Koala Chlamydia, Kylie and ¡Evita!

My last few weeks in Australia were a lot of fun. I was loving Sydney, and enjoying work and having money, but was worried I could fall into the 9-5 grind, something I came on this trip to temporarily escape. It was a difficult decision, and one I hope I don't come to regret, but I booked my onward flight and decided to make the most of my remaining time down under. I squeezed in the famous walk from Coogee to Bondi along the coast in the lovely sunshine, stopping off at the various beaches along the way, and just generally hung out and enjoyed weekending in old Sydders.

 

Along with Ramsey Street and Christmas on the beach, the rest of my Ozzie wish list mainly consisted of manhandling a koala, which I did at the Sydney Wild Life Centre. The rangers were very informative -apparently the koalas are rampant little bleeders and often suffer from koala chlamydia. I was expecting them to be the softest thing I'd ever touched, but actually they kind of felt more like wire wool, and their claws would have your face off in a second. Still, it was pretty cool and I resisted the urge to shove the baby one into my rucksack - CUTEST. THING. EVER.

Rain sucks. Rain sucks big time. Hit hard by the Whitney news, we headed to the opening party of Mardi Gras, Fair Day, which was great, all boozy fairground rides and singing trannies. But the rain seemed like it was to be a Mardi Gras constant, and although the Drag Queen Races on Bondi were hilarious (events included Toss the Handbag and Trannie Volleyball), I did almost get hypothermia. It reminded me of the countless Glastonburys or Bestivals in knee deep mud and torrential rain. Please can I just have one outdoor event in the sun? Just one. After a great pre-party with bubbles and canapes, we made it through to the rainy parade which was apparently amazing. Unfortunately I can't remember it because as per, I pushed it too far by 4pm and was tucked up in bed by midnight. I didn't see Kylie, she chickened out of the parade, but I did only remember this the next day, my initial waking memory having been what in fact was a drag impersonator on the Kylie float.

 

 

 

 

My last night in Sydney was spent dancing with the green fairy down at the awesome Absinthe Salon in Surry Hills. It was kind of like True Blood's Fangtasia, all locked front doors and stuffed cats and creepy absintheurs. If you're ever in town, you have to go there.

So onto Buenos Aires, an amazingly beautiful and cosmopolitan city, which to my shame I hadn't expected at all. I've been made to feel very welcome by my porteño local friends, and have had constant meat sweats since I got here. Amazing steak, red wine, delicious empanadas, giant bottles of beer and a midnight tour of the city, I love it.

 

I'm also basically on an Evita pilgrimage, first stop was her grave (I seem to be spending a lot of time with the dead recently?), and a breathtaking view of the Casa Rosada (yes THE balcony), outside which is actually a statue of Liberty, not Madonna. All topped off with a stroll around the Museo Evita to look at her clothes.

 

I spent Sunday in the old quarter of San Telmo, browsing the antique market and enjoying the sunshine, tango dancers and half a cow at the Parilla El Desnivel (thanks Agnes!). San Telmo is a lovely place, vibrant and laid back at the same time. I did get half way to La Boca, but got as far as Maradona's old stadium before I felt a bit uneasy and turned on my tango heel. Kind of wish I'd read the big boxed text in my lonely planet saying TOURISTS DO NOT COME HERE beforehand, but you live and learn.

Yesterday I took a day trip to the sleepy town of Colonia del Sacramento in Uruguay. And when I say sleepy, I mean practically unconscious. No, it was lovely, hopped on the ferry from BA (like one of those ones you used to take to Calais on school trips), and when the sun finally came out it really magnified its charm. It's a UNESCO World Heritage site, and kind of reminded me of Hoi An in Vietnam in its preservation of old worldliness. I watched the sun come down on the Río de la Plata with a beer and all was good with the world.

 

I totally underestimated how rustily bad my foreign language skills are. Currently a horrific mix of Franglish, I've realised the only Spanish I can actually remember is Geri Halliwell's rap in If U Can't Dance, so this morning I promptly trotted out and bought myself a pair of alpargatas (love them, gracias Juan!) and a teach yourself Spanish phrase book. Guess it was acceptable that my Vietnamese or Khmer wasn't too hot, here, I have no excuse.

I'm waiting for my errant visa card to arrive (it's DEFINITELY in BA according to FedEx) and will then decide on my next route, which will probably be a bus to Mendoza to get pissed in the vineyards and maybe popping into Chile.

¡Arriba!

Oh and one last thing- how have I never heard of the nectar of the gods that is dulce du leche? In ice cream, on toast, hell straight from the jar with a spoon.. I'm going to need an extra rucksack to export this shit home.

Prisoner Cell Block Oz.

I don't know if it's maybe because I've been watching too much Prisoner Cell Block H during my time in Australia, but the more time I spend in the one hostel (it's been a month now), the more I imagine it's something akin to prison life. A few people have asked me what my daily routine consists of.

Bear with me and I'll explain.

The HMP issue sheets on the metal bunks. Lights out at 11. The rations of gruel have been replaced with 2 minute instant noodles, and the inmates hang out in the rec room, too poor to do anything but drink contraband goon and watch bad 90s movies with Emilio Estefez.

Then there's Top Dog. The po-faced girl who swans around thinking she owns the place, Queen Bea who will only speak to old timers and who definitely controls the TV remote. The real old-timer, the Lizzie of the joint, seems to be just about the only person who was offended with the people having sex on the top bunk while she was asleep below. There's fights, cups of tea being thrown everywhere and illicit affairs. Maybe someone should have lagged.



There's the skanky old laundry, industrial machines banging away day and night, trying to cope with the latest infestation of bed bugs; you half expect Judy or Doreen to be knocking around in their denim dungas, fag in mouth, bitching about the screws.

The Governer, firm but fair, rules the reception desk. If you ask nicely she'll let you pay your rent a bit late. But then there's Vinegar Tits, the moody night porter who seems to be on permanent kitchen patrol and gets cross if there's bits of pasta or grated carrot in the plughole. I've yet to meet The Freak or see anyone get thrown into solitary but I'm sure it's only a matter of time.

Anyway while I'm not blurring my realities between Wentworth and actual real life, I'm having a great time. Work is going good, lots of travellers and it's awesome having a dollar wage in a land where the only food I can actually afford is McDonalds or pasta surprise for breakfast lunch and dinner. I spent last weekend at the beach (my massage by the sea was AMAZING - thank you so much guys xoxo) and loving the sunshine when it actually happens (apparently it's Australia's worst summer on record or something.. but I'm not complaining when London is minus 2). I'm gearing up for La Minogue at Mardi Gras, and looking forward to the opening party at Fair Day tomorrow.

South America is still in my sights, lets just hope Falklands Mark II doesn't kick off. Anyway I'm off to talk to my parole officer.

Australia, oh Australia.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It's been a funny old month, and I'm not entirely sure where to start.

So I guess I'll start at the beginning.

Flying in on a sleepless Qantas flight (I had to watch Glee: The Movie Live to cancel out the delirious horror of Contagion.. note to germphobic self.. do not watch movies like this on planes), I landed in Brisbane, to be met by Moira, who actually had a sign for me! I've never had a sign at an airport before, and felt totes VIP. Big thanks to the Cunninghams who looked after me for the next few days and then dropped me off at my Christmas stop-off, Byron Bay.

I'd heard great things about Byron, and don't get me wrong, it's beautiful. Lovely sandy beach, crashing waves and Australia's most easterly point marked by a Round-the-Twist style lighthouse, it's the perfect destination for your Christmas jollies.

But something wasn't right. I just wasn't feeling it. I should always regret not following the advice of my boofty Ozzie travel gurus Ben and Jamie for missing out everything from Cairns downwards, but you live and learn and if I've learnt anything on this trip it's not to have regrets. So here I was, Byron Bay, all dolled up for Christmas with nowhere to go. After the spectacular few months in Asia, I was deflated.

I pretty much hated my hostels, but met some great people who pulled me into (and subsequently out of) my vicious trap of getting plastered on goon and eating only pies. Pie for breakfast, goon for dinner. Pie for breakfast, goon for dinner. I couldn't even be bothered to go to the beach. Too many hippies playing bongos and not enough Christmas. So after my friend offered to have me choppered out of Byron and down to Melbourne for the festivities, I pulled myself together and changed my coach to leave for Sydney. For those who don't know what goon is, I'll blog separately about that little treat.

Sydney suddenly made sense. It's like London-on-Sea, and I was beginning to feel more normal. As normal as having Doritos and salsa for Christmas dinner on the beach can be, I had fun.

The fireworks at New Years were spectacular, but in all honesty, I missed the British Christmas. I knew I would, but I underestimated how much I wanted to be drinking Baileys by the fire, eating turkey and then turning into the Grinch by Boxing Day as I usually would. I was kind of glad when it was all over. Special mention to Mother Hen Whittem for looking after me in Sydney, feeding me vodka and brunches and Prisoner Cell Block H repeats when I needed it most xoxo.

So onwards and upwards, and after a week down south in Melbourne I feel invigorated. Melbs was ace, and I loved visting the galleries, coffee shops and just hanging out in the city. We took in the zoo (with the hope of seeing a koala, but they were asleep so I just saw their butts), hung out in St Kilda and I spent a day in the Old Melbourne Gaol dressing up as Ned Kelly. Big love to Jodie and the crew for making me feel so welcome. We won't mention the degrading trip to the airport, but I'm quitting the red bull and dim sims for sure.

I can't even begin to describe the Neighbours tour, suffice to say the visit to Ramsay Street was the highlight of my life. No Harold, but I regressed at least 15 years and loved every second of it.

So back to Sydney, and back to work. I'm just temping, not exactly the most taxing job ever but I got to pay the travel bills somehow. I am literally a sixth form gap year student, it's ridiculous.

Sydney is starting to feel like home and I still get a little buzz whenever I see the Opera House and Harbour Bridge. Even if that is after too many sherries at the Opera Bar.

Next stop.. SOUTH AMERICA!