A hospitalized koala (I think a recovering meth addict), and the surf at Town Beach.

Back from the wilds, into radio contact, and with a couple of "where are you?" emails from Sab, I felt it was time to bring the trip up to date a bit. The next few entries aren't to be exciting and adventure-filled, but just as integral to the story of my travels.

I spent my post-Hotel Macquarie day (waaay back on October 20th) sleeping in, reading, and writing. The weather was cold, cloudy and wet, and despite "Hot Stuff" sitting there staring at me with it's big brown footpads, and my newly rented bike begging to be ridden, I just wasn't feeling it. I attempted to plan upcoming legs of my trip, and the expansion into Asia. There were a few hitches, such as rebooking my ticket (I got it really cheap, but as I have since learned, cheap flights are expensive to reschedule), and figuring out what to do in Asia. I was getting tired of travelling, of constantly having to inspire myself, of cramming my growning mountain of clothing and equipment into a bag, of forcing myself out of my little bubble to meet new people, only having them vanish after a couple of days. I'd grown comfortable travelling here, in that I can drink the water, speak the language, use technology, and trust my fellow man enough to not lock suitcases or wear a money belt. An Asian excursion would mean the end of all that. I just wanted to be back home, where I didn't have to be "on" when I wanted to burn away the loneliness. Needless to say, a tough time to be considering doubling the length of my trip.

It didn't help that the weather was so bleak, or that I was the only person in the backpacker lodge. With no sunshine, warmth, motivation or company, my mind began to turn on itself. I started to stress that I hadn't had the quintessential "hook up with new friends to travel with" stories, and I questioned whether my desire to do things somewhat off the beaten path had led me to isolation. The expense of altering my flight (not to mention desiring to eat decent meals and not the standard diet of instant noodles) and my lack of someone to talk to was making me feel like a failure as a traveller. "The trip will be what you make it" was a mantra I had heard from numerous different sources, and finding myself now alone with the hokey load of stuff such as didgeridoo, surfboard and beach pants (I'd seen an ad for an overseas shipping company in Sydney with a cartoon of a traveller carting around all the previously mentioned gear, and sworn that it would not be me), I cursed myself for not being the efficient, hyper-organized, avocado-and-noodle-eating German traveller that one typically finds on the hostel circuit, further exacerbated by sleeping in the park and losing my beloved straw hat. When I'd had the car in Byron, none of this had been a problem. I could come and go and carry what I pleased. This thought in turn led me to thinking what my arrival home would be like. Plain and simple, I like having access to a car, even though as a downtowner, the only thing I would use it for would be to escape downtown, and head to a lake or the bush with my toy du jour. Cars are expensive, how could I afford one? I'd need a great job (Don, you know I love ya), but my future direction is undecided, and any changes made would likely involve a trip back to school, requiring more money, and inspite of the nine years of post secondary undergrad which swallowed my youth, more time.

The self-defeating cycle continued. I was travelling a long time without working, the longest I've not worked since I was fourteen, and as a result, I was running out of cash, and had not planted any roots anywhere to get to know people a little better. Watching the setting of the blue and the rise of the red brought me back yet again to how I was to pay for all this once I returned to Canada, and I began to stress even further. The reason I wasn't working was because I was too old. Australia has a cap of 30 when acquiring a 1-year working visa, after which one needs a sponsorship. Further stress. I was already at the outer limits agewise within the hostels, and apparently, one needs to have one's act together by 30, and ain't allowed to drift from cafes to fruitpicking like the "kids". A sponsorship? Well, I suppose that you have to be good enough at something to have someone else want to import you from another country.

Now, if you are still reading this blog (all three of you), you know that I've been kickin' it pretty good, and it sounds like cool stuff from time to time. Add to that the planning of future exotic adventures, and I really don't have much cause for sympathy. That said, when you get down, and are alone and as far from what and who you know as one can possibly be on the planet, all the adventures in the world lose a bit of colour. I was weighing present squeezes against future regrets, a little bit of extra cash dropped here meant returning home knowing I did things in style. I didn't want to waste any time, because in the words of Eminem, "Opportunity knocks once in a lifetime, yo!"

I needed to break this downward spiral and clear my head, so I headed out into the chilly downpour. Ended up emailling back and forth with Cousin Karen and my friend Trish, and afterwards I felt a lot better. There had been a lump in my throat throughout this exchange, and I left the Net cafe feeling a lot better and more optimistic about Asia. Thanks Karen!

On the way back to my empty dorm, I heard "Hey, that's the trumpet guy!" from a table in a cafe. I didn't see who said it, but figured with only one or two bars in this podunk town, a few people out and about (oot and aboot) had to have caught my little stunt.

The next day, the weather was still dreary, but decided to "waste" the downtime the rain had afforded me and hopped on my bike. I wanted to get some money out of the damn thing, and knew I needed exercise to save me from my head. The first stop was Town Beach, a two-minute ride from my dorm. The waves seemed a bit forgiving, so I rode back, ditched the bike and grabbed "Hot Stuff". After about an hour in the chilly surf, I packed it in, satisfied that I'd tried. The waves were nice, but with cold water, a low success rate, and no sun, I suddenly remembered my bike again.

A boot around town revealed that there was a volunteer firefighter competition in town for the week, and I sat and watched a big band and a couple of demonstrations. The next stop was Roto House and the Koala Hospital. Roto House was built by one of the town's founding fathers over 100 years previous, and had had several subsequent generations of his family live there up until the 1960s. After a childless generation was unable to care for it, the property fell into disrepair (aka good for bush parties), until it was turned into a local heritage site. The onsite historian was more than eager to chat, although conversation somehow got away from Roto House and into spirits and the passing on of energy. It was here I ran into Katherine from Switzerland, who I recognised from Holiday Backpackers in Byron but hadn't met. People! Afterwards, I checked out the Koala Hospital, and though cute, there is only so long you can watch a fuzzy critter that sleeps 20 hours a day.

Later that night, got out on the town with Katherine and a couple other folk from her hostel. Checked out the Hotel Mac again, and ran into Bobs again, bedecked in cricket gear. We went to a couple of other places, but really, they were sort of skanky, unless you are into the tight-leopardskin pants scene.

My last day in Port Macquarie was again grey and quiet, but with my bus coming at midnight to take me to Sydney, I felt more energized by being in the home stretch. Packed up the board and didj, took a last spin on the bike, and then was dropped at the bus station. Unfortunately, it was only 8:30pm, and I had 3.5 hours to kill. Ending things like I started them, I stashed my entire life in the bushes, and headed back once more to the Hotel Mac. Once again, ran into Bobs. He doesn't work there, by the way. After a beer and a goodbye, I wandered back to the bus station. I suppose my mountain of gear looked to daunting to steal, so once again I'd successfully tempted fate. Eventually the Premier bus pulled up with the least perky driver to date, and I was soon en route to Sydney.