The twenty-four hour “overseas” journey is the modern hardship of middle-class Australia. We, who have grown soft in our prosperous cities by the seaboard, know little of the difficulties from which famed characteristics of earlier generations grew and that those living in “the other” Australia, of remote and very rural communities, still live with. We are neither so hardy nor so self-reliant, but we have at least a shadow of those great men and women whose nation we now claim. We can drink admirably and often, we can watch a good five full days of cricket without issue, we can shrug off diseases that a European  would take ill from, and make home improvements with a measure of duck tape and WD-40 which would surely cause an American to  seek professional help. We can also walk off a twelve-hour flight and straight onto another just the same without a second thought. This is one of the last remnants of our island heritage.

It is on the second such leg that I now find myself, feeling the strength of my people. It will be my first return to Europe since I left last June, bringing a three and a half years stint in Amsterdam to a close, and ending seven years off island. In the three short weeks on Continent, I shall be visiting fine cities- London, Bucharest, Prague, Vienna, Budapest, Berlin, Amsterdam- and a finer group of old friends. I will witness weddings and children, career changes and life choices, all of which mark these rare individual who I’m at most privilege to name as friends. I will pull into my organisation’s offices in Berlin and London for a weeks work that I look on with the same eyes as I see my friends, engaging emerging leaders in their fields whose personal and professional passions are delightfully and often necessarily interlinked.

My main ambition is to share authentic experience with these people and places and to make good proof against “the tyranny of distance” that claims so much as the years fall away.  As for places, none of the great cities mentioned gives me a moments pause but fairest Amsterdam. Oh, to imagine walking down the glorious canals, which was my sport, my hobby and my muse over thousands of hours, of afternoons and evenings, as the seasons rolled all around, and within, my self. I imagine strolling thus whilst thinking of a younger Arthur canal-side, and that Arthur envisioning the older in turn reflecting upon the former. Across this veil of time I sense communion in this serene aesthetic of Amsterdam.

The last six months is the longest duration I’ve spent in one country since 2001 and has passed with the speed of a new role in a known land. This trip will be a chance to break from that engagement, to take an account of that which I’ve not allowed myself in my months returned home.  I will pursue a closer examination of the journey that I’ve undertaken in the years since I left, to take some better measure of who now lies behind these eyes, of who it is that returns, of what has been gained and lost, and what quiet space remains ever present.

Two doses of Dioxylamine drowned out three crying babies and their Balkan entourage for me to garner almost ten hours rest on the long haul from Melbourne. Wide eyed with foreknowledge of each of the inevitable steps that would mark this cinematic torment, I queued “The Book of Eli”. Denzel Washington was admirably stoic, in this Ragnorak style defeat of character, actor and audience- all merely playing out our parts, without hope of redemption or release, each blow leading the film closer to wherever it is that such films go to die, and me to dreamless, chemical sleep.

I awoke to a sunrise over a very different part of the world and a concert of crying that unfortunately had not found better harmony despite admirably long hours of practice. I found partial reinvigoration in fruits, a vivid awareness of my lack of progeny, and in the Keats romance, “Bright Star”. Before the conclusion of the narrative, we began descent to Abu Dhabi, so in my imagination Keats is eternally bound between the sufferings of insufferable romance and the creeping “condition” of a pre-Florean pathology. I have no desire to see the remainder, nor for any reconciliation toward unity or deathly division, nor to break the frozen amber dance of Pathos and Thanatos, which says more about Keats than any final falling of life or love.

I transited through the airport and my first taste of the Gulf was an acute awareness of the decided lack of expected decadence. Where is my gold dispensing machine? Where is the retro steam engine whisking me away for an indoor BASE jump, or the Emirati “skill-tester” featuring falconry and Rolexes hidden inside of lesser birds? Perhaps my expectations are based on fantasy and advertising, or perhaps there’s another airport- constructed on a manmade island shaped like JFK (the man not the airport) where the pharaonic desires of the rich in transit are born and met.

The bareness of the gate suggests both a fear that some obviously non-citizen types may take quiet refuge on a bench or other horizontal plane, and that the seat-loving elite are being led elsewhere. I take short solace with a well-travelled Italian coffee brand and some carrot cake that reminds me of playgrounds and being eight.  I open the Economist, which once again predicts the demise of Hugo Chavez, whilst openly mentioning that that the conservatives leading the fine British coalition received less of the popular vote than the demagogue in his land. I take both points as signs of exceptional quality. An electronic board, lacking even a baroque golden frame and semi-precious studding, flashes and I shuffle my goods to the next leg, a casual seven-hour ordeal this time, and then at last the Grande European Summer shall begin.

I will be visiting Colombia enticingly soon. The “Boots’n'all” Number 1 destination for Independent Travellers in 2009 has had a more than difficult tourism brand to work with after a number of violent decades, however this has all changed remarkably in recent years. A new Lonely Planet guide will be released in about ten days, marking open season on a new era of Colombian travel. Here’s an advanced edition of what they have to say on the matter.

“Colombia’s back.

After decades of civil conflict, Colombia is now safe to visit and travelers are discovering what they’ve been missing. The diversity of the country may astonish you. Modern cities with skyscrapers and discos? Check. Gorgeous Caribbean beaches? Check. Jungle walks and Amazon safaris? Check. Colonial cities, archaeological ruins, high-mountain trekking, whale- watching, coffee plantations, scuba diving, surfing, the list goes on.

No wonder the ‘magic realism’ style of Colombian author Gabriel García Márquez emerged from here – there is a dreamlike quality to Colombia. Here at the equator, with the sun forever overhead, the fecund earth beneath your feet, heart-stopping vistas in every direction and the warmth of the locals putting you at ease – you may find it difficult to leave.

Although international news reports seldom show it, Colombia is one of the most well-developed countries in Latin America. Universities here produce legions of finely educated, ambitious professionals and the country boasts a reliable legal system with low levels of corruption. World-class health care and hospitals round out its enviable social infrastructure. Its optimistic middle class believes hard work will be rewarded – and it is.

Colombian culture, like the country’s weather, varies by altitude. The essence of Colombia resides in the mountains in the alpine cities of Bogotá, Medellín and Cali, and the smaller cities of the Zona Cafetera. This is the industrial heartland of the country. Geographical isolation has kept the accent relatively unaffected by outside influence; Spanish here is precise and easy to understand. The infrastructure in the mountain region is good, the water drinkable, the roads well maintained. In the heat of the Caribbean coast, life is slower, and the culture more laid-back. The accent is the unhurried drawl of the Caribbean basin, and the infrastructure, unfortunately, is still in need of some attention.

Colombia’s role in the drug trade continues to play out in the back- ground. The improved security situation is due in large part to funding from Washington. This has made little dent in the cocaine business, however, which continues to operate in the deep jungle and the remote mountains. The great richness of Colombia’s tropical soil is both its blessing and its curse – huge varieties of tropical fruit grow here, and Colombia is a major agricultural exporter. It is also the world’s largest producer of cocaine, and this is unlikely to change anytime soon.

‘Plan Colombia’ has successfully driven the violence from the cities and the main tourist routes, and brought peace to most of Colombia. While President Álvaro Uribe deserves great credit for this (Colombians call him their first saint), many are deeply worried by the election of US President Barack Obama. Without continued US foreign aid, the widespread fear is that the country will fall back into chaos.

In darker days people used to say, ‘if only it weren’t for the violence and drugs, Colombia would be paradise.’ Well the drugs may still be here but the violence is gone, at least for now, and it is, indeed, paradise. It is an easy country to fall in love with, and many travelers do. It may well become your favorite country in South America.”

© Lonely Planet Publications

Last weekend I took my family to see these grand monuments of Pharaohnic Egypt. It was my parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary and my sister had joined us from Istanbul. We ventured to Giza and found camels and horses with which to cross over to the Giza plateau, and thus come across the Pyramids from some empty desert- to taste more fully this feeling of discovery that so many have reveled within. Watching these three people I care deeply about, who were a world away in the months I lived here, now ride wide-eyed around the Wonder, to see their minds ignite in realisation of their experience and this intimate and overwhelming connection to an ancient story- this was a truly joyous and fulfilling moment and one that will live indelibly in my mind forever.

Two recommendations for happy living.
1: When possible, go to Spain. 2: Always live with Italians.

It’s been fun and I think I can understand why they appear as a closed and perhaps cold groups to outsiders. The basic plan is that they do their military service for 1-3 years, work to earn cash for a year and then feck off to latin america for 6-18 months to get out of the head trip built up from the army and living in Israel all their life. Here they meet old school and army buddies and connect with people who speak their language in what, for many, is their first real foreign experience. On the outside these groups often seem insular, uninterested in local culture or adapting from their cultural norms, but inside they show a very different dynamic. Sitting around in groups playing Hebrew (and radiohead) songs on guitar, singing, laughing and sharing a communal connection fostered by the above factors, perhaps combined with some kibbutz heritage. A really lovely communal warmth that reminded me of my time with groups of Koreans and Egyptians.

I’m not fond of this type of travel as it massively limits the diversity of experience, but I think I can understand it a bit better now. And definitely Israelis aren’t the only ones- Argentines here often seem similar- and British weekenders in Amsterdam or Aussies in London- can be pretty insenitive and insular to put it mildly. Of course I don’t mean generalize, indeed I’m referring to a subgroup. I’ve meet some awesome Israeli solo traveller who avoid the common haunts and are as open and adaptive as any people I’ve meet upon the way. Enough hedging- to the beach I go!

A vague awareness of sweat soaked fabric wrapping my body drifts into view. It must be sometime in the afternoon by now. I’m in Trancoso- no.. now it’s Arrial D’Ajuda. My body craves water. It must be three already. What time did we finish? Flashes of the hour long morning walk back along the beaches roll past, we arrived just in time for breakfast. Ah breakfast, hence the corn flakes I feel among the bedsheets. A momentary reflection upon my terribleness and then.. it was a wonderful party. A hundred people along the beach, with a huge moon filling the sky and the sea, the air thick with music, laughter and a sub-tropical humidity. I might just be able to open my eyes. Then shower. It would bring sweet relief from all this sweaty fabric. And thank God for this ceiling fan. The symphony of it’s ticking and whiring emerges, rhythms ever changing. Kept the mosquitos away too. Mosquitos! Tens of bites, old and new, compete for my attention. Itch. Itch. I roll onto my side, forget again and find relief. To do? What to do? To stay again or continue the northward journey? Days are slipping so quickly, they feel almost stolen. It’s already the full moon. Ah, the full moon. Maybe I should go back to Trancoso, for a celebration? Who told me? Which of these casual acquaintances upon the road was it? Too many voices, but I’m fairly sure. Hmm Trancoso again. Different to this place. Arrial is such a tourist village- even one day here is enough to read that. Big with the Israelis, menu’s in Hebrew! A smile. Then memories of a less than pleasant run in with some impolite Israelis guys flashes into view. Probably just out the freaking army. Poor bastards… The quiet of Trancoso takes over again, the sound of a silient summer night, high above the beach. An hour away and who knows if anyone is still there? A million other doubts arise. Then a stronger voice, Eleven Days Arthur. Eleven. I should go.

Quantos cocos você bebeu hoje? Realmente? Eu bebi cinco. Não estou brincando. Tudo que eu comi foi água de coco. É trabahlo difícil, mas alguém precisa curtir esse mar azul turquesa e beber essas coisas. Se não for eu, então quem? Se não agora, então quando? E se somente para mim, então quem sou eu? Eu bebo esses cocos para as crianças que não têm ninguém para beber por elas.

paz amigos,

PS- ok brasileiros- eu tive um pouco ajuda do peixes de babel, mas eu estou tentando. Por que você tem tal gramática difícil? Lute o tempo passado!

PPS- Não fala português? I’m just ranting about how many cocunuts I drank today. The answer may astound you. The answer is five.

The journey has gone something like this. Amsterdam (to be my home for yet another year)->Buenos Aires (where one dines at midnight and mocks the dawn)->Florianopolis (an island of beautiful people)->Ilha do Mel (an ecological island of sunset rainbows and deserted beaches)->Sao Paulo (a city that eats other cities and in which one eats fantastically)->Rio de Janeiro (the city of samba, of carnaval, of legends playing out a million tales)->Ouro Preto (a baroque village sculpted out of the mountains). In an hour I will board a bus to the north-eastern state of Bahia, where I shall spend my final few weeks slowly making my way up the coast- crawling from fishing village to resplendent isle- until I reach the great afro-brazilian city of Salvador and this happy trail ends.

I should like to write of my experiences here, of The World in Brazil, perhaps a few words in portuguese, a photo or two when technology permits and a flickering vision of life away from this continent. But it will be slow because the beach beckons, a metaphysics of quality is demanding my consideration and Brazil is still roaring just metres away. Suffice to say for now that all is well and life is being lived and loved in this corner of the world.

peace