You don’t often worry about dying when visiting a tourist spot. Nobody dies in tourist spots. Travellers perish when they do crazy stuff, like go hiking off into the pizza-oven heat of Death Valley, or take selfies on the edge of Victoria Falls standing on one leg, or drive motorcycles through Mumbai after banging a tab. Nobody dies at tourists spots – nobody dies at Lake Bled. And yet. And yet.
Continue readingYesterday Jeanne and I took our daily lockdown walk, and we went a little further than usual. It was March the last time I walked further than the Arches down Gloucester Road. Since then, all our late afternoon strolls have seen us weaving through suburbs, exploring sleepy avenues and cul-de-sacs. On a whim, however, last night we decided to continue on, right the way down to the harbourside we’ve not seen in so very long. What a bleeding mistake that was. Continue reading
We’re driving to work in the bush, the morning air cool and the windows down. Seven of us are crammed into the car, sitting on each other’s laps clutching our lunchboxes. There’s a cloudless sky above and a long day of fruit picking ahead. Bouncing reggae on the radio has us feeling breezy. Continue reading
Everything is changing again. Continue reading
Now, I wrote a 1000 word article that I thought I’d published on my last few days in Varanasi, but it is nowhere to be found, so whatever, let me summarise: I spent 3 days living for free in the basement of a temple waiting for the arrival of a mysterious man called Ricky who I was told was looking for people to split petrol costs to Rishikesh. I went slightly insane languishing in my basement with naught but a family of mice for company, but no matter. After I’d passed a week in Varanasi, Ricky arrived: a small Punjabi dude who has lived in Melbourne for 8 years, with a tattoo that says ‘such is life’ and a finely tuned moustache. And lo, you are up to speed. Continue reading
Varanasi. It’s surely either the end of the world or the beginning. I can’t figure out which. Continue reading
At 5 we gathered outside the old lady’s house and met a few other westerners who’d been picked out. I was the only Englishman, and we’d been told we’d be playing British soldiers – being killed. My great grandad on my dad’s side was stationed in Danapur in eastern India for seven years, which is an odd thought. Continue reading
Every day in this country is insane and the further I travel the more absurd it gets. I love it.
Dave has been in Delhi this whole time, doing god knows what, and he messaged me last night to say he’d be arriving in Jaipur at midnight. I left a note with Sid at reception for Dave, telling him hello and that if he tried waking me I would fucking shank him. I spoke to Sid in the morning and asked if Dave had arrived, and he said yes, four hours late, and that they smoked hash together sitting on the floor. I said yes, that sounds very much like Dave. Continue reading
Nobody likes to talk about their own, utterly, utterly, absolutely, hilariously unavoidable death. But I want to discuss it with you for a little while now because it feels healthy to be aware of it; to avoid hopping through life blissfully unaware of my mortality, one day to be smote by a falling tree branch and, my consciousness obliterated, rendered a floppy assortment of blubber and bone. No; I see you, Death. I see you there, hanging around with your head down and your skeletal fingers thrust nonchalantly into the infinite pockets of your ghastly black shroud, whistling and kicking celestial pebbles waiting for me to cark it. Yeah, I see you. Bugger off. Continue reading
Sometimes I like to write about songs that are special to me. Today the song is Born to Run; you know it, everyone knows it. It’s a hit. But there’s something about it I’ve not been able to put my finger on – a strange vertigo; a vague, nauseating sadness. And I’ve figured out why. Continue reading