Sydney, Australia
I’m a star for a millisecond. My face will be on TV in a month, smiling, clapping and shown every half hour for a flash as the camera pans. I am the faces of the Virgin mobile ad campaign. I say faces because computer graphics will be used to make dozens of me for use in massive crowd scenes. I signed up for my millisecond (literally) of fame because I saw the words “FAME-FREE FOOD-VIRGIN” printed on an advert in the hostel. When I read the whole thing through I found it promised free food and drink to star in a Virgin Mobile advert. I set of with one of the motley crew, those of us who are the more eccentric long-term residents at the hostel, and we went to seek our fame.
At the auditorium where the ad was shot all the cast had a chance to meet each other. It turned out that while half of the extras where grubby backpackers, the other half were paid actors who had agents. It was a strange mix that sat there as the camera started rolling and we were instructed on what to do. I still don’t really know what the plot of the advert was but it seemed to be a game show involving txt messaging where we were the audience. Because it costs money for extras they could not afford entire crowd scenes and we had to change seats every five minutes to fill up the hall so computer graphics could be added to make it look full. We clapped, cheered sighed and more for almost eight hours non stop before someone felt sorry for us and we were released.
I realize that I don’t want to do that job again without a large amount of money changing hands. Sitting around all day is not my idea of a good job (I know, I wouldn’t have said that last year) and since working with Simon I feel I need to be challenged. It was interesting however, to see what goes on behind the scenes of a TV advert and I appreciate how hard they are to make.
Friday, February 20, 2004
Yamba. When I set off for this town it was just a name to me, somewhere nice to learn to surf. Speeding through the countryside I discussed many things with Simon, particularly my interactions with others. One of the biggest topics however was silence, and I spent a lot of time learning to be perceptive of the world around me.
First we lurched through Sydney in rush hour traffic, the sun rising slowly and lighting up the harbor bridge as we passed. I love the houses in Sydney, every one designed it seems by a different architect and placed together like those model villages for train sets. I guess Sydney is like a showcase for different architecture, for everything seems to be here. Roofs of tin, tile or asphalt, walls of wood and brick painted a myriad of different pastel colors. Then there are the skyscrapers that seem to sprout like pine trees above the forest of suburbia.
On leaving the city we come to open fields that turn into densely wooded hills and back again. The trees are lush and green, a fact that hides the harsh droughts that savage this amazing land. I look out as we drive and see cows sheltering under leafy trees and horses grazing in rolling fields and I feel glad to be here.
I realize I am grateful for being sent away from school. If I had not left I would not be working as hard, I would not be pushing myself farther every day as I do now and I would not have seen Australia. I always imagined it as a land of desert with an opera house and a large rock as its only recognizable features. I imagined it populated by a freak show of animals and crocodile hunters with cork hats. My preconceptions have since vanished and I am now starting to adapt to this strange land that seems full of happiness and goodwill.
The wooded countryside gave way to immense cane fields, the smell of burning sugar wafting across from the brown stack of a refinery. The car glides over steel bridges, the station wagon’s shadow hitting the muddy rivers far below. And what rivers. Wide stretches of brown winding though mangrove swamps and past riverside houses and farms built along their banks. At both sides of the highway lie fruit stands selling watermelons, pineapples, and whole hands of bananas. We gaze at the painted plywood signs tempting us with cheap prices if we pull over. The thought of the water drives us onwards.
Finally we arrive in Yamba and start our adventure of schoolbooks and surfboards. This quaint surf village with its cafes, pubs and surf shops, hides some of the best surf in Australia. Unknown to most tourists, many good surfers sneak off to Yamba to ride the waves that end on its pristine beaches and we have come to join them.
First we lurched through Sydney in rush hour traffic, the sun rising slowly and lighting up the harbor bridge as we passed. I love the houses in Sydney, every one designed it seems by a different architect and placed together like those model villages for train sets. I guess Sydney is like a showcase for different architecture, for everything seems to be here. Roofs of tin, tile or asphalt, walls of wood and brick painted a myriad of different pastel colors. Then there are the skyscrapers that seem to sprout like pine trees above the forest of suburbia.
On leaving the city we come to open fields that turn into densely wooded hills and back again. The trees are lush and green, a fact that hides the harsh droughts that savage this amazing land. I look out as we drive and see cows sheltering under leafy trees and horses grazing in rolling fields and I feel glad to be here.
I realize I am grateful for being sent away from school. If I had not left I would not be working as hard, I would not be pushing myself farther every day as I do now and I would not have seen Australia. I always imagined it as a land of desert with an opera house and a large rock as its only recognizable features. I imagined it populated by a freak show of animals and crocodile hunters with cork hats. My preconceptions have since vanished and I am now starting to adapt to this strange land that seems full of happiness and goodwill.
The wooded countryside gave way to immense cane fields, the smell of burning sugar wafting across from the brown stack of a refinery. The car glides over steel bridges, the station wagon’s shadow hitting the muddy rivers far below. And what rivers. Wide stretches of brown winding though mangrove swamps and past riverside houses and farms built along their banks. At both sides of the highway lie fruit stands selling watermelons, pineapples, and whole hands of bananas. We gaze at the painted plywood signs tempting us with cheap prices if we pull over. The thought of the water drives us onwards.
Finally we arrive in Yamba and start our adventure of schoolbooks and surfboards. This quaint surf village with its cafes, pubs and surf shops, hides some of the best surf in Australia. Unknown to most tourists, many good surfers sneak off to Yamba to ride the waves that end on its pristine beaches and we have come to join them.
Friday, February 13, 2004
Sydney, Australia
Since I have arrived in Sydney I have changed. I am not saying I am a different person but certainty I feel like one. I am stronger; physically as well as mentally, to a degree I would not have thought possible even two months ago. I arrived in Sydney believing to be as strong and fit as I ever would be, thinking that exercise wouldn’t make a difference. I managed to lift myself halfway up the pull up bar the first time, the week after I had done one and now I can do five or more.
My coordination is improving to the extent that I can block a punch with a flick of my wrist and ride a bucking surfboard into the beach. This though is just the start of what I can and have achieved. Mentally I have felt myself changing and evolving, seen my writing skills improve each and every day. I see that my bag is always full of things I need and empty of those I don’t. I am on time or less than half an hour late now and I know I can do a lot more than I first thought. I used to cringe and freeze up when I tried to edit my work but now I do it voluntarily. I used to think I would never find living by myself and cooking easy, but thanks to Simon's coaching I do.
One of the achievements I am most proud of is that I now know I am clever and that people respect me. For the first time in my life it seems that many people are glad to see me and what’s more I think they regard me as an equal. I believe this change is due to the fact I regard myself as their equal and therefore I am. This is important to me because if you are not equal to someone you can never truly be friends with him or her. The truth I now know is that I was always equal but either they or I believed otherwise. The good thing about all this is that it is just the start, the tip of the iceberg and I will continue to grow in ways I cannot yet imagine. Everything seems clear now I know this, now I see that I am equal to everyone I meet, now I can do anything. I finally come to the achievement that outshines all others: I like myself for who I am.
Since I have arrived in Sydney I have changed. I am not saying I am a different person but certainty I feel like one. I am stronger; physically as well as mentally, to a degree I would not have thought possible even two months ago. I arrived in Sydney believing to be as strong and fit as I ever would be, thinking that exercise wouldn’t make a difference. I managed to lift myself halfway up the pull up bar the first time, the week after I had done one and now I can do five or more.
My coordination is improving to the extent that I can block a punch with a flick of my wrist and ride a bucking surfboard into the beach. This though is just the start of what I can and have achieved. Mentally I have felt myself changing and evolving, seen my writing skills improve each and every day. I see that my bag is always full of things I need and empty of those I don’t. I am on time or less than half an hour late now and I know I can do a lot more than I first thought. I used to cringe and freeze up when I tried to edit my work but now I do it voluntarily. I used to think I would never find living by myself and cooking easy, but thanks to Simon's coaching I do.
One of the achievements I am most proud of is that I now know I am clever and that people respect me. For the first time in my life it seems that many people are glad to see me and what’s more I think they regard me as an equal. I believe this change is due to the fact I regard myself as their equal and therefore I am. This is important to me because if you are not equal to someone you can never truly be friends with him or her. The truth I now know is that I was always equal but either they or I believed otherwise. The good thing about all this is that it is just the start, the tip of the iceberg and I will continue to grow in ways I cannot yet imagine. Everything seems clear now I know this, now I see that I am equal to everyone I meet, now I can do anything. I finally come to the achievement that outshines all others: I like myself for who I am.
Thursday, February 12, 2004
Bondi, Sydney, Australia
If you walk up the long road from Bondi Beach, past the rickety bus station and the rows of faintly bohemian houses, you will find our hostel. Perched on the side of a hill, the large yellow building looks like many others in the area, plain with little aesthetic appeal. Slouched on the doorstep, smoking and chatting, we find Kev and one of the girls that works at reception. Kev’s hands are black from time spent as a joiner – cigarette in one, beer in the other. Inside, through the sliding glass door lies the reception room. There are generally two people behind the desk, trying to cope with the avalanches of backpackers and their luggage that blocks the hallway. Perched on the stairs, incredibly tanned and cool looking, are the Brazilians. No one wants to be caught looking at the Brazilian girls though, and for good reason. Most of the Brazilians here are traveling by themselves and have found that the hostel is a safe haven for their type, a big family of South Americans that are very protective of each other. Wherever you walk you hear shouts and whispers in a dozen different accents.
“What is this?” Felipe shouts as he reads this essay over my shoulder “We’re not South Americans, we’re different! What is this about “their type? Are we half breeds or something?” Felipe is one of the Brazilians, a small wiry guy who has looked like he’s on drugs since he was ten although he says he hasn’t been. This doesn’t annoy him any more, adding, “girls love my crazy face!” Then there are Vitor and Joao who are from Rio and San Paolo respectively and are traveling together, causing trouble and invoking the wrath of Australians by getting too close to their daughters and wives. Hugo is their best friend, and the three of them, his girlfriend, and her brother Mike, all party together. When those guys get together you know there will be chaos.
Then there is team Coolabah, so named because of the filthy $10 dollars a box wine they consume in huge amounts. They have gone to lengths to show their appreciation of this wine and now wear tee-shirts with their gang name stenciled on. There is Shawn, a giant Yorkshireman with a mad streak, Ben a leering, slightly psychotic sports coach and Dave, a confused looking Canadian. They are really pleased with themselves for discovering Max Powers, the “strangest fish” at the hostel. Max is a forty-something computer programmer with milk bottle glasses and a massive bush hat. Shawn decided that anyone called Max Powers must be included in their gang, which made things interesting for a while because Max didn’t want anything to do with them.
Being clean is important: In a hostel environment things get lost or broken, mice eat your power cords or your laptop gets stolen. It is vital to lock your possessions up, keep everything clean and tidy. To do this I have to fold up by bed so its neat, clean up my floor and put my stuff either under the bed or in my locker.
Its good to meet new people: There are so many different people that you see but never talk to – many of whom are worth meeting. It is important to take the leap, step out and make new friends. In a hostel you are in a room with so many other people and they are on schedules so weird that you have to try really hard to get to know someone really well.
Laughter, smoke, light, heat, sleeping bodies, couches, mess, clutter, music, drink, empty bottles, peace, crowds riveted to the television, coming and going, voices, shouts, happiness. This is the Beachouse, Bondi Beach, Australia. My home.
If you walk up the long road from Bondi Beach, past the rickety bus station and the rows of faintly bohemian houses, you will find our hostel. Perched on the side of a hill, the large yellow building looks like many others in the area, plain with little aesthetic appeal. Slouched on the doorstep, smoking and chatting, we find Kev and one of the girls that works at reception. Kev’s hands are black from time spent as a joiner – cigarette in one, beer in the other. Inside, through the sliding glass door lies the reception room. There are generally two people behind the desk, trying to cope with the avalanches of backpackers and their luggage that blocks the hallway. Perched on the stairs, incredibly tanned and cool looking, are the Brazilians. No one wants to be caught looking at the Brazilian girls though, and for good reason. Most of the Brazilians here are traveling by themselves and have found that the hostel is a safe haven for their type, a big family of South Americans that are very protective of each other. Wherever you walk you hear shouts and whispers in a dozen different accents.
“What is this?” Felipe shouts as he reads this essay over my shoulder “We’re not South Americans, we’re different! What is this about “their type? Are we half breeds or something?” Felipe is one of the Brazilians, a small wiry guy who has looked like he’s on drugs since he was ten although he says he hasn’t been. This doesn’t annoy him any more, adding, “girls love my crazy face!” Then there are Vitor and Joao who are from Rio and San Paolo respectively and are traveling together, causing trouble and invoking the wrath of Australians by getting too close to their daughters and wives. Hugo is their best friend, and the three of them, his girlfriend, and her brother Mike, all party together. When those guys get together you know there will be chaos.
Then there is team Coolabah, so named because of the filthy $10 dollars a box wine they consume in huge amounts. They have gone to lengths to show their appreciation of this wine and now wear tee-shirts with their gang name stenciled on. There is Shawn, a giant Yorkshireman with a mad streak, Ben a leering, slightly psychotic sports coach and Dave, a confused looking Canadian. They are really pleased with themselves for discovering Max Powers, the “strangest fish” at the hostel. Max is a forty-something computer programmer with milk bottle glasses and a massive bush hat. Shawn decided that anyone called Max Powers must be included in their gang, which made things interesting for a while because Max didn’t want anything to do with them.
Being clean is important: In a hostel environment things get lost or broken, mice eat your power cords or your laptop gets stolen. It is vital to lock your possessions up, keep everything clean and tidy. To do this I have to fold up by bed so its neat, clean up my floor and put my stuff either under the bed or in my locker.
Its good to meet new people: There are so many different people that you see but never talk to – many of whom are worth meeting. It is important to take the leap, step out and make new friends. In a hostel you are in a room with so many other people and they are on schedules so weird that you have to try really hard to get to know someone really well.
Laughter, smoke, light, heat, sleeping bodies, couches, mess, clutter, music, drink, empty bottles, peace, crowds riveted to the television, coming and going, voices, shouts, happiness. This is the Beachouse, Bondi Beach, Australia. My home.
Monday, February 02, 2004
Sydney Aquarium, Sydney, Australia
Flurries of undulating brightness, a ballet of movement, both graceful and sharp. The swooping gray sharks twisting as though in agony look about with a lazy disinterest, noticing everything it seems. Shoals of massive silvery-coated fish move as though in a hurricane, revolving in harmony to the orchestral music projected around me. The sharks seem to float through the flashes of camera blasts that appear from outside the tank. The main cast moving in time to the music is grace itself, while behind lurks a larger group of dancers that remain indistinct. The silvery fish are now like leaves fallen from a tree in the autumn and blown by the wind. A dimmed blue light covers the scene like a thin gossamer blanket.
Flurries of undulating brightness, a ballet of movement, both graceful and sharp. The swooping gray sharks twisting as though in agony look about with a lazy disinterest, noticing everything it seems. Shoals of massive silvery-coated fish move as though in a hurricane, revolving in harmony to the orchestral music projected around me. The sharks seem to float through the flashes of camera blasts that appear from outside the tank. The main cast moving in time to the music is grace itself, while behind lurks a larger group of dancers that remain indistinct. The silvery fish are now like leaves fallen from a tree in the autumn and blown by the wind. A dimmed blue light covers the scene like a thin gossamer blanket.
