by Randall Tate
I got my hair cut......in Cambodia.......by a transexual........for $1.
I think it just became the highlight of my 25 year haircutting career.
I am pretty sure it was his/her first time. I had to walk him/her through it.
I gave him/her some tips. So now he/she has a few more tricks up her
skirt....errrrrrr sleeve. By the end I was both physically and mentally
exhausted. After 45 minutes of watching his/her every move, I was pretty sure
he/she owed me money.
Halfway through, the clippers stopped working. He/she investigated and found
out that the whole socket had stopped working. Did I mention this is Cambodia?
I was surprised he/she had clippers in the first place. No problem...he/she
just went to work with her dull scissors for the next 30 minutes. I was
actually relieved because he/she was digging in so hard with the clippers that
my neck was starting to bleed.
I guess you could compare him/her to Michealangelo painting the Sistine Chapel.
Except, unlike me, he/she probably knows how to spell Sistine. She/he went at
his/her work with a passion and fearcity that would go unmatched in the western
world. Her/his attention to detail was amazing. There were a few times where I
was pretty sure he/she didn't even cut a single hair. Absolutely spellbounding.
Every five minutes the other people in the "hair salon" would come in and marvel
at his/her work. I actually couldn't believe he/she pulled it off.
Did I mention he/she didn't speak a word of English except for thank you and
beautiful? I'm beautiful...now.
At the end I got a powder, a first for me. I think I'll go back for a massage.
Did I mention he/she does massages? Among other things...
Í should probably stop this bleeding.
Monday, March 22, 2004
A Haircut Story
Thursday, March 11, 2004
The Scariest Thing I've Done in March (So Far)
by Anna
Stephanie and I conquered the Blue Mountains of New South Wales. We did everything there was to do and saw everything there was to see. We cast our fair eyes upon the mighty Three Sisters in Katoomba, the Jenolan Caves, the kangaroos in the Megalong Valley, but most importantly, the Glowworm Tunnel outside Lithgow. While planning the trip our #1 Must See was always the glow worms. We bought a 4-wheel drive car so we could venture the unpaved track to the glowworms. The glowworms were our destiny.
Stopping first at the Lithgow information center, I asked the nice lady if there was anything we needed to know before making our pilgrimage to see out little glowy friends. "Got a 4-wheel drive?" she asks. Of course. "Got a torch (flashlight)?" A little red Mini-Maglite I got in my stocking this year. All systems go. Off to the glowworms.
After a full hour out of the town on a desolate, bumpy, corrugated road with several unmarked forks, we reach a tiny little parking area deep in a fern forest where I believe they filmed Jurassic Park. Signs tell us the tunnel is 1 km away. I grab the MiniMag and we walk down the path. The lil' wormies are housed in an abandoned railway tunnel that hasn't been used in 100+ years. How inviting.
We walk alone through the fern forest and puddles for maybe 10 minutes and arrive to the entrance of the tunnel. You have got to be joking. It's a solid wall of rock with slimy drippy things hanging all over the entrance and a trickly little creek running into it. We muster up all our bravery, press on and enter the tunnel. No worms to be seen, bearing in mind we have no idea what the little guys look like. We walk a little further in. Nothing. My flashlight is on and it's not very strong, just bright enough to see the ground at our feet to keep us out of puddles. We go a little further and a little further and the light from the entrance is almost out of sight. Just then I remember the info center lady said, "Make sure you go all the way through." We now cannot see any sunlight at all. But we can see tiny little blue dots on the walls and ceiling of the tunnel. The glowworms! They look like a Lite Brite. I shine my light on some and they look like little inchworms or caterpillars with a glowy dot on their tail (or head?). They also had some sticky cobweb goo holding them to the wall.
We keep walking; keep walking in the pitch black, dying of heart attacks because we have no idea how far it is to the other end. Steph is holding on the back of my sweatshirt and I let out the occasional yell and whistle to scare away any potential bad guys and monsters. I have no idea how long we walked, maybe 5 or 10 more minutes, until we saw the light at the other end. 5 or 10 minutes is a fantastically long time to walk in the dark, let me tell you.
There was nothing great out the other side, just more fern forest and drippy cliff faces. After out heart rates returned to normal we turned around and walked back through to get back to the car. Being much braver the second time I turned the flashlight off a couple times and it was pretty cool looking. Back to the car by 6:30 and back down that terrible road. Since it was late afternoon, we saw lots of kangaroos eating in the clearings near the road.
Proud of our accomplishment, we left Lithgow, stopping for gas first. We told the lady at the gas station about our adventure and she didn't seem to think it was anything great. She claimed there used to be so many worms you didn't even need a flashlight and that no parts of the tunnel were totally dark. Hogwash. We did the scariest thing ever and that's all anyone needs to know.
In a Van, Down by the Ocean
by Stephanie
Seven percent of Australians are living in poverty. This is defined by sleeping places other than a bed within four walls including: under bridges, on the beach, or in a car. Good thing expatriates don't count, because Anna and I would hate to be responsible for helping break the ten percent mark. We moved into our car two weeks ago.
It was easy to pull off "car camping" when we were in the Blue Mountains, a place where everyone is actually camping. But then we came back to Sydney.
Everyone we ever met outside Australia sang the glories of Sydney. It was sold as a terrific city on the water. "Nice people, nice beaches, nice clubs, plenty of opportunity to work and meet people and have a good time." After six and a half weeks in the "Harbour City," my less-than-flattering comments could be limited to "ridiculously expensive." When apples cost one dollar each, you cheer like you're at the racetrack with all your money on the American dollar when the news stations put out their daily economic report.
So, back to our heroines re-entering Sydney from the relaxing mountain scenery. With one week to last until Mardi Gras and only a van for accomodation, we had to be creative.
For some reason, Lonely Planet doesn't list that you can park at Bondi Beach for free if you leave between 11pm and 7am. The lovely parks people even leave the handicapped bathroom open all night. Said bathroom is entirely handicap inexcessible: the toilet is seatless, the sink flooded, and the cockroaches do the Mexican Hat Dance until dawn. At this rate, I'll pay Sydney prices for a coffee to use the restroom at a regularily cleaned establishment. Trusty Lonely Planet lists a cafe near the beach that is "as cute as a bug's ear." Field research told me there is nothing "cute" about it unless you count free-postcard decor, freezer-burned ice cream, and a bathroom paper-mached in dirty toilet paper, the smell pathetically masked by an open bottle of peppermint oil. Two strikes, LP.
Next on the list of van-resident needs is food. In our days in Redfern (a dodgy district of South Sydney), Anna and I found a few bargains: There is a completely free BBQ at the Shannon Hotel on Sundays for all those prideless enough to scrounge through a line like penniless university students. The Lansdowne Hotel has good steaks for five dollars, though they pull a classic Sydney: "*conditions apply." You have to buy a $3.50 drink (beer, wine or unrefillable Coke) to enjoy with your meal. Mamma's Kitchen on Broadway has a massive bowl of spaghetti for the bargain price of $4.50. No catch, except that it tastes like it came out of an army ration can. None of these bargains are listed in "the world's best budget travel guide," so we'll go ahead and add our thick Lonely Planet to our van-ready stack of toilet paper.
At the beach we did not know the local deals so had to carefully pick through menus and screen for asterisks. Finally, we chose a modest Italian place. And, treating ourselves, as people that live in a van must sometimes do, we started with garlic bread: four dollars. Wait... damn asterisk: "*per person." Eight dollars for four pieces of crappy garlic bread.
Anna and I are the owners of expensive brains, so collaborating them we came up with one final plan: if we can make ourselves look like we don't live in a van, maybe we can meet some nice gentlemen with lots of money who will buy us a condo. Execution of this brainchild required a trip to the laundromat. We combined our most necessary items into one load and brought in our own soap. One wash, one dry: $8.10. That condo had better have all amenities included.
Seven percent of Australians are living in poverty. This is defined by sleeping places other than a bed within four walls including: under bridges, on the beach, or in a car. Good thing expatriates don't count, because Anna and I would hate to be responsible for helping break the ten percent mark. We moved into our car two weeks ago.
It was easy to pull off "car camping" when we were in the Blue Mountains, a place where everyone is actually camping. But then we came back to Sydney.
Everyone we ever met outside Australia sang the glories of Sydney. It was sold as a terrific city on the water. "Nice people, nice beaches, nice clubs, plenty of opportunity to work and meet people and have a good time." After six and a half weeks in the "Harbour City," my less-than-flattering comments could be limited to "ridiculously expensive." When apples cost one dollar each, you cheer like you're at the racetrack with all your money on the American dollar when the news stations put out their daily economic report.
So, back to our heroines re-entering Sydney from the relaxing mountain scenery. With one week to last until Mardi Gras and only a van for accomodation, we had to be creative.
For some reason, Lonely Planet doesn't list that you can park at Bondi Beach for free if you leave between 11pm and 7am. The lovely parks people even leave the handicapped bathroom open all night. Said bathroom is entirely handicap inexcessible: the toilet is seatless, the sink flooded, and the cockroaches do the Mexican Hat Dance until dawn. At this rate, I'll pay Sydney prices for a coffee to use the restroom at a regularily cleaned establishment. Trusty Lonely Planet lists a cafe near the beach that is "as cute as a bug's ear." Field research told me there is nothing "cute" about it unless you count free-postcard decor, freezer-burned ice cream, and a bathroom paper-mached in dirty toilet paper, the smell pathetically masked by an open bottle of peppermint oil. Two strikes, LP.
Next on the list of van-resident needs is food. In our days in Redfern (a dodgy district of South Sydney), Anna and I found a few bargains: There is a completely free BBQ at the Shannon Hotel on Sundays for all those prideless enough to scrounge through a line like penniless university students. The Lansdowne Hotel has good steaks for five dollars, though they pull a classic Sydney: "*conditions apply." You have to buy a $3.50 drink (beer, wine or unrefillable Coke) to enjoy with your meal. Mamma's Kitchen on Broadway has a massive bowl of spaghetti for the bargain price of $4.50. No catch, except that it tastes like it came out of an army ration can. None of these bargains are listed in "the world's best budget travel guide," so we'll go ahead and add our thick Lonely Planet to our van-ready stack of toilet paper.
At the beach we did not know the local deals so had to carefully pick through menus and screen for asterisks. Finally, we chose a modest Italian place. And, treating ourselves, as people that live in a van must sometimes do, we started with garlic bread: four dollars. Wait... damn asterisk: "*per person." Eight dollars for four pieces of crappy garlic bread.
Anna and I are the owners of expensive brains, so collaborating them we came up with one final plan: if we can make ourselves look like we don't live in a van, maybe we can meet some nice gentlemen with lots of money who will buy us a condo. Execution of this brainchild required a trip to the laundromat. We combined our most necessary items into one load and brought in our own soap. One wash, one dry: $8.10. That condo had better have all amenities included.
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