Trail of Ants

Colour Vision: CCCC33

Ant — Fri, 30 Jul 2010 03:44:32 +0000

Welcome to another edition of Colour Vision, the weekly showpiece that I think has best been described as: “a stream of consciousness”. It’s my melting pot of worldly memories, where travel gets scribbled on by maniacal crayons. Let’s see what I’ve got.

This feature is a kind of brain dump for me. As a writer I’m often penned in by blue-collar picket fences. People want SEO and formal structure. Whereas I want to scratch chalk down the board and force them to listen to my bendy prose.

I am not sure my clients readers would appreciate it in the same way you might.

Thus, I often feel like a blind man, forced to push a candy cart around the world.

Hang on to this sweet-tasting image — and be warned — because this short piece could very well turn your stomach.

CCCC33. What do you see? How do you feel?

I see a swamp, but I hear an angry Spaniard, freeing himself from the tomb of a collapsed tent.

“Si si, si si… free, free,” he chimes exuberantly. He looks so happy to be free from the thin veil of his morning prison. Like a fallen matador, brought to his knees by his stained muleta.

Then he stumbles into my swamp. “Ha!” I shout, “serves you bloody right, you daft sod!” I taunt him from my writing desk. “Didn’t you know I wrote this swamp?”

He looks at me with a pair of angry eyes. I can smell his distaste for Englishmen from here. “Get on with your real story,” he gestures with a look.

I watch him for a minute, as he struggles up and over the shoreline of the swamp I camped him in. And then we go our separate ways, unwithered by our brief encounter.

So where does CCCC33 fit into the realities of my own travels? The aura is kind of gross; it’s a noxious gas; a runny nose; an oozing mass of pickles and puss.

Hold onto your bile. This could get a little messy.

There’s a bus, parked in Sumatra. I’m on it, sat beside a quiet Minang man; he appears to be in his late fifties, though he’s probably much older.

A narrow aisle separates me from two younger men, sloping around the peaks of their teens. Around us all, the bus effortlessly swallows boarding passengers, and their tightly wrapped luggage.

As the thin white loner, I’m a natural spectacle in this Minangkabau district depot. People laugh at me. I try joining in, but apparently that’s even funnier. For comfort, I stretch out a grimace, which mimics a smile.

I’m alerted by sudden noise, as the driver flicks on his radio and slowly twiddles with the knob as he searches the airwaves for a suitably annoying screech. He settles for a piercing shrill.

The engine snorts, and a dozen clove cigarettes light up around the dented innards of this steel beast. It’s like an animation cartoon.

Thick, sweet smoke. Incessant music. Laughter everywhere. Spirals of fun I can never understand. I hate it already. And then we’re off; sweeping between two thinly dusted verges.

Within an hour, the young man across the aisle bows his head, still loyally clutching his cigarette. Then his friend’s head slumps forward. They’re quiet now. Like broken puppets.

I look over at them.

They look hypnotised, slumped on chairs upon a stage of dry-ice. Their branched fingers rise instinctively to meet their thin lips. My heart is beating so hard, it feels like a gorilla playing the drum.

“Please don’t.” I scream silently.

Their fingers act like tiny paddles: as they spew, large sour chunks are held back, before thumping to the floor of the bus to join the swamps of acrid swill.

This happens in the first hour of a ten hour journey, and people appear so utterly oblivious, I start to believe I imagined it. As the bus swerves around corner after corner, the liquid stench of CCCC33 creeps ever closer towards my bare feet.

The men raise their heads upright, and continue smoking their clove cigarettes; and I impale myself on the bull horns of their lives.

Not the nicest experience, I’m sure you’ll agree. I think the acidic subject matter toned my writing down this week.

Travel sickness is an unfortunate fact of travelling sometimes. Despite the many bus journeys back and forth across their country, Asians are inherently bad travellers.

It’s not nice, and often hard to accept. I’ve had people literally lean over me to puke out of bus windows, and on most journeys I’ve been witness to people heaving rhythmically into small plastic bags.

No one makes a fuss, because the fact is, if the driver had to stop every time someone was suffering, they’d never get anywhere.

I hope today’s post hasn’t grossed you out too much — I did think twice about publishing it. However, I figured this is all part of travelling and I aim to deliver the truths; and this is an indubitable fact of travelling by bus in Asia.

I’d love to hear your thoughts on today’s Colour Vision piece, and welcome any questions you have about Sumatra. If not the vile subject, perhaps you could offer some feedback on the style of writing I delivered in this short story?

Tips for Travelling with Parents

Ant — Tue, 27 Jul 2010 01:59:05 +0000

Travelling with your parents is something most of us reserve for our adolescent years. Being sentenced to shlep around Disneyland with your whingy little sister, when you’d much rather be at home snogging the face off rebellious girls.

WHAT I’VE LEARNED

I’ve been on the road for three years now, and I’m proud of the fact that during that time I’ve travelled with my parents for a total of around seven weeks. Easily more than I have for the past fifteen years.

I’ve travelled with them across northern India and central Sri Lanka, I’ve driven them around Tasmania, and welcomed them to New Zealand. After all that, I’d happily join them in any corner of the world.

I’ve got to know my parents in ways I’d never imagine. I’ve mothered my mother, scolded my father and introduced them both to their future daughter-in-law.

I’ll be honest — I never imagined I could ever do this. Since hitting my teens, I fought tooth and nail to avoid family holidays, and if my memory serves me correctly, I served my last one up aged fourteen.

I’m now in my late twenties; so what have I learned about travelling with my parents?

TOP 10 TIPS FOR TRAVELLING WITH YOUR PARENTS

BRIEF THEM: Make sure your mum and dad fully understand the type of travel they’re about to experience. Do they think you’re travelling 5-star through some of the safest regions of the world? Make sure they realise your chosen style of travel. Confess all, they’ll thank you for it.
ADD A LITTLE SPARKLE: Travel can often be such a black and white experience: Your Culture + Their Culture = Our Culture. Before your folks embrace you in a foreign land, have a scout around and unearth some sparkle. Perhaps they’ve always wanted to ride a camel, or your mum deserves a massage. Plan ahead, and hit them with some sparkle on the very first day.

FESS UP: If you have anything you want to speak to your parents about, this could be the perfect time. I’ve spoken to mine about everything from life and love, to death and desire. These aren’t easy subjects to bring up around the breakfast table back home. Travel allows us a unique outlook; one in which we’re capable of dealing with most things just a little bit easier.
BUY THEM A BEER: One thing I learned early, is to buy the first beer. Or at least try. Many parents have a natural talent to pay for everything. While that’s naturally great for the budget traveller, it can leave you feeling guilty soon after they leave. Keeping things equally split adds to the experience. This is your journey.
GIVE THEM A BREAK: Whereas you might be on a pilgrimage of tiny budgets, take a step back and consider your parent’s reasons for travelling. Perhaps they’ve worked hard all year to be able to afford to join their favourite son or daughter in Outback Australia. While you’ll be ploughing on, chances are they’re returning to their day job. Splice in some well-earned rest.
THE BUDGET: My parents have often been shocked by how low my budget is. They soon got used to it, but perhaps I should have warned them what comes with it. Draughty hotels and street food galore might not be what they’re expecting. Ease them in gently.
HAND OVER THE REINS: Don’t let them have it too easy. If they’re joining you, give them a taste of what it takes to make the most of every day. Over breakfast one morning, suggest “This Monday and Tuesday, it’s your call folks!” If they stammer, slip them a guidebook. If they turn pale, pass them a glass of water.
CAPTURE THE MOMENT: Once they’ve gone, ensure they’re not forgotten. Consider small tokens such as personalised postcards featuring you all in mid-adventure, or go all out and order a photo book. Hopefully this will be one of the best holidays of your lives, it only takes an hour to add the wow factor.
GIVE THEM SPACE: It’s natural to feel like you should be looking out for mum and dad every minute of the day and night, but cut them some slack. Beneath the parental history, they’re a couple of star-crossed lovers on holiday in a faraway land. Three’s a crowd anywhere in the world, so take opportunities to take some me-time, and allow them the same.
LEAVE THE DOOR OPEN: Most travellers welcome their parents with open arms, and it’s a let-down to wave them off home. If you liked having them as travelling companions, make sure they know it. They might be thinking it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to spend this time with you. Was it?

WOULD I DO IT AGAIN?

I never thought I’d be the person to write this post. I’m an ardent independent, and I cut the apron strings in a blaze of youthful misgivings.

I’ve met hundreds of people along The Trail and I can safely say my own parents make fantastic travel partners. They loosened up when they needed to, and coughed up when we had to. The three of us made friends in a way that transcended the normal parameters of our family.

It felt like we were letting my childhood go. Casting it from the rickshaw bench. Tossing it out of night trains. For my own relationship with my parents, it was the ultimate metamorphosis.

Like a helpless caterpillar, crawling along on a plump belly, I’ve emerged as a brilliantly coloured butterfly spreading his wings and inflicting horrible insect-based metaphors on the unknowing public.

In all seriousness, there is no better way to get to know your parents than to invite them along on your travel adventures. In many ways, I wish I’d saved all my family holidays for the days in front of me. When I can appreciate them as individuals, and we can share adventures.

At least then I could have stayed at home, and snogged more girls.

Have you travelled with your parents? What was your experience? Perhaps you can expand on this post, and ensure that we get the most out of these far flung family reunions.

Colour Vision: #3ABF23

Ant — Wed, 14 Jul 2010 05:39:47 +0000

This week’s experimental travel writing feature, Colour Vision, takes on hex colour, #3ABF23. To the naked eye, a simple green but when I stir it into a broiling vessel containing my own travel experiences, I see an altogether different thing.

If you like the literary experience you’re about to encounter, I’d really appreciate you showing your support in the comment thread, or drop me a note via the contact form Either way, I always appreciate good feedback.

Three-ay-bee-eff-two-three. Fresh. Lighter than a thousand blades of grass, yet, perhaps too yellow to be sat aside the Green Fairy; she who once bleached my youthful bliss in Prague.

Green is the colour of glazed envy. Green is the colour of a slain environment, spattered in warriors daubed in foreign paint. Green is sickness on a distant sea. Green is the colour of the game of golf I never played.

That’s enough from me. This experience is designed to evoke feelings in thee as well as I. Look at this expanse of electronic-ink. Smear it on yourself in a flash of verdancy.

Five seconds. Four to go.

Four seconds. Three to go.

Three seconds. Two to go.

Two seconds. One to go.

One second. None to go.

What a rush! How do you feel? Are you filled with the glee of #3ABF23, or utterly disgusted by it?

Are you naked on the outside and curdled in the middle, or simply sat atop your chair like an abstinent — slightly blue — child?

To me. This curious colour is making me sick. Almost vomit. It’s a cliché, I know. (I wrote it). But that’s what I’m experiencing as my incessant stare becomes caught amid its gooey trap.

HELP! Somebody, HELP! My gaze is stuck in this endless patch of self-created green.

I am sorry, reader. For it was I that led you far into this infertile illusion. And now you’re trapped too.

We are swaying. Up. Then down. On a sea we cannot see. On a boat that cannot cope. We are pushed and pulled by an invisible tide. We are swerving around Asian hairpins at 100mph. Now suddenly we are standing on the precipice of a new life.

Five. Four. Three. Two seconds. One. None.

Our gaze, once stuck, is now soaring through the skies above a rolling landscape of a hundred greens: This is Norway. This is Yunnan. This is Kerala. This is Walpole.

We follow that gaze and suddenly we are falling.

Falling towards a thousand blades of grass, and they’re getting lighter. I see them now. They’re thick and coarse, and sharp. And you are falling too. And then I see her. And now I know her.

The Green Fairy; it was you, after all.

Quite a rush, right? If you’re new to Trail of Ants you may be wondering what on earth I’ve been consuming. This freestyle writing is perhaps my favourite indulgence, and is reminiscent of the earlier stages of Trail of Ants.

In fact, there have been quite a number of developments in the style of writing I portray here. Subtly changing with my environment.

In case you’re wondering who in God’s name, the Green Fairy is. She is absinthe. An infamous, aniseed-flavoured liqueur found in many parts of the world, but said to have originated in Switzerland. Truth is, the drink is more translucent than #3ABF23, but for some reason I kept typing — perhaps until I had satisfied her.

Indeed, the drink is so powerful that one night I joined an American friend of mine for a few beers in Prague, in turn we attracted the company of a couple of Canadian girls and in turn we order a bottle of absinthe.

The next thing I knew, I woke up on a train swarming with brightly-coloured ravers, the kind that would rip your clothes off and seduce you for days. I got off the train, to discover I was now in Berlin, on the day of the famous dance festival, the Love Parade. An extraordinary event, which attracts around 1 million revellers.

Suffice to say, the party continued…

Do you have anything you’d like to say about this particular piece? What was your experience with #3ABF23?

Fans of the Sport

Ant — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 11:46:36 +0000

The World Cup is one of the world’s best parties. It helps if your home nation is represented on the pitch, and it’s better if they’re good. I had planned to make it to South Africa 2010 but as tricks turned out, I didn’t. Instead, here’s a quick story from four years ago, when I slipped over to Germany for the 2004 tournament.

This event occurred pre ‘Trail of Ants‘, and it’s actually the first travel story I’m sharing with you from behind the odyssey I’m currently enjoying. If you’d like to hear more from my European adventures, let me know via the comments or flick me an email.

Main article, coming up after a short ad break…

Welcome back. Enjoy: “Crashing Out”

We had it all planned out. Five torsos dressed in mighty white England shirts, cloaking five hearts beating to the chime of Three Lions. Visions of German skies giving way to a tempest of red and white flags, and a travelling nation reaching fever pitch with every shimmy Becks would make.

Five became four. He couldn’t afford it.

Four became three. His girlfriend couldn’t be alone.

Three became two. Just me and my boyish house mate, Jeff remained.

Three days to go, it was all I could talk about: “I’m England till I die, I’m England till I die — I know I am, I’m sure I am, I’m ENGLAND TILL I DIE!”

“Anth’s,” said Jeff calmly, “I’m not coming. I can’t get the time off work.” My prancing around came to an abrupt halt, as I turned to look at my best friend. “Eng. Land. Till… I… Die.”

He’d feared letting me down. I could live with that. “Well, fuck you! I’m going on my own.”

Two days later, enveloped in the silence of a pre-dawn, I rammed a bag of clothes and three bags of little extras into the boot of a red Peugeot 106 I’d bought on eBay a month before, while stupendously drunk.

I proudly turned the ignition and clenched the wheel: “I name thee Tonto. For I, am the Lone Ranger” I mumbled, before releasing a series of toots as I pulled onto the road. Destination World Cup.

“We’re on our wayyy! We’re on our wayyy! How do we get there? I don’t know! How do we get there? I don’t care, we’re on our wayyyy. We’re on our wayyy!”

I drove uneventfully through England, France, Belgium and Luxembourg before slipping onto the Autobahn for the final leg of the 700 mile pilgrimage. Schnitzels and cigarettes lined my wake while impassioned, 100mph exchanges with travelling fans floated me into central Stuttgart.

Stuttgart was instantly easy going. A large city, but easily navigated during the festival. A sea of tents and bare-chested England fans ebbed and flowed on the horizon, drawing me into the expansive car park they had colonised.

I stretched my limbs as far as they would allow and registered with the campsite. “Anywhere?” I questioned. “Wherever you can fit” he replied.

It was a relief to have found my clan so easily. The city was alive with the world’s best, and most famous football fans, and I was eager to get involved. I restarted the engine, and stared out across a mass of England fans, unsure how I would navigate my way through this collage of sprawling tattoos and deckchairs.

I reversed at speed, then slammed to a sudden halt. A fast thud gave way to a slow crunch. Beads of broken glass peppered the back of my skull. My body stiffened, and the scene I’d been looking at seemed to freeze instantly.

“Wahay! Nice one mate! You proper smashed the fuck out of that, what were you doing?”

A flurry of senses darted through me: relief, as I judged I hadn’t hit anyone; joy, as I was handed my first beer through an open window; confusion, about exactly what had just happened; and annoyance, because I’d just driven for thirteen hours, and this was the last thing I needed.

I took a swig of beer, and slipped out of Tonto to face the crowd of burly strangers who had gathered like coyotes around a slab of destroyed prey.

There was glass everywhere, and a long shadow carved through the ground. The shadow of the 60-foot high lamppost I’d failed to see.

I pulled out my phone: “I think I just jinxed us Jeffers.”

How was it for you?

The World Cup in Germany was an amazing experience, and although I’d travelled solo extensively before, it rendered my love of independent travel. The accident actually wrote my car off, kicking off a series of events. Despite the back-end being crumpled and smashed, the following day I managed to drive it to a distant family relative in Belgium.

Pride reinstated, I grabbed a month long rail pass and headed back to my clan, and my bruised ego was quickly heeled by hot sun and cold beer.

England were turfed out of that World Cup on penalties by a tricky Portugal team. (England fans have never forgiven “that” wink from Ronaldo.)

Following our loss, I escaped the tournament. Heading to the far north of Germany, to the bleak German island of Sylt. A few weeks later, I received a cheque from my car insurance company, for three times the amount I’d paid for it in that merry eBay exchange.

Colour Vision: 336666

Ant — Tue, 06 Jul 2010 02:51:19 +0000

This week’s Colour Vision drags you through a series of electric avenues. The randomly selected hex value 336666 was hard to pin down, and stirred me around like a good dream. Plump up your pillow, as you curl up for my latest instalment in the Colour Vision series.

If you like the literary experience you’re about to encounter, I’d really appreciate you showing your support in the comment thread, or drop me a note via the contact form.

Picture this: Double-three, double-six, double-six. If we’re going to be ‘good and proper’, let’s call it teal. For me, the word teal conjures up a life of boredom. Teal is boring. Boring is teal. But here we are, in the swamp of Colour Vision. A feature which stitches my sojourn to the screen, with coloured thread. Teal thread.

Therefore, my travels were never boring. I can honestly say I was never bored. Therefore, teal, you are banished.

NO MORE TEAL.

336666, harbours the devil. Perhaps 336666 is three hundred and thirty-six devils? More likely, it’s thirty-three devils and a lonely traveller. Sobbing because their only friend is the devil. No one likes travel devils.

NO MORE DEVILS.

When I first saw 33six-six66, I was hit by an airplane. It was a Cathay Pacific airplane. Right out of the sky, as I zoomed in to explore the tonal ~~teal~~ blanks of my MacBook. I couldn’t believe it. A Cathay Pacific airplane, or to be precise, its tailfin. It curled round and crocked me square on the jaw like a robotic orca.

NO MORE PLANES.

The other sensation I gorged upon — just fleetingly — was sea turtles. I was hurled back to the teardrop of India, Sri Lanka. An island which I found ravaged by war: Hindus versus Buddhists. Government versus Terrorists. Barbed wire versus The People.

For a couple of weeks I immersed myself in the plight of sea turtles. I toured wide-eyed children around chipped concrete tanks. I made gentle hand movements, and smiled in all the right places. I shocked them. Taught them. Then looked them in the eye and held out a donation bucket.

I thought this was the colour of a wrinkly sea turtle neck. But then I looked again. And the bucket disappeared. The wide-eyed child ran away and the tanks completely disintegrated.

NO MORE SEA TURTLES

So, what is 336666? It’s the colour of tranquil times, and wayward dreams. The tailfin I’ve never seen, the turtle I couldn’t save. Like travel, 33six-six66 can be orderly. Like travel, 3366six-six can lead you astray.

This is a prime example of how travel can mean so many different things. I’m confident that if I’d written this post on any other morning than this, I would have transported you elsewhere.

Looking back, as I distance myself from the creative aspect of the series. This colour is smeared in peaceful undertones. There’s elements of being beneath the sea, an environment that cannot fail to instil calmness.

Sure, you could be lurched at by a terrible looking fish, but your elastic emotions will inherently recover quicker than on terra firma.

I touched briefly on my time in Sri Lanka, and I’d like to invite you to read about the moment I made the decision to volunteer to help protect the sea turtles. It’s a powerful, stirring and unforgettable time from The Trail and I’m sure you’ll enjoy the read.

Do you have anything you’d like to share about this piece? What do you see in #336666? Do you like the series?

Blogging Ethics

Ant — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 02:59:39 +0000

I’ll keep this succinct (not usually an art I practise here). As bloggers, we are always told we must declare everything we receive. We must be open, and transparent. We must think for ourselves and feed off each other. We’re a billowing flock, smothering the Internet like starlings.

But what happens when this breaks down? What can we do? Very little. We’re just supposed to take it. Some believe it’s a compliment when other people plagiarise your work.

I don’t, so imagine my reaction when I came across this:

This is a group of buttons I’ve displayed on my blog for the passed six months, I designed them (with the exception of the incorporated logo) specifically for my blog:

A few days ago I accepted a blogger into the T-Bag Travel Blog Directory, I visited their blog and commented on a post. Last night they tweeted: “Sooo incredibly pleased with some of these banners I’ve made for the website. Will be showcasing them tomorrow, it’s 3am & sleep can’t wait”. Curious, I checked them out:

I told them I wasn’t happy and outwardly accused this person of plagiarism, and they’ve passionately denied it. Citing that:

“This is like saying nobody’s allowed to put four framed boxes with links on their pages just coz you’ve got them on urs”

For the record, they have since offered to take them down, and/or credit me as the inspiration, and they acknowledge my designs were their inspiration. They claim their altered works as their own design. I’d agree I didn’t create them: I’d even say they have the makings of being better.

On one hand I want to insist on them being taken down, as they were used without my permission and look far too similar to my own.

On the other I don’t want to appear hasty, and unwelcoming to a new blogger — especially as I don’t believe they acted maliciously. They’re fully open to me throwing this out there, and having you judge it.

So, consider you were in our situation: What would you do?

Three Years and Counting

Ant — Wed, 30 Jun 2010 03:56:47 +0000

Like old-aged pensioners huddled around a domino table, we travellers are not adverse to measuring our lives in days. Indeed, today marks the 1098th day — or three year anniversary — since I strapped on my seatbelt and took off from London Heathrow.

Three Years…

Usually at this time of year, I roll out an ode to the “power of emotion” instilled within me, and the “power of evocation” which surrounds me. But today, I’m merely sitting back with a coffee in my small Wellington flat, and smiling contently.

…the quickest way to see a country, is to slowly open your eyes.

Smiling because I’ve done what I set out to do.

I’ve forcibly taken hold of my life, and I’ve travelled. I’ve travelled across ten countries over the past three years, and thirty-seven throughout my life.

Not as many notches as you may have thought, for such a perpetual, and vocal traveller. However there’s very good reason for this, and If you’re a discerning traveller, learn from my experience and realise that the quickest way to see a country, is to slowly open your eyes.

My Favourite Country

…a destination, in every sense of the word.

India has become an indelible mark on my soul, and my memories of my time there, are among the greatest gifts from my journey.

Without wanting to smear clichés all over your screen; India is intensely powerful in so many ways. Its presence and aura has bled into the subcontinent, making the entire region a kaleidoscopic adventure, and I doubt it will ever be surpassed. It goes far deeper than any notion about travel. India is a destination, in every sense of the word.

My Favourite Journey

For there to be great destinations, there needs to be great journeys. I’m fortunate, that in recent times I’ve journeyed along the Trans-Mongolian railway, I’ve journeyed through the Gobi and off the beaten track in China. I’ve crossed the Himalayas, via the behemoth of Everest and driven almost every highway in Australia. Yet one journey stands out, and again, it’s within India.

Through villages swarming with smiles…

Together with Reb — my sickeningly cute girlfriend whom I met in China — we found a man called Ganesh. As happens in India, we had a quiet word, and we rented a Royal Enfield Bullet motorcycle. Over the following thirty days, we crossed South India from Chennai in the east, up and over the Western Ghats to Kochi in the west, and back again.

This was a journey of unbridled adventure. Through villages swarming with smiles, through towns abuzz with trade and into the black heart of cities, entrenched in gooey chaos.

The exhaustion of that journey, cost Reb and I our blossoming relationship. We broke up shortly after we handed the keys to the Enfield back to Ganesh.

So perhaps there’s another journey I should mention.

My Most Important Journey

…the girl will not be.

I decided to flee Bali, for fear of running into Reb. The girl I’d split in two, and drained of tears in India. I heard on the grapevine she was there, and I could feel it in my bones. I couldn’t face running into her so I decided it was time to face my travelling nemesis; Southeast Asia.

“Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam and Laos.” The eternal echo of round the world travellers.

But I ran into Reb the night before I left: “I’m flying to Singapore tomorrow,” I sighed, “and then onto Malaysia and Thailand.”

48-hours later, I completed a round trip from Bali to Singapore, and back into her arms. I learned something vital that day, something I’ve repeatedly failed to grasp in my life: the country of my dreams will always be there, but the girl will not be.

… and Counting

The longer I’ve been on the road, the shorter time appears. There’s a lot I aim to achieve with my life, and travelling endlessly and without cause isn’t one of them. It’s important for me to attain the right balance, and if these passed three years have taught me anything, it’s to appreciate the things I have in life.

Milestones in travel are somewhat tedious. I’m more excited to be staring down the barrel of the future than picking off the charred residue of the past. Not only because I’m doing it from the destination of my childhood dreams: ‘the other side of the world.’

If you’d like to know anything about my life as a traveller, feel free to scribe a question on the comment thread below. Or perhaps you can share your own experience?

Colour Vision: 663366

Ant — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 03:31:52 +0000

This week’s Colour Vision feature took me back to China, a country that I immersed myself in for two months (three, if you consider Tibet). Was it the colour of a political movement? Was it the colour of emotion? Find out as I unlock the regal tone of 663366.

If you like the honest experience you’re about to encounter, I’d really appreciate your feedback in the comment thread, or drop me a note via the contact form.

Double-six, double-three, double-six. Your approach is deep, and warming. You bleed sensibleness. Sensibleness is a term often foisted upon the non-travelling fraternity. Those that shun wanderlust for sustainable careers. Sensible shoes. Sensible filing systems. Sensible bedtimes and sensible conversations about appropriately sensible things, which invariably contain the terms yield and impact.

As a traveller the colour 663366 takes me to China. A country often smeared in communist red, and spanked for doing everything in excess. The Chinese grow too fast, act too slow, talk too little and breed too much. Their ancient history is just hitting the headlines, and their modern history is making them.

But for me, 663366 is aubergines. (Or for the 60 per cent of you who hail from nations insistent on simplified linguistics: eggplant.)

A steamy, ramshackle inlet carved out of shop fronts thick with dust. This is where the locals eat, and where non-locals meet. A peeling lino-floor curls upwards, around the feet of a dozen plastic chairs. A bookshelf void of books, but plump with produce. Eggs, tomatoes, noodles, mushrooms, white carrot and aubergine.

Swap-a-smile: ‘Ni hao, ni hao ma?’ Swap-a-laugh. Finger pointing: ‘This one. This one. This one, too. Xie xie.’ Swap-a-smile. We take a seat.

My girlfriend, Reb lights up a cigarette: Swap-a-stare. ‘I wonder what we’ll get this time?’ We laugh discretely. This is Yunnan. This is China. The land of predictable unpredictability. The place where you can choose the last two 663366s and get a dish swirling in every other colour, but founded in lemon grass and garlic and — depending on your location and the sincerity of That Smile — kissed with varying amounts of chilli.

In many ways this colour really is, sensible. It represents sensible for me, because after so long in the rural backwaters of China, just seeing 663366 on the bookshelf, was a signal. A signal that I could be assured of a hearty meal. There is no aubergine dish in China which fails to melt in my mouth. In a land where my years of flesh consumption temporarily caved, it transmogrified from a mere vegetable, into my meat. It fuelled my day, it blinded my vision and today, it powers my memory.

Travelling in China is incredible. As a travel destination it’s beyond words. To this day, it continues to captivate me. It’s only after prolonged exposure to the world’s largest population, that you begin to realise how much of our world is influenced by the smallest details of this amazing country.

Since leaving China, I’ve seen and heard a lot of negativity targeted towards the country and its people. But rest assured, the majority of the people you encounter on your journeys throughout the Chinese provinces have little resemblance to the big stage politics.

China remains one of the world’s greatest travel destinations, and annually receives an estimated 55 million international tourists, almost exactly the same as tourism powerhouse, America. Indeed, many believe China aims to emulate America.

Meanwhile, it’s obvious to me that everything that makes China such a joy as a free traveller, is it’s refreshing abstinence of America, and the West in general. It’s a global habit to compare and contrast the biggest and largest elements of our world, but in this Top Trumps of Tourism these two nations are a world apart. China is the strings to America’s woodwind and Europe’s brass.

If you’re planning a trip along the traditional Southeast Asia route, I would highly recommend visiting China first, to really appreciate the effect it has on its Asiatic cousins and, in turn, the world as you know it.

What do you say?

Win! With World Nomads Travel Insurance

Ant — Fri, 25 Jun 2010 02:48:45 +0000

Can travel insurance be cool? No. Travel insurance is, by its very design, one of the more resented aspects of travel. We complain about buying it, and when it expires, we complain that we did. But there’s one travel insurance company which has drawn a line in the sand, embraced the travel community and celebrated the movement.

World Nomads travel insurance have continued to encourage travellers of every age, to ‘Keep Travelling Safely’ and this July they’re about to crank things up another level.

Travel Documentary Scholarship

The World Nomads team have really burst out of their suits this season, with the launch of their Travel Documentary Scholarship. The successful applicant will be thrown into the Amazon with a professional documentary maker, Trent O’Donnell.

And then. When all is sweat and done. Your documentary will be considered for screening on Nat Geo Adventure to be seen by (almost) the entire world.

These opportunities don’t come along very often, so I if you’re a fan of film in any way, shape or form, I implore you to look into it.

Camper than this?

Cough, cough. Best newsreader’s voice please: In other news, World Nomads popular Van-Tastic adventure is rolling up to the curb. For the best part of nine months, seven drivers and shotgun riders have taken Geoff (the garish campervan) around the world’s largest island continent, Britain.

No wait, Australia. Australia is apparently larger than Britain.

They’ve travelled over 33,000 km across 6 Australian states and one dusty red territory. For the socialites amongst you, they’ve scored over 47,000 views on YouTube, 45,000 views on their blogs and 47,000 views on their photos.

They’ve farted on the seats, shagged in the cab and burned pasta on the hob and now they’re on the hunt for votes.

The winning team will receive $10,000 and flights from Virgin Blue, and one lucky voter — this is quite incredible — will win the ultimate roadtrip adventure pack, valued at $5000AUD (including an iPod Touch, $100 voucher iTunes, MacBook Pro 15’, iPhone 32GB, Canon Legria HF20 video camera, WorldNomads.com adventure travel kit).

Vote for your favourite team from July 2nd to July 25th on the Van-Tastic Adventures homepage and go in the draw to win.

Check out the individual teams progress, via their awesome coverage:

Stage 1 – Queensland: Adam and Hamish

Stage 2 – New South Wales: Kirsty and Carly

Stage 3 – Victoria: Tim and friends

Stage 4 – Tasmania: Dara and Catherine

Stage 5 – South Australia: Victoria and Trent

Stage 6 – Northern Territory: Willie and Andrew

Stage 7 – Western Australia: Alex and Patrick

Give the entrants their due. They’re individuals and teams who grasped the opportunity of a lifetime, took on a project that would test them to the limit of their skills and beyond. While I’m confident they all had the time of their lives, they’re all in it to win it. But who deserves it the most?

Were you aware of the Van-Tastic adventure? Or perhaps I just highlighted a travel documentary scholarship that could change your life — how would you use it?

Am I an affiliate of World Nomads? Yes. I offer my readers a beautiful 7% off World Nomads travel insurance policies with the World Nomads promo code, TRLANT. Does that influence the post? Not in any way, shape or form.

Colour Vision: 9999FF

Ant — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 10:21:38 +0000

Continuing the weekly feature of colour vision, a piece of creative writing which explores the emotions and recollections embodied within a randomly selected colour

If you like the experience you’re about to encounter, I’d really appreciate your feedback in the comment thread, or via the contact form.

Absorb this colour. It’s cool, and calm yet sulky and sobering. Absorb this colour for all the reasons you can find in the far reaches of its transient call. This colour is stubborn. It’s the colour of silent screams. The colour which hides down your throat when you yell out in anger.

That was my initial feeling when I stripped 9999FF from the colour wheel. It’s the colour that’s stuck down your throat while all the deep reds, oranges and fragrant blues stream out and swarm the air. But what of its relation to my journey? I’ve yelled very few times in my life.

I fucking screamed in India. However, now this colour is restored to its native home, its anger is lessened. Its tense frustration gently loosens, and where it once scorched my throat, it now soothes my eyes.

This colour is found on Indian riversides. It’s draped, sopping wet, over drying stones. It’s slammed, twisted, yanked and mashed against rocks by beautiful and bright-eyed men and women, whose white teeth shine like Nike ticks on glossy, taught Indian faces.

Except these dhobi wallahs care little for leading sports brands, because they’re washing the lungis (sarongs) of a thousand friends. Tirelessly working in unison, their arms rhythmically circling like the beating wings of starlings. A swarm of ticks. Slamming the seed to my screams with a smile that says; Just Do It and a message that says; Just Don’t. This colour is India. This colour is screamless torment and unbridled awe.

It’s an amazing experience for me to write these pieces. Once I lock onto a colour, I’m hypnotised by it. It roils through my veins, and the result is some of the purest writing you’re likely to experience.

India was an amazing country to explore, and revisiting some of the many emotions I felt there, is exciting.

At first, 9999FF had me stumped. I stared at it for a few minutes, trying my hardest to tune in and then it possessed me. Reading back through it is like hearing a hypnotist regale what I’d told them. This might sound la-la, but try it for yourself. Id love to see the results.

Care to comment?