Margaret River - Thumbs up, thumbs down (Nov-Dec 08)

Hello! You join me six months further on in my journey round Australia. I have been struck from time to time that there's something I've been forgetting to do, and that thing is to update my travel blog!

A huge amount of water has flowed under the bridge in storytelling terms so I'd best crack on and recount my travelling tales before a whole load more stuff happens. If there's anything guaranteed in this life, it's that stuff (both good and bad) happens.

When I spoke to you last I was still in Margaret River - the beautiful wine-producing town in Western Australia that couldn't be more laid back if it tried. I'd found myself a place to live, a loaf to butter and a glass of milk to declare half-full. The country roads reverberated with the sound of me whistling a jaunty tune as I cycled on by. The sun shone bright day after day after day.

To be truthful I was bored of my surroundings and seeking work. It had been my lifelong dream since about 5 minutes before leaving Perth to work on the area's famous vineyards. But the season was unseasonably quiet, the grapes swelling untroubled on the vines, leaving me twiddling my thumbs at home. My journey on the harvest trail had hit the doldrums big-time.

I passed the time playing guitar, and reading the free local paper, an unassuming weekly bugle concealing a work of unintentional comedy brilliance. I refer of course to none other than the hilariously pointless feature known as 'Thumbs up, thumbs down'!

To the uninitiated (basically everyone outside the Margaret River area) this involves anonymous readers writing in to comment on subjects meeting their approval or disapproval. Examples include:

• "Thumbs up to the Margaret River Police for having the hardest job in the world and doing such a great job."
• "Thumbs down to no drinking fountains in Margaret River."
• "Thumbs up to sugar-coated carob free almonds."
• "Thumbs down to people not paying tradespeople on time."
• "Thumbs up to all the shops who decorate their windows at Christmas."
• "Thumbs down to people who take social sports too seriously."
• "Thumbs up to Nanna Rose's new smile."
• "Thumbs down to the P-platers (learners) and other drivers who scared me and my horse on Caves Road."
• "Thumbs up to great beauticians."
• "Thumbs down to anyone who wants to bring one million people to Margaret River."
• "Thumbs up to the Augusta Pharmacy."
• "Thumbs down for vineyard workers not being supplied with portable toilets."
• "Thumbs up to those taking part in Movember."
• "Thumbs down to those who broke into the privately-owned helicopter at a hangar party."
• "Thumbs up for Saul's blue cheese pizzas and burger Fridays."
• "Thumbs down to people who try to get out of paying their bills."
• "Thumbs up to our beautiful display of native flowers."
• "Thumbs down to people who steal wood from their workplace."
• "Thumbs up to Mess Fest – best ever!"
• "Thumbs down to rude graffiti on signs."

Fantastic! I always enjoyed those. But not as much as I enjoyed imagining the respective authors clutching the paper in triumph and yelling, 'they published my idea! Yes! The system works!'

And even now, many months later, I lie in bed at night wondering if the workplace wood-stealer was ever brought to justice.

I enrolled as a WWOOF volunteer in a bid to clock up some time towards my second working visa. This entailed me cycling out to a palatial countryside residence to help a lady called Carmel dig irrigation trenches round her fruit trees. In exchange for working mornings I received nutritious vegetarian lunches and the healthy glow of a man at one with his spade. Who needs money anyway? It was an interesting diversion for a couple of weeks.

I was joined by another volunteer, Ben from Germany, who had a cracking beard. He smoked rollups and had just travelled by car all the way from Darwin, an immense journey (and one I’d like to do someday). Soon we’d dug all the trenches, weeded all the weeds and dotted all the Is and crossed all the Ts in a gardening sense on Carmel’s property so it was time to say our goodbyes.

Around the same time my tireless inquiries about work finally hit paydirt. I got word of a working hostel that lay an hour down the road in Manjimup. This being of course a place where the twin baubles of farm work and accommodation happily collide!

I tried to research this fabled place of labour on the net but found nothing but a fuzzy JPEG of some wooden sheds and a couple of old reviews from 2005/6. As per most working hostels it was as well-advertised as the average Taliban hideout, and twice as mysterious.

I phoned the number and spoke to a flustered-sounding woman called Naomi who assured me yes, they had a couple of beds free and some work. After weeks without earning any money, that was good enough for me! I arranged to leave my house-share at short notice, and it was only a matter of packing my bags and booking a bus ticket to Manjimup.

Just one problem: the date was now 23 December.

Oh bollocks… Christmas!

Coming soon: Christmas 08 – Bondy does Manjimup

Margaret River - beginning the harvest trail

And so I have come to a new town. And that town is Margaret River. Margaret River is notable for being two things: a town, and a river, also called Margaret River. To reduce confusion I shall call the town Margaret River, and the river Margaret River-river. Still with me? Good.

Margaret River (and Margaret River-river) is in a remote rural region of south-west Australia. Never-ending miles of hills and unspoilt woodlands lie on all sides. The climate is temperate and wet, making it a little reminiscent of West Yorkshire, albeit with drastically improved weather conditions!

The feel is of a remote, countrified place in a lush rural setting, first colonised less than two centuries ago. Apparently the river, and the town, were named after a woman called Margaret who the original settlers knew. She must have been quite something. Or maybe she paid them lots of money to do it, I don't know.

There are lots of vineyards in this region, and orchards too. 200 miles south of Perth's sterile pretentiousness, the two are worlds apart. This is a sleepy country town where folk stop to say 'how do you do' in the street and neighbours lend a hand churning your butter. Probably.

And what is it brings me, intrepid explorer and cultural ferryman of the masses, to this pretty and unspoilt corner of the world? Well my visa lasts till April next year. If during that time I spend 3 or more months doing specific types of labouring (e.g. vineyard work, orchard work, construction) in remote rural areas of Australia I am entitled to apply for another 12-month working visa in the future.

I've fallen in love with Australia and I'd love to come back. Problem is, a lot of the jobs on the list are back-breakingly arduous and no-one in their right mind would want to do them. Hence the immigration department's special concession allowing desperate backpackers eager to risk life and limb (that's me!) to work towards the golden ticket of a second working visa.

And loads of travellers do it! It's known as the harvest trail, and it has a whole supporting infrastructure of work agencies, backpacker hostels, pamphlets and free advice guides built up around it.

In the grand scheme of things I would rather be poncing round with a pair of secateurs on a vineyard, or trampling grapes like Sideshow Bob on the Simpsons, than hoisting cinder blocks up a ladder in 40 degree heat. Time will tell if I am being cavalier or misguided in my romantic flirtations with viticulture!

After a final whirl of farewell drinks and parties, and the tying up of various loose ends, on Sunday (9th Nov) I left Perth. Loading my bags into my housemate Maria's car I felt a curious mix of elation and nostalgia at a huge chapter in my life closing. Shortly followed by frustration when I realised, halfway into town, I'd left some stuff back at the house!

We drove back to get it but it made us late for the bus. Maria 'put the pedal to the metal' as the young people say, and got me to Esplanade bus-port on time, the light Sunday traffic not posing much of an impedance. I hugged her goodbye and staggered off down the concrete forcourse carrying my entire life: 65 litre rucksack with sleeping bag, roll-mat and travel guitar attached, small rucksack, two bags full of clothes and a full-size guitar in a heavy case!

Stepping into the bus's air-conditioned interior, I felt a cool sense of relief and smugness that I, Andrew Bond, was advancing on my mission. The bus glided off in a hiss of air-brakes and I soon drifted into sleep.

Opening my eyes a few minutes later I couldn't believe what I saw: the bus only made a stop to collect passengers outside Murdoch Uni, 200 metres from my house! I'd made us embark on a whole mad scrambled journey into town for no purpose! Thankfully Maria saw the funny side too when I texted her.

That comedy moment aside it was a pleasant journey south to Margaret River. I caught up on more sleep as lush green countryside sped by under a watchful azure sky. My slumbers that particular day were soundtracked by Captain Beefheart and then some ambienty Radiohead stuff on my music player. And that perpetual moment of inner peace and tranquility finally encapsulated for me what travelling should feel like.

After arriving in Margaret River I spent a few lazy days writing, playing guitar and drinking endless cups of tea at my friend Ruth's house. There was no TV so at night I sat outside listening to the rustling of the trees, bathed in multicoloured lights on the veranda. This, my friend, is what backpacking should all be about. Now to find some work!

Having paced the quiet streets I have found the town's attractions to number: some shops, a few cafes, restaurants and pubs, an internet cafe or two, a cycle trail out through the woods, and a bridge over a lily pond. That's right: a bridge. Over a motherf***king lily pond. Jealous? This town is where it's at.

The town's free weekly paper, the Margaret River Mail, carries an astonishing lack of headlines. This week its readership were treated to the exciting news that CowParade, the international cow art festival, is coming to Margaret River next year. Maybe. Apparently it is next on the list after major cities like Prague, Sydney and Chicago. A likely story!

Also a local author is launching a children's book featuring a talking lamprey. All this while a black man has been elected to the White House and the times they are a-changing. You don't know what you're missing folks!

I have been taken aback how the people here are very friendly, generous and helpful. The woman at the internet cafe knocked two dollars off my bill the other day just because I seemed hard-up. Country people rule!

I've just moved into a house-share with a guy called Nick who is a chef, who brings home free boxes of red wine from his work! And all I have to do now is watch and wait for the phone to ring with work. And I might just get shit-flying drunk while I do so! Doing nothing never felt as good as this.

Perth part 3 - departure imminent!

Hello and welcome once again to my travelling tales. Please help yourself to a mint imperial and tell your fellow guests to do the same.

How am I and where am I at? Apart from a brush with shingles and a recent head-lice scare, I am well and good. I am still in Perth, though at long last I shall soon be leaving. Off to the countryside to work on a vineyard, where exactly I cannot say.

And what of the intervening weeks and months since last I wrote? A strange and wonderful time it must be said. New friendships have been made and new places have been visited. My fresh and revitalised mental state has sent a cascade of creativity gushing forth, revealing a shower of wondrous new songs and lyrics galore. I feel I'm writing (and thinking) on a higher level than I have ever done in my life.

I've played a few gigs in Fremantle and Perth which, while not leading to any great new opportunities, left me in no doubt my music has been well-received over here. I am also busy finishing off two new songs in a recording studio. The studio is in the suburb of Bassendean - birthplace of Rolf Harris, no less! Bassendean is a quiet suburb much like any other – there were no tributes or statues to Rolf evident anywhere. How can their famous wobble-boarding son continue to be overlooked in such a way?

Anyway, the songs will go on a compilation of local artists which will hopefully garner some modest airplay on the radio. And I want my songs playing on the radio – it would make me feel I've finally achieved something with my life. And then my mum can go around telling people, "My son gets played on the radio in Australia you know," as she has no doubt long been craving to do.

"But Bondy!" you ejaculate. "Enough of your music news, what of your travelling?"

Well beloved reader, I have been getting up close and personal with the wheat belt. This isn't some item of farming fetish wear, but rather a vast tract of farmland that surrounds Perth on all sides for hundreds of kilometres. Nipple/areolae is the relationship we're talking here, on a vast scale. And it's the closest I've come to seeing any boobies in a long time I must say!

My friend Shannon took me to spend a weird and wonderful weekend in the country with her family. Some of her 'rellies' (that’s what they call relatives over here) have bought a vast plot of land out in the wilderness. We pitched a tiny two-person tent amidst the empty acres and joined them around the bonfire to listen to rude Australian music and enjoy a beer.

With the WA property boom sending house prices to astronomical levels over recent years, many folk have taken to buying an empty plot of land out in the middle of nowhere and building their own home on it. It takes years to do – the people we stayed with had only been there long enough to set up a homely tin shack and a few caravans on their land to use as an occasional weekend retreat.

Using this as our base, Shannon's dad (a colossus of geography and plant knowledge) led us on a series of bushwalking adventures around local rock features. This wild terrain was all new to me and in my eyes it was a fantastic and authentic Aussie experience.

I have seen the sun set over the rolling open farmland, and spied the shining of the moon in rock pools fashioned by angels. I have ridden a dune buggy over the crest of majestic hills like a medieval knight atop a proud steed. And also I have gone for a dump in a wooden shack humourously titled the ‘site ofice’ (sic).

This was also my introduction to the great flora and fauna that lurk out in the vast wilds of WA: namely lemon-scented orchids, red snapper orchids, chicken burrito orchids, kangaroos, emus, flies, more flies, tics, head lice, gonorrhoea and drop bears. A drop bear is basically a cross between a kangaroo and a rhinoceros that can bounce up to fifty metres in the air and spits poisonous acid in the direction of whatever perturbs it. They look like this:


I’ve been on another trip away, down to Castle Rock near Dunsborough, to camp right next to the beach! Castle Rock is notable for being, err, a big rock shaped a bit like a castle. It’s in the middle of a national park on a beautiful stretch of coastline 250 kilometres south of Perth. Notable things about that weekend include:

• Seven of us travelling down in 3 cars, in various states of inebriation and tiredness
• Arriving at 1am on Saturday and pitching our tents in the black of night
• Waking up later that morning to discover a stunning ocean view right in front of us
• Climbing Castle Rock and standing triumphantly atop it, hollering into the ocean breeze
• Everyone seeing a whale in the sea, but me missing it
• Me and Josh drinking a beer at 6am on Sunday while we attempted to keep the fire lit in adverse weather conditions
• One of our brand new camping chairs collapsing into the fire and quickly bursting into flames – flame-retardant my arse!
• Enjoying a replay of Radiohead’s Glastonbury ‘97 set on Triple J (radio station) on the drive back up to Perth, to soothe the hangovers

What more could you demand of a weekend? Well, sex and loads of money perhaps. Nevertheless it was pretty cool.

I am still house-sharing in sleepy old Murdoch. There have been upheavals of the housemate variety – Dave did a runner owing us all money (as we long feared he might) and lives to fight his battles another day in locations unknown. Our empty room was taken by Tim, a punk guy from Sydney who’s just moved over to Perth.

It’s been a nice enough house to live in on my occasional forays outside my head, but the living area now festers in a state of woeful untidiness. As is usually the case with house-shares, no-one wants to concede the mind-games and undertake any housework! Though I now suspect beer and TV have probably left us too lazy and defeated even for mind-games.

The atmosphere in the house is one of neglect, and soon the four of us shall all go our separate ways. But weep not dear reader - even the radiant chrysanthemum must wither and die as part of the great cycle of life.

I have also been on a voyage of momentous personal discovery. A couple of months ago I did another personal development course with Mitch Behan called ‘Letting it go’. Essentially it was a two-day cram-a-thon held for the benefit of me and a few dozen other people coming from all walks of life. We received an expert education in quantum physics and the principles that govern the divine order in the universe. Then we learnt how to apply these principles to achieve lasting success in our own lives.

Simple eh? Actually, the courses were among the toughest things I’ve ever done – not only for the work I did but the concepts I was trying to grapple with and understand in my head – and they pushed us very hard. Much as I don’t want to be a killjoy I have to be vague and mysterious as it is all proprietary knowledge. It mostly concerns building and then deploying nuclear weapons.

I know what you’re thinking and it’s probably, “what the f**k!?” Well I’ve not changed. I’ve not joined a cult or become a scientologist or anything. Everyone makes their own way in life and whether you choose to believe in a ‘higher power’ and all that jazz is up to you.

The jury’s still out on whether this will help me fulfil my dreams, but so far the work we’ve done has taught me a great deal about life and I feel much happier and more complete. In the immortal words of Homer Simpson, “All my life I've had one dream: to achieve my many goals.”

In a work sense not much has changed. I am still a humble research officer for the Office of Public Sector Standards, though my job finishes this week – hence my decision to move on. It’s been a rollercoaster ride and during my time on the 17th floor I have bonded meaningfully with my erstwhile colleagues in an atmosphere of supportive cerebralism. I have had some sucky temp jobs in my time but this is one I shall most definitely miss. Just one of the varied worlds I have inhabited upon my journey.

And my final thoughts on Perth? Well, after spending 6 months here, I will be f**king glad to see the back of the place. Much as it is a beautiful, unspoilt little city it is ridiculously cliquey. Making friends as a new face in town was impossibly difficult. As a handsome well-heeled motherf**ker-about-town I was not accustomed to having gaping open spaces in my social calendar. It’s given me plenty of opportunities to work on my writing at least – just like being a teenager all over again really. And now I’m counting down the days till I move on!

I hasten to add I’ve had a great time in Perth, but the flimsy little world I’ve built for myself here has all the staying power of a paper bag and is about to blow away. A pocketful of dreams and a heart that’s willing will only get you so far in this world, and I feel a lot of the time like I’m sinking in the quicksand of indifference. What better reason to hit the road, Easy Rider stylee?

One thing’s for sure – I ain’t coming home anytime soon!

Perth part 2 - mega update!

Hello! You are now reading my latest 'letter home to the folks'. A lot has happened since those crazy days of June when I last blogged as a fresh and spunky 26 year old. I am now a withered and haggard 27 year old, as it was my birthday in July.

I'm still in Perth, living with Josh, Maria and Dave. The relentless piss rain of the Australian winter is giving way to sunny springtime. Bunny rabbits playfully frolic in gay meadows and past splashing waterfalls. Such pleasant surroundings cannot help but rejuvenate the soul.

I stayed in Perth for work, and now I rather bloody like the place. It has a small-town charm all of its own, yet it is free of Deliverance-style inbreeding. My computer monkey work at the agribusiness place (otherwise known as Castle Greyskull) finished several weeks ago and I've had a few different jobs since then.

First my agency sent me to a suburb called O'Connor, to a bus depot, to fill in for the Human Resources department while their HR girl went on leave. I am not a girl as such, but I did very well in this role.

For me the term 'HR department' normally conjures up images of sterile skyscrapers, faceless suits and needless written warnings, but this HR department was none of the above. It was a portacabin. With a desk and computer in it. I liked the bus company's low-key approach!

There wasn't much to do apart from go through all the bus driver application forms that came in the post, and phone up the least scary and unhinged people to offer them interviews. I got to fulfil my lifelong dream of working in a portacabin. And it gave me a new-found respect for Perth bus drivers, who are a cheery and helpful bunch despite their modest wages.

But my cushy role as HR girl soon ended after the regular HR girl came back from New Zealand. Then I got to play at being a boy, working as a 'bloke in a warehouse'! The agency gave me a single day's work with a betting company, packing promotional gifts into envelopes to be sent out to competition winners (baseball caps, rugby balls, umbrellas and the like). This was possibly the most tedious and mundane job I have had ever since I worked as a chip shop potato preparer in Meltham. I'm like a modern-day George Orwell, doing shit jobs then writing great books about them (sort of).

At that point the teat of opportunity ran dry, and I spent a week as an unemployed layabout, searching for jobs at the library then going home and writing whiny entries in my diary about how shit it is to be an unemployed layabout. Thankfully this period of moping and introspection soon ended when the newly-refilled teat of opportunity came knocking on my door, to mix a metaphor or two. I then suckled on the teat of opportunity. And got an opportunity. (Isn't it nice when a teat knocks on your door?)

Anyway, the situation improved because I got a job temping for local government. Oh the joy of sailing into familiar clerical waters! On my first day I discovered my workplace was actually a huge great big skyscraper with a revolving restaurant on the top!

High on the 17th floor, with great views overlooking the city and surrounding river, there exists something called the Office of Public Sector Standards. Basically they have to monitor all the government agencies to ensure no employees are being mistreated or unfairly passed over for promotion. It's like the Batman of the admin world, and as a minion in this department I'm like a non-homosexual Robin.

I've been working there for two weeks and it's actually going bloody well. They've been so pleased with my job of being a non-homosexual Robin they've extended my contract till October, given me a payrise and promoted me to Research Officer! (I don't know what that equates to in Batman terms... quasi-Batman maybe?)

While the ox of my employment has been roaming free in the fatty pastures of success, I have been through a few life-changing and inspiring experiences. During the earlier part of my travels, I saw a lot of wonderful things and met some great people, but despite all of this I didn't feel I'd really grown or learnt anything as a person. The whole purpose of doing this travel was to broaden my mind and get some answers about what my life is about, and despite being fortunate enough to see many of Asia's wonderful spectacles, my mission was in danger of falling flat on its arse.

In June I got wind of a personal development seminar happening in Perth called Relationships and You. These seminars are run by an Irish guy called Mitch Behan, who does this sort of thing full-time. Rather an inspiring chap too, I must say. He would be the first to point out he's not Jesus or anything, but he's been through a lot of ups and downs in his time and dedicates his life to helping people overcome their problems and realise their true potential.

I liked what I saw at the information evening and signed up there and then. I spent a weekend with Mitch and eleven strangers on the course, and after undergoing some tough challenges, the twelve of us emerged unburdened of our collective woes, as firm friends. While I have to remain vague about what went on during the course (for proprietary reasons) I will say that it was a profoundly uplifting and inspiring experience that has left me with renewed optimism, strength and self-belief. (I would recommend the course to anybody, but unfortunately there are no plans yet to introduce it to the UK.)

As you may know dear friend, last year I endured something of a nightmare on my birthday, when I got pick-pocketed and had to cut short my trip to the Ukraine. This year I was determined to put those troubles firmly in the past and have a f**king blast!

On 20th July, a couple of weeks after the seminar, I met up with my buddies from the course in Fremantle. We enjoyed a slap-up meal at Cicerello's - a huge fish 'n' chip restaurant on the quayside - then lots of beers next door in a giant brewery/pub called Little Creatures. It was a beautiful sunny Sunday (if a little on the chilly side) and we had ourselves a grand old time. It wasn't the most ostentatious birthday celebration ever, but 27 is the age of rock star death so I figure I should avoid coke and hooker binges for the forseeable future!

A lot happened in July and the month was not without its ups and downs. I've always been something of a frustrated entrepeneur - printing my own newspapers, selling my CDs at gigs to widespread public indifference; you name it, I've tried it in the name of making a quick buck. Actually, just the selling CDs - I added the newspapers thing to pad out the list a bit.

Anyways, my housemate Dangerous Dave asked me one day if I'd like to make some extra money. Thinking he was asking me to rob a bank or be in a porno, I asked him what he meant. He said he'd just been introduced to a company called ACN by a ladyfriend, and proceeded to show me a slick promotional DVD. Shouty rich man Donald Trump promptly appeared on the laptop, waxing lyrical about a glorious new investment opportunity in telecoms. Hey, if Donald Trump endorses it, it must be a good idea!

In essence, you buy an ACN sales license then go about obtaining customers and reps for the company. Every time one of your customers pays a phone bill, you get paid a percentage of the money. The reps you recruit form part of your business, and every time one of their customers pays a bill, you receive a percentage of that too. Meanwhile your reps recruit their own reps, and you earn off them too! Month after month, year after year, you keep earning more and more money - no effort required.

Sounds too good to be true doesn't it? That's because it is. I know that in hindsight. Pyramid schemes have existed since the dawn of time. Only these days they are cleverly embroidered with terms like 'network marketing' and 'warm selling' to try and remove the stigma.

ACN are a growing worldwide communications company who don't rely on traditional advertising, but rather the aforementioned network marketing and warm selling. This involves getting reps to pitch the company's services to their friends and family, thus buying a form of advertising no TV commercial can match in credibility - for a fraction of the cost of traditional advertising.

Man, I was dubious, but the DVD said all these great things about using ACN to achieve lasting financial freedom, quit your day job, achieve all your wildest dreams, etc. etc. As I watched, a succession of permatanned, dimpled, smiling Americans were wheeled out in front of the camera to make blithe testimonials like, "yeah, me and my friends enjoy a jet-set lifestyle thanks to ACN, man. We're like a bunch of rock stars, we travel around in luxury, having a blast! It's totally radical, to the max!"

The camera then cut to a montage of the people frolicking in limousines and fancy restaurants, laughing and joking without a care in the world. (Presumably they were laughing at all the people who say pyramid schemes don't work.)

If I have one failing it's that I sometimes forget the end doesn't always justify the means. It's like the time I torched that orphanage just so I could bake some muffins on the roof. All my life I've wanted money so I can be free and make music all day, and not kow-tow to some stupid boss with multiple personality disorders.

To cut a long story short, I naively allowed myself to be wowed by it, and signed up as a rep, paying $495 for an ACN sales license. Then a couple of days later, the bullshit spin from the positive corporate messages began to fade in my mind, revealing the bare truth. I realised there was no way I could stoop to warm-sell anything to my friends and family, and I withdrew from the organisation immediately.

Fortunately I got my money refunded - though many people in my situation have been left out of pocket. The way I see it, I sold my soul - but then I got it back, with a few dents and scratches on! And in doing so I glimpsed Hell.

I saw the company's stifling corporate culture, and the obedience and dedication it demands of its reps. I heard the stories of people who'd 'made it' in ACN - superstar salespeople supposedly raking in millions of US dollars a month through their huge phalanxes of customers and reps. I met the reps at ground level who slaved away night and day building their mini-empires without success; people too far down the line to ever go back or to stop believing the lie.

The basic truth is that these types of company are designed to make more money off the reps than the customers. In the main ACN attracts a professional crowd as its reps, with a wide variety of ages present, including a sizeable contingent of brillcreamed Asian businessmen. These people aren't fools, but it goes to show how powerful the herd mentality can be. You're told to sell a dream you have no personal proof of actually working. I for one couldn't do it. I never sold a single phone, and I was happy to walk away and carry on my clock-punching life. Working hard for an honest wage never felt so good, or so liberating.

Happily reunited with my soul, a couple of weekends ago I finally had my first proper travel adventure in Australia! Some friends and I drove 300 kilometres south of Perth to stay at my housemate Josh's mum's house out in the woods, near the remote town of Kirup. This short leap on the map became a magnificent odyssey into the unknown. The lush green of the countryside passed by in a magical drunken blur.

The house Josh's stepdad and mum built in their woodland is amazing - it's completely self-sufficient, running off solar power, with all its water supplied by a rainwater tank on the hill! Some day I want to retire to the Western Australian woods and build my very own self-sufficient dream home. And at the present rate, if I keep on selling CDs at my gigs for the next million years or so, I'll have the funds to do just that!

So here's to accomplishing your dreams. Until next time, "catch ya"!

Perth part 1 - that's agribusiness!

Hello! It's been a long time since I wrote a blog. Indeed one could well opine there has been an unnerving pause in the narrative. If one has just swallowed a frigging dictionary that is. As a matter of fact I have settled down in Perth and got a job. I'm working in an office doing data entry (read: tedious computer monkey work) for an agribusiness firm.

'Agribusiness?' you say. 'What the hell's angrybusiness?'

Well, it's an agricultural investment company who let rich people invest money in farming and get even richer. You see, unlike the UK where most farmers have either gone bankrupt or shot themselves, farming is big business over here in Western Australia.

Farming and mining are booming industries in this mineral-rich land, huge areas of which are still largely untapped. Everybody you meet seems to be either raking it in running their own business, or coining it in working out on the mines. It seems like there's possibilities and opportunities ghosting round everywhere in this vast tundra.

I'm living in a suburb of Perth called Murdoch. This may or may not have been christened after Rupert Murdoch. I'm staying in a house with my mate Josh, an Aussie I met in India, and his housemates Maria, Dave and Bruce, who are Aussies too. Well, this is Australia isn't it!

We're out in the vast urban sprawl, in a rented house 10km south of the city centre. All the streets are wide and spread out, lined with palm trees and roomy-looking single storey houses. It's like the streets you see on Neighbours!

Getting to work in the morning takes me an hour, on a bus, then a train, then another bus. Going down the shops for a bottle of milk involves a 20 minute hike along a main road. Walking anywhere takes a mammoth effort. Conurbations like this weren't built with the pedestrian in mind!

It all makes me what kind of sinister influence car manufacturers exert on city planners. They want us all to need a car. I dare say I'll get kidnapped by men in suits one of these days and whisked away for brain re-programming for daring to use my legs. So if my next blog is titled 'why cars are utterly brilliant and we should all buy as much petrol as we can', you'll know what's happened.

I'm feeling pretty cynical on the subject after seeing Who Killed The Electric Car?, a film about a hugely-promising electric car prototype released in America back in the 90s. It was fast, cheap and the motorists who test-drove it loved it. It was even poised to enter mass production, but suddenly the project got mysteriously shelved.

As the film reveals, the whole thing was scuppered by major car companies and oil conglomerates fearful of a loss in trade. I don't mean to get all deep and preachy in a light-hearted travel blog, but my god, has anyone else noticed how humanity is utterly doomed thanks to its own stupidity!?

When not ruminating cheerful subjects like the end of the world and the downfall of civilisation as we know it, I have been doing my best to escape the drudgery of life in the suburbs. So far I've visited the nearby coastal town of Fremantle, headed out to the vast forests east of Perth to enjoy a pub lunch in Parkerville, and gone to the Subiaco Oval to watch an Aussie rules football game.

Aussie rules (confusingly called 'football' by the Aussies) is a bit similar to Gaelic football. The players all wear vests, and kick an egg-shaped ball through rows of posts on an oval-shaped pitch. Crazy! (I don't know much about Gaelic football other than it's a bit like rugby, and the games probably involve violent thugs on Cork housing estates stamping on each others' heads - but I was told Aussie rules is similar to it. So if that makes any sense to you then I genuflect in all my humble literary magnificence!)

My housemate Dave (who like 90% of all Daves in the world is nicknamed Dangerous Dave) got some free tickets, and so on 14th June we witnessed Fremantle Dockers end their chronic losing streak with an emphatic 120-67 victory over North Melbourne, who come from Melbourne. Similarly to normal sports, the big number shows which team won the match.

As a sport it has a lot going for it: it's a game of speed and skill played in front of passionate crowds in noisy arenas. But I doubt after one game it will replace my lifelong love of the working man's game, an honest sport played all over the globe, bigger than any other. I'm talking about Risk obviously.

I've been getting to meet plenty of Aussies and they are a friendly and quick-witted bunch. Getting the hang of the Aussie lingo is a bit challenging though. I have deciphered a few of their linguistic heiroglyphics, shown here in the following chart:

Sunnies = sunglasses
Stubbies, longnecks = bottles of beer
Doccos = documentaries
C**t = an affectionate term for a loved one
Hey/eh = standard exclamation at the end of a sentence (see Canadian English)
Servo = petrol station
Salvos = the Salvation Army
The Chuck and Di story = the marriage and subsequent heart-rending divorce of our future monarch and England's tragic rose
Pom(mie bastard) = English person, usually found on the Gold Coast eating kangaroo and chips.

90% of backpackers from the UK end up hanging out in the tourist haunts on the east coast. If you know anything about me at all you will know I am a colossal snob and loathe to rub shoulders with the great unwashed in the discotheques of Marbella. I followed my instincts and headed west, intent on exploring Australia's lesser-known delights. Besides which, Marbella is in Spain.

What has struck me is the number of Aussies I've met who have spent some time living in the UK. If you lived somewhere hot and sunny would you bother heading up into the northern hemisphere to shiver in the piss rain for a few months? I doubt I would. Maybe our sceptred isle is not such a shit tip at all in the grand scheme of things. That's probably the homesickness talking, it's sending me daft.

Far from starting a new life 'down under', I find myself settling into a familiar pattern: I work in an office every day, which I hate, then I come home and while away my precious free time drinking beer and watching the Simpsons. Am I really so irrevocably set in my ways?

I was expecting a bit more of Perth - there isn't much to do. Though they do put on a lot of big gigs here, thanks to international touring artists making an obligatory stop in WA. Daft Punk, Elton John and Sting all played here recently. In fact I know a guy who worked as a roadie at the Sting gig, and not only did he get to keep his plectrum, but he got to have his picture taken with him! That Sting seems like a nice generous man.

I got to work as a roadie the other weekend with Dave, my housemate. I didn't meet any rock stars or anything, but it wasn't that sort of event. But I got to pack up equipment, carry boxes and f**k my back in - all part and parcel of the roadie existence. It's also worth noting the amount of band memorabilia the good roadies get their hands on - tour T-shirts, setlists, drum-skins... you could make a tidy sum flogging this stuff on Ebay.

So thus far money is something I have mostly been only dreaming of, though by the time my temp job finishes in late July I should be quids (or Aussie dollars) in and ready to start fresh adventures. Until next time, I remain your friend, wannabe roadie and spinner of exquisite bollocks extraordinaire.

PS - Don't forget to check out my India photos on Fakebook!

Dharamasala/McLeod Ganj photos here:

Rajasthan photos here: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

I am without internet at my house for the forseeable future but I hope to whack some more on as soon as I can. Sorry!

Sydney: will drop pants for food.

How yus goin cobbers? Tie me kangaroo down sport, toss another shrimp on the barbie, "that's not a knife, that's a knife!" and all that gubbins. It's high time I crawled out of the woodwork and whacked an update on here.

After my long journey through Asia I have entered Australia on a working visa, to live, work, frolic and fornicate in this vast and plentiful land for a period of anything up to twelve months. I've been in Sydney for nearly four weeks now, doing some sightseeing, hanging round with other backpackers and living out of a suitcase at a hostel. I backpack, therefore I am. Halfway round the world already - who'da thunk it!

I flew in on 15th April, fresh from the madness of Hong Kong. It was a shock to finally be out of Asia and back in the 'real world' again. A world of drinkable tapwater, expensive coffee, sensible traffic and rain. Winter is fast approaching over here, and the hot weather is gone. There's still a decent amount of sun though, and not enough to get annoying.

Sydney is a nice place to wander round - it has a calm and relaxed feel and everywhere you turn there is either a harbour, a skyscraper, or a restaurant offering exotic cuisine from some far-flung corner of the globe. But it's a very expensive place to live and it can easily devour vast sums of travellers' money in the blink of an eye. All the fun stuff like bungee jumping and learning to surf is bloody expensive. Take the credit cards and bury them in concrete!

The cheapest way to spend time in Sydney is definitely walking round looking at things, as this costs nothing. As well as numerous picturesque bays and beaches (such as Bondi beach, my near-namesake), it also boasts the iconic opera house and close by, the Sydney harbour bridge. This is a magnificent towering iron structure dating from the 1930s that spans the entire harbour. Paul Hogan, aka Crocodile Dundee, used to be a maintenance worker on it before he was famous.

Sydney is the showbiz capital of Australia. Keanu Reeves was here the other week for the premiere of some film or other. There are big gigs on all the time. The Pope is coming for an official visit in July, meaning the city will be swamped with pilgrims, i.e. Christian nutters. If you want to see the Pope you'll have to a) make sure you buy a ticket, and b) be under 35. Apparently he wants a youthful crowd, to make Christianity seem hip and cool to the world's cameras. Isn't religion just the biggest load of shite ever!?

Anyway... after a few days staying at a city-centre hostel full of drunken yoofs I migrated out to the suburb of Glebe, a long leafy street that would be the preserve of middle-class snobs and ballet schools if it were in England. But it's a really cool area - full of Victorian-style pubs, restaurants and 'alternative' shops with incense sticks burning in them. The bottle shop (what they call an off-license here) has a mural of an Aboriginal flag and the word 'SORRY' daubed underneath it. There are cats in the gardens and possums lurking in the trees (a possum is sort of a cross between a cat and a rat).

The people are nice and friendly, and there is a local newspaper, the Glebe, full of parochial grumblings about how shocking the public transport is. It's an immensely likeable place, but after a few weeks here I've run out of things to do. So today, like most days, I sit here in the library on the internet, trying to write my blog and cursing my writer's block.

I've spent more than three weeks staying at Glebe Point YHA, a small and friendly hostel that lurks behind a forest of trees on the main street in Glebe. I've made friends, learnt to cook again and even helped out at the weekly rooftop barbeque, in exchange for a free night's stay. There are a huge amount of British, Irish and German travellers here. I look forward to the day when I can meet some real Australian people!

My week revolves around the quiz night at our local pub, the Landsdowne. The guy who does the quiz is an actor who used to have a bit-part in Neighbours! (He played Brett Stark, Neighbours fact fans.) Unlike most pub quizzes they seem quite happy to sidle up and whisper you the answers, and you get drinks vouchers for winning. The beer in Australia is great - there's no Fosters (thank Christ) but beverages like Toohey's New and Cooper's Sparkling Ale slip down a treat.

This fancy living is eating into my travel funds, so I've been on the lookout for novel and ingenious money-making schemes. I tried busking with my travel guitar in a subway near Central train station, and made $5 from 30 minutes of afternoon troubadourage. It's somewhat gratifying to have a handful of coins chucked at your feet while you're belting out an up-tempo version of 'Dreaming of You', but it won't pay the bills at this rate.

No stranger to losing my dignity in surprising ways, I also tried my hand at medical testing for cash! Well, everyone has to once, don't they. It all started when my friend spotted a notice in the paper, advertising for paid volunteers to test suncream at Sydney University. I volunteered, and spent a week sitting on a chair in an office, reading a book, while a friendly old lady drew on my back with lipstick and sunblock then pottered around shining UV lights on it.

The photobiology department there is like a private company that carries out testing and research on new suncreams for cosmetics giants like Avon and Boots. They offer cold hard ca$h to penniless students and backpackers willing to risk a bit of sunburn. It's money for nothing in effect! As a pasty-skinned part-ginge I was a prized specimen, and after several hours' of tests I walked away with $180. There have been no side-effects, apart from a strange network of lipstick noughts and crosses on my back that didn't wash off for ages!

As well as suncreams, I've also been dosing myself up on culture. As the earliest European settlement in Australia, Sydney has quite a lot of history. The rash of humungous skyscrapers in the central business district is surrounded by streets full of quaint Victorian buildings. The oldest part of the city (known as the Rocks) reputedly has ghosts lurking in it.

Though it's true that Australia was once a prison colony, most of the convicts weren't really criminals in the modern sense. Minor crimes like sheep-stealing, forging a one pound note, or disrespecting the King of England's chin could see you transported half-way round the world in shackles. Within a few years all the prisoners were freed, and a new kingdom was on the rise.

Before the first ships landed, Australia had been an undisturbed continent populated with a multitude of ancient Aborigine tribes. Aborigines are one of the oldest civilisations in the world, but their days were numbered once the Europeans arrived and brought exotic new diseases such as smallpox with them. Some tribes still exist today in remote areas, but a lot of the indigenous culture and language has been lost for good.

Until late in the 20th Century the government had a shockingly medieval attitude to the Aborigines; they weren't granted full citizenship rights, and liable to have their children taken away and re-homed with white families (the so-called stolen generations). The Australian government only just this year issued a formal apology to the Aborigines for all the wrongs of the past. It's a harsh and unforgiving land with a surprisingly cruel history.

Australia is such an unfeasibly vast country and one month in, I've only explored the tiniest part of it. I've seen some of the countryside around Sydney, which features some areas of outstanding natural beauty. A few weeks ago I did a day trip to the Blue Mountains, but it was foggy and we couldn't see anything.

Last week I went on a wine-tasting trip to the Hunter Valley with Ross and Lucy (two chums from the hostel) and we gorged ourselves on the finest wines available to humanity. The Hunter Valley is a stunning area of rolling green hills and vineyards about two hours' north of Sydney.

We stood there, in glorious sunshine, getting plastered at ten in the morning on a farm. Brilliant. I learnt that to drink wine properly you're supposed to sip it and make "f-f-f-f-f" noises like Hannibal Lecter. It does taste better and more interesting when you do that.

I was originally planning to get a job in Sydney and stay here for a few months, but I've seen all I want to see and I'm ready to move on now. I've arrived in Sydney at a time when the weather is turning to crap, and the conventional traveller logic would be go somewhere else in the country where the weather is nice, possibly to pick grapes while wearing sandals that were made from hemp fibre in an ethically sound factory/commune.

On a whim I've bought a plane ticket to Perth in Western Australia. I fly there on Saturday, to stay with an Aussie guy called Josh that I met travelling in India (at the Banyan Tree in Goa). Perth is supposed to be very nice, and a lot cheaper to live in than Sydney.

Money is a pressing concern so I need to get a job over there for a couple of months, then Josh and I are planning to explore the country by road. My first month in Australia has passed by quite uneventfully, but it promises to be a gas from here on in.


This blog was brought to you by Coon - the racist cheese!

HCMC & Hong Kong: war is stupid and people are stupid.

Howdy again. I apologise for the recent gap in updates for anyone who is becoming hooked beyond all sense on my travel stories. It's understandable. Please see your GP, who will immediately prescribe you some hard drugs or send you for an unnecessary operation.

So I left Vietnam, spent some time in Hong Kong and now I've reached Sydney! After getting two hours' sleep overnight on the plane my body clock is once again in a sense of confusion re. the arse/elbow conundrum, and I am a greasy-haired jetlagged mess. I'm sitting here attempting to gather my thoughts in a strange new land. At the moment Sydney is cold and wet like England don't you know!

Well Ho Chi Minh City turned out to be mad and hectic; a bigger and busier version of Hanoi without the old-world charm. It's full of concrete skyscrapers and neon signs, and the busy streets are over-run with biblical swarms of motorbikes and cyclo taxis. There are a few interesting sights to see but once you've done that it's just like any other big city in Asia. And Christ there are a lot of motorbikes!

Cyclo taxis are a bizarre invention: a one-seat bicycle taxi where the passenger sits in front of the pedalling driver like a kamikaze wheelchair patient! I've not tried riding in one but it's meant to be shit scary - you have literally no protection against the traffic hurtling towards you. Tourists are warned against using them due to the risk of muggings and bag-snatchings if you're a cyclo passenger.

The bus stopped in the central backpacker district of Pham Ngu Lao (trust me, it's much easier to say than to spell), which is a concentrated touristy area much like Khaosan Road in Bangkok; a bustling street densely packed with hotels, tourist agencies, restaurants and bars. Everywhere you can sense the hum of machinery for milking the constant supply of tourists. I found a cheap room for $7 (US) a night in a tiny family guest house hidden down a quaint alleyway; a shoebox of a room hoisted high up in the armpit of a congealed mass of tangled urbanity. I felt more like a degenerate lodger in a French art-house film than a backpacker, and I loved it!

Ho Chi Minh City was known as Saigon in its colonial past, and within Vietnam it is still widely called by that name. It's famous for historical stuff, i.e. things that happened in the past. Primarily it was the capital of the old Republic of Vietnam, who America decided to "assist" in the war. As we all know that didn't quite go to plan - the commies from the NVA (North Vietnamese Army) ended up winning, rolling victorious into Saigon in 1975, by which time the yanks had long since buggered off.

I went to see the Reunification Palace, which was once the headquarters of the Republic's government. Here in 1975 the NVA's tanks stormed through the gates to historically end the war. Strangely it has a boxy 1960s facade that makes it look more like an NHS hospital than a palace, but it looms on a grandly impressive scale amidst expansive grounds. Many of the rooms are preserved in the way they were found in 1975; there are subterranean comms bunkers complete with the original equipment, the President's bedroom, luxurious reception suites and even a gambling room with Austin Powers-style retro furnishings!

The same afternoon I visited the War Relics Museum, which was more of a sobering experience. Thousands upon thousands of photos unflinchingly catalogue the horrors of war; one exhibition tells the stories of the many fearless war photographers who did one mission too many with the US troops and never came back. There are lots of old warplanes and tanks standing outside; having seen the end effects of these ruthlessly-engineered killing machines it's suddenly hard to take pride in our monkey race's technological mastery.

The Cu Chi tunnels are a vast network of underground tunnels, sniper holes and various nasty booby traps that the Viet Cong secretly constructed outside Saigon. These allowed them to launch surprise attacks on the enemy and the Americans in their own back yard. The tunnels are still there for tourists to visit so I went on a day trip to see this piece of war history.

Our group, led by a jovial grandfatherly Vietnamese chap nicknamed 'Slim Jim', crawled through a hundred metre section of tunnel that was specially enlarged to allow tourists to get through. Some of the original tunnels were as small as 80cm high by 80cm wide! Only a diet of rice and communist rhetoric could leave you thin enough to get through a space that small. The Viet Cong excelled in their ability to hide out in tight confines, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The enlarged tunnels were still a bloody tight squeeze to get through with my bulky western frame!

Near to the tunnels is a firing range where tourists can shoot with live ammo. A dollar buys you one bullet. I stood by while some others tried it, and live ammunition is bloody loud let me tell you! Bondy despises war in all its forms. "War is stupid and people are stupid", as the Culture Club once sang.

I did another day trip, round the Mekong Delta - a network of muddy brown rivers fanning off from the Mekong towards the coast (forming the conclusion of the river I travelled on earlier in Laos, that runs all the way down from Tibet). That was dull in a pleasant sort of way. Rivers look like rivers on your holiday photos, no matter what country they're in.

Also there was a lunch buffet featuring evil-smelling durian fruit and a short concert from a traditional folk band. I've liked a lot of the other Vietnamese music I've heard, but not this lot. Their timing seemed out and they were playing random notes all over the place - it sounded more like a Captain Beefheart album than anything meaningfully oriental! (Not that I'm knocking Beefheart - the man was an insane genius - but there is a time and a place for that sort of thing.)

The next day (11th April) it was time to leave. After some fruitless attempts to track down an airport bus, I endured a nailbiting ride to the airport on a motorbike taxi, hanging on for dear life with my big rucksack strapped to my back. It was an adventure to tell the grandkids about, but next time I'll pay extra and sit indoors in a proper taxi!

Flights from Vietnam to Hong Kong are bloody expensive for such a short distance, so I found a cheaper route there via nearby Macau. Macau is a small city state on the coast of China, that as a 'special administrative region' allows Westerners to come and go freely without so much as a nod and a wink to the top brass.

Until 1999 it was under Portuguese rule, and was actually the last place anywhere in Asia to be under European rule. Go Europe! I only passed through, but it left me with the distinct impression of being a drab wasteland full of casinos where the Chinese come to gamble away the weekend. I don't like casinos much in case you wondered!

The tourist information girl at the airport was nice though. With her help I found a bus to the ferry terminal, and boarded a gleaming hydrofoil hovercraft catamaran-type thing which propelled us at high speeds towards Hong Kong. Also, being thick, I inadvertently purchased the most expensive type of ticket and ended up sat in the VIP lounge at the front of the boat. I helped myself to not one but two complimentary cups of tea to ensure I got my money's worth. The businessman sat next to me was an executive manager at one of the casinos. We didn't share much in conversation, with him working in casinos and me hating casinos!

After an hour of gliding serenely past the shadowy mountains of south-eastern China we rounded a corner of the land, suddenly confronting the vastest cityscape of skyscrapers you will ever see! (We'd got to Hong Kong in case you're wondering.)

I alighted from the ferry in one of the vast terminal piers on Hong Kong island, suddenly aware of a new and pressing difficulty. Darkness was falling and I'd not got anywhere to stay! I'd tried several times during the day to phone ahead and book at a youth hostel, but they were all full up.

A quick search of the Central district for anything hotel-like proved fruitless. I wandered from block to block in a vast streetlit kingdom of monolithic skyscrapers, overpasses, underpasses and sterile shopping malls. Quaint Blackpool-style electric trams scurried between the tall hulking buildings. But there were no hotels.

I caught the underground MTR train to Causeway Bay, a couple of miles down the road. Causeway Bay is a shopping district similar to Central, where the streets are bathed in the overwhelming kaleidoscopic glow coming from galaxies of gigantic Chinese neon signs.

Despite the influx of Chinese culture since 1997 the road names all remain stoically British; Gloucester Road, Lockhart Road, Wellington Street and the like all have Chinese translations on the bilingual street signs. It's a crazy mix of east and west with a character all of its own, and after getting over the initial culture shock I began to like it!

Behind the glitzy shop fronts the conditions are cramped and the buildings are often decaying. I found a place to stay, upstairs in a poky hostel bizarrely called 'Bin Man Hotel' (next to another simply called 'Clean Hotel')! The room was small and basic but set me back 300 Hong Kong Dollars, just shy of twenty quid. I was starting to panic at the expensive prices after the relative cheapness of Vietnam!

I consoled myself by heading out for dinner and a drink in the Lan Kwai Fong party district. I chanced across a small Chinese eatery which was an experience in itself; a condensed, speeded-up version of a regular restaurant! You queue up outside, then the waiters quickly usher you in, shove you on to a table with a load of random strangers, and jot down your order before rushing off. You eat, then you take your slip of paper to the till to pay, and off you go. No nonsense, no messing about. The turnover of customers is so rapid it's more like being sat in a beehive than a restaurant!

I also discovered the immense delights of Chinese condensed milk buns - they resemble small toasted tea-cakes and are possibly the sweetest thing I have ever tasted. If a bread product could be said to represent heroin, this would surely be it.

Thanks to the restaurant's 'seating randoms together' policy I got talking to Lish, an Ozzie guy, and we set out on an unprecedented alcohol and hookah-pipe binge. It was a good laugh but Christ that was an expensive night. I am loathe to disclose how much I spent but it was more than I would ever spend on a night on the lash in Blackpool. A pint in Hong Kong can easily set you back 4 quid! That's worse than London even, surely!

The next day I quickly bade farewell to the overpriced Bin Man Hotel, catching the Star Ferry across the harbour to Kowloon, which is on the Chinese mainland but still forms part of Hong Kong. From my conversation with an English guy in a bar the previous evening, I knew it would be a much cheaper place to stay in than Causeway Bay. Kowloon has more of everything Hong Kong island has; skyscrapers, malls, traffic and British-sounding street names. I ended up more by accident than design at the notorious Chungking Mansions on Nathan Road.

Chungking Mansions isn't a mansion so much as a giant concrete nightmare. It's a tower block full of hostels and shops that boasts a cult following among backpackers. It was originally built in the 60s to house the area's large Chinese population; a domineering grey slab of a building nearly twenty floors high, that looks like it hasn't seen a coat of paint (or a window-cleaner) in nary a year.

The bottom two floors house a fascinating honeycomb of small markets, Indian restaurants and stores. From there upwards the building sprouts into several different blocks, each housing a bewildering cornucopia of cheap 'n' nasty guest houses. 'Death trap' and 'fire risk' are two tags it has acquired in recent years. Nevertheless it is a big hit with travellers, and it's packed out all year round. Vast queues form waiting for the lifts; there are just about enough of them to cope with the sheer volume of people heading up into the abyss, and a security guard is on hand in the lobby to marshall the crowds coming up and down.

After protracted inquiries with a number of hoteliers wandering about in various states of nakedness, I found a room to stay in a place on the 16th floor of A block. The guest house owner was a wizened old Chinese man with a mole on his face that had a long hair growing out of it!

This would be cheap, 9 quid a night. But it smelt bad. And it looked worse than it smelt. The grey tiles on the walls were straight from a prison cell, the strip-lighting flickered a sickly shade of yellow, and though I had a window it was far better to keep it shut! The window opened out onto a sort of dark internal quadrangle, festooned with foul-smelling AC ducts, that stretched down as far as the eye could see into the nefarious bowels of chez Chungking. Was this really to be my domicile for the forseeable? Beggars can't be choosers.

I hurriedly set about doing some sightseeing, heading over to Lantau Island for a go on the much-hyped Ngong Ping 360 ride. This is a brand new attraction where you are carried high over the sea and then on over the top of some densely-wooded hills, on an epic cable-car journey that lasts for miles. In clear weather you are witness to some stupendous views of the surrounding territory. I cursed the murky grey clouds that were obstructing my view! It was still worth doing for the occasional glimpses of scenery.

The end destination of Ngong Ping village is marked by a gigantic bronze Buddha figure on a hillside (the Tian Tan Buddha) which is the largest of its kind in the world. It was a eerily majestic sight, looming through the mist with the palm of its hand outstretched as the cable car descended. (Buddha says, 'practice cable car safety!')

I went for a walk up close, to study its giant Buddha face inquisitively for clues of enlightenment. No clues came, but I found a machine that sold me iced coffee in a can. Then I went for a walk through the woods to the 'path of enlightenment', a series of giant wooden pillars carved with Chinese characters that were laid out to form the infinity symbol (∞) from above. 'God/Buddha = infinity = enlightenment = a Good Thing' was the message I think.

The next day I got a bus to Aberdeen, a small fishing town hiding round on the other side of Hong Kong island. On impulse I hopped on a ferry to nearby Lamma island, which is green and pleasant. It boasts a huge range of seafood restaurants equipped with displays of exotic-looking fish, lobsters and crabs swimming in tanks.

I'm no expert but I suspect there were a few endangered species in amongst them! Presumably you point to the one you want to eat, then wait at your table salivating like a barbarous Chinaman. I just ordered a plate of squid and they seemed sufficiently depersonalised to consume, coated in thick yellow batter.

Yesterday (14th April) I checked out of Chungking Mansions and headed over to the eatery on Hong Kong island to enjoy the delights of condensed milk buns one last time. I choose not to choose life - I chose something else! Then I caught the tram to Victoria Peak. This is a very steep tramway that takes you to the top of the big hill, where you can look down on Hong Kong and Kowloon in all of its immensity. Thousands of skyscrapers jostle for space on the shoreline, presenting a fantastic spectacle of man-made engineering from above.

But then I had my plane to Sydney to catch, so I rode the metro one last time with my bags, over to the airport. It felt like an ending. Travelling in Asia is bewildering and frustrating at times, but I certainly will miss the endless variety and new discoveries it presents. From here on it's back to the west and its elevated cost of living! I shall have to find work.

Hong Kong airport is modern, sparkling and bloody huge - getting to your departure gate is a marathon three-day trek for which you need a sleeping bag, tent, compass and a couple of Sherpa guides.

As the plane lumbered into the sky, I was treated one last time to the awesome panorama of Hong Kong's skyline, in glorious night-time technicolor. This is in all honesty one of the definitive sights of the modern world, and it topped off what has been thus far an amazing journey. My three months in Asia are at an end and a whole new adventure is set to begin in Australia.