Five kilometres away our ute was stuck fast on the mulched bank of a quiet dirt road in the Shannon National Park, in Australia’s far southwest. We’d been lured there by the over-excited commentary of a Lonely Planet Travelcast we’d been playing through a cheap FM-transmitter.

In it, a local man was reaching orgasm describing his local neighbourhood. ‘The big forest, the rivers, mountains, the waterways — you can do everything and anything in this special little place. It’s the jewel of the southwest! It’s the bellybutton: North Pole, South Pole. Who’s in the middle? Walpole!’

Road trips in Australia, are a journey of misguided adventures. The roads are so quiet, that the moment you hear someone getting enthusiastic about anything, you blindly hurl yourself off the tarmac, and go desperately in search of it.

Unfortunately for us, I’d pulled over in exactly the wrong place to listen to the tourist radio extolling the mysteries of the burls and branches of the towering karri trees.

After three hours of fruitless thumbing, an over-sized ute responded to my disjointed SOS dance. ‘Your go’ snapped the umbrella. I plodded over and explained that my girlfriend was livid and wanted to castrate me.

The man listened patiently, then jumped out to search for a towrope in the back of his truck. He was perfectly bald, fit looking and to my surprise, he was bare-footed. His feet became a source of peace. I knew the umbrella had seen them.

‘Nope. Sorry. But let’s go take a look’ chirped the bald-headed, barefooted man. We squeezed into the cab of his ute, and drove to the scene of our calamity. There was something about his voice. Something warming. Something familiar.

Within twenty minutes, I had reverted to my true form of Feeble Boy, in the presence of a Real Man. Somehow, he’d hurtled our ute through the forest, narrowly missing huge trunks and smashing their devoted saplings. At some point, we landed back on the dirt road.

‘I know you!’ I yelped, as I shuffled back to an upright position. ‘You loves trees, and think Walpole is the Bellybutton of the World!’

I explained that prior to that blotch of stupidity occurring, we’d been listening to the topical Lonely Planet Travelcast.

He lent forward, and flicked through the Lonely Planet guidebook on our dashboard, ‘That’s me’ he said proudly, ‘Gary Muir — of WOW Wilderness!’

Moments later, Gary extended an invitation to Relaxo Rancho — his home, in the nearby hills where we would stay for the following two nights. Warmed by stories of his sepia-toned family history, and fuelled by home–cooked meals and teapots encircled by his family and friends.

As we left to embark on a fresh adventure, the umbrella came down and she smiled, ‘You’re still an idiot.’

This post has been entered into the Grantourismo-HomeAway Travel Writing Competition and you can listen to the Lonely Planet Travelcast, Valley of the Giants featuring the most excellent, Gary Muir by following this link to the Apple iTunes Store.

The early winter sky was being sponged by a soft pink and blue sunset. Just as it began to spit rain we pulled off the Old Coast Road and into the Leschenault Peninsula Conservation Park, south of the town of Binningup. A natural tension gripped the moist air, leaving just enough space to seek out a campsite with our headlights. “You pitch the tent, I’ll cook some pasta!”

Poles. Inner tent. Pegs. Flysheet. Duvet. Mats. Pillows. Teddy bear. Torch. Water. Laptop. DVDs.

Water. Pasta. Sauce. Bowls. Forks.

“That was close. It’s really coming down, babe!” Rain smashed the tent. It sounded like the crust of the earth was being torn away from its Velcro bind. We gave up on the DVD.

Eight hours later we crawled out. It was deadly quiet. As so often happens on road trips in Australia, you only get to see your ‘bedroom’ after you awake. It’s like a one-night stand with nature. You zip up your fly, run your hand through your hair and then hit the road.

Only, that morning there was a reminder that perhaps we were not alone during the deluge. A blue nylon noose now hung beside our tent. I was certain it wasn’t there the previous night, because it was dangling above the natural thoroughfare that led from a small picnic table to our ute (Aussie station wagon).

I discovered it when it tickled my sleep-numb face. I thought twice about telling Reb. I decided I needed to. I pointed to the flimsy, writhing death knot that hung from a dark eucalyptus tree. “We weren’t alone last night babe”, I said quietly.

“Don’t be a twat!” thundered Reb. Those were her last words for a while.

I decided not to argue the point. Truth be told, I was dumbstruck. This was the Australia of the movies. The Australia you’re supposed to joke about in city hostels. The Australia that’s not supposed to happen.

The Australia you shouldn’t really blog about, because travel blogs are supposed to inspire, and enthuse. Not strike gongs of fear or soak up images of surfing hunks, and sinking suns.

Our journey around Australia was spread across a landscape of rugged, mountainous emotions. Around the union of proud, individual states you are hurled to the highest point of elation. Unassailable ecstasy on the shoulder of a secret cliff, you cast an eye across native kingdoms, past and present.

The following day you find yourself free-falling; hurled from your blessed viewing platform. Smashing into jagged rocks. The sound of squealing ancestors ripping at your ears. Toes and wrists tangled in a yarn of side roads. Then silence. Lonely silence.

The kind of silence that causes you to crave a hundred different nightclubs. And Tesco’s. The conflicting truths that you’re so fucking far from anywhere; but that you’re in Australia, the country on everyone’s must-visit list’s and at everyone’s doorstep.

Perhaps that noose was a metaphor for the journey itself. That you can rush into a place. Eat. Fuck. Sleep. Then wake up, and be confronted by the secret drama of death. Death of your will to continue. Death of your want to recall. Death of the dozen stories you should have told. Could have told. Would have told. If there hadn’t been that noose.

I subscribe to them all, because I find the medium to be one of the most exciting, consistent and convenient formats available to today’s traveller. I listen to podcasts over breakfast, while on the bus, and an OCD dictates I listen to one to fall asleep.

I hasten to add, not purely on the subject of travel. I listen to podcasts about sport, current affairs, technology and comedy, as well as some slightly more obscure and offbeat shows. As some of you know, I’ve been known to try my hand at producing my own podcasts, and so I know first-hand how much time and effort goes into producing, editing and marketing a show.

It is incredibly tough. Apple’s iTunes Store provides an extremely narrow window for new travel podcasters to be heard, often pitting them head-to-head with the likes of ubiquitous Disneyland resort podcasts, lowly celebs or established online travel brands. If you want to be a successful podcaster, you need to be dedicated.

Unless you have a sizeable budget you’re going to have to become a designer, a producer, an articulate communicator, a marketeer, a sound engineer and a technophile. It’s like blogging on speed. Because lest we forget, for every episode you produce, you’ll need an accompanying post. You’ll need independent RSS feeds, a unique SMO (Social Media Optimization) approach and a progressive attitude.

So it’s all credit to those that dangle below this sentence, and despite whether I agree that their show is all they hoped it to be — I applaud their effort, for braving the harsh plains of new media, to bring me my daily dose of audio.

Travel Podcast Reviews

This Week in Travel
Launched: August 2009
Frequency: Weekly
Approx Length and Size: 1 hour; 40mb
Presumed Target Audience: 40+ Tech-Savvy Americans
In Fifty Words: The Elders of online #travel; Chris, Jen and Gary invite a guest to discuss current topics. It’s opinionated, and hearing them type while they talk is irritating. Imagine you’re seven and earwigging on your parents conversation — mostly uninteresting, but for some reason you keep listening, and eventually learn something new.
Rating: 5/10
Visit this Podcast’s Website or Subscribe to this Podcast

The Indie Travel Podcast
Launched: Early 2007
Frequency: Weekly
Approx Length and Size: 20 mins; 9mb
Presumed Target Audience: <35 Budget Travellers
In Fifty Words: A useful resource, discussing a diverse range of topics. Strong Kiwi accents resound, and they can come across slightly lovey-dovey. Above all, they succeed as an informed voice for today’s budget travellers, and they’re constantly improving. Topics vary from on-the-road experience to interesting interviews.
Rating: 7/10
Visit this Podcast’s Website or Subscribe to this Podcast

Excess Baggage
Launched: February 2009
Frequency: Weekly
Approx Length and Size: 28 minutes; 13mb
Presumed Target Audience: 30+ Armchair travellers
In Fifty Words: An enthusing travel podcast from BBC Radio 4, presented by Sandi Toksvig or John McCarthy. Often featuring extraordinary travellers’ tales and hot travel topics, in the entirely approachable BBC style. Authors of travel books are regularly interviewed, as well specialists in various fields. An altogether accessible, and educational travel podcast.
Rating: 8/10
Visit this Podcast’s Website or Subscribe to this Podcast

PRI’s The World: Talking Travel with Lonely Planet
Launched: December 2009
Frequency: Biweekly
Approx Length and Size: 18 mins; 8mb
Presumed Target Audience: 25+ Culturally Aware
In Fifty Words: Short and sweetened with insight. Presented by Clark Boyd and usually featuring two of Lonely Planet’s well-informed authors, Robert Reid and Tom Hall. They mostly discuss the unique travel aspects of current news headlines. The combination of UK and US personas results in an amiable, down to earth and educational show.
Rating: 8/10
Visit this Podcast’s Website or Subscribe to this Podcast

Amateur Traveler Podcast
Launched: July 2005
Frequency: Weekly (Sunday)
Approx Length and Size: 30 minutes
Presumed Target Audience: 25+ Experienced and Aspiring Travellers
In Fifty Words: Chris Christensen presents a kindly, ‘Dad in the Shed’ style show. A Californian internet-junky, Chris succeeds in delivering a well-structured show which features an unpredictable and exciting range of destination podcasts, by interviewing experienced travellers. Sometimes know-it-all, with some annoying vocal ticks (“uh huh”, “interesting”) but overall, enlightening and informative.
Rating: 8/10
Visit this Podcast’s Website or Subscribe to this Podcast

Betty in the Sky with a Suitcase
Launched: August 2005
Frequency: Sporadic
Approx Length and Size: 30 minutes; 30mb
Presumed Target Audience: The Living Dead or the Airline industry.
In Fifty Words: Presented by veteran air attendent, ‘Betty’ (a pseudonym) this travel podcast is excruciating. I’m pretty sure she’s literally high. Betty loves to laugh at her own non-jokes, and I truly pity those who have to fly with her. Her saving graces, are her irregular and interesting stories, from a unique perspective.
Rating: 3/10
Visit this Podcast’s Website or Subscribe to this Podcast

Heather on her Travels
Launched: October 2009
Frequency: Sporadic
Approx Length and Size: 30 minutes; 16mb
Presumed Target Audience: 30+ Women
In Fifty Words: This podcast fits into the ‘glass of vino on the terrace’ genre. A new production with an articulate and honest approach from Englishwoman, Heather. As an easy-listening, informative programme it’s quite BBC and possibly a bit long-winded for the current format, but definitely one to keep your ear out for.
Rating: 6/10
Visit this Podcast’s Website or Subscribe to this Podcast

Travel Rants Podcast
Launched: December 2009
Frequency: Sporadic
Approx Length and Size: 6 minutes; 5.5mb
Presumed Target Audience: B2B, or Savvy 25+. Industry Insiders.
In Fifty Words: Cheery consumer blogger, Darren Cronian presents a swift, thought-provoking podcast providing a vocal extension to the Travel Rants blog, rather than a stand alone product. His voice can be distracting — possibly trying to iron out his friendly Yorkshire accent, to appeal to a global audience. A worthy, on-topic first foray.
Rating: 6/10
Visit this Podcast’s Website or Subscribe to this Podcast

Have I missed one? Do you have an opinion? Share your thoughts in the comments below.

It was helping to launch and operate the new airport lounge at Wellington International Airport. I now have an entirely different view of airports. Above all, just how important they are to a local community.

So I’m existing in Wellington on the strands of dreams. It wasn’t supposed to be so hard — re-entering society. Getting a job. Saving some cash. Reality has, thus far, been a series of let-downs.

“But you don’t wanna know about that!” You wanna know about the good times. So coming up, here at TrailofAnts.com will be a period of intense housekeeping. I’ll be reviewing what’s hot, and what’s not. Metaphorically I’ll be clearing out all the shit I never meant to drag along with me online.

So I need your help. What would you like to see covered here? I’m handy with a camera, savvy with a mic, and partial to my pen and for the foreseeable future I’m stuck in Wellington. Would you like to see some local content? Would you like to hear from fellow travellers? Would you like to smash me like a piñata and feast on my sweet, fictitious flesh?

I also need to start making some $$$. So, perhaps you have an idea for that too?

I have a pile of theories about what you’ll be seeing here on the travel blog, but I think it’s important to know what my audience want. So, spill. Are you addicted to tips? Partial to prose? Inkling for imagery?

I’d love to hear from you. “You complete me.”

“The way she snores, she sounds like a wounded walrus.”

“The inside of the plane was a gallery of round-edged frames, exhibiting aerials of my world”

“Arriving in Wellington at night; the burning embers of a midnight cityscape”

“The soundtrack to a video store: ‘Have you seen it? ’”

“The hills take on the silhouette of sleeping dogs”

“Lada Niva”

“Sometimes I think a person who waits for the green man, could be a piece of art”

“NZ has worst road death toll in western world”

“Is there such a thing as ageism in NZ? I don’t believe so. Progressive Youth Movement — any older people? Flight of the Conchords appeals to all ages.”

“Spot lit theatres showing throwbacks to a bygone era”

“Napier is a town of spies. People hoarding round the back of the aquarium spying on seals. Metres away, a row of adults spy on child skaters in the SK8 Zone.”

“An elderly couple board the bus. His hair is wet, striped with a comb through steel-gray. Hers is bottle-brown, waved and kinked. They reek of stale mischief and a union of lavender-scented rooms, splattered with slightly torn doilies and green glass cats.”

“To really understand a culture, you have to start with its childhood. Hairy Maclary.”

“Bus shelters [in Wellington] are made from ultra thick concrete, not unlike bomb shelters. Protection, perhaps, from the numbered yellow missiles which prey on its public.”

“Lower Hutt has a much more classy population. The kind who have sordid affairs. Yummy Mummy’s et al.”

“Immigration number [in NZ] is higher than birth rate”

“Twenty minutes. It’s such an awkward period of time. It does not give me time to walk around that corner, to that café, to sup upon some bitter leisure. Neither does it lend itself to lunch, nor does it give me ample moments to lose myself in the book I always seem to carry. Twenty minutes is not short enough to take five, or long enough to catch forty. So, what should one do in twenty minutes? Surely not everyone has the foresight to write this Twenty Minute prose, and on the flipside, as the author I may have given you my Twenty Minutes, but in return you’ve only give me three to five!
Twenty Minutes could become your time for reflection, but in reading this to realise that, you’re fated to rush reflection and frankly you should probably save time and spend a minute to recreate deflection.”

“The wind sock for Wellington Hospital is shredded. Testament to the infamous winds, detriment to the famous rescue helicopters.”

“People who wear “funny” t-shirts annoy me. You wouldn’t wear your sex life on your sleeve, so why tell a joke on your chest?”

“Is it a result of so much intelligence and thought, that library’s are so often visited by young love?”

“Rain had left the land feeling damaged, torn and beaten. It lay defeated beneath a sweet scent”

“I’m here for a year, not a career”

“My words are repeated until they’re devoid of life, much the same as when autumn drains the life of trees. Their leaves waiver to the ground to be stamped upon by children. Those leaves, are my worn out words.”

“Mirrool: where 16 people live, and their annual event is to hoof a footy ball over the village silos. Mirrool: where the landlady promises to leave the pub open, so you can shower in the morning, and three mysterious men in their 80s clean the public campsites bathrooms. A place where meat trays are won by people called Bob, and a place where you’re only a stranger the first time you visit. I like Mirrool.

The Kick is 30m by 30m, and on my less heralded effort I only just managed to hit the base from 10m away. It was a place where it was impossible to drive the tent pegs in, reminding me of the earth we leeched after taking it from its caretakers. Mirrool is free of NSW’s Driver Revivers, where coffee and biscuits by donation cause the drive to feel like a charity event. So little happens on these roads, you begin to make dramas up, “Did I put the petrol cap back on?” or “Did we pack the tent?”

“Mundubbera is Aussie for Mundane Area, or at least that’s my interpretation. I spend my days punching in faraway towns into my sat nav, and marvelling at the fact I now live on a caravan site complete with a giant mandarin; testament to the fact Mund’ is the citrus capital of the world. This accolade attracts a population of just over 2000 people and a high street whose only high seems to be the Seat of Knowledge sitting slyly outside the local IGA Supermarket. The campsite is far more reminiscent of a refugee camp, where people gather in groups to out-bore each other while their social experiment finds its feet.”

“Route 66 — Dingo town; home of the World Dingo Throwing Competition”

“PICA (Perth Institute of Contemporary Arts) exhibition, Intimate Acts: Patty Chang snogging her mum and dad; someone spitting into their friends mouth; and an Asian-American who scours dating sites for booty calls, then photographs himself in their apartments. Gross. Unnecessary. Vomit inducing.”

I was recently defuzzing my phone, when I realised their was a trail of breadcrumbs I had left behind on The Trail; a cache of quick notes, squeezed into my mobile phone’s outbox by my ageing Gen-Y thumbs. Like a literary version of Innerspace, I thought you’d like to see them.

“The hardest thing to pull off in art, is simplicity”

“If my way into Russia was pictorial, it would consist of a blob for my port of entry, Moscow and a long slender tail for my mega-journey east along the Trans-Mongolian railway. Subsequently it would look rather like a sperm trying to impregnate Europe, which is itself quite pertinent.”

“Shoulder screaming.
My neck, that pivot of life now BETRAYING me.
I want to cry, tears of agony.
She’s there. Sleeping.
SOMEBODY, do something.
Release me from these crows.

Am I so evil?
I’m not. I plea. I’m not.
It burns.
Pure.
It’s telling me something but I cannot hear,
because my shoulder,
it’s SCREAMING.”

“I like to stay in a place till I hate it enough to leave, and love it”

“Corruption is a crime of the coward. No company can cure loneliness”

“Craving happiness. That’s why people spend half an hour choosing a ring tone that will give them five seconds of happiness”

“For every new car that rolls off the production line, that’s how many rich people there are. For every old car in the scrap yard, that’s how many wasted their money on a car”

“Travel writing, or writing travel?”

“I’m the kind of guy who uses the back of the DVD box to keep up with the movie”

“The sound of a radiator cooling down is perhaps the world’s most annoying”

“Those gentle moments when your train window pulls up aside another. Fragrant seconds, frozen in time between your panes”

“Morning commute is silent, but for the alien youth reciting his travel dreams to a pair of feline friends. The Economist. The company report. The yellowing book. Silence, but for the most annoying noise of recycled music from his headphones. As people board, they look surprised that I might be standing with my four brethren, while the galleys are a sea of right-angled calves and thighs — but surely this must be a daily occurrence in a city of 2 million mutes.

Note: this is 9am, because Australia is one of those peculiar anomalies that doesn’t open its doors till 10 (and usually has them shut by 6). But for those eight hours, they work like artisans creating a glorious vibe for when they lay down their tools.”

In this oxymoronic cyber-world of online travel, it is clear that we travellers are incredibly proud of our status de la sojourn. We’re nomads on vacation, on holidays in faraway places. We’re journeymen and culture vultures, explorers and expats.

“What do you do?” says the American to the Swede, “I’m a traveller” says the Swede. “Me too”.

“Cool. So where have you been?” retorts the Swede. “Here and there, and other places”.

“And, you?”

“Oh. I’ve been there too. And here. And there.”

Two travellers. Joined at the hip. Staring life down. But what if that conversation took place in Sweden, or the States?

One traveller. Bored. One ex-traveller. Excited.

Of my own experience, I believe I use the term traveller to fill the void of expectation, when someone asks me what I do. One couldn’t possibly say “Nothing”. Imagine that thick silence, barging through the air.

“Nothing? Ha, that’s not possible!”

“OK. I’m a traveller”

“Awesome!”

Travelling is a style, not a fashion. It’s a portal for people to expose their culture to others; an acid-test for change.

Travel is as important in your kitchen, as it is in all of the world’s villages, because all it takes to be a traveller is to realise that you have a natural ability to connect.

We are all travellers, and though we’ll take different journeys we’ll arrive at the same destination.

“So profound!”

While I openly admit that the outfit behind 0044.co.uk are friends of a friend, I also believe they’re the brains behind a truly worthy service. As travellers we are unjustly punished each time we switch our mobiles on (cell phones to the non-BBC amongst us).

What the 0044 Ltd team provide, is pure common sense. They sell foreign SIM cards to foreign people, so that said foreign people can make cheaper phone calls in local countries, to locals and foreigners alike. Thus avoiding the notoriously high roaming charges set by the slimy naysayers of the upper floors, and thus claiming a rare victory for the little people (yes, even malting Ewoks, and ageing Oompa-Loompas may apply).

It can currently cost as much as £1.50 per minute to receive a call to your mobile abroad, whereas a smudge of forward planning can bring that cost down to £0.00.

Naturally, the fact that you’ll have a local SIM means that local calls will become significantly cheaper, and if – for instance – you’re the type to etch your number beneath a painfully honest statement in a hostel toilet cubicle, then any would-be respondents will be able to make cheaper calls to you too. Everyone’s a winner. Unless you do that, in which case you’re most definitely a loser.

The world of mobile phones and their devious plans is a labyrinth for lost pennies; if you make one decision before you leave for the long haul, make it a smart one by considering your options with 0044.co.uk, and thus insure your grandma’s gummy-smile.

(Other service providers are available. Apparently.)

The LISTENup podcast series returns, with a sensuous foray into the Sumatran jungle, before catching a tortuous getaway bus out. Ant gets up close and overly personal with the People of the Forest, before sampling the rich palette of colours which make up this mystical Indonesian island.

Dear Readers,
Regulars to the site will have realised I’ve been off the radar recently, while I’d love to say it’s due to oodles of travelling it is, alas, due to the irregular shifts I’m being forced at knife-and-fork point to work, while here in Wellington.

Believe me when I say, if there was any way I could escape and run naked and wild through the forests of mispronounced words — I would.

Please accept this humble podcast by way of respect for your loyalty during this time.

Yours,
Ant