‘You’re an idiot’, scorned the umbrella. ‘Twice — twice you’ve done this!’ it squawked. I stood still, watching rain spiral through my curly hair while taking sadistic comfort from the sky’s cold grip on my shoulders.

Five kilometres away our ute was stuck fast on the mulched bank of a quiet dirt road in the Shannon National Park, in Australia’s far southwest. We’d been lured there by the over-excited commentary of a Lonely Planet Travelcast we’d been playing through a cheap FM-transmitter.

In it, a local man was reaching orgasm describing his local neighbourhood. ‘The big forest, the rivers, mountains, the waterways — you can do everything and anything in this special little place. It’s the jewel of the southwest! It’s the bellybutton: North Pole, South Pole. Who’s in the middle? Walpole!’

Road trips in Australia, are a journey of misguided adventures. The roads are so quiet, that the moment you hear someone getting enthusiastic about anything, you blindly hurl yourself off the tarmac, and go desperately in search of it.

Unfortunately for us, I’d pulled over in exactly the wrong place to listen to the tourist radio extolling the mysteries of the burls and branches of the towering karri trees.

After three hours of fruitless thumbing, an over-sized ute responded to my disjointed SOS dance. ‘Your go’ snapped the umbrella. I plodded over and explained that my girlfriend was livid and wanted to castrate me.

The man listened patiently, then jumped out to search for a towrope in the back of his truck. He was perfectly bald, fit looking and to my surprise, he was bare-footed. His feet became a source of peace. I knew the umbrella had seen them.

‘Nope. Sorry. But let’s go take a look’ chirped the bald-headed, barefooted man. We squeezed into the cab of his ute, and drove to the scene of our calamity. There was something about his voice. Something warming. Something familiar.

Within twenty minutes, I had reverted to my true form of Feeble Boy, in the presence of a Real Man. Somehow, he’d hurtled our ute through the forest, narrowly missing huge trunks and smashing their devoted saplings. At some point, we landed back on the dirt road.

‘I know you!’ I yelped, as I shuffled back to an upright position. ‘You loves trees, and think Walpole is the Bellybutton of the World!’

I explained that prior to that blotch of stupidity occurring, we’d been listening to the topical Lonely Planet Travelcast.

He lent forward, and flicked through the Lonely Planet guidebook on our dashboard, ‘That’s me’ he said proudly, ‘Gary Muir — of WOW Wilderness!’

Moments later, Gary extended an invitation to Relaxo Rancho — his home, in the nearby hills where we would stay for the following two nights. Warmed by stories of his sepia-toned family history, and fuelled by home–cooked meals and teapots encircled by his family and friends.

As we left to embark on a fresh adventure, the umbrella came down and she smiled, ‘You’re still an idiot.’

This post has been entered into the Grantourismo-HomeAway Travel Writing Competition and you can listen to the Lonely Planet Travelcast, Valley of the Giants featuring the most excellent, Gary Muir by following this link to the Apple iTunes Store.

This Small and Lonely Planet is a post from Trail of Ants.

Consider visiting my travel blog to explore a wide variety of travel related articles, and score yourself a 7% discount on your next travel insurance policy with my World Nomads promotional code.

Some stories just shouldn’t be told. Perhaps this is one. You be the judge. It was in Western Australia; 180km south of Perth, in June 2009. My girlfriend, Reb and I were jerking along beaded speed limits, which lament the type of housing estates where everyone drives the same car, and everything else is just-so.

The early winter sky was being sponged by a soft pink and blue sunset. Just as it began to spit rain we pulled off the Old Coast Road and into the Leschenault Peninsula Conservation Park, south of the town of Binningup. A natural tension gripped the moist air, leaving just enough space to seek out a campsite with our headlights. “You pitch the tent, I’ll cook some pasta!”

Poles. Inner tent. Pegs. Flysheet. Duvet. Mats. Pillows. Teddy bear. Torch. Water. Laptop. DVDs.

Water. Pasta. Sauce. Bowls. Forks.

“That was close. It’s really coming down, babe!” Rain smashed the tent. It sounded like the crust of the earth was being torn away from its Velcro bind. We gave up on the DVD.

Eight hours later we crawled out. It was deadly quiet. As so often happens on road trips in Australia, you only get to see your ‘bedroom’ after you awake. It’s like a one-night stand with nature. You zip up your fly, run your hand through your hair and then hit the road.

Only, that morning there was a reminder that perhaps we were not alone during the deluge. A blue nylon noose now hung beside our tent. I was certain it wasn’t there the previous night, because it was dangling above the natural thoroughfare that led from a small picnic table to our ute (Aussie station wagon).

I discovered it when it tickled my sleep-numb face. I thought twice about telling Reb. I decided I needed to. I pointed to the flimsy, writhing death knot that hung from a dark eucalyptus tree. “We weren’t alone last night babe”, I said quietly.

“Don’t be a twat!” thundered Reb. Those were her last words for a while.

I decided not to argue the point. Truth be told, I was dumbstruck. This was the Australia of the movies. The Australia you’re supposed to joke about in city hostels. The Australia that’s not supposed to happen.

The Australia you shouldn’t really blog about, because travel blogs are supposed to inspire, and enthuse. Not strike gongs of fear or soak up images of surfing hunks, and sinking suns.

Our journey around Australia was spread across a landscape of rugged, mountainous emotions. Around the union of proud, individual states you are hurled to the highest point of elation. Unassailable ecstasy on the shoulder of a secret cliff, you cast an eye across native kingdoms, past and present.

The following day you find yourself free-falling; hurled from your blessed viewing platform. Smashing into jagged rocks. The sound of squealing ancestors ripping at your ears. Toes and wrists tangled in a yarn of side roads. Then silence. Lonely silence.

The kind of silence that causes you to crave a hundred different nightclubs. And Tesco’s. The conflicting truths that you’re so fucking far from anywhere; but that you’re in Australia, the country on everyone’s must-visit list’s and at everyone’s doorstep.

Perhaps that noose was a metaphor for the journey itself. That you can rush into a place. Eat. Fuck. Sleep. Then wake up, and be confronted by the secret drama of death. Death of your will to continue. Death of your want to recall. Death of the dozen stories you should have told. Could have told. Would have told. If there hadn’t been that noose.

The Blue Noose is a post from Trail of Ants.

Consider visiting my travel blog to explore a wide variety of travel related articles, and score yourself a 7% discount on your next travel insurance policy with my World Nomads promotional code.

All rise for the national anthem of the Principality of Hutt River It’s a hard land but it’s our land. Built with love and dedication. Self-assurance is our small nation. One man’s dream of independence. God bless the Prince of The Hutt River Province. God bless the man whose dream has come true. God bless this land where dreams can come true. God bless the Prince of the Hutt River Province. God bless this man whose dream has come true. God bless this land where dreams can come true.

Thy Kingdom for a Goat

After a detour through the Kalbarri National Park, we rejoined Highway 1. We were heading south; signalled by the roadside verge becoming less barren. It was now burdened with thickets and tea tree. Goats and their kid bounded around secret gardens, while sheep had been disrobed and forced to shiver naked, in the cool early spring.

We arrived at the Principality of Hutt River at four-thirty in the afternoon – an hour before sunset. Western Australia was trialling daylight saving time (which has since gladly been scrapped). An elderly man with a mischievous eye and matching smile greeted us by a small brick bungalow. He zipped up a light, blue jacket and advised us to park beside a small lawn where we could camp. He needed no introduction – it was His Royal Highness Prince Leonard I.

The Origin of a Kingdom

The canny Prince – formerly known as Len Casley – seceded from the Commonwealth of Australia on April 21st 1970, after a dispute over quotas on wheat production. Thus emerged Australia’s ‘second largest country’, the 75Km², Principality of Hutt River.

Forget frilly cornices and manicured lawns; Hutt River Province is a working farm and ramshackle at best. Its courtyard is festooned with rusting grief. Pillars of tyres cling to each other, apparently tortured by the encroaching plant life. Birdsong disguises a whirring generator. Dusty, redbrick outbuildings stand quietly, flicking their cemented hems toward lifeless vehicles.

My first impressions were reassuringly plain, and eerie. This was a time capsule of the world’s most unimportant things. Beyond the wire fence, a flock of sheep protected their lamb, while a kestrel swooped on invisible kite-strings. Half a dozen caravans faded into the shadows of motionless gum trees, and a troop of drunken 44-gallon drums mimicked a trio of enormous silos. The oddness of the moment wasn’t reserved for manmade curio; the ground was patched with wild melon, which slumped across the hard dirt. They were like stray footballs, urging to be bounced.

Our car’s GPS believed we were off the map. I half-agreed. We fed ourselves with what little food we had, and then curled up to endure an unexpectedly wintry night.

The Royal Tour

Like all good kingdoms, Hutt River has a mint-green pyramid at its centre. Prince Leonard explained in his characteristic dither that, “As in Egypt, planes aren’t allowed to fly over the structure – the small amount of energy emitted can interfere with the plane’s electronics”. The Prince had a fusty eccentricity. I supposed I knew from the offset, that he would leave me dumfounded.

The Government of Australia apparently shares these feelings. By design, the Principality of Hutt River is a tax-free haven. I questioned Prince Leonard on this, and he confidently recited, “The Principality is a legal entity, I’m exempt from taxation under Australian laws.” It appeared taxation law isn’t the Prince’s only forte. He purports to be a celebrated writer of spiritual, scientific and religious papers, as well as a skilled farmer and affable tour guide.

The Jokes on Me

The Principality is not a gimmick; this should be very clearly understood. The Prince doesn’t take highly to it being likened to mere Micronations. “One chappie in Sydney, years ago seceded his bedroom. They’ve got no legal entitlement. If I get mixed up with those it will put Hutt River in the same class as them.” I’d hit a nerve, “It’ll be amongst all the weird things – so Hutt River is weird? No”. I acknowledged him with a smile, yet I knew he was. HRH continued, “They’ve got no knowledge of the law and some of them finished up in jail — under the Treasons Act, it is an offence to have an intention to deprive her Majesty of titles of territories”. It was at this point, that my pipedream to secede the ute evaporated.

The concept isn’t refined to his kingdom of fields; the Principality has a fully functioning cabinet of ministers, a police force, an army (mostly in America) and over 13,000 citizens across the world – not forgetting his demure wife, Princess Shirley. Under its own flag, it produces its own stamps, currency, vehicle registration, and Defence Force News while within the gates is a modest church, government offices, and post office. The Principality even lays claim to a star. I’d wondered for years why he become a Prince, as appose to a King. “A King rules with divine right, I’m not ruling with divine right. God didn’t assign me to rule”.

Prince Charming

The Australian Government take him seriously – they have little choice – and Prince Leonard seems to have a handle on their feelings towards him. He turns the screw at every opportunity. He’s currently attempting to take them to the International Court, after laying claim to all the unclaimed land in Western Australia.

According to Prince Leonard, “People think, and the government has pushed, that it was all proclaimed British, but that’s not true”. It became apparent that I was dealing with someone who expected far more than an inclusion in the Lonely Planet. “France proclaimed it in 1772, before them – and that proclamation is still un-receded. The Australian government asked the French government, would you please recede your proclamations over areas of Western Australia — and the French said no”. With his caring hands dancing across a wooden desk, he retold how he had sent two letters of enquiry to then Prime Minister, John Howard, with no reply. “That means we can go ahead. So, I write him another letter. ‘I now do claim the lands in Western Australia not proclaimed British since settlement of the claims, and when you hand over the administration, then I will consider the claims settled.’”

Royally Confused

Prince Leonard is an oddball. While Australia is undoubtedly peppered with oddballs, never did I meet anyone so sincere in their oddity. With seven children, twenty-four grandchildren and twenty-three great grandchildren it’s probable this proud, moral wrangle will continue. I’ll admit, my saturated mind began to drift as he began explaining a book on mathematical formula, and I was prepared to politely excuse myself. His ended his gibbering with the line, “Once I identified that, I was able to go back before time.”

I quickly retraced my subconscious. He had been talking about the constituency, and how he’d sent a copy of his book, ‘The Holistic Nature of Reality’ to President Obama. Then boom, he’d “identified the energy of creation”, and achieved time travel? I held the silence in the air for as long as he allowed – it was comforting.

“I found the energy that creates. And once it’s created something, then you can get time. Because time is a relative factor.” It emerged this was the culmination of a thirty-year study, which began when a friend asked him to write a paper on the Book of Revelations. This research led Prince Leonard to open up previously unknown mathematics and constants. He’s sent a trilogy of critical codes (creation, spiritual and personal) to numerous world leaders, and made numerous references to the infinite Fibonacci Series – which he says encapsulates his own (conveniently, no one knew his royal code was there). “Now all my work reaches into a visual point. So once you’ve got a visual point, you’re no longer in the hypothesis, you’re into reality. You end theory.” Oh, how I ached for reality.

Crowning Glory

Time travel isn’t the only thing Prince Leonard is exploring. He’s also on the trail to discovering a top-secret source of electricity. Over the coming months, numerous people will be visiting the Hutt River Province to discuss the potential. When I asked him to expand, he quipped, “People are very worried, if they open their mouth now they might not live very long”. I closed the subject, and bought a souvenir pen.

My time within the realms of Prince Leonard was coming to a relieving end. While I had pulled up, expecting to secure a coveted passport stamp (which I did) and take the royal tour (which I did), I wasn’t expecting to delve into the world of 13th century mathematicians, and life of a spiritual nature. Before leaving, I tentatively asked HRH Prince Leonard for a message to would-be visitors. He dithered a moment, before highlighting that “This is one country where no person has yet died – it’s very healthy”. I agree. It must be something in the water.

Principality of Hutt River: A Lesson in Principles is a post from Trail of Ants.

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A globule of pink ice cream evaded his podgy chin, while his right hand gripped the accelerator of Coffee Pot, a small racing-green steam train. He thrust the engine, ‘Full steam ahead!’ Elderly passengers were choked with fear, as the chubby five year old hurled them along the 1-mile jetty. The rearmost passengers were sprayed with milky tea, and splattered by soggy slices of cucumber. Little Johnny went pale, ‘There’s a hole in the track!’ He slammed his eyes tightly shut. When he reopened them, Coffee Pot was rattling through the sky, high above the blue ocean. They swooped over pelicans, which bobbed above lagoon sharks, which circled shoals of shimmering fish. Clouds of tiny white shells sprinkled the air, and a pod of excited dolphins leapt upwards. Smoking camp fires signalled the way and mutterings erupted, of monkeys, eagles, and journeys back in time.

Travel in Australia has the ability to bring out your inner-child. It’s a land with room for your imagination to escape; while natural additives continually fuel your adventure.

Small Town Terrorism

Carnarvon is a pleasing town on the central west coast. By pleasing, I mean inherently dull. The main tourist attraction is the One Mile Jetty (home of Coffee Pot, a green miniature steam train). However, after half a mile there’s a 72-metre gap. It’s believed that a local Vietnamese man took umbrage at receiving a fine for over-fishing off the jetty. He boldly returned later that night, and strapped a gas tank to the jetty’s uprights, then promptly blew it up. Now there’s a fantastic hole — an expanse of nothingness, that I honestly believe is Carnarvon’s most interesting feature.

Life’s a Pitch

We left Carnarvon in silence — Reb didn’t much like the fact, that I didn’t much like Carnarvon. We drove south, towards the notch of Shark Bay and the noble François Péron Peninsula. Rich in simplistic natural beauty, almost the entire peninsula is encapsulated by the Shark Bay World Heritage & Marine Park. We chose to camp at Eagle Bluff, an incredible, sandy shoulder that overlooked a natural lagoon. We were visiting under a full moon, and the weather was calm. The moonlight was bright enough to read by, and meals were tinged with enforced romance. Camping in World Heritage zones means no facilities, not even the managed bush toilets we’d come to love. A short drive away was the town, Denham — home to the most miserable tourist information staff in the southern hemisphere, and the place where I heard an immortal line which perfectly summarised Australian’s take on life: ‘’Eere Bridget, that Vegemite and cheese roll was beautiful darl — tell Tracy thanks, it was sooo nice.’

Wild at Heart

Beyond Denham is the most famous spot on the west coast: the Monkey Mia resort is renowned for its ‘dolphin interaction zone’. A loyal pod of bottlenose dolphin’s visits daily, stringing animated tourists along the beach, in the hope of securing the opportunity to hand feed the cheery marine mammals. I believe it’s unnatural, so passed the privilege to Reb who had wanted to do it for a while. After a period of education, she proudly stepped forward, grabbed a dead fish from a volunteer’s bucket, and crammed it into a smug dolphin’s shiny snout. Also at the resort are a gaggle of pelicans, and a mob of indigenous emus that sashay around the place and intimidate young travel bloggers.

A Visible Cape

We revisited Monkey Mia a few nights later, to take a walk with local Aboriginal, Darren ‘Capes’ Capewell. The walk turned out to be a stroll across the car park, to a feisty campfire nestled in a natural amphitheatre of the surrounding sand dunes. A German radio-journalist captured audio (I was denied) of traditional stories and folklore, while Capes flipped the bush tucker around in the coals. It was mullet — one of the most ordinary tasting fish on the planet.

While I was considering the lackadaisical tour, Capes produced a didgeridoo. I closed my eyes and absorbed the hypnotic thrum. Capes made some interesting points. Firstly, that he couldn’t welcome anyone to Australia. To him — and all Aborigines — Australia is made up of over 300 separate ‘countries’, and he cannot answer for the others. He finished by teaching us the correct way to show respect to traditional owners: by rubbing sand between our palms, and declaring who we are and where we’re from.

Life Begins at 3,500,000,000

François Péron Peninsula also provides two of the world’s great natural phenomena. Shell Beach earns its name from the small white cockleshells which fill the 110km stretch. The natural resource is so tightly packed in areas that a small quarry exists to extract blocks for building. Nearby, the shallow Hamelin Pool is home to a collection of deceptively ordinary-looking rocks. However, these are stromatolites — living microbes, considered to be the origin of life on earth — and appear like dull stumpy canyons in crystal clear water. They grow at a painstaking rate of 10mm over thirty years, and are thought to be 3.5-billion years old. They’ve survived due to the hyper-saline (super salty) water, where there’s very little chance of being nibbled away by hungry fish.

Shark Bay World Heritage Site & Marine Park maybe a mouthful to some, however within just five minutes of being there I could easily have scribbled a series of fiction, and non-fiction stories; bringing to life one of the most mesmerising strips of land in the country. An area where life continues to grow and evolve, in a multitude of magnificent and childish ways.

The Locals of Shark Bay is a post from Trail of Ants.

Consider visiting my travel blog to explore a wide variety of travel related articles, and score yourself a 7% discount on your next travel insurance policy with my World Nomads promotional code.

There’s something alluring about a place, when you can retell a journey and become excited merely by its name. Many of you know I’m currently hiding under the wing of a Kiwi. However, not so long ago I was on a hunk of the neighbouring island continent, Australia, where I drew a route along the towns of the Ningaloo reef to the delightfully named, Quobba.

Sadistic Shellfish

I’d emerged from the Indian Ocean after an unforgettable encounter with the regions whale sharks. I filled the ute’s boot with wet towels and all manner of obscure looking camping equipment, and Reb (my affable girlfriend) hopped into the passenger seat. We were headed to the other side of the Exmouth Peninsula, to the renowned Cape Range National Park; a strip of managed campsite’s that lies alongside the exquisite Ningaloo Reef Marine Park. At the time of our visit a minefield of red bell jellyfish plagued the waters. We weren’t deterred, and we were soon rewarded by the reef’s brilliant blizzards of fish. Turquoise Bay was a daily treat, and although we visited a site called Oyster Stacks just once, we’ll never forget it.

To replicate our Oyster Stacks experience, slip on a set of fins and a flattering yellow snorkel set, and then sit down in a full bath of water. Slide yourself from one end to the other, until the motion of the water is enough to carry the entire weight of your body. Now, holler a friend and ask them to place a large slab of broken rock at the end of the bath. After five minutes of slamming into the rock you should be suitably numb with pain and start to see specks of blood erupting from your legs. After asking your friend to cover the bathroom floor in identical rock, roll out of the bath and waddle across the jagged floor on your knees. Roll onto your back, and weep. That was Oyster Stacks.

The Kindness of Coral Bay

In perfect contrast to this brutal experience, was Coral Bay. The name alone captures the pleasant nature of the town. A small strip of campsites and hotels is separated from a soft strip of beach by a quiet road. Word of mouth sent us a couple of klicks up the sandy beach where we drifted into the ocean without a hint of agony. A flick of the fins set us above the craggy coral beds, and we soon realised the true beauty of the experience. There was a strong current — in our favour. We merely had to hang in the water like stray mannequins, and allow the current to carry us over the sort of kaleidoscopic coral beds normally associated with National Geographic, or TV programmes about anemone. Shoals of fish flashed up my board shorts, lagoon rays went about their day and a couple of young black tip reef shark sent a wondrous fizz throughout my entire vascular system.

No Quibble with Quobba

A short drive south of Coral Bay was the Quobba Blowholes. Blowholes are natural holes in the rocky shoreline that funnel seawater up into a fountain, as the swell of the ocean forces them together. They’d become a stalwart event along the way, and although they appeared to be everywhere, they never lived up to much. Quobba’s were in full force on that day, and as the mist cleared we learned of a neighbourly campsite nearby.

The campsite turned out to be a Grey Nomads dream. I’m twenty-seven and I was the youngest on the campsite by around sixty-nine years (bar Reb). The rough little campsite was so sweet-by-nature that we camped for four nights in the nook of a homely sand dune. As was the norm, we cooked every night on a crooked campfire, and spent everyday wallowing in the shallow water and wondering what we could legally burn in the night fire. I wrote like a madman over those four days, scribbling nonsense while Reb explored the shoreline, returning with stories of strange men and curious fish.

A Small Quibble with Quobba

It was during one of the long nights at Quobba that I rustled up a spicy pumpkin gnocchi. I spent a good thirty minutes peeling and boiling, then grating and waiting. It was dark by the time I pronged the first piece with my fork. The smell was irresistible, and I drew in the aroma as I lifted the morsel to my watering mouth. I felt something hit the back of my head. Then another. Then my neck. My legs. My arms. My face.

I was being hailed by extra-weak bullets. By the time I’d switched the car headlights on, it was too late. I’d flung my dinner over the dune in a last-ditch attempt to rid my famished soul of the violating grey beetles. The headlights were dappled in them and our tent appeared to be moving. On closer inspection, it was an outer layer of beetles. Our car window was open, allowing the swarm to stream into every gap in the cab: The air vents; cassette deck; and cracks in the seat. There is nothing quite as demoralising on the road as losing a good dinner. As sure as we slept hungry, we awoke satisfied. Satisfied because we were living on one of the world’s greatest coastlines.

Journey Along Ningaloo Reef is a post from Trail of Ants.

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The Ocean’s Roaming Gypsies

Thirteen years ago, I was stood on the deck of a boat in an Egyptian bay. I was fourteen years old, sopping wet from scuba diving and torn between the scourge of seasickness, and a seemingly endless feast spread upon a paper tablecloth. Then came a splash, followed by an endless split-second-silence. “Shark!” hollered one of the crew. Seconds later the surface of the Red Sea became stained with white froth. Everyone was gone.

Plumes of messy water sprayed into the air and the boat rocked more than I cared for. I turned around, expecting to see a crowd of cowering cowards. But there was no one. They’d all jumped ship. They’d gone after the shark. I was lonely, and — ironically — I felt ever so slightly scared. Snorkel! Mask! Fins! Geronimo! I thrashed my legs and joined the splash, and ten minutes later I staggered up the stern and penned in my dive logbook. “Saw a whale shark — awesome!”

Thirteen Years Later

This time round I knew exactly what was coming, not least because I was paying a wedge of Australia’s plastic dollars for the experience, on Western Australia’s Ningaloo Reef.

Despite their popularity as a tourist puller, there’s very little known about the moping whale shark. We know they’re the biggest fish in the sea, but we don’t know how many there are. Researchers can only guess they live around 100 years, and it’s pretty obvious to anyone that they’re filter feeders (that’s to say, they eat tiny plankton and krill). This very fact is a key indicator of the health of our oceans. Feasting whale sharks mean the bottom of the food chain is populous.

What we do know is that scores of whale sharks are drowning, slowly and needlessly in aquariums around the world. Thousands of tiny fingerprints are smudging the algae-tinged glass tanks of the star attractions, and effectively signing the whale shark’s death sentences. You may consider this a cruel indicator, but it’s not a situation that needs disguising.

Why Are Whale Sharks At The Ningaloo Reef?

We also know that whale sharks are creatures of habit, which is why at the Ningaloo Reef you’ll only find adolescent males; in Taiwan you’ll find pregnant females; and in the Pacific Ocean off California, you’ll find elderly females. Although no western society permits the hunting of whale sharks, it still occurs in some areas of the world, most notably in South East Asia — and as Taiwan is the haunt of pregnant females, this is an ongoing worry for future populations.

I’d broken the budget and shelled out AUS$385 for the opportunity to snorkel with the whale sharks. Stood on the ship’s deck, I listened intently to Skipper Bill’s wise old tales of days-gone-by. There was a friendly atmosphere, rumours were bound of a hearty spread and — whale sharks or not — we were sailing through the pristine, clear blue Indian ocean under a hot summer sun. Circling above us was our secret weapon — a spotter plane. All we had to do was sit back, drink tea and make small talk until we heard the crackle from our eye in the sky.

Shark! Shark! Shark!

“Shark!”. Fins on. Spit in the snorkel, breath through the mask and Geronimo! I relayed the briefing in my head: No closer than three metres to its head, no closer than four metres to its tail. Don’t touch. Don’t flap. Don’t wee yourself next to someone else. Then everything went blank. When my focus came back I was blinking bubbles, my mask was crooked and my snorkel was full of water. In an uncharacteristic burst, a portly Frenchwoman had kicked me in the face with her fins. I could just make out a pod of bobbing foreign buttocks. To really render the anticlimax, a red bell jellyfish came along and slashed me across the collarbone, infusing me with a strip of neat pain that would last the entire day.

The call-to-snorkel came a further four more throughout the afternoon, and each time the experience became more emotive. Gliding beside these animals was an unbelievable pleasure. They looked like giant speckled sock puppets, trailed by dozens of fishtailed fans. A stripy grey pilot fish lazed around in front of his nose, cruising on the crest of the great pressure wave created by the shark. Steel grey suckerfish clamped themselves onto the upper deck and krill obliged the giants by swimming straight into its chasmic gape. At between 4.5 and 5.5 metres these young males were a slither or their distant elders, who can reach a massive twelve metres in length.

Come mid-afternoon the crew and passengers were plump with shark tales and prawn salad. Hyperbole was spread on crackers and disbelief was stirred through tea. While the portly French woman tried to outstrip the metaphors of a marvellously grizzly Singaporean man, a vast pod of spinner dolphins started popping from the bright blue ocean. Everywhere we looked, dolphins of every size were whizzing through the sun and spray. The pair of critics lay down their tongues, for Neptune’s little fireworks had said it all – as that’s exactly how we felt.

Swimming With Australia’s Whale Shark is a post from Trail of Ants.

Consider visiting my travel blog to explore a wide variety of travel related articles, and score yourself a 7% discount on your next travel insurance policy with my World Nomads promotional code.

I stare at the newspaper. It wasn’t me. I gawp at the television. It wasn’t me. I trawl through the internet. It wasn’t me! I listen to the radio, podcasts, and conversations on the bus. It WASN’T me! At least — I hope it wasn’t me?

I didn’t know much about Asia before I scribbled over her ancient lanes. I thought it was a factory to stock my English necessities. Indeed, my local fish and chip shop, newsagent, petrol station, pizza shop and Chinese takeaway were all owned and operated by cheery Asians.

It’s only now, as I’m sat in as-safe-as-safe-can-be New Zealand, that it’s sunk in. I’ve left a trail of destruction in Asia. I tell myself every day it wasn’t me, but there’s a residual inkling; that it was.

I believe in the butterfly effect — that a butterfly can fart in Blackpool and lift the skirt of a Cornish virgin. So could it actually be possible, that I inadvertently contributed to some of the most iconic headlines of the past two years?

Perhaps the day I fell asleep in Moscow’s Gorky Park, I missed the chance to quell the August 2008 invasion of Georgia? I’ll never know, I’d quickly fallen asleep on a round-city recce because Moscow had swiftly bored me. However it’s not just the invasion of gritty Georgia that has me looking over my shoulder.

In July 2007 I arrived in Mongolia. The Mongols were in full on party mode; it was the annual Nadaam Festival and everywhere I looked small horses jerked fancy young jockeys around the beaten green Gobi. Gers sprang up; a hundred pickpockets tried their luck; I was cruelly threatened in a local nightclub; and I heard of one backpacker being kidnapped, and another who was raped.

Though shocking, none of this deterred me — I was in Mongolia. I was living a dream I’d dreamt for years. A year later — July 2008 — and Ulaanbaator became the stage to escalating violence as protestors rallied against suspected election fraud, and a year later a flood temporarily swallowed the capital. This was amazing; not least because Mongolia is one of the emptiest expanses of land I’ve ever seen. The devil had hit the bull’s-eye.

China’s also suffered. I spent three fascinating months there in late 2007 and ever since it’s been hailing horror. First of all, hundreds of thousands of my beloved Chinamen were affected by the worst snowstorms in decades. Then the warm up to the forthcoming Olympics became the catalyst to a massive anti-China uprising, resulting in my cherished Tibetan skies being splattered with the worst violence in Lhasa for twenty years. As if China hadn’t taken enough of a pounding in my absence, the Sichuan earthquake then culled tens of thousands and not to be outdone, the north-eastern Xinjiang region imploded in another round of ethnic violence. I won’t even mention their milk.

Brimming with innocence, I entered the Kingdom of Nepal. Word had already reached me of the Maoists — a terrorist group — demanding money off stoic foreign hikers in the mystical foothills of the Himalayas. Undeterred, I dodged my way around Kathmandu, spluttered down the river, clambered through bushes looking for tigers and rhino and snuck in and out of Buddha’s old place.

Other than a few spontaneous (yet peaceful) protests, I was confident things were running smoothly. Then I left — and a trio of bombs rippled the terai. Before I knew it the headlines told me the terrorists were in government and soon after they levered the monarchy permanently off their thrown. What had I done? The Kingdom had fallen.

India was never short of controversy during the four months I spent there — that’s one of the reasons I love it so. But nothing of the scale that happened after I left. First off, forty-nine people were slain by a series of bombs in Ahmedabad, and a few months later the sickening news came through that Mumbai had suffered a similar fate, with four times as many losing their lives to hereditary violence.

If all of this wasn’t bad enough, the next country I forayed into was Sri Lanka. I’m almost thankful that when I first stepped foot on the Venerable Island, it was already in the throes of civil war. It meant I couldn’t be the catalyst. The Sinhalese government pulled out of a six-year peace deal the week I arrived. I stayed for two months, fearlessly venturing to the war-torn east coast before looping around and back to India. Then the government accelerated its stance, fuelling the climax to a bloody feud. Maybe my many inquisitive questions were misplaced?

The next country I dared to step foot in, was tiny Singapore. Rumours were strife that a woman in her twenties was brutally cursed for crossing the road without being escorted by a little green man. And then, if that wasn’t shocking enough, I was told off for taking too long to order noodles. I’ve got my eye on Singapore, if only to see if anything interesting ever happens.

From Singa’ to the Indonesian archipelago. A two-month jolly around Sumatra, Java and bountiful Bali proved to be one of the most exhilarating periods of my life. I left full of admiration for a country of simple brilliance. Four months later the government executed the infamous Bali Bombers, which seemingly acted as little deterrent — eight months later, central Jakarta reverberated to the blasts of two of its iconic hotels.

A year in Australia ensued, for the most part I was safe in the haven of Melbourne sipping stubbies and perusing antipodean quirks. Then one Saturday I dropped Reb and her dad at Avalon airport, and the radio began to crackle through the news that became known as Black Saturday; bushfires left 173 dead and levelled lives in the worst natural disaster in Australia’s history.

All of the above lays in my wake. Battered and torn, broken and bruised. Lives inextricably twisted, love curtailed, and communities eternally altered.

Perhaps it’s true, that you only really know a country and its people once you’ve been there — once you’ve spent time laughing with its children. But perhaps it’s also true, that you only get to know a place, once you’ve left?

Trails of the Unexpected is a post from Trail of Ants.

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The beach was pale and despite being daubed with colourful swimwear, it was lacking and hollow. It was everything a beach should be; sparse and coated in sun like treacle smothers toast.

Reb and I reached a mutual agreement to leave, without the need for fall away words. We’d replaced a blown-out tyre, filled the food box, scrubbed and vacuumed the ute, filled the tank, and then just sat there. Stuck in treacle, watching skinny bums and rippled torsos while infant waves lolloped on the shore.

A Day in Broome

We were sprawled on Cable Beach in Australia’s northwest tourist mecca, Broome. Though coveted by many, to me it was one of those places that simply failed to infuse me with any reason to stick around.

I was happy enough to have struck the gold of coast again, we’d been stuck inside Australia’s outback for the past two months, and bar a quick snack of horizon in northerly Darwin we were parched from endless days of desert.

Broome is fringed by the loveable Indian Ocean, meaning daydreams drift away to Indonesia, SE Asia and beyond to the electric cultures I ache for daily.

We clambered back into our polished ute and chased the setting sun down the coast for two hundred clicks, before pulling into one of the country’s faceless roadside rest areas to pitch our tent on rough, unforgiving concrete. We built a flash of fire from twigs and continued the theme of silent reflection; while a dinner of pasta and budget sauce continued our theme of enforced poverty.

The Whimsical West of Australia

The following morning we arrived in Cape Keraudren, a jutting coastline of soft white sand and friendly water.

This naturally attracts the great Australian blight — caravanner’s. As happened plenty on this road trip, we were the youngest by far — I was twenty-six to Reb’s twenty-nine.

We lived up to our youthful disposition, earning scowls and hollers for kicking up a cloud of dust when driving around looking for a heavenly cliff top camp spot. We also scored an old-fashioned ticking off from the ranger, Lance because in my haste to douse myself in natural beauty, I overtook a 4×4 going 20kmh. This would apparently cause me to spin off the road and kill half of the local population, while maiming my girlfriend.

I feared Ranger Lance might sentence me to wear shorts as short and tight as his own, but he settled for a further fifteen minutes of his superior tirade instead. If these events weren’t enough to brand me a genuine hoodlum, half an hour later I got the ute stuck in the sand, right beside a classic know-it-all; late fifties, fading cap, firm pot belly and deeply tanned legs.

We were saved by a helpful young Swedish couple who yanked us out with their Vitara. There was a mist of silent smirks while Mr Know-it-all stood on the sidelines drilling me about how foolish I was, and how foreign tourists shouldn’t be given free rein to be allowed to drive where he is.

Talking About Your Generation

It has to be said, that generation of ageing Australian baby boomers can be the most irritating, obtuse and snobby bunch of people you’ll ever meet. In a whole year in Australia, I can count on a wombats paw the amount of amiable characters I met on the road. I hasten to add, this opinion doesn’t include those working in the tourist industry, or vital roadhouses, just those — usually retired — travellers.

To reiterate, I will never, ever, ever… evereverever own a caravan. I admit I once owned a riverboat, which was arguably a caravan on water; but that was cool, he was called Norm and for one glorious year I was a barefooted sailor upon England’s serene River Nene.

I took friends fishing, and the first thing onboard was almost always alcoholic. Caravans are the complete opposite of this. They’re the epitome of misguided Western indulgence, and I hate them because they’re fundamentally crap.

*******

Australia’s Cape Keraudren

We eventually shook off the neigh-sayers and pitched the tent, ensuring we left the outer skin off so we could absorb the predicatbly fizzy night sky. The Cape Keraudren region is one of sheer wild beauty. A chain of a hundred hairy caterpillars weaved its way across my path and over the hill virile kangaroos squatted lazily beside plump hobos. To be sat amongst this landscape was to be immersed in the finest pencil drawing. Neat slashes of grass and strokes of cloud gave life to rough roads and smudges of bright, flaccid waves. It was a scene of boyish charm, and softly coloured adventure.

As evening fell, I poured a third glass of red wine and watched the sun set over a distant VW camper. I tipped my head to the Southern Cross and chinked a glass with Reb, “it can’t get any better than this babe”. The beauty is — over a few days of clambering over jagged rocks, and catching arrows of grievance— it truly did.

A Stroll Along Australia’s West Coast is a post from Trail of Ants.

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Heart thumping. Eyes sweating. Palms clenched. Girlfriend weeping. People staring. Lady smiling. Jaw gripped. Foot shuffling. Mind racing. We were checking in one hour before our scheduled departure, and the lady at the check-in desk was telling us we weren’t getting on the flight. Lady smiling. Palms clenched.

We’d run the gauntlet up until now, phone call after phone call destined to dash our journey to New Zealand. I’d managed to secure my own working holiday visa for New Zealand just 24 hours before our departure date, but my high was swiftly soured by the incredible news that Reb’s vital medical certificate had been misplaced in transit.

We considered it a fluke when we were told that as Brit’s, we could obtain a 3-month visitor visa on arrival in Wellington. It was a warm and welcome relief. We’d paid out well over a A$1000 each in flights, medicals and visas – not to mention the cost of an enforced 6-week layover in plain and wintry Perth.

Sexy Stubbornness

To celebrate the green light, I had 4-inches chopped off my barnet by an Iraqi barber. I now looked less scarecrow, more Pee-wee Herman. Meanwhile, Reb stamped her feet and sharpened her scowl to secure a duplicate set of medical certificates. The following morning a Kurdish cabbie dropped Reb and I at Perth airport, and we braced ourselves for the connecting flight to Brisbane.

I was the first to check in, therefore the first to feel the wrath of Virgin Blue’s sexy stubbornness. The check-in lady, Natalie stood defiantly, insisting I needed an onward flight to enter New Zealand. My argument – that it was unreasonable (and likely impossible) for me to book an onward flight to follow a 23-month visa – fell on deaf ears.

Reb stepped forward, knowing she didn’t have either. It didn’t take long before Natalie broke it to Reb; she couldn’t even board the plane without a valid visa, and the onward flight. In fifty minutes the plane was due to soar into the Perth sky, and disappear without us.

Waive us Bye?

“REB! Take my laptop, go through security, find a Wifi connection and ring our case manager at NZ Immigration and explain the situation. I’ll put the bags in the locker then we’ll book onward flights. Don’t panic. All good. Deep breath.” Reb flew like the wind in one direction, I blustered to the lockers. Slightly dazed I subconsciously reread my e-visa.

“Outward passage waived.”

“Outward passage waived?”

“Outward passage waived!”

I grabbed the nearest Virgin Blue staffer and asked his opinion. He clearly struggled with the definition of ‘waived’, so referred me to a leggy blonde who umm’d and ahh’d. Inside my chest, the Countdown to Disaster ticked on. I skillfully prised the visa from her gawp and ran back to Natalie, who promptly disappeared for what seemed a lifetime.

Black & White Romance

“You’re clear. And…” she paused, adopting the role of a game show hostess “… there’s a clause that might allow Reb to fly”.

I was off again, yanking my belt off as I stumbled through security and tripped up the escalators, desperate to find Reb and drag her back to the check-in desk. As if rehearsing for a black and white romance she was twirling, startled at the top of the escalators.

“COME ON!” I whisked her down the stairs, burst back into the terminal and bounded back to the check-in desk. Once again, Natalie disappeared to her secret place with Reb’s passport. I stroked Reb’s arm. Her back. Her hair. My arm. I offered her a massage. I kissed her head and squeezed my hand.

Party of Emotions

“You’re clear!” announced a relieved Natalie. Suspense was bowled over by relief. Emotions partied on through our veins. “Quick, just twenty minutes to take off! Fetch your bags and we’ll get you checked in”.

We ran the 100 metres back to the electronic storage lockers, entered the PIN and listened for the whir and click. It whirred. It whirred some more. “Try the PIN again, Ant!” Reb clawed at me. More whirring. More whirring. Whir whir, whir.

Wounded by stress I hurtled back into the terminal. Natalie was busy smiling at a more fortunate guest (as Virgin Blue describe their passengers). I eye-balled her colleague, grasped her desk and let loose, “we were told we couldn’t fly but then we were told we could fly and we really want to fly but we can’t fly until we get our bags back from the locker and Reb doesn’t need a visa and I don’t need an onward flight and that doesn’t matter because THE LOCKERS BROKEN!”

Cancerous Hobgoblin

This lady was as compassionate as a cancerous hobgoblin, she silently nodded to indicate the terminal payphone. I dashed over, dialled the locker company, spilled my guts and went to meet her. Seconds turned to minutes before she arrived, and we could drag our hostage bags out. Natalie was outside by now, brimming with adrenalin and soothing charm, we dragged the bags through check-in, forced our way politely through security and joined a nonchalant queue of clueless people.

The reality sunk in. “That should never have happened” I gasped to my disbelieving girlfriend. We’d been thrown into blind panic, for nothing more than an untrained staff member, though we suspect we gained in the end with Reb’s waiver.

First & Last

You’d think that was it. But this was my birthday, so upon landing in Brisbane we hit the airport bar to celebrate, and managed – for the first time in my life – to get the infamous “last call” for the onward flight to Wellington (not helped by the predictable delays I now accrue at every security point since having my stolen passport replaced in Jakarta). Thankfully we had a belly full of steak and beer, and an armful of duty free cigarettes to ward off the knowing looks of fellow guests.

It was eleven thirty at night when we landed in Wellington, one more final forty minute struggle at the Immigration desk and we were through. I could finally introduce Reb to my awaiting quasi-Kiwi sister, Rachael and the following morning to my brother-in-law and young rascally niece and nephew.

New Zealand didn’t fail to honour the tradition of The Trail which has seen me not so much as glide over borders, much more stumble cluelessly over a knot of red tape. The upside is, it’s usually uphill from here.

Share your calamitous airport stories in the comment thread below. For those wondering where the posts on Australia’s west coast have gone, worry not. I’m working on the final two or three chapters so save your emails.

A Haphazard Birthday is a post from Trail of Ants.

Consider visiting my travel blog to explore a wide variety of travel related articles, and score yourself a 7% discount on your next travel insurance policy with my World Nomads promotional code.