in town and try and broker a deal for 50-60 pesos per night, but for a place with a bit of character. Eventually near the main square I manage to find somewhere with a couple of living rooms, Internet, cosy room, TV and pretty cheery staff and settle on 60 pesos for the night, a good dip from 70 which is the norm.

I head back to the Bowles club, sleeping all the better for knowing that I will have a shiny new bed and place to stay the following day.

Day 6

I wake and head straight for the new hotel. It’s a fair walk – about one hour – which with a huge backpack and guitar, and in the Argentine sun, can be somewhat draining. When I arrive I am told the person who is staying in the room has decided to stay for the weekend. But hold on, I made a reservation last night and have the receipt to prove it. Sorry they tell me, they didn’t realise the person wanted to stay longer. And the reservation? Does it count for anything? Unfortunately not.

I grab my bag, cancelling the whole week’s reservation and head back out. There really were no other options that came even close to this one, and so I decide to cut my losses. After a while, after paying far too much for average accommodation and facing that reality for the future too, it seems like the best thing is just to get on with life, and not worry about missed opportunities. It has been amazing to meet Alcides and to get something of an introduction to bee-keeping, but it’s impossible to be relaxed without a nice place to stay, and when all of these are hugely out-of-budget it makes things very difficult indeed.

I ring Alcides to tell him the news. He understands. Somethings are just not meant to be. I head to the bus station and head off to Rosario. This is a place I know has hostels.

Day 7

Rosario is a step back into the traveller’s life that I am now so accustomed, a land of endless Bob Marley, of exchanging lists of destinations with everyone I meet, of wishing people would ask more interesting questions (‘what’s your favourite ice cream?’ would be a start), of walls that seem to talk in a language of bangs and coughs, and of having to chop onions with a tiny serrated knife.

I decide to step outside. Rosario is a city like no other, yet one that seems to get universal praise. It’s a few blocks before I find a park and somewhere to sit. Two couples are dancing to the tango at one end of the park, looks like its being filmed. A couple of young guys in black shirts and arms covered in cuts stand watching, arms draped over each other. I watch in anticipation of mischief but none comes along. Eventually they come and sit next to me, where they proceed to shout strange fragments of words at irregular intervals and to the general ignorance of anyone around them. I change benches, heading to the other end of the park. This seems to be a better choice. I am transfixed by all the girls walking past, trying to imagine their origins, their stories. Italian, goth, German, Spanish, Russian, student. If there was a more poetic way of writing about gawking at girls as they walk past, believe me, I would write it here.

It’s nice to be back in a place which is able to accommodate a traveller with a huge dent in his pocket and not much jangling when he walks the streets, but also a massive shame to be far from the countryside and the bees. I really want to see those queen bees hatch but things can’t always work out the way they are planned. I suddenly have an idea to head to Patagonia. It is October and hence not a bad time to go to one of the coldest and windiest places this side of the Antarctic. Suddenly I am consulting bus times, pulling out my tattered copy of Bruce Chatwin’s ‘In Patagonia’ and realising that once one door shuts, another one will soon be open, or you could just climb out of the window.

Oh, and neopolitan is always the answer. I like to have options!

Russell is currently in Montevideo, designing a website and writing a variety of articles for an English-language travel guide to Uruguay, which are available at Uruguay Now. After that, he will be returning to Brazil, and will head up the North coast beginning in Rio, in search of music, football, and a fine array of fruits! You can read about his latest adventures at On The Road to Find Out.

If you are a long-term or full-time traveler and would like to have your own week-in-the-life published on The Professional Hobo, drop me a line and I’ll send you some guidelines! Cheers.

Related posts:

1. A Week-In-The-Life of Sue: Road Schooled
2. A Week-In-The-Life of Corbett: Free Pursuits
3. Queen of the Road: Book Review

Manly Scenic Walkway Stats, by Nora Dunn

Length of Walk: 10km

Estimated Duration of Walk: 3.5-4 hours

Actual Duration of Walk: 2.5 hours (no, I didn’t run, but I sure did break a sweat with the uncharacteristic humidity)

Lizards Spotted: 18

People Spotted: 8

Runners Spotted: 1 (yes, they’re people too, I know)

Aboriginal Carvings Spotted: 6

Failed Attempts at Catching a Bus in the Pouring Rain: 4

The Journey

While taking the ferry to Manly from Sydney’s main harbour (and passing across the Sydney heads with the open ocean on the other side) we all enjoyed some zero gravity moments and fun waves that soaked anybody standing outside on the first level. 20 minutes later we pulled into laid-back Manly harbour.

(Note: city ferries are in general a wonderful way to see a place for very little money. Buy a pass and ride the ferries all day…in Sydney you can see quite a bit by virtue of their extensive ferry system. And no, it’s not always a wet’n’wild roller-coaster adventure.)

From there I was on a mission to find the Manly Scenic Walkway before the rain that was upon the CBD (central business district) followed me out, as I suspected it would.

But rain was far from an immediate concern, as Manly was bathed in sunshine and warm weather.

The Manly Scenic Walkway is very easy to find from the wharf, and is well-marked. Initially you walk through well-established neighbourhoods and gawk at houses that are right on the coast. Sydney has a lot of coast, and as you might suspect, much of it is enjoyed by residential neighbourhoods.

A few kilometers in, the walk enters Sydney Harbour National Park, which is where the fun begins. I took in awesome views of the ocean, rugged cliffs and coastline, golden secluded beaches, quiet picnic spots, and more lizards than I have seen in my entire cumulative time in Australia.

Sydney Harbour National Park makes up at least half of the walk’s terrain, and the difficulty would be classed as “medium”. Be prepared for lots of rock steps (lots and lots of steps), but nothing that a decent pair of runners and good sense of balance can’t get you through.

Speaking of shoes, a 10km walk is not a huge deal (for me). However if you walk about 15km on each of the prior two days, you may want to wear shoes that you didn’t buy at a thrift shop two years prior. I need new shoes, if not new feet entirely.

Some other highlights of the walk through Sydney Harbour National Park include well-preserved aboriginal carvings, lush green canopies, and stunning natural viewing platforms.

The lowlight of the trip was my learning curve in catching a bus back to the city. By this point it was well and truly raining, and my well-weathered rain jacket was being truly tested, while my pants and feet were soaked.

After finally locating what I figured was the right bus stop, I marveled at the sheer number of routes that were scheduled to pass by. With one eye on the street to see if one of about six different buses that go into the city was enroute, I desperately scanned the schedule boards to see which route would take me to where I needed to go, cross-referencing the destinations with my soggy map to ensure I would be going in the right direction.

All in the pouring rain, of course. My poor paper map ripped out of a guidebook didn’t last long.

Minutes later, yay! A bus hurtled around the corner. I smiled widely and stood expectantly at the side of the road, leaving room for the bus to pull off the busy street to pick me up. As the bus careened by me, covering me from head to toe with a wall of water, the bus driver looked at me confusedly and held his arms up as if to say “what do you want?”

I held my arms up in the same fashion in response, as if to say “are you kidding me? I want to catch the bus, you idiot!”

I repeated the same performance with the following three buses over the next 20 minutes.

I’m not sure if it was desperation or education by necessity, but by the time the fourth bus rolled around the corner, I stood in front of it. There was nothing nearby, no shelter to take refuge in, and nobody to ask what I was doing wrong. At this point I would rather have been run over by the bus than watch yet another one plaster me with oily water from the road.

Miracle of all miracles: it stopped! I didn’t even care where it went – I got on.

Lucky for me, it was headed in the right direction, and the less-than-impressed bus driver quoted me the fare which I dutifully gave him.

As I watched the bus make stops along the way into the city, I learned one very key lesson about catching a bus in Sydney: you need to hail it for it to stop.

My musty clothes and mildewy shoes will be a testament to this lesson forever more.

Related posts:

1. Random Observations from Sydney, Australia
2. Shoes: Necessity or Luxury?
3. Why Would I Want to Visit Canberra?

Disclaimers aside, Sydney has been an interesting trip so far. After meeting up with @frank_in_oz in Melbourne for an iced mocha to die for and engaging conversation that could have lasted for days (thanks again, Frank!), I hopped on the overnight train to Sydney – an 11 hour journey.

Upon arrival in Sydney, I roamed the streets randomly and discovered the following:

Sydney people (Sydnites? Sydneyers? Sydcentrics?) love to run. Even if they’re not decked out in the latest fashionable running gear, you don’t go far before seeing somebody running. As yet I haven’t seen anybody chasing these people, so I must infer that they’re either in one heck of a hurry, or they’re just very fitness conscious.

King’s Cross is a section of the city that is popular for backpackers who like to party. Most Aussies I’ve come across have told me to stay away from it like the plague as it’s also considered to be the ugly underbelly of the city, so I didn’t stay there. However, I did walk through the area, and found it to have equal parts luxury and sleeze. Heroin addicts twitch outside fancy gated residences beside tattoo parlors across from fancy cafes beneath cheap backpacker hostels.

Wooloomooloo is quite possibly the most enjoyable word to say, and has more “o”s than any word I’ve seen before.

Sydney downtown (known as the CBD – central business district – in Aussie-speak) traffic reminds me of Toronto. This is not a compliment. I lost years of my life in Toronto traffic.

The Royal Botanic Gardens are free to browse through, walking on the grass is encouraged, and it has some of the best views of the city.

Shoot a flying fox, and somebody may shoot you. (I am, of course, referring to shooting with cameras, not guns). While wandering through the Royal Botanic Gardens, I got a whiff of something familiar. Eventually it clicked – I was smelling bat poo. This reminded me fondly of our time in Evans Head when we camped under a few thousand of them. So while I was busy shooting these furry vampires, I had the distinct feeling of being watched. I reeled around to see a professional video camera on a tripod looking suspiciously right at me. I didn’t have the presence of mind to either take a picture of them shooting me (which would have been humourous if nothing else), nor ask what they were shooting. Don’t ask me why – maybe I was stricken with an uncharacteristic bout of shyness.

Speaking of uncharacteristic shyness, I was told by a fellow traveler in my dorm room that when she met me I was so extroverted I made her flinch. Maybe next time I’ll say “hello” with a little less gusto.

It will cost you $200 to do the Sydney Harbour Bridge climb, which allows you to precariously teeter to the very top of the arch of the bridge. Or, for $0, you can just walk across the bridge on the footpath. If that’s not enough to get your heart racing, then just walk closer to the edge. (This advice is courtesy of Rachel from England. Thanks! I think this is particularly sound advice that could be applied in other areas of life. Not getting your kicks? Walk closer to the edge.)

I’m now staying near Sydney with my friends from the Black Queen who I met in Lightning Ridge shortly after we first arrived in Australia. Future adventurous posts will include the long (and wet) Manly Scenic Walk, how to catch a bus (or rather, how not to catch one), and other adventures. Stay tuned!

Related posts:

1. The Manly Scenic Walkway, and How to Catch a Bus in Sydney
2. Winding Along Australia’s Great Ocean Road
3. My Christmas Present to Australia: Pumpkin Pie

Surviving Paradise: One Year on a Disappearing Island

At the ripe age of 21, Peter Rudiak-Gould landed on Ujae, a remote atoll in the Marshall Islands that is 70 miles (by plane no less) from the nearest telephone, car, store, or tourist, and 2,000 miles from the closest continent. He turned to face a sea of 450 unsmiling brown faces who made up his Marshallese community for a year, while he taught English to the island’s school kids.

Peter’s integration to this new life is simultaneously hilarious and painful. Not remotely being what he expected, the learning curve was huge, and life was far from the exotic tropical paradise he had envisioned.

For starters, he immediately discovered that the last volunteer who had been there was much better than him. This was something the locals reminded him of multiple times a day, plaguing him with merciless comparisons.

He mused at his state of sanity in dreaming up this scheme to live on a faraway island for a year:

“What was it about islands that I found so alluring? It was this: islands are isolation, isolation is differentness, differentness is possibility, and possibility is hope.”

Integration and Identity

Despite his multi-faceted learning curve, Peter adapted to life on Ujae. He became fluent in their language, learned to fish (not very well by Marshallese standards mind you!), and painstakingly tried to teach the island’s children some English. His skin darkened a few thousand shades and his hair lightened the same. But as much as he integrated, he also realized something pretty important: that he is still Western.

“I had always fancied that I wasn’t, that I had somehow escaped the influence of my upbringing and emerged free-thinking and unburdened by cultural baggage. How wrong I was. I was Western – deeply and terminally so. I carried my civilization with me at every moment: my nervous efficiency, my emotional openness, my sense of individual entitlement, my war against the status quo….Living in another country had finally made me realize how much I was a product of my own country”.

How true! Don’t we as travelers tend to identify more with our upbringing and culture once we are removed from it? I can only imagine how stark this realization would have been living as culturally remote as Peter was.

Living in America….But Not

Peter discussed what it is to live in a country that is technically part of the United States, but at the same time is so far from it – both geographically and culturally. This hasn’t been helped by the fact that the Marshall Islands (Bikini Island in particular) was the major site of nuclear testing during the Cold War. The United States’ ongoing mismanagement of this little piece of “paradise” so far from the homeland was apparent to Peter:

“..Critics saw garbage piles and thought ‘irreversible devastation!’ when they should have thought ‘solid-waste management problem.’ They saw makeshift shelters and thought ‘abysmal deprivation!’ when they should have thought ‘housing shortage’. They mistook the country’s nuclear legacy for the obliteration of an entire nation, rather than the forced migration of several hundred people and the irradiation of several hundred others. These premature obituaries were based on a kind of cynical paternalism: the assumption that the Marshallese had no ability to solve problems or adapt to change. I had done my share of criticism too, but it was hard to reconcile these dreary descriptions with my own memories of men fishing on pristine reefs and women preparing for a feast.”

And towards the end, Peter painted a queer yet strangely familiar picture of the integration of American society into the old Marshallese ways:

“The people of Ujae ate instant ramen, but opened the package with a machete…They served Kool-Aid, but treated it like Perrier; at Spam, but savored it like filet mignon. They sipped their morning coffee, but sweetened as often as not with coconut sap. Some of the islanders could recite the medicinal properties of native plants and the hit singles of the Backstreet Boys with equal ease….it had been surreal to live here, with a people who were in equal parts hunter-gatherers and yuppies, in a place exactly halfway between jungle camp and New York City – a place where a man might spear fish for subsistence in the morning and play half-court basketball in the evening, a place where the same person who shared with you the ancient meaning of the colored lines on the back of a crab could also recite Snoop Dogg lyrics”.

The Island Life

There were other ways in which the customs and people of Ujae were entirely foreign to Peter too. I especially enjoyed how Marshallese society dictates that you’re never in too much of a rush to chat. As much as work needs to be done, the pace of Ujae island life was generally relaxing with regular conversations along the way.

On a sparsely populated island, marriage opportunities don’t come along every day. But during his year as a volunteer, Peter received a marriage proposal from a girl on a neighbouring island, and even unwittingly offered up a marriage proposal himself!

While on the topic of men and women, I found myself wondering how different the volunteer and living experience on Ujae would have been if Peter had been female. Men and women in Marshallese society don’t commingle much, and their set daily tasks (as well as the quantity of work to be done by each gender) vary drastically, usually in favour of the men. Peter observed that the women were constantly working, with little apparent down-time. And nobody – male or female – truly understood the meaning of privacy on the island.

My Two Cents

The book wended its ways into my thoughts and actions each day, while I followed Peter in his – at times – agonizing experiences and eventual cultural immersion (of sorts) to the Marshallese way of life.

I got right into the book and voraciously read the majority of it in a short time. I found myself giggling out loud at the humour and general semantic brilliance of various passages, reading paragraphs aloud to anybody who would listen. When I neared the end (as I tend to do with books I like), I slowed my pace so as to make it last as long as I could!

Although the book was written (at least in part) because the Marshall Islands disappearing due to global warming, it isn’t the primary focus of the book, as you might suspect given the title. Instead the theme of global warming is incredibly subtly hinted at throughout and formally introduced beautifully in the Epilogue, once the reader has already unwittingly fallen in love with both the author and the people of Ujae Island. Instead of the book being an environmental soap box as I had suspected, it was a true travelogue of Peter’s bizarre and enchanting experience on Ujae, with an environmental (and cultural) reality check at the end. And I believe that in presenting the environmental issues as he did instead of as a constant theme through the book, they will have a deeper impact on the readers. For that, and for so many other reasons too, I loved it.

Feel free to pick up a copy of Surviving Paradise: One Year on a Disappearing Islandand see for yourself.

(Editor’s Note: I received a free copy of the book for review, and there are affiliate links in this post.)

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