A middle finger here, f#@$% idiot there, let me in the lift before you get out annoying pregnant lady, I don’t care if you were waiting for the bloody car space clearly I’m in the biggest hurry, no… I was first in-line arse-face, you’re not old enough for me to offer you my seat on the bus saggy hag, just wait dumbo pedestrian this crossing shouldn’t be here, get your own God-dam bags outta the taxi tourist…

Good old-fashioned manners have clearly left the building.

Today I witnessed a disgusting act of public dis-courtesy. This older chap with elephant sized umbrella stood waiting for 2 ladies busied at a parking meter to shift for his self-important right of passage. Clearly they didn’t hear his mumbled “Exsqueeze me”. He proceeded to shove passed smacking his brolly in their faces. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I shouted as he mumbled something about them refusing to make way. I followed him home and posted a fresh dog dump in his letterbox.

My mother talks of June Dally Watkins. My father the school cane. From a young age there’s a certain dose of administered discipline that can help kick precociousness back in line. A quick whack of the wooden spoon, the slap of a hand on the butt or the ker-snap of a belt taught me quickly not to overly smart-arse my way through pre-pubescent parental interaction. It’s simple. Respect certain hierarchy and thou shalt be rewarded with sleepovers and Santa presents. Go the other way and it’s grounding and empty the kitty litter (my lifetime punishment).

I watch double-figured teens in supermarkets with their parents playing a cyclical game of back-chat. At best there’s a 30% awareness of what’s being communicated by both parties. It’s way too hard. Too much time is spent on dissolution rather than reaching resolution. What if they listened to each other instead of scrambling like vultures for the speaking stick?

Singapore. In 1979 their government launched a national campaign that encouraged how do you do’s, public acts of courtesy and more frequent pleases & thank you’s. This has been updated with a focus on kindness rather than ‘may I leave the tables’ after dinner, but the directive has succeeded since Singapore’s independance. Let me set the record straight… I’d rather pull nails slowly with blunt pliers than live in sweat-fest mall-ified bland.com Singapore, but Sydney could do with a slice of their powers that be interest in community consideration.

With a centralized population of nearly 13 million Tokyo dishes up the extreme version of ‘polite’. For a city of so many shuffling from A to B the last thing you feel when amongst the mayhem is the need to panic. It’s a city of considered precision. Walking from Shibuya station a few years back I felt the shadow of the stalk. After sometime I turned to face the assailant, pocketknife fold-out spoon ready for the plunge. My scarf. This dude had been trailing me for 10 minutes. He was too polite to interrupt my conversation with my travel buddy. Do the same thing in Sydney and a few hours later you’ll find it eBay’d .

WakeUp Sydney is a shiny first step in the right direction. Started by John Fisher, a caught-up-in-the-rat-race convertee, his aim is to help city-slickers discover kindness within and in turn encourage positive social change. A little too hippy? Far from it. You don’t need to Buddify your existence to know being decent and accepting of your neighbour isn’t normally the first option. Perhaps the thrash of next door’s music is killing you. Instead of ‘You love Zepplen eh? Me too. I’ve got to get to bed, could you shift it down a notch?’, the approach is more likely to be ‘Hey fuck-face, turn the fuckin’ shit down motherfukka’. Would you speak to anyone in your family, workplace or friends like that?

WakeUp released the Kindness Cards scheme. When you feel the desire for a random act of kindness. Just do it, and leave a kindness card behind. Simple. Beautiful. Go on check out their website now and invite me along for their next event.

Google ‘Sydney + Considerate’. There’s an endless list of personals and flat-share ads. It appears that in our personal shared moments of living and loving we’re all about kindness and awareness. Step out of this zone or throw a kink in the works it’s too easy to fly off the wheel. Next time consider holding that thought. Do you really need to abuse, criticize or control all the time? Let something go… Forgive.

Enjoy. Live. Love.

What’s your ultimate procrastination? Emptying the dishwasher? Cleaning out the turd-o’clock kitty litter? Calling your nut-ball mother? Losing the belly bulge? Sex this month… this year? Having your balls or boobies checked (this is a non-negotiable… Google the self-check now boys, girls book that mamogrambo).

Self-help evangelists squeeze bestseller billions out of aspiring to be more proactive people’s pockets every year. I’ve a few dozen ear-marked 7-day improvement volumes lining my bedside shelves. Everything from The Art of Mindfulness to The Four Hour Working Week… I’ve eagerly devoured, preached and procrastinated them all.

“Live life with Passion”

Anthony Robbin’s final words on his self-improvement pack of 100 CDs. In the 90s Robbins was King of the university of ‘me’. Plugging in the Walkman to his 7ft boomtronic voice meant your 30 day ticket to blossom-dom. With three easy payments of $45.95 you could be rich, date shoulder-padded power women, resolve a global nuclear crisis, kill your crack addiction, retire at 25 and discover Catholicism.

I’d drive my rust-mobile to work everyday with my porta-preacher car buddy Robbins pumping through the stereo. Were people staring? I couldn’t care. Clearly I was on the road to 60 minute amazingness.

Back in the formative years of this stadium-sized ‘better you’ preach self-improvement was exactly that – a new religion the bitter and synical could latch onto. It was hope minus the cobweb’d testaments. Greed is ok. Giving is good too. Success is absolute. If you fail pick yourself up, slap the cheeks and start your engines for a second go.

Today, with Anthony firmly in the Donahue/Choose Life/permed past the TV-offer’d self-help addition has been replaced by Buddha and iPhone apps. It’s 2011 and we’re all about meditation and optimised efficiency. Cull the email checks, send calls to voicemail, breathe, hire a virtual PA, a few downward dogs, work remotely and avoid anything to do with a meeting. Bulldoze efficiency… champion effectiveness… Namaste.

In my  phone’s tick-list app there are double digit calendar categories for all facets of the day’s routine… work, sweat, play, eat, invest, rest, breathe, cough, pluck, shuck… all colour coded and prioritised. There’s a list for the must-dos and deadlines down to the second for phone calls, yoga classes and checking of facebook. The highlight of my sad day is watching the app seamlessly sync with my desktop using cloud back-up for the whole over-virgo’d virtual chaos. Nerd.

Then there’s the Jesus evangelistic boom. His no.1 biblical bestseller is chockers full of commandments, parables and philosophy to help get your sin-filled life back on track – get that faith – you know you can do it. Commit, sing, pray and reap the rewards. Every week thousands in Sydney flock to the rock concert-like Hillsong for an uplifting hour of song and dance.

During my school years a friend dragged me to suburban Fellowship aka God-school. He saw it as a chance to show me the way, the light, the happy clapping of life. Maybe he thought introducing God could help improve my average pubescent existence. That night we were asked to share our preference for either an empty life to a ripe 3-digit’d 100, or a full life with Jesus on our case everyday to a measly 50. Clearly I ticked the wrong box. I was ignored for weeks. I was uninvited to his birthday party. How very un-Christian… little shithead.

Cynicism aside there’s always room for a splash of balanced self-improvement in all of us. There’s no need to ‘Amway’ the experience… over do it and you’ll soon be heading towards a position in real estate, life coaching or car sales. Instead take just what you need. Mantra-fy a phrase or two to stick on the fridge. It’ll be something positive and motivational to absorb when you reach for the leche in the morning.

Go on… drink that Soy Latte with passion.

Enjoy. Live life. Love

Salar de Uyuni, Bolivia

It’s great to be back. The magic of Sydney’s summer is just around the corner. Although, a quick jetlag-induced 5am flip through Gourmet Traveller this morning had me scribbling the next yet-to-be itinerised takeoff. Some find their happy place in pub footy finals, others trawl eBay for super soft Japanese denim, drop their under fives at the in-laws on un-returnable loan, get that 10% return on a well-diversified super-yawn portfolio, spec a pure-analin leather option in an oversized stupidly taxed Euro all-terrainer… I can happily Kennards the whole lot. Shove me in a taxi with 13 kilos of don’t-care-if-it’s-stolen luggage airport-bound. With noise cancelling headphones and the latest Monocle in hand? Josh is in smack’d out stratospheric Valium-free happy-land.

Why the continual need to long haul? It’s an addiction. I’ve always put coffee in a lick the toilet bowl category (recently re-affirmed by a rather handsome Barista’s attempt to bring me back… it wasn’t his deft frothing skills that held my interest). I can give or take a glass of grape once a week. My grandmother handed me the virginal ciggie chug at age five and ever since I’ve coughed at the inhale. I sleep like Dumbo so have never taken knock-out drugs… ie. I’m Captain Vanilla when it comes to the up in headlights addictions. Check-in at 1am though and you’ll find me scouring skyscanner.com for the cheapest minimal stopover sky-express to Mumbai.

My name is Josh… I’m a flight-a-holic.

It’s not about tray-top dinner attraction or in-flight latest releases with trolly dolly ice-cream. If we could skip the 30,000ft couch surf even the First Classers would all say yes with a cherry on top. It’s the ‘different’ that awaits you at any given destination.

Once out of Tertiary education territory our brains typically quick-set in concrete. The doors of possibility bolt shut as we statistically slip into Trueman-ville. New input becomes a rare and forgotten prospect. Sure we can Google Map lost civilisations and Jurassic islands, but that’s been available since our school libraries were floor to ceiling packed full of Encyclopedia Britannica.

At Machu Picchu I witnessed an elderly couple’s faces light up like pre-pubescents in lollified Darrell Lea as they caught their first glimpse of the mountain hugging Incan architectural mastery. Nothing can replace that sparkle of ‘new’… Travel and its sense of discovery is one of the last bastions of untarnished left in our over-connected, inter-mixed, know-everything wired-in lives.

A friend commented the other day his younger Melbourne-raised cousin was in town and he’d been slandering Sydney’s wine bar, coffee and culture offerings. Really? If Melbourne were the paper cutout of Bondi.com would we bother to jet to one another’s cities? Zip it kiddo and say thanks for the diversity.

I’m often asked how the hell I afford this indulgent life. It’s easy. Sydney’s stupidly expensive. Jump to India or Peru, the Greek Islands or even NYC (stay with a good mate) and you’ll live like a King. Last week I bought two far from discounted pairs of denim and four tees on Broadway walking away with change from a $100 bill. In Oz that buys you a stitched leg and perhaps a pocket.

It’s not the sunbed cocktail by the pool with robe that makes us travel. There’s far too much packing, taxi-ing, shared in-flight burping snoring and farting with destination turmoil involved in getting from A to B. It’s the need for removal from what has become way too same. Time takes on a far richer stocking stuffer when we jump ship to our glossy catalogue end of the line hub de fabulousness.

Do yourself a favour. Jump on Google right now and check out that European cobbled city you’ve always wanted to stroll on a balmy summer’s eve, that plummeting canyon you’ve always wanted to climb, that infinity pool you’ve lusted to lap… it’s got your name written all over it.

Enjoy. Live. Love.

Join me for a short series of street-side snaps from my strolls here and there…

The Patriot

5th Avenue

Atlas

Beautybillboard.com

Empire S.

Urban Green

Up in the sky...

42nd

Grand Central

Beatles Tribute

9/11 on the mend

The Menders

Rememberers

Downtown

Big Red Bike

Details

Meatpack

Visual Merchandiser

Sharpie

Black

Installed

Corner Soup

West Side

Walkies

Steamer

Joe

Scores

Lower East

The Highline

Close as I got to Liberty

Enjoy. Live. Love.

Welcome to the hiking superhighway. A government-capped 500 International Inca aspirationals depart Cusco city in Southern Peru everyday to begin the rather arduous 4 day Machu Picchu trek. That’s over 180,000 intrepidicious, designer-brand clad, $500USD a pop experience seekers zipping in from around the globe to reach on their final day’s ascent the Inca Sun Gate, the first vista point of the most jaw-dropping wonder of the world… Machu Picchu. Statistically the Inca built MP is the numero uno must-see old-stuff tourist ticket for South America, which means big dollars for the Peruvian government pocket.

If you’d trekked the same trail just 15 years ago you’d have camped amongst the 500+ year old ruins, played football on the semi-wild grassy terraced flats and used the high priest’s well-preserved amenities for a post Inca Cola pit stop (The Peruvian Coca-Cola alternative… big bottles of vitamin B-loaded sugar-packed urine-tinted crap). Today however there’s a strict no food on-site policy (that only the French seem to ignore), no dunnies, a sizeable $40USD entrance fee and strict opening hours. And you can’t just rock up for the trip… there’s a 3 month waiting list for a foot in the door on the classic Inca trail.

So rock up we did. A complete disgrace to my usual Virgo travelled self. Fortunately the lastminute.com-ers are now catered for with options for less-traversed alternative route treks, still with an ‘all roads lead to Rome’ policy with your final destination of MP. After trawling the plethora of Cusco’s trekking agencies… seriously big business for this tourism focused town… we opted for the 4 day Lares trek. Lares involves ascending and descending to a chart-topping 4,600m enduring microclimates from barren to botanical. The focus is on interaction with small caught in a time-warp villages still living a traditional existence (with the recent plug-in bonus of electricity), and sharing this with a bunch of 6 other adventure seeking internationals.

On the first night of post 1,200m thigh slaughter my camera battery was going cold turkey. How dare this gargantuan terrain be so damn photogenic. I wandered next door to the neighboring stone cottage of our camp site in search of volts. As the front door of sorts swung open I was greeted by the squeal of Guinea Pigs as they scattered for cover under rocks, firewood and furniture… little gringo haters. The stove flickered and the stagnant aromas of urine, raw alpaca fleece, chamomile, chicken ‘pollo’ soup and occasionally washed human filled the air. A single wire strung from the grass-covered ceiling led to a 4-plug power pack. For a few Soles ($0.50AUD) I parked my charger in the remaining slot. It’s amazing how only a few words of Español and some serious finger pointing can equal a few minutes of conversation.

It’s tricky with such a fleeting pass-through to connect with a reality so removed from your own. At times it’s like the cameras are rolling… you’re on the set of the latest authentic how-they-lived documentary. We slip in for a slice of someone else’s lifetime so vastly different from our world of convenience, law and infrastructure. This doesn’t mean our lives are any more fulfilled. I’ve seen plenty of cultures with so little offering strangers the biggest smiles and sparkle. Although, surely introducing the convenience of a hot shower and a feather pillow wouldn’t cause too much damage.

Before dinner we were lucky to be welcomed as gringo guests to attend a local village wedding. Consider crashing a local Sydney wedding reception at Quay or perhaps Catalina next time you’re strolling by and happy snapping one with the bride… I don’t think so. It’s a beautiful thing to be invited to witness such a personal community celebration. Inka Cola and Sprite flowed freely as little one’s pupils dilated with the sugar rush. Platters of hot-off-the-coals roast piggy circulated amongst the crowd as nail-biting awful local tunes were screamed by Miss Inca Princess 2011 into a 1970’s PA. Did I say how awful that was? The family commune was alive with colour dominated by rich magentas and rainbow stitched detail. Celebrations are kept simple though. Within a few hours the bride and groom had already left, I assume to get it on in the matrimonial guinea pig abundant mountain suite.

Day two was the hum-dinger. A gradual ascent up the gargantuan valley was at first pleasant. Little entrepreneurs along the way of no more than 5 years old would stand with buckets containing a beer, a Gatorade and water. What else would you want on the upward slog? A few candies handed their way brings beams of semi-expected yet extremely shy gratitude. Another hour passes on the upward climb and we’re alone as nature’s green disappears and low-slung clouds engulf the rocky terrain. Snow is scattered in patches. Another ½ hour and it’s sleeting. At this point I’m loving my multi-layered fleece action… anything labeled thermal in my pack is currently zipped and velcro’d to the max. It’s bloody cold.

3 hours later, after second-guessing the peak of the pass we reached the 4,600m summit. It’s fucking freezing (that’s a few degrees less than blooding cold) but what an adrenalin-fuelled achievement. Of course as we celebrate two local lads in open toed sandals and t-shirts shuffle on by. Such pathetic tourists.

It’s a slip n’ slide down the other side of the pass with mules, guide and our support crew on the overtake to prepare lunch. These tour operators have been refining the hike experience for some 20 years. Gone are the packet noodle soups and stale bread. On arrival to camp the dunny tent’s first to be built, swiftly followed by the mess and kitchen – a pop-up mountain-side diner in under 10 minutes. Straight away the chef + assistant are at it… chopping, boiling and stewing local-ish tummy pleasers. A typical dinner spread included fresh pumpkin, asparagus or quinoa soup followed by platters of rice, yams, vegetables, meat or fish and a slightly random dessert, all washed down with mugs of coca (legal cocaine) tea.

Fast track to day four and we’re up at dawn’s crack for the final ascent – in a Mercedes Benz bus. Being the Plan B adventure we arrive at Machu Picchu on wheels rather than by foot, with the option to hike to the Sun Gate Inca Trail arrival point. Sure you can do a 3D fly-through of MP thanks to Google Earth, but like most travel experiences, nothing beats the awe-inspiring feet on ground ‘being there’ moment.

Clouds ascended like silent oversized blimps from the sheer valley depths below and lamas lazed about awaiting the next pat thanks to some don’t spit at the tourists training. As we strolled the site all around us were immense carved stone terraces, solace-aligned temples, sundials and aquaducts… all constructed with near perfect truck-sized boulders assembled with jigsaw precision. The wonder of this strangely deserted site which, when 80% complete, was deserted by the Inca elite and their entourage due to the impending Spanish invasion.

OK so that’s five of the seven ‘New7Wonders of the World’ ticked:

• Machu Picchu, Peru
• Great Wall of China, China
• Petra, Jordan
• Colosseum, Italy
• Taj Mahal, India
• Great Pyramid of Giza, Egypt

• Chichen Itza, Mexico
• Christ the Redeemer, Brazil

Sure my retirement fund isn’t quite where it could be but the experience fund is reaping the rewards. Care to join me for Mexico and Brazil in 2012?

Enjoy. Live. Hike. Love.

The descent begins

A young Aussie backpacker died recently on his ascent of the towering canyon that stood before my rather small self. He was a mere twenty something ‘unstoppable’ who chose to Conan this 3 day trek alone. It happens. You’re travelling, you’re free of any burden, you’re king of the world and nothing is too dangerous. This would’ve been the last thing his family and friends would have considered a reality when they bid him au revoir, backpack and Lonely Planet in hand to explore the globe.

Ok so that’s not exactly the most comforting story to be told by your guide at 5.15am before starting the final 1,200m climb of an adventure. The reality is there’s a few foreigners who perish every year taking on these once Inca worshipped God-like peaks, but 100s of others huff n’ puff the zigzagged rocky path every month –  out of breath – but minus injury.

Bit of village luxury

Head torch on. Thermals layered. Water bottle to the tilt. I gazed upwards to the star-lit silhouette of the canyon ridgeline and spotted a gaggle of ascending specks of light. The group who left an hour prior is already halfway to the peak… we were hot on their trail.

In our pack were 3 Aussies, my Swiss, two Spaniards and a local Peruvian guide. These lucky dip ensembles can go either way but this time we scored. When it’s good, these shared experiences can mean the best moments on the road – when you get the time to ‘Before Sunrise’ new friendships that will often only last the duration of the trip. These are rich encounters that are far more relevant than the Facebook ‘25 words or less’ comments we attempt to share with onliners along the way.

Left, right, left, right, left. I struggle to remove an over-mesmerised gaze from the stupid reflectors on the hiker’s boots in front of me. It’s back to Celene Dion’s ‘All by Myself’ on nail-biting loop in my over active mind-mess. Josh… breathe. Finally an hour upwards I stopped to witness a true Jesus moment. The sun set to work illuminating the 5,000m peaks across the canyon as the wings of an eagle soared overhead. Just God damn gorgeousness.

The descent begins

Colca Canyon is big. To give you a sense of it’s bigness, at more than 4,100m from top to bottom it’s more than double the depth of the Grand Canyon in the US. It sits in the southern ranges of Peru that for 9 to 10 months of the year are void of rain. Picture a dusty, barren, rock-everywhere, full of cacti and other hard core surviving botanicals (including the Eucalypt introduced by the Spaniards… random patriotic moment) landscape.

Mountain people dating back to pre-Inca times (think 500+ years) still inhabit small villages along the meandering Colca River. The two we visited only connected to the electricity grid 18 months ago. Local costume is 80s tribute bright… think feisty hot pinks, lime-loving greens, perfect clear day cyans, bling’d up silver thread detail and intricate embroidered traditional patterns.

We were lucky to spot several massive Andean Condors soaring the near perfect thermals of the canyon. With their 3m wingspans there’s little flap-about involved in their flight. A wing tilt here, a minute adjustment of tail there… all executed with innate precision that equates to perfect grace in the air. They are now protected by the national parks, and as they prefer a carcass over the hunt, our recently introduced entrance fee covers the slaughter of a donkey or two per day to feed these meat lovers. How delightful… what’s for dinner?

I'm climbing that?

Along our journey we stayed in the villages with meals provided by the Collaguas people. They were prepared on traditional clay stoves and our chef had more than six pots on the go at once… that’s some serious woodfire’d multitasking. Think simple potato and vegetable broths, alpaca curry, a meat similar to a tough as guts mutton off-cut… but tasty thanks to the salt on roids addition, loads of rice, beans and carrots, and chicha. What’s chicha? It’s a slightly odd but tasty and refreshing fermented corn drink. It can vary greatly in alcohol content. For the kids they’ll brew the goods for one or two days. For the big people it’s a week or three. Locals would work the fields taking regular breaks to throw down a glass of corn punch, and work would stop when they’d ultimately pass out. Maybe we should consider introducing the work/liquer reward concept into the Western workplace… “Great typing thanks Margaret” said Dr Rogers to his assistant at 10am Monday morning… “Here’s a pint”.

Enough of the Wikipedia-nabbed trivia/tummy talk. Back to the huff and puff.

Another hour of upward slog and the peak was a mere 50m away. First and second place were already trophy’d by the two Byron Bay’ers. Third had to be mine. A mouthful of gummy bears and a rub of the hands in hope of re-gaining circulation… the glucose kicked and the pins turbo’d to the top. The rush of the conquer is a quiet and unbeatable moment of joy. Halfway to the top you’re questioning why one would pay for such a slaughter. Reach the finish line and you’re already considering the next challenge.

As my first touch base with South America, Peru is certainly serving up the magic. Up until now I had little understanding of the people, the culture, the landscape or the climate. At school our education focused on Europe, World Wars and gold rushes. So quick-sticks Josh… there’s plenty more mountains to be explored, Amazonian rivers to be rafted, people whose lives that have changed little over time to meet, some serious Spanish to try and absorb into concrete head, and too many photos and stories to be shared along the way.

Been down the South American road? Share with me a tale of your journey. Until next time…

Enjoy. Live Love.

Final few metres & the hiking crew

"Yes I'll have the tray of up-chuck thanks"

It’s all aboard the get me outta here travel train. I’m finally back on the road cruising at 35,000ft over some ridiculously large mass of ocean suffering chicken or beef cattle class. For the Sydney to LAX sector I’ve sidelined my usual ‘fly with style thanks to Dad’ upgradable benefits, instead charging this one to the Frequent Flyers accumulated tab.

I’ve been super spoilt when it comes to the international jet set. It’s entirely my parent’s fault. They planted a seed back in the 70s when air travel was regarded as special, dressing us in our Sunday finery be our destination Brissie or the London long-haul. I know air culture has changed with price accessability and massive improvements in global coverage, but just because you’re Bali bound doesn’t give anyone the right to skip the shower, slap on a Bonds n’ stubbies and snore like a comatose elephant for 8hrs (a true ‘sitting next to me’ unfortunate experience). On that note could the girl sardine-canned next to me please refrain from using my shoulder as her snuggle blankie… was that a dribble?

Friends are surprised when I tell them for this sojourn I’ll be international-ing for ‘only’ 6 weeks. What? Have I suddenly become a major Glomadic lightweight? Will I see so little having allowed myself such a stupidly small amount of time to be on the road of discovery?

Call my reality a little too ‘wouldn’t hurt a ladybug’, but I’d be foreign bound a whole lot longer if it weren’t for my whisker’d ones back in Sydders. This time the fur-balls have successfully guilt-tripped my return date. My rather generous… make that very generous Mother (I know she’s reading this so an important self-correction) has done some serious kid-replacing feline babysitting these last few years. I’ve played that card and now need to step up to grown-up duties.

Right now I’ve touched down after final descent… first sector ticked. I’m stuck in transit at LAX, about 10hours away from planting virginal hiking boots, black and charcoal of course, on Peruvian soil. I’ll be cutting a sliver of the South American Pie and storing it in my travel experience vault. Seriously unexplored Josh territory. I can’t wait to stroll down the streets of Cusco and feel the sparkle of old. That child-like wonder of the yet to be experienced. We deny our brains the feed as it lies, for the most part of our day-to-day buzz-about dormant, eagerly awaiting the unknown… the new… the joy of the unfamiliar.

I was at a mate’s 40^th recently chatting away to a fellow late 30s comrade as he admitted, with eyebrows raised, a shackled sigh and the veritable wave of a white flag that his life had become a ground-hog’d blur. The years are flying by, and “Do I feel it too?” he asked… fishing for support. Do I feel time just slipping away where once it was rich and full of experience? Of course I do when inevitably the motions of daily grind become innate and lacking presence, I’m only human… but for the most part no. It takes effort, but whether it be jumping continents, taking the day off mid week to be with your kid, organizing a weekend away with mates or going to an art gallery… all of these steps outside the darks or whites and mortgage repayments are what makes our lives lived, real, rich, fulfilled, shared and connected.

Ok Josh Murray take a Ashram-homage chill pill. It’s been 24hrs of travel time. You’ve downed 5 in-flight meals of re-heated less than consumable cuisine. Oh hang on I’ll see if I can Google the recipe for that luke/puke warm chicken and leek bake (cue dramatic reach for the barf bag). Neil Perry please just a simple piece of ginger and coriander steamed chicken with brown rice, perhaps a side of Kylie Kwong lightly pickled vegetables and a dumpling or dozen.

I consider the un-experienced vast continents of South America and Africa as exactly that… two oversized blocks of land chunk surrounded by ocean. Forget the contained countries, 100s of different dialects, ecosystems and climates, wildlife, cuisine, art and political state… they don’t really stick or have any personal resonance until seen with your own eyes. So this trip is about polite introductions to South America focusing on Peru and Bolivia.

One of the big inspirations for this expedition was Gael Garcia Bernal’s The Motor Cycle Diaries, depicting 23yo Medical Student Che Guevara’s 1952 journey 8,000kms across the continent with his mate Alberto Granado on a clapped up motorbike. From the buzz of Buenos Aires to Venezuela… this is a beautifully inspiring piece of film is a must see.

From the soaring Andean snow-capped Peaks, to the snaking wildlife-abundant Amazon River, the perched masses of Lake Titikaka and barren nothing-ness of its Pisco desert coastal green-free moonscapes, Peru I’m sure will be an incredibly diverse National Geographic approved first point of call. From there it’s onto Bolivia. Right now it’s exactly that… a capital city of La Paz and some apparently breathtaking Salt Flats. More on that in the next few weeks.

Right. Bucket seat’s reclined 5.7˚. It’s time for some attempted post B-Grade flick vertical shut-eye. Looking forward to sharing some up and coming adventures with you.

Enjoy. Live. Love.

Right enough whinge, whine n’ gloat – this week I’m stepping off my soapbox and into my comfortable eat-shoes (although with a damn cold all I really crave at the moment is dairy free and bland). Here’s a collection of Josh’s fave Sydney bites worth the post-stuffed-up hike.

Photo. gastronomousanonymous.com

Din Tai Fung
Dish: Silken Tofu with Pork Floss & Century Eggs

Being the Din Tai Fung aficionado (critiques be gone… accept the goodness), when dropping by for a dumpling feed last week my accompanying comrade requested I do the order honours. The usual pork and prawn steamed dumplings de deliciousness were on the tick list, as were the stir-fried pork and beans, but the piece de strangeness was ordered to entrée our Taiwanese culinary escapade… mmmmmm silken tofu with pork floss and century eggs.

Drag me here five years ago and it would have been “Err I don’t fink so”. Fast forward to 2011 and this plate is my serious drool-bringer-oner-er. The delicate jelly-esque purity of the chilled silken tofu texture plays with the sinister, heavily seeped tea-coloured salty slimery of the pungent century eggs (say that five times with a mouthful of marbles). They’re the oyster of the egg cooking collective. You’ll either kill for them or run a mile with nose pegged.

Century eggs (皮蛋) are made by preserving the mortal egg – be it chicken quail or duck – in a mixture of salt, lime, ash and rice hulls for a few funkafied months. During this hibernation period they morph into devourable wrongness. The yolk turns a muddy jade with a thick creamy texture encased in a transparent brown ‘white’.

Then there’s the topping hair mess of pork floss. I remember joking with friends in a Chingaling supermarket years ago when on a mission to find the most off the rails in-store ingredient. There it sat in front of me…. Mmmm sweet, salty, grown-up definitely not-for-the-playground pork floss.

Authentic Pork Floss involves slowly simmering pork shoulder (nice n fatty bit) then shredding it, chucking in some serious sugar, salt and Chinese rice wine then dry frying it in a wok for about an hour. The meat and wok lovers’ tribute to traditional Polenta elbow grease.

644 George Street, Sydney NSW 2000
(02) 9264 6010

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Billy Kwong
Dish: Mrs Jang’s Home-style Fried Eggs

There’s a theme emerging here of eggs and Chinese dining. Here’s to lack of diversity I say. These fried eggs are beyond the regular-approved yum. With the intense heat of wok oil these biodynamic free-rangers blossom into puffs of crispy golden interspersed with the textural immersion of creamy yolks. This is all splattered with organic oyster sauce then sprinked with the flavour anointing garnish of spring onions, coriander and ‘hello!’ red chillis. Grab the accompanying steamed rice and dive into this amazeballs dish.

3/355 Crown Street, Surry Hills NSW 2010
(02) 9332 3300

Photo. foodformybelly.blogspot.com

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Gelati Messina
Dish: Yoghurt and Caramel Gelato

It took me a few months to venture back to Gelati Messina after they slaughtered their original launch branding. It’s still there today in all its Bauhaus-esque re-designed hideousness, but it’s complete lack of taste fails miserably at keeping away the sweet-tooth’d hoards. Three serious-sized glass counters display the a to z of flavour indulgence… but don’t let the vastness of offering fool you.

There’s the Salted Caramel that’s worth a notable mention as is the smoothness of the Tuscan summer coloured Pistachio… but I’ll cut to the chase. The Yoghurt and Caramel Gelato is sex in a cone. Drop everything. Yes even the Maggie Beer Burnt Fig, Honeycomb and Caramel… hide it in the fridge and drive. I’m talking the ‘just-enough’ bite of a lightly vanilla’d yoghurt gelato with daubs of the double creamiest caramel. God damn just writing that makes me reach for the car keys.

It’s a definite don’t share.

241 Victoria Street, Darlinghurst NSW 2010
(02) 8354 1223

Photo. keight-margarita.blogspot.com

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Laneway Café Kings Cross
Dish: Corned Beef Sandwich 

Despite the girl down on her knees screaming for everyone to “Fuck off!”, intent on finding something down the drain next to me on my last visit – for the whole duration of my eat – this little Melbourne-approved King’s Cross hole in the wall laneway-ery is a must visit made with consideration eatery. I love being asked the simple and earnest question “How was your dish?”. You know the askee really gives a shit. Sydney I wish this were a far less rare experience.

Every second Friday a group from my soon to be extinct studio space in Surry Hills traipse up the hill to the laneway across the street from the infamous King’s Cross Fountain. Mission? The Corned Beef Sandwich.

There’s no soggy slabs of dough on this meat-lovers’ number, this little baby’s made fresh to order. Corned beef flavoured with hints of clove, bay leaves, peppercorns and good old onions thinly sliced and lumped between two slabs of the finest sourdough. There’s definitely mustard and dill pickles, as well as some secret herbs and spices in the mix to make this happy tummy midday pleaser sing. Worth the rather kooky visit.

Llankelly Place, Kings Cross NSW 2010

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Infinity Bakery
Dish: Flourless Choccie Cake 

The Infinity ‘open all hours’ Bakery screams un-fussy n’ honest. You never really understand who works here but somehow the offering continues to remain consistent and shine. Ah fond memories of 4am return home strolls picking the olives off my kalamata and onion sourdough cob come flooding back. Next dinner screw wine and demand to bring dessert. Swing by the Infinite one to grab this chocolate devourableness. There’s a good weight to every bite without that ‘Jesus did you need the superglue’ mouth of mud annoyance too often experienced with suburban lesser grade results. You can buy the whole damn cake or order by the slice.

225 Victoria Street, DARLINGHURST NSW, 2010

Photo. tracesofdarlo.blogspot.com

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Malibu
Dish: Chicken Schnitzel Sandwich

They’re big, gutsy and the finest on the block. Malibu’s sandwiches are packed to the crust. The Schnitzel number crams between two perfect dough slabs a mix of greenery including avocado, rocket and romas with the flavour additions of Swiss cheese, succulent schnitzel and a whole egg mayonnaise.

Check out that counter… did someone say bags of lettuce? No question about it… you’ll need to queue.

62-64 Foster Street, Surry Hills NSW 2010
(02) 9280 2233

Photo. beancounterinsydney.wordpress.com

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Il Baretto
Dish: Spagetti Arrabbiata

I’m over Sydney under-raters. This Italian simplery is all about a honest tasty Italian feed. Their pastas are super cheap and make the plate-loads at Bill & Tony’s look like dogfood (granted that doesn’t take too much talent). Their carb-loaded standards include Napoletana, Bolognese and a Duck Ragu. My favourite though is the cheeky kick of chilli in the man-size Spagetti Arrabbiata. Benne!

496 Bourke Street, Surry Hills NSW 2010
(02) 9361 6163

Photo. ilbarettosurryhills.blogspot.com

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I’ve re-read my listings and think I’m becoming somewhat of an old ham. When I’m back from exploring the lofty heights to the river hugging jungle floors of South America it’s off with the saggy old leather slip ons and back on with some rather smart walk abouts to dive into the new. Feel free to call me and take me out for dinner… I’m great conversation ☺.

Let me know know what I’ve missed – this is Sydney – you’ll all have your credible additions.

Enjoy. Eat. Live. Love.

The clock is well into its tick for many of my peers traversing the propagate trail as they dive headfirst into the latter echelons of ‘the 30s’. Right now within their ranks a mixed bag of non-refundable decisions are being made. For some it’s Swiss time’d perfection… everything’s in place including the Danish cot which thankfully matches the fluffy flocked Marimekko wallpaper. For the other lastminutewantbaby.com’ers it’s a trawl through Craig’s List’s (I think that’s double apostrophised) personals for a ‘you’ll do’ shack-mate.

As a group we were first off the post-baby boomer production line to release the shackles of our parent’s early 20s marriage requirements. Instead we saved for around the world tickets and continent-hopping Eurail passes to run with Bulls in Pamplona, drink bodyweights at Oktoberfest then crazy-shake it in Ko Pha Ngan… when the Full Moon Party was a ticket-free event.

This put-me-first philosophy endured the 10 years leading into our early three zeros with high flying careers, mortgages, weekenders, shopping in Paris (via New York), more dining out than in, bachelor pad extreme makeovers and a fair few recovering Sundays from too many all-nighters.

So now what? We own our journey. No one’s told us what to do. It’s been super dooper awesome. But we’ve noticed there’s a shift happening all around us. The mates who once DJ’d the coolest bars and clubs have eBay’d the decks and are online comparative shopping for Bugaboos. Those once renowned for shoving a few grams up the schnozzer for breakfast have sold the Mini coupé for a brick-like Subaru wagon downgrade.

The time has come to multiply.

For some the major ‘breed’ hurdle’s been tackled as far as finding the necessary co-creating match. These fast-tracked love bugs are running/have run the mad egg and spoon race to reproduce. For the ‘sloppy seconds’ still seeking their ‘you’ll do’ there’s a scramble to walk anything with opposing genitalia down the isle. As for the leftovers? A certain level of imminent semi-selfish resolve awaits their acceptance. But can they truly live a happy and fulfilled existence minus a few little ‘uns biting at their ankles?

The other weekend I arrived at a mate’s 40th birthday to the sound of a dozen or so under 5s charging inside the front gate. At the entrance stood mother-to-be with bump taking a breather… both hands on her lower back gazing towards the sky. “How’s it going?” I enquired, the ‘it’ immediately assumed to be the bump. “God I’m so sick of everyone asking me that!” (Cue slightly awkward pause and quick search for the get me out of here button). “Fuck…sorry. My backs killing me. I can’t stand all these out of control kids.” If I’d had a pack of fags I’d have offered her a handful. This woman was having a moment of ‘I’m only human’. Just because her baby’s on its way doesn’t mean a simple skip down the yellow brick road. You’re stuck sleeping on your back, everything expands and stretches, all the goodness is being sucked out of you and your cravings go haywire. A girlfriend of mine regularly immersed herself in K-mart’s car tyre isle as she suffered a serious 9-month penchant for the smell of rubber.

Hello birth. 10 pre-natal classes, 100 Buddhist how-to self-push books, a few downward dogs, zero sushi or triple cream unpasturised Brie and some serious incense-inspired breathing technique. The pop-out can take a few hours of focused contraction, but for others? 24hours later they’re black eyed and ready to pack the bags for Pethidine-ville. It’s far from anyone’s happy place to fathom squeezing a soccer ball through a straw. Having my appendix out earlier this year was the closest I will ever come to experiencing the pain of pre-birth… I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

Finally post-push you’re home nestled in the comfort of your own four walls. You soon realise all the reading and advice you’ve been given can safely be doused in petrol. This is Captain Cook unchartered territory. Say adios to those precious 7.5hr sleeping patterns. You’ll be changing double-figure’d screaming nappies every week, nursing over-chewed nipples, you’ll be awake at times that should be illegal, and at the end of every day have zero thanks for your effort. Your sex life will struggle to run the gauntlet and you’ll discover your partner’s newfound ability to snore like a rhinoceros.

Thank God for mothers’ group (What ever happened to fathers’ groups?). Let the competitive mummy games begin. Suddenly it’s no longer about you. How could you possibly have any interests. It’s time to plan Jack or Jill’s future in piano, soccer, Mandarin, ballet, debating, basketball, gymnastics and public speaking. You demand the best teachers. Don’t waste my time… just tell they will be a brain surgeon.

Fast forward to ‘the teens’ … you’ve recently been crowned arse end of the universe by your pimple’d disaster. You’re uncool, irritating, an embarrassment, you drive the wrong car, say the wrong things, don’t wear the right clothes, ask way too many questions, are far too controlling, your friends talk too much and you still try to kiss them goodbye in the morning in front of all their mates. Yuk!

They’re finished studies and, following in your footsteps for once, hit the international circuit. It’s been life changing living in London but now it’s time to come home. They’ve run out of cash for the return flight and have rung up a tax debt that needs zero-ing before departure. The hand digs deep into your pocket. They’re back… a little wiser, sporting a significant sleeve tattoo and penniless, look forward to your recently converted study being reclaimed as their offspring boudoir for the next year whilst they try to get a grip on ‘Life beyond the road’ (hmmmm… that part sounds familiar).

So can you make this process less dramatic? With our generation’s stronger sense of self and lesser need to conform it could mean a more forward thinking, more family committed, easy going next generation. Or it could mean a bunch of Google Map hoppers who’ve already seen it all with nothing left to experience beyond the couch.

It’s possible we spend too much time fighting animal instinct and the innate desire to breed with the quest for greater intelligence. Or maybe with our more modern schools of thought and greater personal freedom we’ve just been given more lateral space to be selfish. Either way breeding is in our blood. On a functional food chain level it’s what we’re here for. For those of us not on that journey it’s still ok… we’re still kinda worth having around to entertain the breeders with fabulous dinner parties and interior decorating tips.

Last weekend I sat at the piano with my mate’s little 3 year old boy Rocket singing and playing Baa Baa Black Sheep together. No words can describe the joy in his face, or for that matter in mine. A double magic moment. Sure I haven’t changed a single diaper, wiped up any of his up-chucks, taken him to the doctor at 3am or suffered the endless nights of disturbance. But it’s the little slices of joy in these shared moments that reminds us why it’s all… the good and the damn right awful… completely worthwhile.

Enjoy. Live. Breed. Love.