First World Problems

"Could I get a skinny soy decaf chai latte with not too much milk?  Oh, and make it 64 degrees, I don't want to burn myself."

"I SAID NOT TOO MUCH MILK! How am I supposed to drink this?!"

Sitting on my high horse in the western world, I am as guilty of focusing on minuscule and meaningless problems as the next person.  Only last week, I found myself laying a complaint with a hotel about the noise created by night roadworks while away for a work trip.  "What do you mean, they're working all night?!  That's a disgrace!"

First world problems affect us momentarily.  Flight delays ("you mean I'm obligated to sit in the airport and drink another beer?!"), ATM fees ("$2.50!  Who's got that kind of money?"), poor service ("I can't believe she didn't even ask me how my day was, she should lose her job!"), the list is endless and I daren't even get started on low cost airlines...


But first world problems are not problems.  They are excuses for people to one-up each other.  The next-door neighbour may have had Chinese-made parts fitted onto their Holden by a slipshod mechanic, but my health insurance company refused to cover the major dental costs incurred by that whitening procedure..."Outrageous!"


 Why settle for a perfectly privileged existence when you can get on Today Tonight and whine about electricity prices?  Current affairs programmes abound in first world problems and make for some of the most depressing television possible.  If it's not the electricity, it's the fuel.  If it's not the fuel, it's Coles and Safeway ripping us off 34 cents for every loaf of bread we buy.  Each segment requires the bad guy who refuses to speak to the camera, the finger-waggling local who has been ripped off and is NOT HAPPY, and the reporter asking cutting-edge questions like: "when are ya gunna pay them back?"

The only way to understand first world problems is to get a first-hand view of some third world ones.  My sum total of this experience to date involved a tropical-strength case of pink-eye contracted by swimming in contaminated water in Indonesia.  An acquaintance of mine went one step further on a recent trip to India.  Suffering from a vicious attack of Delhi-Belly, he leant over an airport rubbish bin to be sick and simultaneously shat himself. That is not a first world problem!


Spending time with those who have little is a stark reminder that human beings do not require every last luxury to be happy.  Some of the biggest smiles come from those whose only valuable possessions are each other.  One of my lasting memories is the image of an Ethiopian toddler living in a refugee camp.  He walked through thick mud, pulling an empty milk bottle on a string.  Someone had attached disks on sticks to the bottom of the bottle, effectively making a 'car'.  The young boy sported an enormous grin, proud of his toy.  This image was presented at the media photography awards, an event I can recommend for a thoroughly eye-opening experience.

             Not too dissimilar to this one - Fisher 
             Price, eat your heart out!


Nobody has ever told that boy that he lives in extreme poverty.  Nobody has told him of the overcrowding, lack of sustenance, prevalence of disease or the struggles he will face in the future.  These are legitimate problems, with a lasting effect on lives and communities.  Toughen up princess, nobody cares if your entree is lukewarm...




Blue skies,


-E

"Sorry ma'am, that's not covered by your policy"

These days, insurance is available for just about everything.  Houses, cars, lives, travel, pets and apparently even alien abduction.  Insurance deals in financial reimbursement for misfortune (or not as the case may usually be - they have a plethora of excuses as to why the floodwaters seeping into your shag pile are an exception to the insurance terms and in violation of clause 18, paragraph 33 (in size 6 font of course)).

But what are we risking?  The most dangerous Monday-Friday activity is driving to work and back, or carrying two extra-hot cappuccinos down the stairs at the office.  And how do they decide what the value of a life or limb is?  We rely on insurance for our financial wellbeing in a situation we didn't foresee, however you only have to talk to a resident of East Christchurch to realise how optimistic we are in thinking that everything will be fine as long as we pay our premiums.


The word 'risk' always reminds me of the strategic board game of the same name, and a work trip I made to Perth last year.  I had a couple of friends living there who invited me for dinner one night; another pal of theirs were also in town and had brought a board game that day that he was keen to try out on us.  


I still have nightmares about Axis and Allies.  Based heavily on the rules of Risk, the instruction book alone gives War & Peace a run for its money.  None of us had ever played the game before (or since), so we drank a few glasses of wine and set about preparing the board.

Every bit as confusing as it looks, and more.  There is overwhelming scientific evidence to support the negative correlation between the level of understanding of the rules of Axis & Allies, and the annual number of times you get laid...




Two hours later, we sat around a table littered with plastic battleships; no closer to even starting the game.  According to the box, one game took upward of 4 hours so it was going to be a long night.  As well as military transportation, the game abounds in tokens and credits that we could make neither head nor tail of.  After skimming the instruction novel and realising that despite our best efforts none of us even knew how to start the game, we gave up and played Pictionary instead.  My conclusion from the evening was that it is probably easier to actually start a world war, than to simulate one using cardboard tokens and figurines of cannons.


On a completely unrelated and very sombre note:


Last night, I was procrastinating going to sleep (a common occurrence when I am home alone as I have no respect for my body clock or my rest requirements; it's currently 12.22 am) and reading my favourite New Zealand news site (www.stuff.co.nz).  Prominently displayed in the headlines was an article about a daycare centre in the North Island that had expelled a four-year-old boy who was HIV positive (http://www.stuff.co.nz/national/education/6891611/Boy-with-HIV-expelled-from-childcare.)  The poor kid contracted HIV from his mother during birth, but is thankfully on treatments that will certainly not cure his illness but lower the levels of infection in his blood to the point where it is barely detectable.


The decision received an outraged backlash from a significant percentage of the community, including myself.  However, I trawled through the comments section of the article and was appalled to see how many people agreed with the decision to ban the child from the care facility.  Worse still, a proportion of those commenting also said that they would remove their own child from the daycare if they found out another attendee was HIV-positive.  Many people displayed complete ignorance about the transmission of HIV, while others took the coward's approach of "I feel sorry for him, BUT..."


I have read hundreds, and probably thousands of emotive articles, however I don't remember ever being as disgusted with the attitudes of humans toward each other as I was reading the comments of this piece.  The word discrimination does not even come close to what this little boy has been subjected to at an age far too young to be dealing with such a concept.


As part of a much wider plan to get out and see a bit more of this big wide world, my fella and I have been looking into options to volunteer in parts of South America, Africa or Asia.  There are literally millions of people that could use a hand and between us we have four spare.  The article I read last night really affected my mindset, and has given me determination not to be the kind of person who discriminates against those less fortunate, even in the name of being a 'good mother' (oh yes, there were plenty of commenters standing by the excuse of being a 'responsible parent' - never mind the fact that you're simultaneously teaching your offspring how to be an egotistical bigot).  There is a lot of assistance we can provide in areas of the world where a big problem is not that you've been waiting 7 minutes in a supermarket queue.  I want to be able to tell kids with HIV through no fault of their own, that they are real people with real voices and as much chance at a normal life as you or I.  Let's stop this madness.


Blue skies,


-E

Sleep?! Pfft, in another thousand kilometres...

Over a month since you've heard from me.  I would apologise, but I'm not sorry in the slightest because I've been out gathering fun stuff to talk about!  


My beloved and I decided to take a break from Melbourne's increasingly chilly weather and head north to Australia's tropical North Queensland.  I'd heard a lot about the area: big snakes, venomous spiders, treacherous waterways teaming with crocodiles, deadly jellyfish and maybe even the odd drop bear thrown in for good measure.  All the good stuff that is the hallmark of the Australia we know and love.


Our trip started with a bang, exactly one hour later than it should have.  Thanks to a mixture of daylight saving time difference and pure idiocy, we left for the airport 10 minutes before check-in closed.  


Our taxi driver drove like he had rockets fixed to his tires and the police, the FBI, the paparazzi and the Spanish Armada on his tail, but to no avail.  JetStar's finest gleefully informed us that we were in fact 7 minutes too late to check our luggage and ourselves onto a plane.  A lot of hasty talking and $120 later and we were checked onto an 11am flight to Cairns.  Only 5 hours to wait - the Qantas Club buffet was going to take a beating.


Five coffees and numerous pancakes later, an incoming message from the airline left us reeling.  Our 11am flight had been rescheduled to 2.30pm and we were now set to miss the entire first day of our holiday.  We had used every amenity the club lounge had to offer - food, beverages, magazines and even a shower were no comfort as we were faced with a 9 hour drive to Airlie Beach, now to be completed in a single day.


After 12 gruelling hours in the airport, a call to our camper rental company to inform them we were missing a day, three hours on the plane and some amazing generosity from some friends in Cairns, we had found some company and a couch for the night.  Arriving at dinner time, we were fed fantastic Chinese food and managed to recover some zen before collapsing under a fan to prepare for the following day's slog.


Wicked Campers are an amazing campervan rental company.  Their staff are friendly, their vans are mechanically sound and their prices are suited to the thrifty traveller.  However, cruising the east coast of Australia with "The best thing about oral sex is 5 minutes of silence" plastered across the back of the van takes a thick hide and a good sense of humour!  Our van was covered in sexual inuendo, including one jibe about sheep-shagging Kiwi farmers (thanks guys!).


Cairns to Airlie Beach is a long way.  The roadsides are lined with hundreds of kilometres of sugarcane, and there are plenty of waterfalls and natural features to see on the way.  There is also a roadside cafe called The Frosty Mango which sells, yup, Frosty Mangoes in an assortment of presentations.


Arriving at Shute Harbour (gateway to the Whitsunday Islands), we parked our smutty van in an empty carpark and collapsed into what can only be described as an exhaustion coma.  Ten hours of driving followed by a less-than-amazing seafood dinner had taken their toll.  Around 11pm we were awoken by loud banging on the side of the van.  Exhaustedly peering out the window, we were reprimanded by a security guard and threatened with a $2000 fine for trespassing (a pretty harsh financial penalty considering the meagre fines associated with drug cultivation and possession nowadays).  We were informed that we must find a camping ground immediately and pay the exorbitant price for a square of grass upon which to park our mobile bed.  


Twenty minutes later we parked outside a suburban mansion in Airlie Beach and settled once again into sleep.  Apart from one visit from a very drunk local, we were undisturbed and no worse off financially.  


Five days on Hayman Island reminded us what relaxation was.  We luxuriated in sunshine, bush walking to amazing coral beaches and seeing all kinds of wildlife; a great break.  We snorkeled with sea turtles, saw an enormous cod and climbed all over the island.  I also had a revelation whereby I discovered that it is impossible to have secrets when wearing a full-body stinger suit.  This is particularly true when one has been helping oneself to buffet meals three times a day.  Better swim faster!


Arriving back on the mainland, we received a sharp jolt back to reality.  Good friends of ours had arrived in the Gold Coast from New Zealand and we were very keen to see them before we headed home.  This left us with exactly one day to get from Airlie Beach to the Gold Coast - a whopping 1,200 km drive.  We made it as far as Mackay in the growing darkness, before spending the night at a scummy truckstop with facilities that could pass on cholera and syphilis simply by breathing deeply.  MORE BABY WIPES REQUIRED!


We hit the road at 6am and made brilliant time for the first 400 km of sugar cane.  Then the roadworks started.  Each stretch punctuated by a high-vis-wearing worker at both ends, a single lane between and lines of cars waiting their turn.  The first one was fine, the second was tolerable and the third was a mild annoyance.  By the time we waited at the 27th 'stop' sign, we had lost nearly two hours.  Our one consolation was that "surely they must be running out of stop/go workers?!".


They were.  So they switched to using traffic lights.  Only one operator required and they could make us wait for longer!  By the time we reached the end of the works, I had started playing 'Vanzai' - a van-specific version of the fairly unpopular Asian TV quiz show Banzai (look it up if you've never seen it - it's good for a laugh).  We were still laughing and 1,600 km down we wouldn't have traded places with anyone.  Something about a van and the open road is extremely relaxing regardless of the circumstances - a big relief that day.


Arriving in Maroochydore was a huge milestone, predominantly due to the fact that a very kind relative had offered us a cooked dinner and a shower!  A home-style roast and a few hours of good company rejuvenated us enough to contemplate the final two hours of the slog to the Gold Coast.  Shortly after 11pm we arrived, over 2,000 km from our starting point and happily exhausted.


In the tourist town of Surfer's Paradise, we spent a couple of days catching up on sleep, sightseeing and spending time with friends.  We were the quintessential tourists at theme parks, we had bistro dinners at faux Irish pubs and we headed into the wilderness of Northern New South Wales.  On the day we headed home, we arrived at the airport (well and truly on time) to find that our flight had been delayed - WHAT A NOVELTY!  Our dismay was offset however after we met two Sydney girls who had been stuck in the hell-hole that is Coolangatta airport for a grand total of 12 hours after their morning flight had been cancelled.  The airline provided no compensation and they had gone a bit stir-crazy.  One of them had shopped up a storm at a souvenir stand and when we me them they were playing pick-up sticks, complete with Aussie-themed animals on the ends of each stick.


As per usual, we arrived home exhausted, unshowered, unkempt and happy.  We visited a beautiful part of the world and are lucky enough to have great friends and great memories.  I would love to head back to explore the rainforests and features in more detail, but we covered a huge distance and arrived with smiles on our faces.  May each new chapter be more awesome than the last.


Back at home, I used iMovie for the first time in my life to create a short video edit of our trip.  It's not perfect but I'm very proud of my effort.  Have a look below and feel free to tell me what you think!

Blue skies,

-Ez

Alfresco Accommodation

We've all been there.  You're lying still, staring up at the ceiling.  Trying to work out what's jabbing into your left shoulder blade.  Then you hear it, one faint 'splat' noise.  Then another, and another, and a whole lot more.


Great, it's raining.  At first it is a soothing type of noise, hearing raindrops bounce on nylon, watching their shapes move down the angled walls.  But gradually you realise your right foot is becoming damp; it's leaning against the fabric.  A seam begins to drip with the additive weight of the water, and lands squarely on your sleeping bag.  And so it begins, nobody's getting any sleep tonight!


Camping is a great way to see a lot of countryside on a budget.  With this mindset, Adam and I headed north three weeks ago for an extended weekend.  Byron Bay is near the border between New South Wales and Queensland, and JetStar were offering two-for-one fares that were too valuable to resist.


Armed with 60 kg of luggage (consisting almost entirely of a tent, two large sleeping bags and two parachutes), we landed at Ballina Airport to a muggy reception.  We had arranged a car and were handed the keys to a bright green Hyundai i20.  Four days off and freedom!  This was going to be such a relaxing weekend...


Late afternoon we hiked our tourist cameras and inquisitive minds to the most Eastern point of Australia, pinpointed by a lighthouse.  A talkative old gentlemen informed us that we could climb to the top of it for a meagre "donation" of only $10.  We made our excuses and quickly backed away.  Sitting on a rock formation a good distance from the carpark, the clouds darkened and we felt the first spits of rain.  This weather was to be the punctuation of our weekend.


Driving back through the town with a torrent of water hitting the windscreen, we began to make enquiries about camping in the area.  One by one, campgrounds cheerily informed us that we could have an unpowered site (read: 'patch of grass and maybe a pit toilet if you're lucky') for only $65 per night.  Bargain!  Disheartened, we headed north from Byron Bay in the hope of finding some cheaper grass.


Further up the freeway, we had just about given up hope of being able to erect our tiny fabric home.  The water-laden grass was getting more soggy by the minute, and sleeping in the foetal position in the car was sounding like a pretty good plan.  But luck was on our side.  Passing a sign indicating a truck stop, we figured we had nothing left to lose so might as well check it out.  As we pulled in, a couple of well-informed and very homeless locals told us it was perfectly fine to camp, and we could even put our tent under the shelter of the picnic areas!

We started a trend - perfect weather for sleeping outside!


Throughout what became an extremely soggy trip, we kept coming back to our home-away-from-home at the truckstop each night to protect our tent from the elements and use real toilets that actually flushed (luxury!).  We spent the days at the beach, despite the rain.  However on the third day the heavens opened and forced us into a local cafe to drink our body weight in chai.  I made the most of the inside time and constructed a cardboard pirate ship I had the foresight to purchase a few hours earlier.


On the morning we flew home from Byron Bay, we awoke to tendrils of sunlight.  Looking outside we were greeted by blue skies, a very slight breeze and a beautiful view of the stunning coastline.  I would return to Byron Bay in a heart beat - the locals are laid-back and friendly, everybody surfs and it's warm even when it's raining.


Camping is an activity that I love to hate.  In the summer, camping is the perfect way to travel - the mosquito netting on the zippered doors means that you can lie in blissful breezy slumber while all the flying biting fiends hover relentlessly on the other side (hopefully) of the mesh.  However, a leaking tent in heavy rain is hard work and is guaranteed to eradicate all feelings of zen.  


It's not just the tent though, it's the whole shemozzle.  The foam mattress that may as well not be there, or the luxurious airbed if you can afford the luggage allowance.  One thing I've found from sharing an inflatable mattress is that it is very important to be the lightest occupant.  A slow leak will sink the heavier person to the ground, but if you have the good foresight to ensure a lighter body mass, there is a good chance of still having a layer of air between your own rump and the ground.  This, of course, depends on the severity of the leak.


Hygiene (or lack thereof) is an enormous consideration to the camper.  I have discovered that baby wipes are a must - they can replace a shower for as long as required.  Camping in warmer climes unfortunately means that sweating is commonplace, and baby wipes are also fantastic for combating the morning 'feral'.  One activity that is completely prohibited from a hygiene viewpoint is any kind of sexual physicality.  If you want a romantic holiday, scrap the tent and get a hotel room.

Despite all the hardships of camping, I love it.  I love the feeling of plunging into the sea or a fresh water stream when I haven't been within 200 km of a shower for four days.  I love the taste of marshmallows that have been roasted on a camp fire, and I even love being woken at 5.00 am and cooked out of my sleeping bag on a hot day.  It is a perfectly raw way to travel on a budget and enjoy the outdoors in all its glory, and I wouldn't trade one rainy, windy, gritty moment of it.

Name Your Poison

It's been a while since I've written anything, predominantly due to a number of work trips to Australia's own Purgatory (otherwise known as Adelaide).  But I'm back, and stronger than ever after a weekend of attempted liver-cide.


Two weekends ago I suffered the misfortune of entering my "late twenties", the same week as a good friend also celebrated her birthday.  We decided to mark the occasions with a joint shin-dig, punctuated with liberal servings of home-made cocktails.


The afternoon and evening went off without a hitch, however with the addition of liberal splashes of spirits to a blender, we were soon out of booze and devoid of coordination.  The most logical solution was to head to the nearest karaoke bar, where we proceeded to holler our throats raw until the early hours of the morning escorted us home.


Waking up far too early on Sunday morning, my first thought was that I had maybe eaten a spoonful of sawdust.  I had lost my voice and felt so dehydrated I was sure I resembled a raisin.  Getting up to fetch a drink of water, my temples throbbed and my shaking muscles almost propelled me into a wall.  Steadying myself, I managed to rehydrate and collapse back into bed.  


Three hours later I awoke again.  This time, I approached consciousness with far more apprehension.  I opened one eye: so far so good.  The other now...Oops, too much movement, abort!  


Streaks of sunlight from what was an obviously glorious day attempted to sneak through the cracks in the blinds; I thought I'd see how my comrade in celebration was doing.  She replied to my message of doom and hangover with "totally with you on that one!  Had a good long bath, but still feel like something that just slithered out of the primordial stew".  I knew exactly how she felt.


Finally surfacing from my horizontal world at 1.33pm, I devoured a croissant and about half a kilo of bacon and began to traipse the road to recovery.  The evening brought with it a feeling of exhaustion but relief that my head was back to its normal size.  A whole day to recover, I must be getting old...


Throughout my time at university as a pharmacology student, I learnt a lot about how alcohol affects the human body, and the reasons behind the trip down Struggle Street the following day.  The knowledge of the processes involved are not comforting in the slightest, which compels me to describe them:


Once alcohol is consumed through a process of shots, down-in-ones, drinking games and peer pressure, it finds its way into our bloodstream.  From here, an enzyme called alcohol dehydrogenase breaks it down into a nasty compound called acetaldehyde.  This is not well tolerated by the human body and causes all the symptoms we know as a hangover.  In my case, this involves nausea, headaches, shaking, a heartbeat I can feel in my ears and a compulsion to curl up in the foetal position for approximately 6 hours.  


The body does get rid of acetaldehyde, but it does so at a constant speed regardless of the quantity to dispose of.  There is sadly no way to speed up this process, although perhaps that's a good thing because a solid hangover certainly deters me from drinking for a good long time.


Despite the well-documented knowledge of how the body processes the poisons of a night out, almost everybody will have a tried and supposedly true hangover 'cure'.  I've been through the fads of blue Powerade, ibuprofen, Berocca, hash browns, lollipops and on one occasion, beer (successful but extremely difficult to attempt).  These have been met with varying degrees of success, but deep down I know that they don't accomplish much.  My boyfriend swears by rainbow flavoured paddle pops for every ailment (including a hangover), and would probably run to the corner store before he called an ambulance in a crisis.


I've seen some weird and wonderful anti-hangover concoctions.  Many of these were seen at 8am university lectures after a celebratory event.  Desks were adorned with water bottles, energy drinks, fresh fruit or confectionery in an attempt to stay coherent for the entire hour.  Many people cook a full English breakfast on a seedy Sunday morning in an attempt to soak up the pain and suffering, while some people will jump back on the wagon and have a glass of Chardonnay at the breakfast table.


So what's your favourite hangover buster?  Do you fry up some mushrooms or head down to the 7-11 for a Slurpee?  Or do you take the road of sense and avoid the booze the night before?  I would love to climb on a high horse and say I'll never do it again, but let's face it; I've said that before and I'm sure it wasn't the last time...




Blue skies,


-E

Sensitive, New Age Guise

It's one of my boyfriend's favourite sayings:  "I'm a SNAG you know"... 


The first time he dropped the acronym he was met with a blank look.  "A what?" 
"You know, a Sensitive New-Age Guy"
"Ohhh...Sorry, I hadn't realised"


What I do realise now is that he's right on the money.  Modern Western society is getting more new-age by the day.  We're softer and more vulnerable, and one of the areas I feel has been most affected by this transition is the health and wellbeing industry.


In medieval times, medicine was very simple.  Get an infection in your leg and you'd be likely to lose it.  Amputation for what is now a minor complaint was commonplace, and the tools used to carry out the surgery would be more suited to engineering a tank.  Diets consisted of whatever could be found, grown or slaughtered, diets and supplements were unheard of, and plenty of people were killed by the common cold.  Diagnosis was also a touch more primitive than nowadays; a person was diagnosed with diabetes if their urine tasted sugary.  That's right, TASTED (as someone employed in the pathology industry, I'm relieved that this is no longer the test method used).


 Now the only limitation on the level of medical intervention is the contents of ones wallet.  Hundreds of dollars are easily spent on vitamins, minerals, beauty therapies, kinesiology, psychology, cosmetology, you name it and it's available.  The clinical benefit of many of these is unproven, yet plenty of people are queueing to throw their hard-earned cash into the registers of health food stores and 21st century witch-doctors.


Lifestyle activities have become very new-age also.  Sports requiring thousands of dollars of specialist equipment have become the rage.  Mountain-biking, kite-surfing, off-roading and golf are all examples of how modern society try to leave the 9-to-5 mentality behind on the weekends. 


I am extremely guilty of jumping on the new-age bandwagon.  Most recently, I have made apologies to my bum and joined the hordes of Sunday cyclists, winding their way through the suburbs and countryside.  I cemented this past-time by registering for a 200 km charity ride in October this year.  Over two days I will ride through the rolling hills of Victoria's wine country, the Yarra Valley.  This is a far cry from the side of myself that swears at cyclists who take up the road while I attempt to weave around them on four wheels, and the side of myself that would exclaim with amazement whenever I see a cyclist battling a strong headwind up an enormous hill on the open road.  


Commercialism has caused the male gender to change phenomenally, and so-called 'SNAGS' are now the norm.  Gone are the days of the chauvinist pig who dragged a woman around by her hair; enter the clean-shaven, cocktail-drinking, suit-wearing metrosexual who routinely wears fragrance, skinny jeans and pointy shoes.  Like so many of my female counterparts, I swoon at the sight of my fella in a collared shirt, and I would be the first to admit that Dan Carter's Jockeys are the finest of eye candy:

Undies...

So what is happening to our lifestyle and dress-sense?  In some ways it has been refined, yet in others it seems like such a facade.  Put a potty-mouth alcoholic in a collared shirt and he is allowed into the casino; irony at its best perhaps?  I don't know, however I do know that I'm a sucker for a Sensitive New-Age Guy, a Sunday afternoon bike ride and an echinacea smoothie.  Give me a few more years and I might even turn into a vegetarian...




Blue skies,


-E  

Kia Kaha Christchurch

I remember where I was on 22nd February 2011 at 10.51am in Melbourne.  Sitting at my desk in the office, chewing on the top of a pen and trying to think of ways to procrastinate and avoid a mountain of paperwork.  


My cellphone vibrated; a message from my Mum in Dunedin.  It read "Whoa!  That was a hell of a shake, hope it's not another big one in Christchurch".  


Within minutes, it was clear that it was indeed another big one in Christchurch.  A shallow 6.3 magnitude earthquake shook the city at 12.51 pm, collapsing buildings, damaging infrastructure and killing 185 people.  I can't pretend to know how the earthquake felt, or how hard it has been to deal with the aftermath, but I do know how it has affected some people I am close to, and my heart goes out to the capital of the South.

The image of the crippled Christchurch Cathedral has become somewhat of a symbol of the February 22 earthquake.  Previously an icon of the centre of the city, the fate of the site is now unknown (as for much of the rest of the CBD).


Today's entry is not the jovial writing that I normally try to stick to, and nor should it be.  I shed tears for Christchurch a year ago and I paused my work day today to shed a few more for the people whose lives have been torn apart by a natural disaster of the magnitude that my generation had never previously seen on home soil.


In an attempt to return to some kind of normality, Christchurch residents have displayed amazing resilience and courage.  Many have had to deal with the loss of family, friends, neighbours and colleagues.  They have had to clean and repair their properties time and time again through the many thousands of aftershocks, some of significant magnitude.  They have had to work through the exhausting layers of governmental and insurance bureaucracy in an attempt to rebuild, relocate and begin the next chapter.  They have had to put up with wonky roads, portaloos and power cuts.  And they have had to maintain strength for the sake of themselves and their families.  For the way in which they have managed this, the people of Christchurch should be commended.  They are smiling against the odds and the sense of community spirit in the city has been incredible.


I recently came across a heartwarming sight on the Lonely Planet website, with Christchurch labelled as one of New Zealand's most exciting cities:


http://www.lonelyplanet.com/new-zealand/christchurch-and-canterbury/christchurch/travel-tips-and-articles/76957


The article outlines the many activities that can still be experienced in Christchurch, with attractions such as the shipping container shopping centre that has been erected in the Cashel Mall.  Vibrant and colourful, it outlines the resourcefulness of the local businesses wonderfully:

       The most unique shopping centre in the world...




Visiting this wonderful city is an excellent way to help the rebuild, with tourist dollars much needed by the weary economy.  If you are considering a jaunt to the land of the long white cloud, spend a few days getting to know Christchurch and the people who live there.  It will be worth your while.


Blue skies and steady ground,


-E

Yes thank you, my high horse is very comfortable

Reality television feeds off it, cosmetic clinics would be closing their doors without it and girly coffee dates rely on it to complete the fix.  That's right, the judgement of others.   A phenomenon that I'm sure we would all vigorously deny but that gives many of us so much joy.  


Television cements the judgement of every stereotype imaginable.  Overweight and perpetually single folk are paraded in front of the camera with the carrot of money and potential happiness dangled in front of their tear-filled eyes.  Dating shows like the Bachelor abound in catfights while the antics of the vacuous Kardashians still somehow manage to grab the attention of enough viewers to remain on the screen.

Lets face it, nobody would watch Jerry Springer if there wasn't the chance of a chair-throwing bitch fight...


My favourite way to view the judgemental human nature is to read online newspaper comments sections.  Here we have every kind of bias.  Contained within the pages we find racism, sexism, class distinction, one-upmanship and finally my favourite, the Grammar Nazi.  A lot of people writing in the comments sections have very valid arguments, but the second they confuse 'you're' with 'your' or 'their' with 'there', they have signed the death warrant of the respect for their opinions.  Within seconds, the Grammar Nazi will jump on the inaccuracy, highlighting it with a precisely placed asterisk: "You don't know what *you're* talking about"...


I have been known to add my two cents' worth to the comments of news articles.  As an emotive soul, I find myself unable to leave the ignorance of a minority of the commenters unchecked.  Looking at the posts closely, I have found that 50% of them are generally the outbursts of no more than five individuals.  The demographic of the commenters is also very interesting.  An abundance of tech-savvy new-retirees, a scattering of single or stay-at-home mothers, a handful of current university students (or graduated arts students), and the remainder are nosey tossers who will be wholly unaffected by whatever the article describes, but cannot resist having a dig at a lowly minority.  Oh, and occasionally me...


Despite the undignified nature of the media judgement of every stereotype imaginable, significant numbers of people still subscribe to, listen and read the kind of unintellectual material that we would also tell our peers that we would only ever utilise at a time when we were out of bog roll.  For instance, I love watching people get frisked and questioned at airports on border protection television programmes, but would I freely admit it?  Well yes, because I just did.  But if I was trying to impress it would be the last facet of my character I'd reveal.


Yet why do we watch programmes in which overweight, slightly desperate or extremely stupid people are paraded for no good reason?  Because it makes our own lives feel better.  We can watch someone with a BMI of 60 try and carry a couple of 10 kg sandbags up a hill and smugly note that we could have done it in a quarter of the time.  Being able to spectate the embarrassment of a pretty girl getting rejected by a farmer is the stuff our entertainment is made of.  I'm guilty of enjoying these scenarios, but television ratings tell me I'm not alone.  For this reason, my television has been switched off.  The only time it will alight my lounge is for Top Gear, David Attenborough or the Olympics.  Because I don't want to become what modern entertainment has the ability to turn me into. 




Blue skies,


-E  

Old-fashioned romance

You know, like chivalry and stuff.  Like when you buy her a kebab before you go back to hers for a one-night stand.  Like the 6 hours of Pride and Prejudice you have to watch to see ONE KISS!  And like Sir Walter Raleigh laying his coat over a puddle to keep Queen Elizabeth I's shoes clean:

Romance of the 21st century is beginning to look a little like human behaviour has done a full circle back to prehistoric days, when cavemen dragged their women around by the hair.  With the normalisation of hard-core pornography, a lowered expectation of self morality and a binge-drinking culture, chivalry doesn't stand a chance.  Of course, I realise that this is an enormous generalisation, and that many relationships are still very dignified and well-meaning (I would like to think my own included).  I would also dare to suggest that the more modern times are far less repressed, particularly with regard to women's rights.  Feel free to disagree with this.

Living in Australia has given me great insight to the absence of class and true romance.  While courtship in 1912 may have taken months of planning, supervised interaction and a marriage before spending any time to get to know each other physically, courtship in Melbourne a hundred years later consists of plying the targeted significant other with beer, before approaching with the incredibly creative line: "how bout it, luv?".  If successful, this may result in the immediate and clumsy consummation in the back of a 1997 Holden Commodore.  Of course, there is every chance the girl may have more self-respect.  This requires MORE BEER (the final result is likely to be identical).

My boyfriend is currently (and has been for some time) working in areas of high concentrations of TRUE AUSSIE BLOKES, otherwise known as the mines in rural Western Australia.  While living with me in Melbourne, he is a collared shirt-wearing, tasteful music-loving, very metrosexual guy who will say the words "I love you" over the phone on a busy tram.  This is a hard persona to keep while surrounded with potty-mouthed alcoholics who spend their weekends smoking crack and shouting abuse at their girlfriends.  Any deviation from the stereotypically patriotic Australian with a V8 and a widescreen to watch the footy, the offender is immediately thought to be gay and therefore in need of a punch in the face.  Not a lot of room for old-fashioned romance when you live with 3,000 homophobic and well-built tradesmen!

But in amongst the doom and gloom of new-age promiscuity, I feel like there is still a ray of hope.  I'm inclined to thing that in moving with the times, chivalry now has a new manifestation.  For example, I now wear shoes that can cope well with stepping in puddles, and nothing makes me happier than coming home to the smell of dinner being served.  It has become widely accepted in many circles that marriage is no longer a prerequisite for bedding your fair maiden (it is my own opinion that this is a good thing, allowing couples to get to know each other in the mental, emotional and physical sense before making lifelong commitments). 

The vast majority of men and women treat each other well, and small acts of kindness are noticed more in an age where they are not necessarily expected (I recall after a long day of work last year my boyfriend presented me with the gift of a pineapple - my favourite food - which had more meaning to me than a bouquet of roses or walking on the outside of the pavement) .  Relationships are far more equal, and conversations are far less restricted without the pressure of class distinction or fear of ostracism.  In saying that, I feel that old-fashioned romance certainly had it's place, and I'm not sure the cinematic experience would have been the same had Mr. Darcy asked Miss Bennett for a quick hand-job behind the drawing-room door...

On that note, I'll end before I have to try and swallow the other foot as Jane Austin turns in her grave (please note also that I am an enormous fan of her work!).  I'd like to think that in this busy day and age, human beings can allocate a small amount of time to contributing to the good in this world and show each other some kindness.  This is new-fashioned romance, the way it should be.

Blue skies,

-Ez

Cheap flights...

We've all been there.  The feeling of excitement as a splash of colour accompanies an excited television advertisement for a low-cost airline.  "All flights less than twenty dollars!  (Sale ends in 3 minutes)"


For me, the purchase of airline tickets is comparable to the purchase of shoes by a kept housewife.  The only difference between the two is that sadly, I don't have a sugar-daddy to foot the bill.  The promise of adventures to come are my motivation for staying employed.  Currently, I have two interstate weekends booked, all the result of 'too-good-to-resist' airline sales.  I wouldn't have it any other way.


Nowadays, there are more flight choices than I can count.  Airlines of the world have sprung up, luxurious seats that fully recline, personal televisions, massaging chairs and even an on-board shower spa offered with a first-class ticket on Emirates.


At the other end of the scale are the airlines that I am far more familiar with.  These are the brands that frequent the discussion forums, passengers disgusted with reliability, punctuality, service and catering.  These are the bone-shakers that feel as if they have been sellotaped together and piloted by a monkey on LSD.  These are the airlines that charge a base price so low it "can't be true!", then upon booking you realise it isn't: credit card fees, booking fees, check-in fees and baggage fees all combine to slightly more than the GDP of Greece (too soon?). 


The phenomenon of low-cost airlines was described rather poetically by Fascinating Aida (kindly pointed out to me by my favourite Auntie Jen)

Having spent a bit of time travelling through Europe on the pride of Irish air service, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to realise the carrier of focus, Ryanair.  Headed up by a feisty Irishman named Michael O'Leary, there is a wide range of flights available, however travelling with Ryanair leaves a lot to be desired.  In fact, the Business Insider in 2010 found Ryanair to be the winner of the Worst Airline award: http://www.businessinsider.com/worst-airlines-in-the-world-2010-12#1-ryanair-10


The booking process when considering Ryanair for a European getaway is as follows:


1. Jump on the website www.ryanair.com and determine your destination of choice.  This will usually be accompanied by gasps of surprise at how cheap they are!
2.  Tell all your friends and gather some travel buddies.  Spend a considerable amount of time discussing what you will spend your time doing while away, and may or may not encompass the contacting of relatives to arrange accommodation if possible.
3.  Excitement is paramount, so get back on the computer to book the flight!  This is an enormous process in itself:


Step 1: The super-cheap price is not available on the day you have arranged to return, so you shrug your shoulders and pay a few extra dollars for the flight on the correct day.


Step 2: You don't have a European passport, so you pay an extra 10 pounds for airport check-in.  Each way.  But it's ok, the base flight was only 15 pound to start with, right?!


Step 3: You realise that the airports servicing Ryanair flights are a tad further out from the city than you realise.  Ok, a lot further out.  But Ryanair is an enterprising company and there is a shuttle to take you the two hours to the city for only 30 pounds each way.  Bargain!


Step 4: You decline priority boarding, a rental car, a donation to charity, carbon offset, hotel accommodation and checked baggage (all of which incur substantial fees), and proceed to the final step.  By this time, the original 30 pound return flight is nearly 100 pounds and it's not even booked yet!  But you've already arranged it with all your friends, and you bought that bikini last week in the hope of a chance to use it...


Step 5: Handing over your credit card details, the website enthusiastically bleats the 10 pound (per flight) credit card charge.  At this point, you cross yourself, press the 'Purchase' button, and hope your credit card has enough available funds to cover it.  You've come too far to back out now...


Easy, huh?!




But all the steps I've described above pale in comparison to the actual flight.  The morning of departure, you wake up promptly at 2am, just in time to catch a 2 hour bus to the middle-of-nowhere airport that Ryanair inevitably operates out of.  You finish cramming 10 days of luggage into a carry-on bag, as you have skipped the checked baggage to save money.  The alternative to the stupendously early wake-up is to sleep at the airport.  I've done this a number of times, and if I can impart but one piece of advice it is to take earplugs and an eye mask.  You'll need them.


Arriving at the airport, the surly check-in clerk weighs and measures your carry-on bag.  "Oh dear, it appears to be 1.75892 kg over the weight limit.  I'm afraid you're going to have to throw away some possessions".  Leaving the queue, you adorn yourself with every available garment and return to the desk looking like an inflated marshmallow.  The bag is now within the allowed limit, and you receive a hand-written boarding pass.  Oh, and did I mention that all your duty-free purchases must also fit into the carry-on bag, without exceeding the weight/size limits!


Ryanair considering charging for the use of the toilets.  I personally would rather wet myself than pay a pound for a wee in a 2 square foot cupboard.


Arriving at the "destination", a fanfare blasts throughout the cabin and proclaims loudly that Ryanair is the most punctual airline in Europe.  This I assume, is because they forgo pesky additions to the aircraft such as emergency fuel and life jackets...Disembarking, you realise that you are in fact in the middle of nowhere (and usually in the middle of the night).  But fear not, the Ryanair shuttle will have you amongst civilisation in a jiffy!  (Or in approximately 2.5 hours).


Despite all the flaws of flying with such an enigmatic airline, Ryanair has allowed me to see much of the world for a relatively low price.  It is a great friend of every student in Europe, and should I find myself in need of a quick weekend away on the continent, I would not hesitate to book on the blue and yellow bird again.  What could possibly go wrong?!




Blue skies,


Ez

Why are we still debating this?

The answer should be obvious.  Any sane, logical person would think so.  Yet there are so many minority opinions throughout the world held and upheld by the less sane and logical of those among us (yes thanks, my high horse is very comfortable tonight!).


This entry is dedicated to illuminating some of the world issues I feel are completely redundant, yet for some inexplicable reason humans are still arguing about them.  Mind you, this is also just my opinion...feel free to argue and prove me right!


1.  The Earth is flat

Today there exists still a Flat Earth Society, run by a fellow by the name of Daniel Shenton: http://theflatearthsociety.org/cms/

According to the Flat Earthies, the world is shaped like a disk, with the North Pole at the centre and Antarctica at the edge.  There is also a rim of 'something' to hold in the water.  The continents are arranged around the North Pole (and very close to the pole if you look at some of the supposed pictures of the planet.  Amazingly, Shenton does believe that the sun and the moon are spherical, but very small.  He also denies the existence of gravity completely.


The website contains some very well-worded and convincing arguments about why classic circumnavigation is in fact a small concentric circle around the centre of the planet disk, and some very read-worthy conspiracy theories, focusing mainly on the "faked" space exploration expeditions.


My disbelief in the debate of this issue does not come from the fact that somebody has the ability to dismiss overwhelming scientific evidence, more from the notion that the society now has over 9,000 members worldwide.  To believe that the Earth is flat requires one to believe that NASA (and all other space agencies) have fabricated each and every photograph of the Earth from space.  It requires complete denial of long-haul international travel distances, gravity, the moon landing (and all associated footage) and the true route of circumnavigation voyages.  Heaven forbid also that a person should look out of the window of a plane and see the natural curvature of the horizon...


Historic physicists can easily be forgiven for thinking that the Earth is the shape of a pancake, however it is my opinion that it is an obsolete debate.




2.  It's for research!

Every summer, the Japanese ships venture into the Southern Ocean off the coasts of Australia and New Zealand to catch a quota of whales on behalf of the Institute of Cetacean Research.  This has been permitted by the International Whaling Commission, (and I imagine many Japanese restaurant owners are also strong supporters) amid heavy criticism.


The reason I feel that this should be a non-debate is due to the fact that not one single peer-reviewed research paper has been published by the Institute, despite harpooning as many as 1000 whales in a season.  The views of the majority seem to be that the operation is a barely-disguised commercial whaling venture, and year after year the Greenpeace vessels of Australia and New Zealand avidly protest against the presence of the whaling ships.  I recall watching one such campaign on the news one evening.  A crewman on one of the protest vessels held up a sign saying 'would you like some soy sauce on your research?!'


I am very much opposed to the so-called research whaling venture carried out by the Japanese, and I do not believe for one moment that there is any worthwhile scientific investigation taking place at the Institute.  With the number of whales they have brutally killed, they should know everything there is to know about the species.  The practise should be banned, leave our whales alone!




3.  "I don't get hangovers"
You're obviously not drinking enough.  Try a couple of bottles of cheap white wine on a hot day.  Don't worry about dinner, it'll slow you down.


There are many more topics of debate on this wide wonky (and most likely spherical) Earth, they keep the discussion boards on news websites growing on a daily basis.  Some are more complex, however there are a few I feel could be shovelled into the 'Already Done' pile to let people move onto real topics.  Like: 'What makes a polar bear left-handed?'

Blue skies,


-E