!Section 8 Bar!

Theme Songs of the Day:

1. "Warriors", by Kymani Marley
2. "Remind Me", by Royksopp

I'M IN A MF'ING SHIPPING CONTAINER!!

Recycled doesn't have to mean shitty.

Section 8 Bar is hidden down a discreet ninja alley leading into Melbourne's Chinatown.  Made entirely from a pair of shipping containers, old shipping pallets, and a bunch of old boots, the open air bar is a grungy-sexy-chic watering hole that attracts businessmen, students, and dreadlocked bohemian types all at the same time.  

A tiny, decrepit parking lot between some of Melbourne's oldest brick buildings has been recaptured and transformed into a completely funk-tional gathering spot.  It's the kind of place that makes you feel all that much cooler just because you know about it.

Shipping pallets are stacked and bolted together to form a maze of wooden counter tops and benches with balinese style cushions.  A couple of 500 gallon drums make for very sturdy bartops, with upended packing crates making up your barstools.

There are heaters to keep you toasty in the colder months, but bring a jacket because the roof is great at letting in sunlight, not so great at keeping out the rain.  Still, there is something about sipping hot totties and warm mulled wine while your breath vaporizes to a house-dub-reggae soundtrack.  I'm sure the bar would be great in summer months, though I've never been in Melbourne to check it out around that time of year...

The Drinklist?  Any beer list that goes from Melbourne Bitter to Guinness to Budvar to Tiger -with a honey spiced ale from New Zealand for good measure - can't go wrong...  And a cocktail list that includes creations like Passage to India [gin, drambuie, earl grey tea, lemon and a splash of tonic], Your Mama's Cheesecake [vodka, liquor 43, lemon, sugar and cream], and Grand High Chai [vodka, grand manier, chai tea, mint, orange and lemon] is enough to keep you wonderfully distracted until closing time.

Resident DJ Rintrah spins a moody blend of reggae, trip-hop, dance, and reggae every Thursday night, often featuring special guests.  The weekly lineup of DJs and events is often varied, always dope ...and don't be surprised if you walk in on live graffiti, or a random bike dance-off.

If someone doesn't do a version of this back in Honolulu, I am going to bring a couple shipping containers when I come home and find a parking lot in Chinatown to open up shop in!

PARKING LOT

SECTION 8 BY NIGHT

TOASTY MON

BACK OF THE BAR

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What's Bothering My Green Conscience?

Theme Song of the Day:

1. "The Cold Acre", by Augie March - great video clip too!

WHAT'S BOTHERING MY GREEN CONSCIENCE?

There has been something gnawing at me for some time now. Here’s what’s been bothering my green Conscience: ever since discovering Canadian Artist Franke James' blog in the Twitterverse:

Sustainability, that buzz word that is so popular now, is often thought of in terms of green; that is, relating to environmental sustainability and the pressing need for better stewardship of our planet. I’ve dubbed my blog theGreenBackpack for just that reason: it represents the sustainable themes I am exploring through my travels.

But the very icon which I have chosen to represent my travels is made of nylon, in a Vietnamese factory [which granted, supports fair trade practices], but is shipped on an oil-guzzling tanker halfway around the world to a discreet shopfront in Melbourne’s northern suburbs.

The plane I have ridden to reach this part of the world has spewed, and will continue to spew tonnes of greenhouse gases into the air during its manufacturing, use, and maintenance of its useful life.

The campervan I have been driving, with its greedy petrol tank and noxious rubber steel radials rolling over oil-based blacktop for endless miles are the epitome of the fossil-fuel-consuming-and-carbon-producing-based technologies that are harming our planet.

The houses I stay in, the food supplies, the synthetic outdoors clothes and thermals, even the boots on my feet have been built with more attention given to the economic profitability than with long-term sustainability in mind.

The Bedfords, whom I have just spent 4 days living and sharing with, embody one form of embracing a more sustainable lifestyle: their choice to move into the mountains and live as far off the grid as possible was born more out of a bid to maintain their sanity, and health, than out of a burning desire to save the planet.

It takes a special kind of courage to go completely against conventional wisdom and take a stand for what you believe in: in their case, that their family’s health and happiness was more important than any material possessions could bring.

They have personal experience of the stress, anxiety, and gnawing sense of discontent that a life based on consumption and accumulation will breed... and by focusing on creating experiences and memories, raising their children surrounded by wild bushland, homeschooling and gardening and building with their own hands, hiking the Himalayas with the children and instilling a sense of curiosity, resourcefulness, and adventure ...lay a strong foundation for living the kind of life - of pursuing their passions - that others will write books about.

But even in the Bedford’s house - which out of necessity has been built with efficiency of resources as its topmost priority - sits toilet paper that is likely made from old-growth forest wood.

Who is going to give up using toilet paper in order to save the planet?

How then can I claim to be exploring sustainability, when the very act of my travels are contributing to the problem at hand?

It seems that the more I raise my awareness about sustainability – reading ingredient labels, purchasing local produce, paying the premium for organic and fair trade produce, measuring my carbon footprint so that I can effectively offset them, seeking out others who are embracing and leading the way in the movement towards a sustainable lifestyle – the more overwhelming the odds seem.

Why is it that a pound of locally caught wild prawns are three times the price of a pound of farm-raised prawns frozen and shipped over from Thailand? And why are bananas grown and shipped in from Eucador cheaper than bananas grown right in our backyards?

What good is it to change my lightbulbs when the all-consuming, never-ending-growth-in-the-name-of-progress fundamentals of our society continue unrestrained? There are corporations out there whose environmental impact exceeds that of entire countries – what chance do we have against the ‘wrath of God’ kind of money they control?

"He who has the gold, makes the rules."
-The Golden Rule-

Can we really make a difference?

I believe so.

Sustainability is about so much more than saving the environment... it is about all the juicy things that make up this experience we call LIFE.

It is about community, and connecting...

It is about Arts, Music, and Culture.

It is understanding that there is more than enough to go around.

It is about becoming good stewards of the financial, enviornmental, social, and spiritual resources that surround us - rather than 'owners' or 'conquistadors' of the world around us.

It is about serving others: for in doing so, we nurture ourselves, and create a cycle of reciprocity that spirals upwards and onwards ...rather than the downward spiral of decay that a self-serving spirit of scarcity will set in motion.

It is knowing that we are all one family; that when we lash out and hurt another, we are actually hurting ourselves... and that when we lash out and hurt ourselves, we are actually hurting others.

What good is it to save the planet.... if we can't all get along? What good is it to get along....if we destroy the planet that we live on?

It is about playing for the best in the other person, and always seeing another bigger than they see themselves.

It is about leaving the world a better place for you having walked upon it.

It is about pursuing what makes your heart happy and your soul sing...

GOOD TIMES WITH FAMILY
AT LYNCH'S RESTAURANT IN MELBOURNE

It is about sharing and enjoying the resources we have been blessed with... the simple things in life: good food, good people, and great conversation.

...And so I will continue to wander the planet, in search of people, places, and projects [and do my best to minimize my impact along the way]...
...that are making a positive difference in our world.

So that I too, can do my part to make a positive difference in our world.


Question of the Day: What's Bothering Your Green Conscience?

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Tasmania: Day 7 - Of Rain, Guiness Pie and Cheese

Theme Song for the Day:

1. "The Rain Song", by Led Zeppelin
   

CHASING SUNSETS

Two words: Guinness Pie. and Cheese. Okay 3 words then…

Cheese, as in: the best cheese I have ever had [and the most in one sitting] at a roadside showroom for cheese made by a family-owned dairy whose 4th generation custodians smile innocent cherubic smiles from their milk cartons.

Guinness Pie, as in: the best damn pub food ever invented! Imagine - chunky beef stewed with Guinness Stout so that the bittersweet hunks of meat melt in your mouth, washed down with ...a pint of cold Guinness, of course! So good and hearty and satisfying after a full day's driving North-> South across the state - that I decide on the same meal for brunch the next morning too. Fan-TAS-tic.

The conversation on the road back was rich. There is nothing better than a road disappearing under you and a good soundtrack to facilitate reflection, sharing, and some good laughs.

Our time in Tasmania was wondrous, an escape into an alternate, past world when a families and communities bonded together out of a common need for survival. A time when the rhythm of life was dictated by the seasons of sow, harvest, stock, survive… and then the cycle would begin again.

There was such warmth in the household; it was clear that like all families, this family had been through its ups and downs and ins and outs and dramas and triumphs, and had come out stronger for the experiences. Their choice to live off the land was literally a choice to take their lives back into their own hands, and has created the bond of mutual understanding that a shared experience creates. The kind of bond that goes without words, that can convey volumes in a quickly shared glance.

The Canadian and I have also created a similar bond through the shared experience of the last few days, but through the sharing of stories: our lives’ journeys to this point. That’s one of the things about travel, it sharpens senses and heightens your experience another, because every moment counts.

How do I bring this back into my daily life, the one where I have bills to pay and phone calls to return and commitments to make? And keep. The life that has consumed the last decade of my life, the life I have left behind.

Through all of that endless mundanity, that terminal condition of western society, that syndrome that afflicts so many who walk around their lives fast asleep with their eyes wide open, that bastion of insanity, of doing the same thing over and over and over and over, and expecting a different result....

How do we keep alive our sense of wonder, and adventure?

We are alive dammit, ALIVE. And we don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Or if it will ever come. But in this moment, we are alive, and we are here to savour every precious flavour, the sweetness of it all, the bitterness, the chocolate-and-coffee richness of it all. And then we are gone.

To sit with someone’s pain is a unique privellege indeed. To sit with someone’s pain and bear witness to their journey through to the other side is quite another. I have gone to the depths of humanity over the last few days.

There is a subtle melancholy about her, a deep sadness and even deeper pain that dwells just beneath her easy-going way. There is a sense of joy, of closure, of celebration that bubbles through in her smile. And in her eyes, you can almost see the twinkle growing brighter each day.

Some days the grief hits hard, and other days the sun shines brightly through her heart. And with each step she holds her head high, eyes up, smiling and laughing, and listening. With such dignity. With such genuine interest in what the other person is saying. With such an understated appreciation of enjoying this moment with a fellow human being. With a slightly bewildered amazement at this gift called life.

She is finding her way back to herself, removing herself from an old world full of memories and expectations and love. Finding her way in a world which has given her the most bitter things to taste, a world in which she finds herself wandering, and wondering what is next. And finding out that she has been given so many gifts, so much richness, so much LIFE…

Now, she pauses, a brief intermission as the next reel is loaded in preparation for the next act of her life. Only she gets to write the script – however she wants to.

No wonder our paths have crossed. No wonder our paths will diverge.

“If you can lose, and start again at your beginnings, And ne’er breathe one word about your loss…”
-"If", by Rudyard Kipling-

My losses seem to pale in comparison to what she has lost; yet there exists a mutual understanding of what it means to have won - big time - and then lose it all. Though my circumstance looks different to hers, the pain each has felt is very real.

Financial abundance is one thing; abundance of the heart is true wealth. I am truly blessed that the ones that I have loved, that I still do love, and that love me… are still here for me to enjoy.

From The Canadian, I’ve learned that:

• Dignity is carried, not given
• Pain can be beautiful
• Sweet tastes so much better after Bitter
• Every moment counts
• Shared silences are healing
• Everyone has a story
• Everyone's story has a gift for those who are lucky enough to hear it
• Listening to someone's story is a gift for the storyteller

At the departure lounge, we sit easily in each other's silence, thankful for the new friends we have made, the lessons we have learned, and most of all, for the shared experiences of the last few days.

Life is beautiful.

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"These are the seasons of emotion,
and like the winds they rise and fall.
This is the wonder of devotion -
I see the torch we all must hold.

This is the mystery of the quotient -
Upon us all a little rain must fall."
-"The Rain Song", by Led Zeppelin-

THE CANADIAN,
WITH NEW FRIENDS
AOBA AND MAXIMUS

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Tasmania: Day 6 - Wild Beauty

Theme Songs of the Day:

1. "First Dy of My Life", by Bright Eyes
2. "Burn One Down", by Ben Harper
3. "Are We Different?", by Priscilla Ahn
   

CAMPING ON THE RIVER FLATS

The morning dawns achingly cold on the flood plains of Taylor Flats.

Blue smoke bellows from the still-damp campfire while I stand on the bank of a river, casting into the flow and hoping for a rainbow or a brown trout to strike. The air is still, and my breath hangs around my shoudlers in a puffy veil.

Kookaburras guffaw in the distance while other birds chatter and chirp and whistle all around me. An industrious little fellow tap tap taps at the skeletal tree standing behind me, pulling out grubs and other goodies from the dead wood.

Poplar trees grow thick along the banks to the water’s edge, and I pick my way upstream searching for breaks in the undergrowth large enough for me to cast from. Back at the campfire, butter and home-made raspberry jam bubbles away on the gridle, while bread smokes itself into toast for our breakfast.

Last night we met Roslyn and Oscar, Peter’s wife and youngest son. I spoke with Roslyn on the phone when we landed in Tassie, or rather she spoke to me through the crackling connection: “Is that you Matt??” She is tough as nails, all sinew and no nonsense, with a warm smile and a heart of gold.

Oscar and his brother grew up on the “luxury campgrounds” and were homeschooled by their parents. He is a confident, well-mannered 16-year old, also tough as nails, all sinew, and no-nonsense. He does have his father’s cheeky grin, and the twinkle in in his eye that suggests he may or may not be about to play a practical joke on you…

On the day that the Board of Education came to interview the children to find out how effective [or not] their homeschooling had been, Roslyn was nervous that they might deem their progress sub-par, and take her children away. Instead, the lady that came out was so impressed that she asked if the boys would come and speak to other homeschool families as an example of possibility.

Roslyn explains to me later that their approach was simple: keep the boys engaged and having fun, and they would learn something without even realizing it. For example, to teach them about mathematics and geometry, they built a shed and had them do all the calculations on site that were necessary to complete the project. They learned the theory and application of the concepts being studied, and gained the practical construction skills while swinging their hammers. At 23 years old, Wilbur now travels the world as a freelance adventure guide; he is currently away in Europe leading whitewater kyak adventure tours in Norway over the summer season.

We get to see more of the benefits of this kind of education first hand when we get back to camp and Oscar invites us to join him and his best mate Alex [who is 3 years older] on the downhill Moutain Bike Track that he and his brother Wilbur have built on the other side of the waterfall.

The track is impressive; a narrow trail winds its way down the mountain, earthen embankments allow you to throw the bikes around the switchbacks, and a fallen log provides a massive railslide that drops back onto the track on a steep, twisting ramp. The see-saw feature they fly over freaks me out and sends me careening off into the bush, mowing down a couple of baby eucalypts along the way.

I opt to take the side route on the final stretch, which drops off a rocky outcrop before slipping through a narrow gap in the trees. It took us twenty minutes to hike up to the start, and maybe three minutes to barrell down, hooting and crashing and laughing all the way down. I am thankful that the 15-foot jump they are still building mid-way down is incomplete… and that despite falling off twice, I survived my first downhill mountain biking experience with barely a scratch!

The adrenaline is still coursing when we return to “camp”, and we are still wild-eyed when Peter shows us the yield of hazlenuts that he and Aoba have gathered that morning. The Canadian has asked that we do a bonfire that night, so Roslyn announces that ice cream, molten chocolate, and home-made raspberry sauce will compliment campfire-roasted hazlenuts perfectly for desert.

Before we head out to gather wood for the bonfire, however, Peter invites us on a bushwalk with him to Levyn Canyon. The 45-minute trek up to the lookout point takes about 25 minutes with the pace that he sets for us, and our breath is taken away when we reach the end of the trail. Wooded valleys stretch to the horizon as a river winds its way through. We are ants perched precariously on the edge of this precipice, dwarfed by the massive spectacle of nature engulfing us. The platform and we stand on and polished trail signs behind us are the only sign of human presence; the work of a single park ranger who has carved the trail out with his own two hands, and the occasional help of a laborer or two.

THE RIVER WINDS THROUGH...

Once we regain our breath, we head back to the car which Peter guides deftly around the gravel roads twice as fast as I would be comfortable driving, to bring us to another trailhead. This one descends into the canyon and crosses the river, where we pass a sign reading EXPERIENCED BUSHWALKERS ONLY, and our motley crew - The Moustachioued One, The Canadian, The GreenBackpack, and the Tokyo Girl - pick our way along the steep trail until we round a bend and stop at a natural stone bench which overlooks dark tea-colored pools that eddy and swirl below.

It dawns on me how foreign an experience this must be for Aoba, who has probably only known the bright lights and ceasless racket of big city life... now we are surrounded by a natural symphony, the water rushing below, the breeze whispering through the treetops in waves, birds cackling and whistling and chirping all around.

NATURE'S SKYSCRAPERS

We sit and munch on the chocolates I have brought, drinking in the view from the canyon floor. The cliff face stretches up 100+ stories above, and you can almost hear the cracking and rumbling of the massive rock stratas which lie at a 45 degree angle from the horizontal rocks which are the adjacent cliff. The river does a huge switchback here, and Peter tells us that at some time in the distant geological past, this entire canyon was formed by the collapse of the massive rockforms towering above. If we were ants standing on the top of the canyon, we are gnats as we look up from within.

We return to "camp" with a new sense of quiet satisfaction, our glimpse of the awesome power of Wild Tasmania lingering in our auras. This is Peter's backyard, and I find myself longing to keep exploring, to discover yet more wild spectacles that few privelleged humans will get to experience in their lifetimes. The wild places of the world don't want to be discovered, preferring instead to reveal their secrets only to those intrepid enough to seek and discover...

Dinner is the vegeterian green Japanese curry that I have had bubbling away all afternoon. The homegrown baby yams added at the last minute are pink and translucent and no bigger than my thumb, and lend just the perfect earthy-sweet flavour to this Asian-Australian bush tucker meal we have just invented.

HYPNOTIC

We take turns simmering in the woodfired bath; house rules are that whoever is in the hot tub gets waited upon hand-and-foot, “As you wish…” Everyone outside of the bath house sits and stares into the fire, talking about past and future planned adventures [and misadventures], and even start to sketch out a vague plan to hike in to Cradle Mountain and back from Loongana when I return to Tasmania.

Aoba entertains herself by slicing cross-sections of the bonfire smoke rising into the night sky with her bright green laser beam, whistling Super Mario Brothers to herself and munching on potatoes roasted in the glowing embers. I can only imagine what her internal dialogue would be, 18-years old girl raised in the Tokyo metropolis in the middle of the Tasmanian bush and only enough grasp of English to understand fleeting glimpses in our conversations..

Roslyn and The Canadian have convinced Peter to break out a bottle of homebrew honey mead which has been “cellared” for a couple years. The amber liquid has a velvety texture, not quite as viscous as scotch, yet smooth enough to coat the sides of the glass when swirled. It smells sweet like honey, not the sickly sweet of desert wines, or the artificial sweet of soda pop, but a subtle, delicate sweetness imbued with a hint of citrus… and the taste? Divine. Almost spiritual. If one were lucky enough to sip from the nectar of the gods, than surely this would be it.

Maximus curls up in my lap and drifts off to sleep, twitching and eyelids fluttering as he starts to dream of chasing birds and sticks and severed wallaby heads. The conversation fades and becomes more intermittent, each of us losing ourselves in the hypnotic glow and crackly of the bonfire, connecting with some deep part of ourselves from eons past, when ape-like men huddled around campfires in caves.

Glowing embers float up and away into the milky way yawning above us. I realize that have discovered a formula for inner peace:

Homebrew Honey Mead
+
Vegetarian Japanese Curry
featuring Home-grown Baby Yams
+
Fire-Roasted Hazlenuts on IceCream with Molten Chocolate
and Home-made Raspberry Sauce
+
Woodfired Bath-house
+
Bonfire
+
Awesome People
+
Amazing Conversation
=
Bliss

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BEDFORD'S BACKYARD

RIVER CROSSING

THE CANADIAN


CHILLIN' ON THE STONE BENCH


AOBA [TOKYO GIRL] CONTEMPLATES NATURE


ROASTING HAZLENUTS


BLISS

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Tasmania: Day 5 - In Search of Sushi

Theme Songs of the Day:

1. “Fire Coming Down the Mountain”, by The Gorillaz, live in Harlem with Dennis Hoper
   
2. “El Manana”, by The Gorrilaz

TAWNY FROGMOUTH AT NIGHT

Who’s bright idea was it to go spotlighting on the back of the ute for wildlife at midnight on a 3 dog night [as in degrees Centigrade!]?!?

…oh yeah, I was the Ideas-Man last night… the wildlife around these parts is very intelligent; smart enough to stay in on a cold night, anyways… we only spot three wallabies, nothing like the abundant wildlife scattering from our headlights experienced on the way in.

The morning is balmy compared to the windchill of midnight on he truck bed with the midnight wind screaming in my hair, spotlight turned up to the tree canopy searching for glimpse of the elusive, rare, and very rare species of Drop-Bear and Hoop-Snake that are rumoured to be active in these parts.

I spend it with a steaming cup of tea in one hand, and a slimy tennis ball in the other, exploring the luxury campgrounds again while Maximus leaps and bounds alongside me like an oversized, muscular Mexican Jumping Bean [another rare species fumored to be active in these parts].

Today’s mission is to head back into Ulverstone in search of sushi supplies. Aoba’s arrival has sparked my culinary imagination, and I’ve offered to gather the necessary ingredients to make okonomyaki, a delicious sort of Japanese savory pancake made with shredded cabbage, batter, minced beef or pork, Japanese mayonaise, bonito flakes, and a special okonomyaki sauce that is like a mild teriyaki.

Ulverstone by daylight has quite a different character; it is Sunday so the main street is empty and the church’s parking lot is full. We find a morning latte at Smiley’s café, where we meet none other than Mr. Smiley himself, who amuses himself by attempting to welcome us with his best Caadian accent. “Hau wood yoo like yore coafeeee then, ay, young laydeeee?” he drawls, then laughs heartily at his own joke. Aussies love Canadians…

The supermarket doesn’t carry the Japanese batter mix and other special ingredients for us to make okonomyaki – I forget that we are in rural Tasmania. We are surprised to learn that nobody in town sells fresh fish, and so head down the road to Penguin in search of good sushi.

The road to Penguin follows an old railway track along coast, just a few feet from the rocky beaches, and as the sun glints and sparkles off the blue water I feel like I am driving through the opening scene in a roadtrip movie. The town of Penguin is nestled into a small nook in the coast and has the feel of a lazy coastal holiday town. There are winged tuxedos everywhere on the main street, cute and kitschy, all grinning and winking, and one in particular is very happy to see The Canadian.

There is no fresh fish to be found here either, so we press on to the port of Burnie, which is said to have a deep water harbor to rival Devonport and Hobart. This is a logging, woodchipping, and papermill town, and the first thing to be spotted as we round the corner and approach the town are three massive piles of woodchip sitting on the docks, each at least 5 stories high.

Peter tells us later that he has seen miles and miles of woodchip piles twice as large sitting idle deep in the forests around his property. The effects of the Global Finanical Crisis [known in Oz as "GFC" - sounds like a really bad fast food restaurant chain...] are felt even in the wilderness of Tasmania, just waiting for a stray spark to send them up like piles of gunpowder in a Loony Toons cartoon gone tragically wrong.

The stark contrast of the pristeen wilderness we have come down from, to the huge industrial machines and belching smokestacks that are in and around this town is disconcerting. It sparks an inner dialogue questioning how economic and environmental sustainability can ever reconcile each other when we live in a system that places financial profitability and growth above all else.

The road back is full of questions, and as I enjoy fresh sushi with new friends this night, I am thankful for being with good people surrounded by wilderness.

Suddenly, it has become much easier to see why Peter made the decision to come build a self-sufficient life for his family, “luxury camping” in the bush.

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BUSH TUCKER: SUSHI!


MAXIMUS DECIMUS MERIDIUS




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