Calling all you retail therapists

I've come to believe recently that life is all about choices, and that sometimes even the stuff we moan about is related to choices we have made and continue to make. Bali proves that is a theory that is only aplicable to the West on the whole. I met a taxi driver who has never been an hour out of the centre depite working as a driver for two years. He said it's not through lack of desire. That told me a lot.

The Balinese are beautiful, physically and in spirit. Their physical strength despite their frail phyiques is amazing ( I am of course generalising but it's a pretty broad truth to my eyes). Women in their seventies hauling bags of cocunuts around. A man half my size treating the rucksack I had struggled with like a bag of sugar.

I have found myself wondering how the Balinese manage to keep smiling at tourists given some of the behaviour I have witnessed. It must be hard to understand why a man who's wrist is weighed down by the exepnse of his watch, a man who is obviously losing the battle to keep his belly from busting beyond his waistband can not only refuse to help feed your family by buying some small token but is offensive when you ask. It must be hard for the women to understand how the girls the same age as their daughters, who unlike their daughters have access to the world and decent medical facilities, who would at home spend the equivalent of one months wages here, on a handbag, haggle to the last penny for an almost identical one here. It must be hard to understand why Westerners happily fawn over and feed the undernourished animals but refuse to extend the same generousity to their fellow human beings.
It must be easy to hate.

Poverty has always had a massive effect on me. I remember feeling that the opulent albeit fleeting life of an expat in Hong Kong was somehow immoral when the shanty towns at the foot of the foreign compounds had houses made of material incable of standing up to the elements. I remember contrasting the boating weekends where we ate lobster live from the tank and frolicked on waterskis, with the life of the Vietnamese boat people living in squalor in the harbour. The extremities I witnessed in Hong Kong as a baby teenager defaced my memories of the place. I just turned down the chance to go back there, it was an natural stopover on my route.

My adult response to povery has been to try and create a one-woman solution by shopping my way through it. Speading my meagre wealth as thinly and equitably as possible and paying a fair price at the same time. Usually what is asked of me unless it's way out of line with what others are asking. My nearest and dearest will no doubt recall the year of the Kenyan christmas when Sam and I struggled acrooss two continents with more wood wildlife memorabilia than you could fit in three overhead lockers and a plane roof rack.

I forgot the imapct people pleading had on me when I resolved to only purchase one thing a day and decided yesterdays would be a massage. This made sense as I had awoken in pain following the previous day's bag lumping extravaganza.

Maddy 11 a frail woman in her seventies was my choice of masseur. I had been told to expect to pay around 30,000 rupia's, a pound, three aussie dollars. I vowed to go to 50,000 which was at it happened Maddy's opening bid. Maddy whipped my dress off and bunged me on a sarong on the sand. I attempted to explain to the other women around me I only wanted a massage but obviously failed. My feet were rubbed as were my hands, my protests given no heed as my hands and feet painted whilst Maddy sat on my back to keep me from running away presumably. My hair was plaited and by the end of the afternoon I had apparently employed ten women who had emptied my purse and sent me scuttling to the hotel for more cash. Maddy had demanded a raise for going over time, and got it. The daily budget was well and truly blown. On the way back from the beach I again got caught, this time by a man with tears in his eyes who had apparently had no custom all day (Bali is quiet due to the tsunami / bomb double whammy). I had come to Bali with 4 sarongs. After another trip to my hotel safe deposit box I had five. The current talley is seven, no doubt I'll be in double digits by the end of the week. I also have three pairs of sparkly sandals, a fantastic full outfit with handbag and purse for my neice's birthday, a top, another massage booked plus transport to the arty area, and an out of control budget gievn I'm only on day two.

I have therefore decided to extend an offer to all my fabulous retail therapy prone friends and family. For around a fiver UK (sorry Aussies I'm starting with the Brits only) you can have a pair of shoes and a sarong, any colour, shoes can be glittery sandles or flip flops, or non glittery, or pretty leather and mother of pearl, or you can have a bag, think Monsoon, silks, ethic, glittery, vintage handbag style, beach bag style, you name it I'll find it. Postage may be a bit more on top but I've allowed 50p / person in that and plan to send a box home. Also available are cotton tops, fake pretty much anything, dresses etc. Send me your size, (Shoe sizes need to be 38 / 41 etc rather than six or seven) your preferance in as much detail as possible and I'll send a box home to my mum, collect the cash and distribute on my return in April, ready for summer. That way we can multiply the spending power, all do some good, you guys get some lovely cheap gear that would go on the highstreet for ten times the price, and I get to expand my one woman approach to poverty. Anything else you need or want let me know and if they sell it I'll find it. Silk skirts or dresses, Housewares, fabulous natural toiletries (you know, soaps made of almond oil and jasmine scented bath salts wrapped in pretty papyrus paper sort of Lush like but better) kids birthday presents, aunties birthday presents etc.. Everething will be brought direct from the people, no high street shopping, no chains, and everything will be brought at a price that you can feel is fair and hasn't been squeezed to death. I won't be doing bulk discounts as I'll be trying to spread the spending around. Everthing will where possible be purchased outside of the main tourist areas that already get the majority of the admittedly currently tepid business. Please post your orders in the comments section or by email to the usual address.

Back to lighthearted banter tommorrow I promise!
Joo x

Jakarta Airport gets exciting

So, there I am blogging, editing even for you lot, secure in the knowldge I'm on 30 yards away from Domestic departures and have got hours before my plane goes, 3 to be precise. I've checked with my travel agent down under - there is only one domestic departures, I've double checkled with the internet kiosk chap, I'm in the right place.
Only of course
I'm not

I'm in teminal 4. I need to be in 1, 1A specifically. No problem, bags of time.
The Air Asia desk point me in the right direction, big blue shuttle bus between terminals, upstairs outside. Easy.
Upstairs outside I search for the bus stop, there isn't one, I check with a copper, big blue bus, downstairs.
Downstairs, same story, no bus stop, I try to ask a security guy but my Indonesian isn't up to it.
Some nice chap however takes pity on me - "big blue bus, that way"
I start walking, that way is in fact a car park, feels wrong, I turn back. Suddenly nice chap is back. "yes miss, right way, you have ticket?"
We all know of course I don't. Why would I have a ticket? I was only planning to walk 30 yards.
Feeling adament I do not wish to be walking through a car park, away from civilisation without so much as a ticket. Having checked we are in fact talking about the same blue bus, I go to turn back when hey presto "here miss, big blue bus" nice man explains pulling a set of car keys from his pocket and pointing to what is yes, a blue vehicle. It is not however big and is certainly not a bus, blue ford cortina would be my description. (although, as you all know my knowledge of cars as a blind as a bat non driver is pretty sketchy so was mostly likely also not a cortina nor a ford) I am beginning to see where, by now not so nice chap could have gone wrong.

Feeling irritated I've got myself in this mess against my intuition I gently extricate myself with a firm but polite no before starting the walk of the "just let this be easy prayer". Naturally it's hard to focus on the words of said prayer when all the while i've a man running behind me shouting "Big Blue Bus, Miss, Miss Big Blue..."
I retrace my steps to the Air Asia desk, lamenting the fact I've opted to carry rather than push my (lighter for being a bit unloaded but) still sodding heavy rucksack. A real nice man at the desk takes pity of the red faced sweaty stupid English bird who can't even get on a bus and walks me to the place it stops. This is it appears any random bit of pavement. Actually, when I say stop, I don't mean it in the conventional sense. Apparently you wave you arms around, then wonder if the driver has missed you and do it more manically, before realising that there's none of this pulling in coming to a halt business, oh no, the doors open, what more do you want? It seems you just jump whilst the bus is moving, heave your j-lo bottom and back with a life on through a few lines of manic traffic up the steps and into the nearest seat. Head banging on luggage rack is optional but I chucked that in just to amuse my fellow passengers.
I have by this point decided that the hustling by loads of random men outside the terminal experiences (there were more, you just get the highlights!) every time I'm in the open air has affirmed my decision to spend the day inside. I spot a guy on the bus, about my age, startlingly pretty, also blonde, and resolve to follow him hoping the hoards of random men will asume we're a couple. If he gets off at my terminal. I am so excited by the brilliance of this idea that I convince myself he's an angel, sent to guide me, he's going where I'm going, course he is.
Terminal 1A off he gets, fab. No obvious door in so I scramble and stalk, close enough that he could be my hubby, far enough away to, just, not tread on his heels. It works, no random hassling, no cat calls, no "hello miss" nothing, horray!
He stops to survey the board. I do likewise. He stops to ask directions in Indonesian, I marvel at his command of the language. he heads off armed with directions to the door, I stride on, and on, and on and start to question whether we're still in 1A. No door, still no door, then he finds it, pops in, I follow. He vanishes, I discover I'm now in 1C from security and get pointed back.

Still intent to avoid cat calls and nice blue bus men I resolve to walk with a band of coppers. Horray, it works. I smile and ask one of them sweetly how to get into this godforsaken place. He points me up a huge stair case. I struggle up with home on back. No door, struggle down. Now no coppers and the men are hassling. I'm wondering where my penchant from prayer came from when they're answered, a door. I nearly kiss the guys at the security point, nearly, and pat myself on the back for surviving my first experience.
Admittedly I made it tougher than it needed to be. Admittedly this is supposed to be the easy country. Admittedly I'm considering sodding the rest and gluing myself to a sunlounger, but hey. it gets better.
Much better
More of that later.
Life's a beach and I'm frolicking in the waves

Julie xxx
P.S Mum, don't worry, I can handle myself she says (with an ironic wink).

Tepid tales from Jakarta

It's fair to say day one of the Asian Adventure has seen me being a decided tepid rather than intrepid adventuress. My memories of Jakata will revolve around teh aiorport. Primarily the transit hotel lounge overlooking the runway.
The Rough Guide's description of Jakarta as "one few foreigners find as alluring as the locals...the dangers to tourists have been greatly exaggerated" provided too little fuel to tempt me to attemnpt to navigate it. The Balinese Princess's warnings that "it's pretty huge, impossibnle not to get lost in" "you'll stand out like a blonde thumb" and "I try not to go alone" sealed the deal. The airport may be unadventurous but it has the bonus of ensuring I'm here in time to for onward flight and reassuring my folks that I'm taking my persoinal safety very seriously. Not only that but it's awarded ample eagerly snaffled time for writing. Searching for additional silver linings also yielded the opportunity to heed the still small voice within mum's been worried I'm neglecting.

My mind is I have discovered, resoundingly sound and as Amy would say "strong like a tiger, grrr". It wobbled temporarily yesterday when mine and Sam's pre Down Under anthem "come away with me" by the amaretto flavoured voice of Ms Norah Jones wafted through a market. Music's like that I find. Lamps you when you're grieving. The wobble was however fleeting. A bit of mental gymnastics and suddenly I was celebrating the opportunities for growth that the vast and breathtakingly beautiful backdrop of Oz have given me.

I feel like I'm travelling home having graduated from an adult-lescent into a woman I'm finally proud of. Life's lessons for me I have found frequently require re-learning but I feel like I've nailed some personally critical ones down under.

I have been very aware of my race given the current political climate. A brit fresh off the Plane from Oz will I fear hardly prove popular in parts of Indonesia. I intend to try and pass as a peaceful Kiwi. I've been sneaking my copy of The Guardian weekly and my pasport into my purse belt!

The airport despite it's scenic beauty has blessed me with a profoundly beautiful moment. Rows, hundreds of asian women spanning a number of generations, all similatrly attired in long saraongs and white headresses commanded a huge expanse of floor and the occassional tableau or seat within it. They were definately an ensemble although I didn't discover their purpose. Aware that I stood out as the lone blond big breated lass in the airport, I had sharply adjusted to attrracting curiousity on the several occassions I had traversed the corridors seaching for a baggage store. With politics and race at the forefront of my thoughts I was very tentative with my first smile as I passed through the oestrogen sodden melee. I discovered from the first moment of eye contact that I was rewareded with smile that beamed from mouth to cheek each time I produced the same. By my third time of politely pushing my trolley throiugh the throng (still searching for a lugage hold) I felt like a Politician, beaming with indiscriminate abandon. It was such a simple thing but really made my day to see the spirit of sisterhood and cross cultural nurturing of women. Life is really worth loving for such moments.

To redress the gender balance and becuase I've been menaing to say it for ages, Michael Franti's "Everybody Deserves Music" is my musical tip of the year so far. A rythmn bursting haunting album that's better than chocoalte and showcases the so sexy spirit of a beautiful man.

As he acknowledges, peace is not just a word but an mental and actual state worth striving for.

Julie X

Bring on the dancing girls

Any chance I had of letting my mind down and falling into a pit of self propelled despair was dispelled yesterday. Wandering round the Rottnest museum I discovered yet again that my bloody lot were responsible for another set of atrocities against the Aborigines, by using the island as a prison. The original governor of the island who held the belief that the indigenous people were an inferior race thought that twenty men to a cell with no sanitation (the cells were simply washed out of sewerage each morning with a bucket), was a fitting punishment for such atrocities as stealing an orange. Regardless of the length of interment prisoners were issued with one set of clothes and one blanket, if they were in for life it was expected to last. The history of this island and the continued marginalisation of the Aboriginal people across Australia makes me feel ashamed to be British and ashamed to love this place so much.

I quickly sumised that really I have bugger all to be glum about in a world where I am cloaked in love that covers three continents, spoilt for choice on so many fronts, healthy, happy and wealthy in so many ways.

I spent the evening in a cinema with approximately two hundred kids. Well, I say a cinema, it sometimes doubles as school hall, and features deck chairs rather than the red velour comfy seats I have come to take as standard issue for film showing venues. The kids were wise to this and turned up with pillows! I wasn't, but "the incredible" was so much fun I didn't notice how sore my bum was until I stood up at the end. The parents of Rottness were, en masse in the pub whilst the kiddies and me saw the film, and when I came out to find them queuing to collect their various little Jonnies, I thought it was a queue for the next showing and gushed to the guy at the front "it truly is incredible, you'll love it". He smiled, and politely declined to point out the blooming obvious fact that the kids were inside and the adults out, for a reason.

Rottnest was lovely, very romantic, very family orientated, a bit "of course it's where you come with your nearest and dearest" but lovely. The sand was so soft it didn't even scratch when it inevitable landed in my bed. The water an assortment of postcard perfect colours, including all those vivacious blues and green that were so popular on the high street in the 1980's and seem to be making a resurgence. Every corner offered a new secluded cove to swim in, snorkel in or cavort naked on the sand in. I naturally gave the latter a miss. Not sure what the locals would of made of me writhing around without my kit firmly on. The tourist were well managed and contained by a small and infrequent ferry service. They were gentle reminded to recycle and not feed the animals. The animals were similarly well behaved, even the seagulls seemed to forget that tourist spots are where you get fat on chips from bins and instead genteely fished in the softly lapping waters. I loved it, but three days was enough and I am ready to head to the action at the end of it.

My bum currently resembles J-Lo's, which it never did, even in my porkiest moment I earned the nickname ironing board bum. No more. It houses my purse belt which is bristling with travelers cheques and foreign currency, my visa card, passport, tickets, itinerary, padlock keys. All day I have been trying to work out how to hide something that is starting to resemble Ulysses. Suddenly, a bum like an ironing board has come in useful!

I fly in 5 and a half an hours, am fuelled by a mixture of nerves and adrenalin, I feel like Tom Sawyer, about to embark on an adventure, only without Jim and Huck and the Raft. Intrepid, that's how I am seeing it, and it's pretty liberating.

I spent this afternoon in hospital visiting the Balinese princess from the backpackers who it transpires is my antithesis by being the unluckiest woman in the world. She was caught in the Bali bomb, has spent much of the last 2 years in hospital, has a son missing in Phuket following the tsunami and she is now in a high dependency unit with suspected liver trouble. I took fruit and a Tom Robbins novel I knew she hadn't read (she's a fellow fan I discovered when reading half asleep in frog pajamas) but really, how much consolation can you be to someone who's had such a run of bad luck? Makes you realise..

Anyway folks, seeing as how I've started a trend amongst some of my fave Sydneysiders, I have to rush now to read Sarah and Gavin's blogs. Miss you all, love you all, expect to see you all in the next nine months

Life is for living, too short for regrets, that's how I see it anyway. bring on the dancing girls, let me among them
Julie x

Black Wednesday and beyond

All week I'd remembered yesterday was Australia Day, naturally a public holiday in this most patriotic of countries.

How this fact escaped me when planning to send a truck load of stuff back ahead of me, to ensure my rucksack is actually capable of being carried round Asia, I have no idea. There I am being strong like an elephant and sweating profusely as I drag the offending items to "pack and send" only to have the reality of their closure dawn as I reach the barricaded frontage.

10am saw me doing my best Kate Winslet impression, wind in hair, head ocean facing, albeit on the Rottnest express rather than the Titanic. Unfortunately there were no charming cheeky chappy Leonardo Di Caprio types to rush to my side as I peered over the helm (searching for dolphins naturally rather than planning an exit from this life).

After a walk to some of the islands most alluring bays and a quick swim, I was delivered a double lunchtime whammy by Vanity Fair magazine. First up an article about Melissa Panarello, a child who's diaries of her teens (100 strokes) knocked the Da Vinci Code off the best seller list in more countries than I have visited. At the grand old age of eighteen she is promoting her second novel. This girl is not only a best selling novelist and possessor of the kind of winsome beauty mere mortals like me can only hanker after, but she had a perspective on love. Life and sex that left me yearning for her wisdom.

Next up, the story of Jo Malone, an elfinesque perfumer with more focus that she could shake her talented nose at. A plethora of adjectives all invoking the team spirit of her marriage pushed my self pity and unhelpful comparisons with the interviewees a step to far. Suddenly I'm sobbing in my seafood basket.

Luckily the Angels looking after me were having none of it. Batting directly to the animal lover they chose this exact moment to send me my first Quokka. (you may recall, and apologies to the Rottnest regulars for repetition, that Quokkas are a miniature kangaroo found on this sole island, in our Galaxy at least.) How could I resist smiling and reaching for my camera? After posing photogenically and ascertaining that this environmentally aware tourist was a bad bet for tit bits, the Quokka departed. The smile persisted for a fair while longer.

I awake this morning feeling much sunnier and after a spot of lounging by the pool, avoiding the predictable bombing from kids that accompanies such activities, got myself fitted with a snorkel in preparation for an afternoon of feet flapping and fish gazing.
I had a touch of this yesterday with a paddle in a plastic bottomed rather leaky boat, well more pedalo really, and enjoyed it so much that I'm off for more.
I also took the precaution of checking in with one of the sagest and most inspirational women in my life (and just writing this I realise how blessed I am with so many women who fit that description), Mrs Justine Schurrmans in New Jersey. Armed with the mantra of "one day at a time" I have resolved that the challenge for this paradise set specimen is to ensure that the self-pity and unhelpful comparisons are to be popped in a box labeled "yesterday", forgiven as a bit of sadness is to be expected when you say goodbye to someone you love, and moved beyond. I have also decided that helpful as time to myself has been, my gregarious side is being revived in Bali and I am going to seek out some interesting conversation in the company of the islands inhabitants and my fellow travelers.

Life is a rollercoaster, and as Ronan Keating, that less than inspiring wordsmith once said, you just got to ride it.
Julie x

Sod being a dolphin

Needless to say swimming with Dolphins was OK.
OK? OK?
Alright, blooming marvelous
Blooming marvelous?
OK, I admit, I cried, the lovely English girl I made friends with for the day cried, no-one else cried.
It was amazing. They were within touching distance (although I naturally didn't touch them as suntan lotion etc can irritate their skin.) I fell totally on my feet, got in the team that clocked up the most dolphin sightings, and despite the warnings from the crew it could take hours to find them and then lots may not want to play, I wished the ultimate dolphin day.

No sooner did we get out of the harbor and the dorsels were in view. Every time we moved on, more. Mummy dolphins, baby dolphins, old grandpa dolphins, and having been warned they would only want to play if they swam towards the boat, every time I sat on the side to slip in the water it seemed a dolphin was heading for my feet.

They would swim beneath me and head up at great speed and just as I was about to get out of the way fearing a punctured gut, swoosh, graceful gliding away as if to say"got ya".

Naturally anyone who wants to see the video ten times is welcome to join me for one of the great soon to be arranged global dolphin nights. All the canapes will be silver and fish shaped, and I will do my best impression of Dolphin talking and gliding on a living room floor near you. Book soon for this bound to be sellout event.

I didn't ask thought, for them to put in a word with the girl who hands out next lives, I changed my mind. No being a dolphin for me I decided, after watching the romantic mating ritual. Basically a group of guys, usually around six pick one or two of the prettiest girl dolphins, then chase. When she can't swim away any more they force her to the top of the water and (still ignoring her protests) each get on. The boys do this up to 20 times each day so the chances of being gang banged more than once in an afternoon are high.

I'm asking to come back an eagle instead. Preferably a kind veggie one.

The tickets are booked, I head to Bali on Friday.
Life is a map, and you have to find the right lights to guide you
Luckily lady moon is full today and shining on me with soft silver abandon

Julie x

The sun-goddess goes into hiding

Fremantle has been a sauna today hitting in excess of 40 degrees at midday. Even this sun-goddess was running for cover. I spent most of the day engrossed in the rough guide to South East Asia. This was a mistake. With the exception of Brunei (too expensive for a girl on a budget), I want to go everywhere. I am now considering taking in Cambodia and Laos as well as Thailand, Vietnam and Indonesia.

Chuck in an article on on a woman's fabulous experience of the Oasis resort in Koh Samui and out of nowhere I am contemplating ten days in a resort where massage, meditation, ginger tea and (would the squeamish and prudish avert eyes here please for a sentence ot two) colonic irrigation. (Not the posh Western version where you watch stuff go down tubes whilst reclining on a towel lined massage table) but a board over a bog with a lump of tube up your butt. In addition to all this the resort (for ten US dollars a night) has mandatory fasting.
"Fasting" I hear Amy yell, "you mean no cake"? "Fasting, our Joo the rest of you join in, but she loves her grub" "oh my baby, she's trying to slim her way back to happiness" thinks a distraught mother somewhere in St leonards on Sea.
To answer you one by one, yes no cake, yes I love my food, and no, it's not an attempt to starve myself back in Sammie's affections.
The reporter reckons she got in touch with all her inner self, started to revel in the simple stuff, found that the no food wasn't that tough once you got through the first few days, and that everyone who did it became creative monsters, in touch with their emotions (which may sound crazy after coming out of a five year relationship, but perversely doesn't scare me as I reckon it could be cleansing) and, in addition to the washboard stomach and feeling of yogi - karma, had fabulous skin, energy to burn and went ballistic for a bite of watermelon on the tenth day.

So, I'm interested. Seems everything happens for a reason and the five quid ($12) wellbeing magazine that leapt out to be brought despite blowing the daily budget, was indeed I reckon, planted at my eyelevel on purpose. Add in that fact I've already done a 4 week detox this year which made me feel toptastic and I want to look fabulous for the Turtle-Jupp wedding. Consider it's a way of being under budget for a solid stint, repaying the cookie jar debt and helping my writing by getting me to a calm sensory deprived state where apparently dreams are vivid, fears are confrontable and life plans fall on your lap (I made that life plan bit up but you get the gist) and suddenly "hello Oasis resort" is what I'm thinking. Comments via the blog appreciated, as long as they don't start with "are you nuts woman?"! (The answer to which is, today, the people who claim to be "normal" are probably the ones most likely to fall off the planet Sanity).

Tomorrow is also quit day for la fags, I plan to get in the water and ask the Dolphins (you didn't think I'd forget to mention them did you?) to put in a good word for me to join them if there is such a thing as multiple lives (two hours of day working - which is actually feeding, then surfing, traveling in their sleep, swimming, larking around and having sex - plus the quadruple bonus of being the only creature to scare sharks - that's the next life I'd like!). I reckon no smoking on a day like that should be easy, and to ensure the rest of the week goes as smoothly I am booking the trip Tuesday and taking photos round Fremantle, then heading off to Rottnest Island for the rest of the week.

Rottnest Island is half an hour from here by ferry and home to the Quokkas (miniature 35 cm kangaroos). It's a car free utopia with sparkling beaches, turquoise swimming holes and fabulous walking trails. The backpackers there is housed in an old jail and apparently feels like it - and the managers act like it, so I have skipped that and gone for a nice hotel with internet access so I can keep blogging. I head back to Perth Friday to pick up my free lift to the airport courtesy of the travel company, then off to Bali. That's a week I reckon to assure non-smoking success.

Life is mad
Which is half the fun

Julie x

How exciting

I have discovered there is spellcheck on this machine.

I have been given free internet use in a cafe where the machines actually move faster than an uphill skier.
(what is that with downhill skiing as a description - when did you ever see anything else?) Except maybe had you been just outside Canberra last year on my first totally adored, (not good for a gypsy on a shoestring), visit to the slopes - you may have noted a tad of sideways skiing.

My mum and sister have mastered the comments and now you all get to see how I got so cocky.

Itchy Feet, and no, it's not from wearing trainers without socks

Only three days in fermenting and whilst I am beside myself with excitement at next weeks swimming with dolphins (did I mention that already?!!!), then heading to reconnect island plans, the feet are itching. To that effect I have formed a plan. I am heading home to the UK for the wonderful Ms Amy Turtle-cup's big day, and working out the logistics of getting the fabulous Phillip Tracy hat I brought for the Melbourne Cup to Blighty in time.

I have decided to head home via Asia, partly because I have always wanted to visit, partly because the tourist dollars are needed there right now. I go to Bali from where I will island hop a little, then to Thailand followed by Vietnam, I am hoping to meet Ailsa for a day or two in Vietnam and Lisa in Thailand as she makes her way back to Oz to take up her working visa.

I plan to spend four months at home whilst I make a decision about whether to pursue Australian Residency and have a ticket that brings me back to Sydney via New York in August should I wish to use it. I think I can only make long term decisions about where I want to live from the UK as at the moment nostalgia for country pubs and pangs for friends and family battle loathing of the climate. I oscillate wildly between London and Sydney as result. My dream is still to write and therefore be able to live in both continents for six months each year until the kids I plan to adopt force a decision! (The adoption plans are long term though, I think I have enough other stuff to be getting on with right now).

Life in the hostel is good, the people are lovely and the the courage I see around me lets me know that travelling alone is not a big deal. Last night I was chatting to a lovely nineteen year old, so shy he had to battle his speech impediment with every word, who has done nine months on his own and is now heading to Chile. If he can do it, fresh out of school with an inner critic making so much noise he can hardly talk, then a big strong gobby girl like myself should have no problems.Life is sunny, love is to be found in a plethora of places, energy makes the world go round and half asleep in Frog Pyjamas by Tom Robbins is a read to make your spine shake with laughter.

Julie x

Au revoir five star hotel, hello backpacker dorm

After experiencing mild dismay at the standard of the first two hostels I visted I found a tranqil haven in Freemantle, half an hour outside of perth by train, an hour if you indulge in the ferry. With the air quality as it currently is inside I abondened my customary love of sea travel for the smoke free luxury of a commuter carriage.

Perth and the surrounding areas are caked in fire induced smog. The sun is hidden until the sea can garner enough windpower in the afternoons to clear the air for her light to shimmer. The fires are thirty km's from the city but as they have torn through the hills the valleys below are suffering too. Residents are complaining of respiratory problems for miles around. The fires have been contained though not extinguished. The already searing temperature (by UK standards) are set to soar towards the weekend and undo the tremendous efforts of the fire fighters. Smoke is a constant reminder of the suffering taking place elsewhere.

Freemantle is a fairy tale town. Chrismas cake colonial buildings jostle with Tuscan inspired houses featuring primary coloured window frames and shutters. Cobbled streets idylically backdrop the modern Aboriogional art galleries. Backpackers, artists and locals joyfully jostle for space in the plethora of pavement cafes . Fisherman ferry fresh booty to feed the hungry hoardes waiting for a table with a water view.

My lodgings nestle in a peaceful and picturesque back street. They are freshly painted with crisp newly laundered linen and bathrooms that scream "yuppy condo". Chuck in a sundrenched courtyard where Aborigional murals jostle for space with pot plants and hammocks, and a gentle lavender flowered tree offers kindly shade to the fairer skinned tourists. Pile on an internet cafe, fabulous management and a noticeboard to satify every whim however obscure, and this gypsy feels fabulously at home.

I am sharing a dorm with Tanya, an Aussie princess who calls Bali home and is heading back following a year of rehabilitation from an accident I have resisted probing. She is planning to set up a safe house for Balinese child prostitutes and has a bosom I am sure many of them would love to curl up in. She has infused my last twenty four hours with slices of humour and the kind of chat that helps put things clearly in perspective. For once I have been so enthralled listening, that you could almost think me quiet. There are also a couple of vivacious curvaceous adventure loving European women on a working holiday visa. Suddenly the lure of posh cookies and spa baths recedes as quickly as a geko who hears you coming.

I am here for a week, have swimming with dolphins and finding a yoga class as my sole itinerary items, and am indulging the rest of my time precisely as the mood takes me. So far that has entailed giggling under my duvet with a witty and tangential Tim (or Tom?) Robbins book, the title features frog pyjamas and is rapidly making it's way onto my must read list.

All in all, between you lot and some greater power, I feel thoroughly cherished by the universe and am gliding through the post relationship waters powered by positivity and a feeling that I really am the luckiest girl alive.

Julie

The morning after the morning after

I awoke this morning to smell burning. South Australia is battling bush fires (mum, don't worry, they're a long way from me) and the view from my 14th Floor breakfast suite was of the sun competing with the smog for dominance. For the Aussies, please bear with me whilst I bring the Brits up to speed on stuff you know.

It's summer, it's boiling, and last year was relatively quiet on the fire front, so the fire season is expected to be worse than usual this year. Already local newschannels throughout the land are filled with a mixure of stories that leave viewers either contemplating the horrors of fire struck communities, or marvelling in the power of the human spirit. The story that struck me most this week was of an eight year old and six year old girl who got in their parents 4 wheel drive and sped to safety whilst mum and dad successfully managed to save their farm. I loved the comment from the copper who said something like "they were handling the car beautifully and I saw that talking about their age was couterproductive in the circumstances so let them through"

Australian politics have also been grabbing headlines, the leader of the Labor Party, the guy I had a hard time working for, has gone. It was a thouroughly unceremonious demise, he didn't put out a statement on the tsunami disaster, and when his office were questioned, they belated revealed he was too ill to do so. He had a bout of Pancreatisis during the election campaign and it seems he was dealing with a re-occurance. Apparently he was not however too ill to recouperate by the pool in a five star resort. As you can imagine the media had a feeding frenzy, and, coming as it did on the back of a hideous election defeat, his enemies within the party did likewise. After a media statement attempting to buy time around his health last week, his hand was forced by the State Premiers lining up to undo him, and the inevitable resignation took place at midday yesterday. I would love to see Julia Gillard, a dynamic young woman on the left (which is the equivalent of the centre in UK Labour terms, due to the dominance of the Catholic right in the party here) take over, but it looks like Kim Beazley, the guy who led Labor to two defeats under Howard has the election sewn up and the best she'll get is deputy.

I have been so excited by the luxury of my hotel that bar a quick sejourn for a vegatarian supper, I have been entrenched in my room. Revelling in the ability to pick up emails without time constraints, to make the bubbles in my bath threathen to flood the floor by turning on the spa, and yes, sadly, dipping into the fabulous jar of free posh cookies. Sam's present of a massage was joyfully received, and delivered by a lovely single mum with charisma and nurturing oozing from every pore.

I am looking forward, I am not sure to what yet, but doggedly doing so anyway and the pecker is not only up but illumated by the opportunities I am sure await me in Western Australia and beyond.

Thanks for all your lovely emails and text messages, I am aware I am the luckiest girl in the world to feel so spoilt by such a global support network. Not sure when I'll next get online but I love being a blogger so will endeavour to rush back.

Much Love
Julie

Going Solo

Note to self - in future don't write home with news of how fabulous your relationship is - it could tempt fate.

After five mostly fabulous years Sam and I have decided to part company, for the moment at least. We had a chat yesterday morning and concluded that we both had areas if our life we needed space to work on, and the relationship was impeding that. We had some long running issues that were not getting resolved and having worked very hard to come to a different conclusion, decided five months in a campervan together may not be such a good idea after all.
I have flown to Perth, she is making her way back to Sydney in the van with the puppies after touring the great ocean road and maybe hanging out in Melbourne for a spell.

It was very amicable, very sad, very grown up. There is no one else involved, we just ran out of steam to keep fighting to realise our potential. We have tremendous admiration and respect for each other and that's going nowhere. I moved pretty quickly to avoid a long and distressing farewell, and we had a wonderful last supper with much more laughter than could be expected given the melancholy nature of the moment.

I am not sure of my plans, I will explore Perth, am going to swim with dolphins this week, relax in the sunshine and not make any major decisions until the emotions are stable. First thoughts are that I may settle in Perth for a while and write my novel, then head up to Broome and the Northern Territory when the weather cools down in March / April. I am contemplating a return to the UK in British summer but am popping that decision in the "later" bag.

The silver linings are plentiful, the creative juices are roaring and I have in 24 hours devised a plot and started work on my novel. (There is I find nothing like a good dose of sadness to get the mind focused and empathy flowing). It has truly been a mutual decision that we have both brought into and therefore whilst I am grieving for the end of a era, I am not suffering the pain of rejection. I get to travel how I would have liked, namely with a few more home comforts and access to showers than a campervan would have afforded. I am genuinely excited about the luxurious self-indulgence of having only me to consider. Add to which teh fact I am saner and thinner than at any other time, and that if I can get my hand out of the hotel cookie jar the latter should be exacerbated by the break, it's not all bad by a long shot.

I am contemplating trying my hand at stand up and writing a one woman show about my experiences down under, there's much milage I think in my experiences to date. Sam and I left Sydney where we made a drag caberaret venue our local and felt underdressed without chandeliers hanging from each earlobe, to arrive in rural Tasmania where suddenly everyone kept referring to Sam as my husband.
The urban traveller I am sure has some milage, you could have said gypsy wandering down main streets out back with a lamp laden helmet for example, and play with the country concept of braun, being impeded by stilettos and fur stoles... as you can see it's very much work in progress that needs developing but as the creative juices are roaring, shouldn't take too long.

For now, I am esconced in a fancy pants hotel for one night - I decided after three weeks of salivating over public toilets that had tepid showers where clothes within a five mile radius got soaked, after brushing my teeth at a sink with our washing up in, after pulling out a couple of planks to make a bed each night, that nothing less than five star was in order for my first night of singledom. Wary of my budget it's an abboration, but for now I am spa-bathing in with amplomb. My lovely ex has called the hotel and booked me a massage so I'm off now to get pampered.
More later,
vats of adoration and thanks for getting this far

Julie x