I’m aware Canada is the second largest country in the entire world, but after living downtown in the Great White North’s biggest city, you kind of loose scale of things. I mean, I walked to work in 15 minutes, there was a convenience shop across the road, and a bus stop literally outside my front door.
So my skewed perspective of life is probably why I thought we could travel 250k’s in 90 minutes.
Obviously, this didn’t happen. Cruising the relatively straightforward drive from Ottawa to Algonquin actually took around 4 hours thanks to poor map-reading on my part, and a lengthy Walmart pitstop. Eyes were drooping and the sun was setting by the time we finally arrived in Canada’s oldest Provincial park.
We couldn’t settle down just yet, as now the challenge was to keep our eyes peeled for both the nearest campsite and the nearest moose crossing. After a cautious half hour (hitting a 500kg, 7ft bull in the middle of the night probably wouldn’t end well), we picked the first campsite we came across, pitched our tent and spent our first night in the great outdoors.
After a decent sleep and hearty campfire breakfast, a 10km hike along the Mizzy Lake Trail seemed like a stroll through the woods. Which it technically was, but with a lot more hills, rivers and opportunity to encounter deadly wildlife.
Though the bears must have taken a week off as 4 hours later, our only close encounter was with hundreds of bloodthirsty mosquitoes and a skunk. On the plus side, however, I now know the bullfrog mating call off by heart.
Fortunately, the way back to camp was long Route 60 - a road that cuts through the South of Algonquin park - which seemed to be a far more appealing hang-out for wildlife. The tell-tale cluster of poorly parked 4x4's alongside an orgy of iphones and sunburnt Mom’s told us something good was nearby.
It was a bloody moose, looking majestic and confused in equal measure, wondering why the hell 30 humans were live-tweeting her enjoying an afternoon snack.
Ironically enough, the roadside turned into our most fruitful place to spot large Canadian beasts. Well, the vegetarian kind anyway. We saw another Moose the following day, this time a male with impressive headgear which sent this particular camper and his crew into a wild frenzy. Though while we stayed at a respectable distance, one excitable hick basically threw himself at the stag in excitement, scaring the main attraction into the overgrowth as the rest of the audience grumbled at missing prime Instagram material.
Thankfully, the trail we were returning from that day had also churned out plenty of photographic scenes. We witnessed luscious waterfalls, jaw-dropping look-outs and plenty of signposts telling us where historic railroads and view towers used to stand many decades ago. Plus, the Track and Tower trail was a lot shorter than yesterday’s walk so our thighs weren’t in so much pain by the end of the day.
The pain continued as we pulled back into the campsite and noticed a swarm of parents’s with arms crossed and furrowed brows outside the reception. Turns out there was a bit of a water shortage. So while they all mourned the fact their heated showers had to be postponed for the night, we embraced our B.O., cranked out another fire and got drunk.
We put off camping for another couple of days by cashing in another contact and the 4 of us imposed on Hollie’s signifiant other Amanda’s house. Or rather, her brothers house. fortunately he had an entire basement floor that was fully furnished and just waiting for guests. So we unloaded some stuff, had a few beers, then headed to bed early for the all-day drinkathon that is Canada day.
Decked out in our most obnoxiously Canadian attire - every item a rich shade of scarlet, maple leaves everywhere - we headed downtown on the free-for-one-day-only subway, where were greeted by a sea of red.
Along with paying for transit, Canada’s strict ‘no drinking in public’ rule also appeared redundant today, with most people parading bottles of booze half-heartedly disguised in a re-used water bottle whilst chugging them amongst the array of dancers, singers and general showmanship on display. This, my friends, was Canada day.
We’d pulled up to the country’s Canada late last night, where we once again avoided sleeping under the stars by cashing in a favour and taking over Hollie’s girlfriend's brother’s basement (when people say Canadians are welcoming, they’re not joking).
An early night meant and early start, and now we were half-drunk and full of good vibes whilst seeing the streets of Ottawa for the first time.
We had planned to use today as an opportunity to see some sights, but the throngs of rowdy North Americans - plus the intermittent DOWNPOURS of rain - meant after a brief stop at the Byward Market, we put the tour-guides away and started drinking under an abandoned gazebo.
Image taken under the Gazebo, shared from Hollie Eggleton’s FB
When we realised how tragic we looked (/ ran out of booze), we upgraded to a nearby bar. The day continued in the same wet, tipsy vein, with us meandering in search of shelter, culture and booze all at the same time.
Though the weather did clear up long enough for us enjoy a quick walk over the border. The state border, I should clarify. Turns out Ottawa is just a short river’s crossing from Quebec. Within 10 minutes we were treated to French road signs, some jovial European music over a loudspeaker, and an awesome view of Parliament hill back in Ontario.
Quebec and the bridge leading to it.
As the border town in French Canada appeared to be quite boring, our visit was short but sweet. But at least it helped with my ‘number of states visited’ total.
By now, the sun was setting and party-time was really kicking off. It came as a unexpected surprise to discover a massive free concert was in full swing on Parliament Hill.
What was even more surprisingly was that I actually knew and liked some of the artists. Ontario based radio-bothers Magic! took to the stag shortly after we stumbled into the crowd, and when electro-pop Canuck Kiesza came on, everybody around was treated to my enthusiastic drunk dancing. The night continued with a roster of local artist of both the French and English speaking persuasion, all with varying degrees of success in holding our attention.
When the clock hit 12, the sky lit up with an impressive array of fireworks, before the floodlights dimmed, and the field turned into a massive outdoor rave. It may have been raining, and we may have run out of alcohol, but it was a great way to end the day.
Surprisingly hangover-free after a full day of drinking, we bid a fond farewell to our generous hosts, packed the car back up and decided to check out more sights of Ottawa sober.
Parliament Hill had wiped any trace of drunken debauchery away with impressive efficiency, allowing us to marvel the elaborate gothic revival designs of the senate, house of common et al without ever guessing there were thousands of wasted Canadians loitering the place mere hours ago.
The area is also surrounded by elaborate bronze statues and marble monuments commemorating important historical events, the most impressive being National War Memorial - complete with real-life soldiers standing guard.
With all the beautiful architecture around, it’s no surprise to find a UNESCO heritage site in this city. What I didn’t suspect, however, was it to be a canal. The Rideau Canal system to be exact. But upon closer inspection, the ancient causeway, complete with locks and boat-homes, weaves a picture-perfect pathway through the city, and is definitely worth the credit it receives.
Thursday in Ottawa is free museum day, and by a very fortunate turn of fate, that happened to be the weekday we were on. So after a little debate as to which of the city’s many institutions to visit, the Natural History Museum came out top.
By the 4pm freebie start time, there was already a monumental line-up spilling out the door. But this quickly filed inside, allowing us to spend as much time as we wanted with the stuffed bears and dinosaur bones.
And after a brief stop by the beautifully nightmarish ‘maman’ statue - basically, a 20 foot metal spider - we headed back to the car and took to the trans-Canada highway onwards.
As we were finally going to be ‘slumming’ in campsites after 3 days of luxury, A brief stop for essentials was required. And as you’d expect with four people quickly remembering we’d have no electricity or heat for the night, a quick Walmart trip led to an accidental motorway detour and an hour-long tour of the shopping complex.
My latest adventure is a journey few have attempted. A journey said to contain wild beasts and harsh, uncharted terrain. A journey considered SO BORING 99% of Canadians just fly the distance to save them the torture.
Any Torontonian I told of my venture just looked at me stupid and asked - a mixture of confusion and pity in their eyes - ‘why?’
Why an earth I would spend 4 weeks crossing the great, desolate expanse between Toronto and Vancouver when, if we really put our foot down, the journey could be completed in 3 days.
But 'Lonely Planet’s’ claims of unthinkable beauty – and an unshakeable compulsion to become frequently homeless – led to my equally nomadic roomie Hollie, fellow Atrium alumni Matt and Ontarian small-towner Emily doing the unthinkable.
- One of the many attempts to secure the guitars on the roof-rack
On July 1st, we said goodbye to all our home comforts (except for a shit-tonne of camera equipment, more clothes than any 4 people could ever need, and two guitars) to drive our jam-packed ‘town and country’ vehicle out of Canada’s most populated city and into the great beyond with little more than a hand-written list and intermittent Goggle-maps data for guidance.
Our first stop was Prince Edward county. Not to be confused with the coastal Prince Philip Island, this luscious landscape was full of rolling hills and picture-perfect farmhouses.
One of whom belonged to the obligatory Canadian within our posse, Emily. We arrived around 6 hours later than planned due to last minute errands (cashing cheques, cleaning apartments, packing) so sadly darkness had fallen and our host family were sleeping. However, Emily’s mother Di is the kind to put other Mom’s to shame, leaving out a selection of delicious and specifically labelled treats which we gladly devoured before retreating to our individual guest bedrooms for the night.
We had planned to make up for lost time the following day, but any hopes of an early morning exploring this beautiful countryside were dashed by the onslaught of rain that greeted us on day 2 of our trip.
Roadtrip Rule #1: Never trust weather Reports.
So we instead enjoyed the 5* hotel treatment for a few more hours at casa del Emily before finally heading out into the thankfully less aggressive rainfall. First on our Road Trip hit list was the Thousand Islands. Popping up in pretty much every 'top 10 things to do in Canada' list I've read, this cluster of tiny little islands occupy the waters separating South-West Ontario and New York state.
After a brief concern that Emily and Matt may not be allowed on international waters due to passport issues (or lack thereof), the the boat ride company assured us that rigorous visa checks were not part of the tour as you don’t even leave the boat during the 60 minute trip.
- 1,000 Island tour transport
The weather was grim to say the least, but the sight of dozens of quaint brick houses standing on little more than a tennis-court of land is bizarrely mesmerising - whatever the weather.
We meandered through hundreds of enclaves, all in varying sizes and states of human tampering. It was like something straight of a Wes Anderson movie.
And before I’d even decided which island to purchase when I win the lottery, we were back on dry(ish) land, slightly more educated (did you know that to be considered an island, a land mass must contain at least 6 square feet of land and 2 trees?) and hoping the weather would let-up before we arrived at our next destination - Ottowa.
One of the most popular natural wonders on the entire planet (and also the ‘Honeymoon capital of the world’, apparently) becomes a majestic, frozen marvel during the North American winter.
The Horseshoe falls tumble with magnificent icy blue torrents into a swirling pool of broken ice; while the American falls are almost completely frozen bar a few ferocious trickles - all the while enjoyed by chilly but determined travellers from across the globe.
Music: 'Hazel grows' by Grace Hartrey
Download on itunes now: https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/kings-queens-hazel-grows-single/id928487453
With the abundance of colour, culture and communism rife in Havana, meticulous planning was required to fit as much into each day. I made numerous lists, figured out what to cover in each section, practised my spanish (upgrading my skills from 'shockingly clueless' to just 'bad') and accounted a specific amount of CUCs (the Cuban currency) for each day.
Of course, all this planning went out the window when I left the map in the hotel (a 20 minute ride away) on my first day. But as I've through previous short-sightedness, sometimes it's more fun making it up as you go...
Thankfully, most things are negotiable in distance from Parc Central, the epicentre of Havana (or ‘Habana’ if you comprende Español). It's where our bus dropped us off, are guaranteed to find a taxi, and find snacks in the form of tiny tubes of peanuts that everyone here loves.
There's a big statue in the middle surrounded by a comfy looking plinth, but unbeknownst to me, resting on it was a big no-no until a feverish police woman ran over to me blowing her whistle. So don't sit there.
Parc central was also where the Tour Bus left from, so naturally, I gave that a go. For only 5CUC's ($5), I received an open-top cruise around Havana's fancy hotels, Seaworld, Chris Columbus' grave and the Russian embassy - towering above the skyline thanks Fidel's strong ties to the once-soviet superpower.
It also took us to Plaza de la revolution (Revolution plaza), where grand dictator Castro gives his speeches, holds his offices and generally does his Communist thing.
It's probably most famous for the giant portraits of the aforementioned Fidel and his comrade Che Guevara, but it’s also home to the looming Jose Marti Memorial (which is one of the highest points in the city if you fancy paying a few CUC's to go up).
It's worth seeing for those big 3, but other than that, it’s just a big empty square.
Another famous Cuban institute is, of course, its rum, and none more world-renowned than Havana Club. This was obviously in abundance around the city – and also incredibly cheap to buy (it’s safe to say I made the most of my 1.5 litre luggage allowance) so it only seemed right to take a tour around the Havana club factory (7CUCs).
The tour was filled with fascinating nuggets about the spirits' evolution from post-work relaxant to globally demanded export. And of course, there was samples.
Such was the international demand for Havana club, the city built a castle to protect themselves from drunken invaders.
Well, and all other invaders too. Though the Castillo-de-los-Tres-Reyes-Magos-del-Morro (thankfully abbreviated to Morro Castle by most) is technically a fortress, this impressive cliff-side structure is still worth the short taxi ride to the other side of Havana Bay for its beautiful architecture, wartime relics, and a stunning view of the city.
A ten minute walk along the cliff from the Castello and you're also treated to a small but concise outdoor museum of missiles – in case you needed reminding of the whole reason America stopped trade here in the first place – and the Christo de La Habana (Christ of Havana) - A cool lil’ carving of JC looking out over the city.
Back on the western edge of the bay is the Malecon - a long, picturesque promenade that runs along the waterfront for a good few miles.
On one side are dozens of bright, eye-catching buildings housing families and businesses; and on the other is the brilliant blue ocean, sometimes broken up by a lower, derelict pathway, gradually washed away by the tides.
Like much of Havana, it was a great place to people watch teenagers skateboarding, couples canoodling and musicians busking for your loose change - even on the overcast days.
A quick stroll down the Paseo de Marti (a long, paved stretch of inner-city park that was equally as great for people watching) from the malecon and you’re back at parc central and in the centre of Old Havana.
And out of all the brilliant things to see and do in Havana, this was my favourite. Just hanging around in the old town. Walking down the tiny alleys, where livings rooms opened up onto dusty street and old ladies leaned in their doorways, chatting to friends and watching the world go by.
Old men played chess, children played baseball with bottle tops and sticks. Residents set up stalls offering all sorts of things for tourists and locals alike.
The colours were marvellous and the people were fascinating. My travel buddies and I spent hours walking through markets and watching street performers and wondering if I could pull off an all-green shell-suit like the Cubans can.
The answer was obviously 'no', but it didn't matter. I fell in love with Havana, and anybody who visits will do to.
Beautiful landscapes. Fascinating people. Communism. All things you will find in abundance on North America's most fascinating island. Here's some facts and features to help plan / persuade you to plan a trip to the Caribbean country of wonder.
The beaches are perfect. The sandy shoreline I encountered was stunning, despite only covering a small percentage of the 3,570 miles of coast on offer. Most of the beaches are completely untouched, and seriously, that sea is BLUE.
Cuba is full of colour. Did you know many of the vibrant building are painted a certain shade by the folks dwelling inside to inform passers by of your profession (fishing = blue etc.) Well, I didn't either, but that's what my tour-guide told me so I'm sticking with it.
It's nowhere near as dangerous as you think. Violent crimes happen very rarely, there is no gang culture, and thanks to the mount of money travelers bring in, misdemeanours committed against tourists is almost unheard of.
The government take big measures to make sure that anyone found abusing a visitor is severely punished, so locals don't risk it. I wandered around random side-streets with my big-ass camera and not once felt under threat (though obviously stay on well-lit areas in the night-time - there's no need to invite trouble)
Tourists basically have their own currency. It's called the CUC (Cuban Convertible Peso) and is essentially the equivalent of the dollar - though you can only swap your own money for this currency when inside Cuba.
Most hotel receptions exchange smaller amounts (around $100 depending), whereas larger sums can be processed at the airport (for slightly higher exchange rate but a fast service) or at the banks around the island, which is a better rate but MY GOD expect a long waiting time to get yours sorted.
Cuban's get paid in another currency - the Peso, or national Peso. Though it may sound confusing, as a tourist, you will rarely encounter this particular currency at the hotels / bars / attractions you'll visit. Locals get paid their monthly wage by the government in Peso's - a measly total sum that equates to around $27 I might add. And this is why many Cuban's want to eradicate the two-currency system altogether.
Communism is actually a very complex subject. Of course, it is mostly very terrible. Cuba has no free market (almost all jobs and trade is monitored by the government), poor living conditions and freedom of speech - particularly against the political rule - is a punishable crime.
But Fidel and co. also have free healthcare for everybody, 80% of residents actually own their property (how many Brits can say that?). Though the restriction of American imports has at least allowed it to retain a fascinating social and historical charm, no America means no new technology. Electronics are rare and internet is essentially non-existent (pay for an overseas plan on your phone before visiting or just enjoy a week without it - internet cafes here are a joke). This also means...
Little knowledge of the outside world. When I visited, the Sony hack by the North Korean 'Guardians of Peace' was all over the TV in Canada. And the rest of the world. In Cuba, they hadn't heard a peep. Worldwide news and cultural influences here are strictly monitored, along with all media thought of as 'dangerous'.
George Orwell's dystopian classic '1984' is a big nono (though one tour-guide told me with glee she had been handed a copy by a tourist), Their TV imports are limited to National geographic re-runs and Spanish soap operas. Heck, even Christmas was a crime until 1998!
Havana is brilliant. Beautiful. Fascinating. Full of history. Well worth a visit, even if it's just for a day, because the sights and sounds will blow your mind. Read up on my top things to do in Havana here
Do a daytrip anywhere. Even if you really just want to stay in your resort and drink all day. Even if the hustle of Havana isn't your cup of tea, there is bound to be something that this island can offer you. Maybe Snorkelling in the coral reef? Or a visit to the only U.S. Navel base at Guantanamo bay? I can personally recommend a trip to the luscious Vinales Valleys for stunning forestry and tobacco farms.
Locals will try and sell you things left, right and centre. But - as is the etiquette in developing* countries infiltrated by tourists - just look the vendor in the eye and calmly but firmly say 'No, thank you' in the appropriate language.
*(sidenote: Cuba's development status is fascinatingly obscure)
Stuff is very cheap. A bottle of rum can cost as little as $2. Same for hand-crafted wooden trinkets if you charm the seller enough. Cigars can be as cheap as $1 if you get it straight from the tobacco farm (like I did). So if you do engage with the people trying to sell you things, be sure to get a bargain.
The people are also stunning. The rich mix of European & African ancestry (unfortunately all Cuban natives were wiped out a century after the Spanish arrived) creates an atmosphere of complete racial tolerance. Also plenty of eye candy. This was clear from the moment we stepped off the plane - the staff waving you through the metal detectors were beautiful. Seriously, I have never seen a hotter selection of señors and señoritas checking for weapons at border security. Biceps were bulging from the chiselled males employees, and the girls looked looked fresh off the catwalk in their skyscraper heels and body-hugging mini dresses. This definitely wasn't Heathrow...
Things that cost nothing to us can mean the world to locals. Chocolate is rare, clothes are poor quality and shampoo is expensive. If you visit, bring Cubans a bottle of whatever D-list celeb fragrance you can find at a Poundshop/Dollarstore and a couple of notepads for them to be the envy of their friends. It's also a great way to ensure good service at reception / beaches / room service / whatever, and at the same time allow people to enjoy commodities that we take for granted daily.
This includes public transport. Honestly, and I thought Arriva Trains Wales were a nightmare. In Cuba, every bus stop we passed had dozens of people standing around it as it took forever for the shoddy people carriers to turn up. Many locals didn't even bother with the bus and just stood along the motorway with a few notes in their hands instead - hitchhiking is often a much faster way to get around.
Thing are slightly easier for tourists. There's a bus route that stops at a load of hotels before arriving at inner-Havana. While not specifically for visitors, the 5CUCs ($5) is a bit pricy for Cubans. But I'd like to point out this 'premiere' service is still an hour late most of the time. So I found the most effective way to travel was by taxi. And if you've got to pay more for private ride, why bother with a governmentally sponsored yellow cab when we can ride in these bad boys.
Basically, $10 was the average rate from our hotel Tropicoco in Santa Maria del Mar to Havana. So if a driver does this trip twice in a day, he's already doubled the average monthly wage here. And I got to experience a ride in these awesome vintage cars. Cars that usually don't have seatbelts. Or a dashboard. or all their windows. But hey, sometimes they had a TV.
Cubans speak spanish. Yes, this is very obvious to anyone who Googles their holiday destination before actually arriving (i.e. everybody), but was one minor detail I forgot to check. It wasn't until we were boarding our flight that I overheard a ignorant middle-aged man bark at the stewardess 'so what language they speak in Cuba then?' that I discovered it was Spanish. And also discovered I am as ignorant as a middle-aged man.
However, it turned out pop culture had served my quite well and I was 'por favor'-ing and 'muchas gracias'-ing like a pro, despite never receiving a Spanish lesson in my life (it may be the second most common language in the world, but in my home country Wales it's way down the list of importance, coming after English, French, German and, er, Welsh)
There is A LOT of rum. Whether you like it or not, you will probably drink some of this delicious alcoholic nectar when in Cuba. One of their most famous exports worldwide, so of course it's brewed in abundance and is criminally cheap. I couldn't tell you how many Pina Colada's I downed...
There is also a lot of prostitution. It's one of the biggest industries in Cuba as, once again, it pays substantially more than any monthly wage the government offers. I saw beautiful young ladies accompanying old Canadian men at all times of day in my hotel - joining them for breakfast, sunbathing at the beach.
I was never angry to see them joining me in the dining hall - I was honestly glad they were being treated to a good meal at least - I just felt sympathy for them, spending the week with somebody's Grandfather and pretending to enjoy it. Cuba may have the ‘the cleanest and most educated prostitutes in the world' according to Castro, but it doesn't mean they're happy about it.
Abandoned buildings are everywhere. So if you're as freakishly fascinated by wandering around dilapidated old structures like I am, you'll love Cuba. Whilst also a sad signifier of diminished economy, the old hotels, amphitheatres, homes and walkways are reclaimed by nature (and sometimes locals) to become another dynamic aspect to country's landscape.
Cats and dogs roam wild. And they were adorable. And probably flea-ridden. But I still petted as many of them as I could.
You will hear live music everywhere. Cuba is known for it's vibrant Afro-Spanish sounds (partially due to the record-breaking Beuna Vista Social Club) and you can hear catchy guitar riffs and soulful voices everywhere. Outside restaurants, on the beaches, street corners, everywhere! It was like my whole visit was soundtracked. And I loved it.
Though the joys of travelling always outway the negatives by a long shot, there are a handful of unpleasant circumstances that you just can't avoid, no matter how hard you try.
For the most part, the highs of living the life of a traveller FAR outway the lows. It's mainly seeing awesome things and 'finding yourself' and spamming everyone's facebook feeds of beautiful places until they block you. But there are times when shit happens and you just can't avoid it. Homesickness is the most obvious. Living with a crazy person is another. And I'm just waiting for the moment I get robbed for the first time.
One nomadic negative I'm particularly familiar with is working a shit job. I've done farms in boiling heat for minimum wage surrounded by various poisonous animals and a farmer with anger issues - but it helped me get a visa.
I've worked on demolition sites where the only preventative measures against asbestos poisoning was a Dollerstore gas mask - but I also now know how to use a whole host of power tools.
However my most recent job has got me struggling to find any positives other than cold hard cash. It's mind numbing, it's freezing cold, I get paid minimum wage and my round travel there and back takes up around 3 hours of my day.
I work at a chicken factory.
Yes, times have got so hard that this former vegetarian is spending his days around freshly culled chicken carcasses. One pro is that I don't actually have to kill the chickens - that task was completed in a slaughterhouse down the road.
My job involves getting up at 4am to catch a subway train, then a bus, I wandered through the dreary industrial estate of suburb Etoibicoke until I arrive at this place.
The inside of Premium Foods simultaneously spelt like clinical cleanliness and death. After choking back the urge to gag I put on a white coat, plastic apron, three pairs of gloves, weird throwaway sleeve protectors, a hairnet and a beardnet.
I then descended in what was essentially a giant fridge with a troupe of Chinese men and Filipino and only 2 other white folk ('welcome to my life' - every other nationality in the western world)
It was here I spend 10+ hours shovelling chicken body parts from a big tank into one of 3 troughs in the centre of the room. These troughs have a conveyer belt running over the top of it into a packagine machine, and counters either side.
I spend a majority of my working day at these counters 'hiding the fat'. That's right, rubbing away the white, flabby excess and scooping it underneath the meat so it is at its visual prime before being shipped to a number of chain supermarkets in sealed trays. I handle chicken breasts and thighs, wings and sometime heads. If we were lucky the occasional Turkey made an appearance.
So at least now I am an expert on chicken pieces - I learnt what a chicken tender was after ripping hundreds of them out from underneath a chicken wing.
Sometimes we would spend hours neatly packaging 5 thighs, before being told the buyer had changed their mind and only wanted 4 to a tray. So we would rip off all the cellophane and start again.
People who were considered as faster workers, or more reliable were 'promoted" (with no actual pay increase) to the packaging machines. Once or twice I was rewarded with a few hours on the machete-weilding bone-cutting table with all the Chinese men - purely because I was a male who didn't ask for a toilet break every five second.
Though i can;t blame the other workers who were looking for an excuse to escape from this hell for 5 minutes - it was hard. What it made up for in simplicity, it lacked in mental stimulation. Finding the will to go on was made ten-times worse as swathes of blood was rushing around your frostbitten feet.
However hellish this job was. I needed money for this months rent. So I slogged it out until I had enough cash to pay my bills, while fortunately bagging myself some steady hours at a retail job, then got out pronto.
So I guess, in the end, there was also a perk to this less-than-desirable job. Heck, without it I could have been homeless (or, more realistically, asked my poor parents for yet another bank transfer).
Either way It makes me far more grateful that I'll now be earning cash in a warm, clean, pleasant-smelling environment. And I now have a new job atop of my 'worst ever' list.
Claims of being born only a week ago. Ticking both 'yes' and 'no' to simple yes or no questions. Squeezing a full home address (including postcode) inside a tiny box titled 'email'.
I had never been concerned about the literacy skills of western children than I was during my time as a data entry clerk for Save the Children.
This charity encourages North American & British children - intelligent, educated children - to volunteer their time to work hard and raise cash for developing countries. In return, they are treated to free 'We Day' concerts, which in Canada features performances from local idols Justin Beiber and Nelly Furtado, along with inspirational speeches from the likes of Dalai Lama, Al Gore and Mia Farrow (?!).
After these events, whilst these kids were likely on some euphoric post-gig comedown, Save the Children thrust ballots in their faces and expected legible answers to requests for personal details to add to their mailing list.
So whilst the previous examples give an insight into just how confused these kids got, It's also worth mentioning that most of these children were aged 9-16. However after numerous hours trying to decipher whether 'Aruntiie' is a name itself or just a very peculiar way of spelling Amy (turns out, we will never know), I was glad most people use the internet to share information these days.
However, these particular ballots were done the old school way with pen and paper, so my job was to input the data scrawled over these ballots and into a computer database.
I know, I was also surprised to discover we don't have robots advanced enough to do this kind of thing yet. Or maybe they do, but either way backpackers are probably much cheaper.
Hollie, myself and 18 other work-hungry travellers met at the 'Save the Children' office - cunningly disguised as a normal suburban house 10 minutes from the city centre - and led up to a converted living room filled with long tables, each lined with rustic Windows '95 laptops.
After a brief introduction including a joyous propaganda video - showing how much all these children enjoyed the free concert (and i'll admit, it looked pretty fun) there were many bits of information to be logged.
For minimum wage we were reminded of just how difficult handwriting can be to understand if it's not your own. But thankfully, we were also reminded of just how terrible everyone's Very First Email Address is.
'Of all the possible words in the english language, what combination describes me best?' these children must have wondered.
'I know, how about '[email protected]'? or maybe 'lol123blush'? Titles along the lines of 'cowlover', 'Wolfrider' or anything animal based was also very popular*. I nearly passed out from restraining my laughter in this quiet office. And I wasn't the only one.
But along with reminding me what a normal email handle I chose during my youth (just my simple, boring name with some '.' stuffed amongst it), this job considerably helped my geographical knowledge. Whoever knew there were places called Boh or Des Moines? And the amount of children that go to school in Issaquah is astounding.
And then, out of know-where, we were sent home at 3pm - after a mere 5 and a half hour of work. Turns out we had typed so damn fast, all the ballots were completed in record-breaking time.
So I massively slowed it down for my next stint a week later. This time we managed to make it last a whole day and a half (therefore getting paid for more hours). About 50% of this weeks workers were here the previous week, so we knew the drill. t-y-p-e-a-l-o-t-s-l-o-w-e-r.
For those of you concerned we were mugging this poor charity off by purposely providing poor workmanship, fear not, we still got through thousands of the things - we just put ourselves at less risk of a sprained wrist for minimum wage and typed at a relaxed rate.
I also got my own personalised pizza for lunch. Last time they were generous enough to order everyone a few slices of the fast-food delicacy at lunch, but being allergic I could only enjoy the copious amounts of Tim Horten's coffee.
There, I learnt the hard way that binging on caffeine is not a suitable meal substitute, so I mentioned my dietary needs at the start of the shift and It ended up working massively in my favour - whilst everyone else was stuck with a slice or 2 of margarita, I ended up with a whole 10" to myself - and I got to choose my topping (green pepper and pepperoni if you must know).
This session ended with a shout-out from co-ordinator BLAh informing all us lowly travellers that Save the Children were actually on the look-out for permanent staff in many sectors of their company. Thankfully, my job search had given me a few successful leads elsewhere, it's good to know that these guys offered rewards to its workers that extended beyond Canadian popstars.
*obv these are not the actual real email addresses of school-life children, but I can assure you they are close enough to the hilarious reality.
Backpacking. It's a whole different ball game in Canada. The lack of exotic weather, relatively quiet nightlife and its generally 'tame' image means hostels are a far less sought after commodity.
So whereas my jaunts across Australia & Asia required very little by way of research (finding somewhere to temporarily set up camp after little more than a quick glance at Hostelworld.com), choosing a place in Toronto that was cheap, well located and fun took hours of trawling through every travel comparison site available.
After concluding that winter here severely limited the 'fun' element of every choice (as this generally involves other people, and they aren't flocking whilst the polar vortex is still dragging on), we decided on the reasonably priced and apparently central HI! Hostel.
And they weren't kidding about the location - you probably couldn't get a better spot. 5 minutes from the Eaton centre, Dundas square and City Hall, it was a great place to start.
The hostel also seemed far more active than we anticipated in the off season. Well, when you first walk past anyways. But the music pumping onto the street and brightly coloured exterior quickly subdued into a cosy, informative reception with the tunes playing at a quieter level.
The chirpy receptionist happily answered our 101 questions about phones, jobs, things to do, places to see and everything in-between the following morning, and throughout our whole stay there, the hostel staff were rated A+.
Shame the same can't be sad for the other people staying there. The few fellow explorers we did stumble across in the common areas were almost always engrossed in their laptops. And the folk in our 12-bed dorm weren't much better. Aside from our adoptive besties Tizzy and Neil, the 15 other people that came and went during our stay were disappointingly anti-social - despite Hollie firing 20 questions at anybody who came through the door. Definitely no parties here.
However the facilities were up to scratch, with a decent sized kitchen (for the winter half-full capacity at least) and plenty of bathrooms on each floor.
Aside from location, the main selling point at Hi! Hostel was their restaurant-cum-bar, 'the Cavern'. This qiant, bunker-styled venue was open to the public on stand-up and open-mic nights and filled with widescreen TV's and board games of all shapes and sizes. Which certainly passed the time when a -18 night-chill made venturing outside a horrifying idea.
Hollie attempting giant jenga
They also had a decent sized food menu, serving an array of dishes from early morning until evening, However, if you were excited at the prospect of gluten-free breakfasts (which, as a celiac, i was) don't hold your breath. Though delicious on the days we did sample them, of the 6 morning's we ordered our allegy-approved pancakes, the dish was only available twice (and on one of those days there was a half hour wait as staff ran across the road to grab ingredients).
But aside form this blip, the hostel did a good job at getting us settled. It provided internet, free tours of the city (though these are usually led by disinterested foreign students for extra university course credits) and had a balcony in the summertime. And as one of the cheapest hostels in the city (if you own a YHA card), it was worth the stay.
But if you're willing to pay a few extra loonies (that's dollars to all non-Canadians) for a slightly better class of budget living, look no further than Planet Traveller, our home for the second week.
In this hostel, your rate included *clear throat* breakfast, internet. Canadian phone calls, a rooftop bar with a view, en suite in every room, mac computers, free breakfast, unlimited popcorn, widescreen TV's and a log fire.
This place is nicer than my actual home.
Plus it produces its own solar-powered electricity and encourages recycling, which is always a plus in my book.
Though it was located 15 minutes walk further from the city centre, and didn't have any in-house eatery, it was situated between Kensington markets, Chinatown and Little Italy, which again are all worth a visit.
A few more pluses: The day-trip we booked to Niagara falls was actually cheaper at Planet Traveller than Hi!; there are not one, but two kitchen facilities in this hostel.
It's also worth mentioning that although the upstairs bar no longer serves alcohol, you are allowed to bring your own booze onto the premises (unlike HI!, which only lets you to drink purchases from the bar). Plus the view from the rooftop is pretty sweet.
I could get used to seeing this every morning
Being a smaller hostel it felt a bit more communal than the previous, and they encouraged some sort of social activity with a night-out and free food nights hosted during the week. Though obviously the bar crawl in Baltic temperatures doesn't sound too appealing right now, I've heard many good things about the atmosphere here at summer.
So overall, I think we got a decent experience of both ends of the hostel spectrum. After living in the city for a few more weeks and hearing from various travellers, the Candiana seems like a decent long-term stay, and Clarence park is 5 seconds from the CN Tower while remaining cheap, but overall, I would recommend both these hostels if you ever stop by T.Dot for a few days.
During my research for the Toronto re-location, there was only one attraction people would rave about.
Well, maybe some of them mentioned the great shopping, or how awesome the architecture was. Apparently the national parks are awesome too...
But APART from all that, if you were to name one thing to do during a short trip to T.dot, it would be the almighty, the majestic, the really quite wet Niagara Falls.
Though technically found in the city of Niagara Falls, the drive from Toronto city to this natural wonder takes under an hour, with a bus tour from our hostel only costing $55.
Though if you assumed Niagara Falls was surrounded by lush, thick countryside (or at this time of year, a blanket of snow) you might be a bit surprised to find it framed by tacky tourist attractions.
But as soon as our bus reached the river's’ edge and slowly meandered past the expansive falls, any consumerist rage was replaced by pure awe.
The Falls are split into 2 main parts. The Canadian side - the widest and fastest flowing side - was like nothing I'd ever seen before.
A blanket of water cascading onto the rocks below at a rate of 100 baths a second (according to our bus-driving-tourguide) was an impressive sight, made even more surreal by the thick layer of ice that still covered most of the waters.
A few hundred metres down was the New York side of the falls - smaller in size but an equally as impressive sight. We had a perfect vantage point from the state of Ontario, giving us a brilliant view of the massive boulders of snow that had formed below.
After dozens of pictures and a few frozen digits (it was still -10 degrees) we hopped back on the bus to stop by one of Canada's earliest settlements - Niagara On The Lake.
Though the 17th century stylings were nice to look at, and the history behind it was fascinating, there was very little going on in this town during the off-season. After wandering through the few open shops (the 'British store' providing the most entertainment) we finished our day trip a short drive down to the road at an Ice Wine Factory.
Unfortunately, this detour was very obviously a cash-flow convenience for both tour company and factory alike (though what isn't?) but a brief overview of the brewing of ice wine (using grapes only picked in -5 to -10 temperatures means they ferment to peak sweetness), and a few free tasters prevented anarchy from the tourbus.
It also made the journey back to the city a little more bearable, thoroughly worn out after a action-packed day exploring one of the Jewels’ in Canada’s crown, and it’s lesser known neighbours.
We may have only been here a week, but already visitors have turned up in the guise of English chums Natalie & Naomi. And despite an astronomical flight delay of 15 hours, they were ready to put our very limited knowledge of the city to the test for a day of hardcore tourism.
And as our limited knowledge of the city needed improving, it made sense that our first activity was a geography & history lesson rolled into one - a trip aboard the Toronto Sightseeing tourbus.
Due to the weather, the open-top double-decker was sadly replaced by a coach, but that was a minor quibble as the tour was great. Plus it kept us a lot warmer
We learnt how to actually pronounce Yonge street ('yong' - ignore the e) the longest street in North America, where all the clubs have been hiding (the entertainment district, duh) and that this city actually has a castle!
Dundas square
Nat enjoying the ride
Inside the tourbus
Not bad considering this tour came free when we booked our Niagara trip (usually around $35)
After a quick refuel we braved the icy winds and walked to the heart of Toronto's impressive skyline - the CN tower.
This skyscraper - the tallest building in the western hemisphere -provided the best inner-city vantage point I had ever seen. Stretching from the nearby Toronto island, all the to the very distant New York State. The views were breath-taking.
some of the sights from the tower top.
Over the 3 viewing platforms of varying heights there was a little museum, the obligatory glass platform, and a very windy balcony.
clinging on for dear life
The ticket price ($25/$40 depending on how high you go) included entry to a completely unrelated but interesting aerospace 3D film, and the downright bizarre 'Himalamazon' - a simulator ride where we took on the role of a log in futuristic logging factory....
Right next door was the newly-opened (2014) and slightly more straightforward Ripley's aquarium. Of course we had all been to a fair few aquariums in our time, but we had heard this one was worth the entrance fee (around $30 with 10% from the tower)
And we had heard right.
Along with the extensive tanks full of fish, coral and crustaceans, there was the biggest underwater tunnel if get seen (complete with conveyer belt)
We also had the chance to stroke the INCREDIBLY friendly manta rays - who were literally jumping up the tank walls for a bit if attention; and probably enjoyed ourselves a bit too much in the designated 'kids' area.
First week in Toronto: beaches, banks & blue fingers
As expected, the first thing that struck us about Toronto was the cold. Our initial estimation of 3 layers wasn't even close! After a few days trialing options we've concluded that 5 layers on top, plus 2 below, a hat, gloves and scarf are just about enough on an average day.
However, the weather has been all blue skies and sunshine, meaning we've had plenty of opportunity to explore the architecture (including a cathedral directly opposite the hostel}, natural beauty and everything between - and we've done it all without spending a penny.
Our home for the week, HI! hostel was conveniently situated in the bustling heart of the city Downtown.
Surrounded by dozens of skyscrapers, plus more fast-food restaurants and bars then you'll ever need, it was a perfect place to shake off the jetlag. Plus it was 5 minutes walk from the humongous Eaton Centre Mall
As with any good city, the cultural melting-pot of delicious food and obligatory knock-off tat, also known as Chinatown, was nearby. I also spotted a american apparel warehouse sale store, so I know where i'll be spending my first paycheck.
One of the more peculiar discoveries - for this time of year at least - was Sugar Beach - a man-made sunbathing hotspot that is thriving with people in the summer months, but as there's week-old set snow everywhere you'd think it was just another harbour if it weren't for the blossom pink umbrellas.
The Art Gallery of Ontario - or AGO - does a free entry event every Wednesday night between 6-8. Being backbackers we were there without question. But so were half of Toronto by the looks of it. Thankfully, the awesome paintings, sculptures and photography were worth fighting the crowds for.
We also took advantage of the many free city tours HI! Hostel offered and signed up for the history tour. though anybody expecting an insightful meander through the cities rich cultural and archaeological heritage should prepare to be disappointed.
This turned out to be a foreign exchange student taking us to the House of Commons and letting the official tourguide there doing the rest.
Thankfully, the employee who took over was a fountain of knowledge and provided a interesting overview of the Parliaments origins and history with the states and Britain, whilst treating us to some stunning interior architecture along the way.
We also popped into the chamber to witness the first parliamentary debate of the new season and it was just as rowdy as expected. Shouting, catcalls, roaring laughter - all while discussing the delicate future of their country. It's just like home.
Which is just as well because we're going to be here a while.
The week hasn't just been about indulging our inner tourists. We sorted ourselves a bank account (Scotia bank - recommended due to most branches nationwide and a free $100 start-up), phone contract (Fido - monthly rolling contract and a bargain price) and a SIN number (basically we can't work without one).
Whilst our first stop Toronto provided enough of a culture and climate change to satisfy my undying urge to travel, it was close enough to many must-visit attractions (ski-resorts, New York, Niagara...) and appeared to be thriving in media-themed job opportunities.
Old coursemate / colleague Hollie had similar compulsions (whilst conveniently also having the same gluten-free dietary requirements) so we set about completing the lengthy visa process whilst sorting flights, working numerous jobs and trying to once again back our entire lives in a bag (or 'bags' to be more accurate).
6 months later I was on my National express journey to Gatwick. This went stress-free, and Hollie's Dad was on hand to pick me up and drive us the short journey from the airport's north terminal to the Travelodge - booked to eliminate the stress of getting up for an early flight.
Though of course it wasn't long before something went wrong - as soon as we checked into our room, I noticed I was without tripod. Somehow Hollie and I had both missed the big, black chunk of metal as we hurriedly emptied my contents off the airport trolley and into her Dad's van.
So back to airport it was. Too stingy to pay for a shuttle bus (that's 6 out of our Canada fund!) we trudged through the winding airport backgrounds to eventually end up back where we just came from - albeit slightly muddier.
We tried tourist information, we tried lost property and asked all the stewards by the trolley bay. But no luck. So I treated myself to a commiseration M&S meal to ease the pain.
Back at the hotel, packing enough clothing (and probably more) for a 2-year stint had its first drawback as both my large bags and my carry-on were emptied in the search for my jogging bottoms.
Despite the ridiculous amount of luggage we had between us, it was still a surprised when we were referred to the excess baggage section the following morning.
Our check-in had gone fine, and we weren't over our accumulative 56kg allowance, our bags were just too big to go in with the lighter, regular normal sized luggage.
Happy to not be carrying 26kg of clothes anymore!
However the plane seemed to cope fine though, carrying us from Gatwick to Iceland with ease.
But once we started the descent to our flight-change location, we realised we had made a massive mistake - we should have booked a few days in Iceland!
The landscape views from our windows were spectacular, but alas, we didn't even leave the airport, instead checking out the peculiar Icelandic tat in the giftshop and abusing the free wi-fi until out Toronto flight was ready.
(Which basically meant the plane just needed a quick vacuum and some gas).
Reykjavik airport
A few films and numerous 'friends' episodes later, the expansive Toronto skyline was in sight. Even more exciting - it was white! Blanketed in thick, fresh snow.
After reclaiming our luggage, we hopped in a taxi with a chatty local who gave us a fairly concise running tour of the city. After 14 hours travel we were pretty exhausted, but stayed awake just long enough to hear his tourist advice and a brief history of the city.
Half-an-hour later we pulled up outside the colourful HI! hostel, where not even the familiar squeak of bunk beds was enough to keep us awake once our heads hit the pillow.
So the time has come. After 2 years of flying, driving, training and falling the length of Oz, seeing astonishing scenery and working night shifts, stalking celebrities and drinking 'til sunrise - A massive chunk of that in Sydney - I have only 10 days left in the country.
And as anyone who's lived anywhere can attest, there are always things you always say you'll do, because they're right on your doorstep, it sometimes takes you a while to clear the time.
One such attraction was Luna Park, a waterfront fairground that his been staring at me (literally - check out the entrance) since I first paid a visit to the Sydney harbour on my day of Aussie touchdown.
the terrifying entrance to Luna Park
For $50 you get unlimited rides on typical funfair fodder, all spinning thrills and old-school carnivale theming, and was a whole lot of fun.
(Similar to what I imagine Barry Island was like in its heyday, but with better views.)
Speaking of views, the spectacle of the Harbour bridge and Opera house, hugging the elctric skyline was a photo I had been meaning to shoot for ages.
It's a view that's been snapped thousands of times before, but if I claim to to be a photographer, the least I can do is take one myself. All I had to was catch a train over North Sydney and - presto! - they somehow turned out exactly as I'd hoped!
I also paid another visit to Emmanuel's family cabin in the Entrance - a beautiful and peacful seaside town just an hour north of Sydney. We hung out at some beautiful secluded beaches and I finally saw the Pelican feeding time the town was famous for.
Lets hope those kids didn't lean too far because those birds will probably eat anything...
We also took a drive along the coast to discover a few British namesakes. First up was Cardiff, which was unfortunately just a bunch of car dealerships and planned housing estates and nothing like my beautiful home city that shares its name.
Though I guess at least this view can pass for the Valley's...
Newcastle was fortunately much more to my taste. Though I've never been to the Englsih counterpart, the kilometres of beaches and rustic forts we visited on our whistle-stop tour made it worth the drive.
Oh, and the Entrance also provided me with one of the best sunsets of my life.
Back in Sydney, it was time to strike something off the bucket list. Ever since I can remember, my favourite animal has been a Koala. But whether its due to a) the fact they are quite rabid in the wild, or b) that it's technically illegal to hold them in the state on New South Wales, I've yet to give one a hug.
Fortunately, chum Nicole knew a way around these pesky state laws. Though still keeping to the rules, the Koala Park a half hour drive from the city centre were a bit more flexible with human interactions. And yes, there may have been a women holding the furry little guy in place, but I still got my hug.
There was also a fair amount of other cool animals here, so I got a decent final fix of Aussie wildlife.
Yes, Australia has penguins on the South coast
I've also never got the chance to visit Kings National Park just a half hour South of Sydney. And ever since Dan told me about a lake-cum-beach inside the park, i've been itching to pay it a visit.
Fortunately, Dan's miss's Kathy offered to drive us down, and Wattamolla beach did not disappoint.
But all these brilliant daytrips were bittersweet. They reminded me just how much I am going to miss the great people and beautiful city they reside in. However, It was even more depressing closing my bank account - but that was mainly thanks to the tiny amount of funds I had left to draw out of it.
But after all the farewells and mountains of packing (seriously, how did I acquire so much stuff?) I treated myself to one last taste of the idyllic Aussie lifestyle with a final stroll along possibly my favourite place in this country, the Bondi to Coogee coastal walk.
A picture-perfect trail made even more better by the return of Sculptures by the Sea (An annual sculpture events I've caught 3 times in my last 2 years - in your FACE visa restrictions)
And then it was time to catch the plane. Australia it's been great, I'm going to miss you, but I will be back...
With my crippling injury putting off play last week, and the rest of my spare time spent racing round construction sights, arriving in the clean, air-conditioned newspaper reception filled me with zest and enthusiasm for what my dream job could really entail.
Of course, nobody really notiuced i was away last week (or they did, but were exstatic to discover they wouldn't have to humour the pesky intern and drag him along on another generic photo op), but I can understand with that.
However, I could not deal with the fact I've been replaced. That's right, after all my hard work and dedication, a younger, hotter model has swooped in and stolen my jobs.
OK, I'm exaggerating. Holly was a lovely, 20 year photography student who’s blagged herself a weeks worth of work at the daily Tele. And firtunately, she garneered just as much enthusiasm from the paid photographers as I did.
While waiting for shoots to pop up, I filled her in on all the worldy experuience I'd gained during my couple of months here ('expect to go to a lot of funerals'), and she told me how her dad used to work for the Tele' and knew half the staff here.
But despite expoecting this to gain her a bit of favourism, we were still put on the same job by Brian. It here I showed my true maturity and kindness by declining the job so Holly could have all the creative juices to herself (plus the fact the photographer made it clear he barely wanted one lacky slowinghim down, let alone 2).
I wasn't left on the shelf for liong though, and ended up hanging with Toby again for my first job. This one involved - once again - Sydney Mayor Clover Moore.
It was the local elections tomorrow, so the pre-votes for people unavailable on the Saturday were going ahead. Ploughing forward with a re-election campaign that could see her return to office for her 7th (SSEVENTH) year, we met Clover on Pitt. st. where she was beaming amongst a crowd of green-glad supporters, surrounded by many, many pictures of her face.
Toby got snapping whilst I watched while the sidelines and wondered why any women - mayor or not - would have such a terrible haircut. Then my 15 minutes of fame occured. The channel 10 news-team needed a quick shot of someone walking down the street, being greeted by Clover and her cronies, then heading inside to ‘cast a vote'. Apparently the irony of being a foreigner with absolutely no voting power was lost on everyone.
It was also blindingly obvious that anybody else walking down the street at that time would've been a better actor than I. All I had to do was walk down the street far enough so they had time to shoot a short clip of me walking towards the camera.
I completely misjudged the cameras zoom however, and walked about 50 metres to far. I looked back to see the crew, Clover, her cronies and Toby laughing at my stupidity. So I walked back, red-faced but still being filmed, had a chat with the mayor, and before i could stop myself, turn to the camera and give a big, cheesy shrug.
So obviouslty this ruined everything and they made me do it again. This time I resisted the urge to gurn a, but when it came to walking past Clover into the voting station, we engaged in one of those awkward ‘mirror-each-others-side-steps-for-ages-until-somebody-is-sensible-enough-to-standpstill’ moments.
But despite the obvious awfulness, that was al they needed, so channel 10 headed on their way, the Labor party carried on the campaigning and I vowed to never be on national TV again.
Toby and I's next stop was town hall for some quick voting booth shots.,where the co-ordinator showing us around squarked ‘no faces! no faces!’ the whole time - a little difficult in a room full of people walking in all directions.
But we still managed to get what we needed,, so we headed back to the office, and instead of waiting around for another few hours for a job like usual, blonde Kiwi Nic came up to me and asked if i wanted to help her set up for a studio shoot.
Turns out 'Ben' from fairly famous Australian rock-group Silverchair was promoting a new album and needed some accompanying shots to go with it.
I've done a bunch of studio stuff during my Uni days, but my course was so naff / I had drank so much alcohol since then that it was brilliantly informative to see how the progessionals set up.
The studio is a large room in the basement of the building, with a big white wash in one corner, and the rest of the room filled by lighting, colour boards and much other random crap.
The shoot wasn't due to take place for another hour, but as studio shoots are generally considered as harder to take interesting shots in, Nic wanted plenty of time to prepare. Which unortunately meant I was in front of the camera once again.
I picked up a few new tricks though - black boards close to the subject bring an extra layer to shading; honeycomb fixtures on lighting create a soft backlight etc etc - and got a new profile picture in the process.
Finally, when my eyes were filled with flash-glares, and half an hour later than planned, Ben Silverchair finally arrived with the journalist that was causing him to be so late. She continued the interview whilst we were shooting (much to Nic's irritation), but the shoot went well.
Ben was a friendly, if not a bit reserved chap, but he worked well with the camera and went along with most of the odd-sounding but ultimately effective suggestions.
And around 40 minutes later, we were done. I watched some of the post-production until Nic decided she would finish them at home, and that's when I realised - today was my last ever day at the Telegraph.
After 5 educational, wierd, interesting and fun months, my time as a work experience boy - and ultimately Australia - was over. So I handed Colin a bottle of cheap wine (I'm still a backpacker remember) to say thanks for putting up with me, and vowed that the next time these guys heard from me, I would be a photojournalist machine...
After a few hiccups involving law-breaking and potentially life-threatening infections, I can officially say I now know my way around a demolition site.
Sometimes I think this is a great thing. And other times I'd rather be cleaning up dog-shit. That decision usually depends on for how many hours of the shift I've spent plucking 'timber' from a never-ending, rocky terrain of flattened houses.
However, my flight back to the UK is booked for 4 weeks time (the visa is up), so it's worth gritting my teeth and collecting those logs for the sake of a few last day-trips in this sunny land and a fat wad of cash to spend on the new, $3000 camera I've decided I need.
One perk of the job is I get to see the city a bit. Yes, granted I spent most of my time inside a small plot of land moving rubble - plus most of the locations haven't been visited before due to the fact they are severely boring - but at least I know my way around a bit better.
My main job was way out west in a tiny little town called St. Mary's. So west in fact, that the blue mountains were in the next suburb. Unfortunately, you couldn't tell from where I was working. You could barely see greenery, let alone a mountain top.
So I just separated the rocks, wood and metal into piles all day. I didn't even have anyone to talk to as all my mates were at other lots. Aside from my ghost-like ‘supervisor’ Eligh, the only other people on working were the lorry drivers collecting my piles, and a man who spend the ENTIRE SHIFT - as in, didn't even leave to go to the toilet - inside a digger.
That's a majority of his day, sitting in a tiny plastic box, making a giant claw grab things.
After a few days there things got a bit mroe social. Well, Alan joined me for the train journey at least. We were now at at Merrylands, about an hour northwest from the city. Apparently people get stabbed here a lot. And judging by the lack of things to do around here I'm not surprised - but thankfully we survived the hour we were there.
We were loading up a van when Eligh decided we needed to be elsewhere, so Alan went back to St. Mary's, and me, all the way down to a place called Bulli (bull-eye).
This place was over an hour south of the city centre, so considering we had just travelled an hour North, the drive was gunna be a long one.
I was being driven to this location by a potty-mouthed Macedonian pensioner. I don't know who he is, or why he was there, or even who he works for. But he was hilarious (if not completely un-politically-correct) company.
Considering his European origin, After a brief introduction, we set off. And he cracked straight on with racially abusing every racial minority we drove past. Which was hilarious considering his obviously European origin.
It took me all of 30 seconds to become fairly pissed off so I reminded him that he was also an immigrant, to which he replied 'Yes, but all the Indians/blacks/Lebanese are lazy/greedy/don't-speak-our-language'.
I quizzed him a while longer - mainly to pass the time - until he realised the only thing I though was lazy was his racism. So he changed the topic of conversation completely.
'So you getting much pussy here?'
Fortunately, my uncontrollable laughter avoided the question long enough for us to get to our first stop. Unfortunately, it was only a 5 minute job, dumping everything off the truck into a lady's back garden, and then we were back on the road to continue the conversation of women.
'So do the backpacking girls have sex with all the boys?'
I couldn't give him the satisfaction of admitting that 'yes, most travellers are actually a bit loose', so instead reminded him that I was living in a workers hostel full of responsible, hard-slogging young adults with full-time jobs
'But you like to party party on the weekends, right?' He enquired, with a wink.
The southern NSW motorways, and my fetching orange work clothes.
He was persistent, I'll give him that. Fortunately, the view along the south-east coast was distracting enough to drag my mind away from this pensioners creepy backpacker fantasy's and after an hour, we arrived at our destination.
Technically I was working at a rest-stop, but at this stage, it was little more than a pile of bricks on the side of the road.
My job was to dig some holes, cut up some tubing, and then fill in some other holes.
Things got (slightly) dangerous when I was given the testosterone-driven task of smashing up concrete with a jackhammer. Sure, the vibrations hurt my brain after a while, and I'm almost positive I should have some sort of qulaification to use this cumbersome hunk of vibrating metal, but overall I enjoyed what is sure to be the most manly half-hour of my life.
And unfortunately, that was the hightlight of my week, as the few days after that, I returned to the Maroubra site we worked at a fe wee weeks earlier, and was back to sorting through rubble for 10 hours a day.
It really says something about the tedium of the job when I became genuinely excited to move around giant potted plants for an hour on the friday, even if I did have to get the busy bus home entirely covered in soil.
My tour of New South Wales improved significantly when my next job was situated in the infinitely more interesting (and pretty) suburb of Bondi. Sadly it was still 20 minutes from the world-famous beach.
But while this location was by far the quickest to get to, I had a new obstacle to overcome - finding a new colleague! By this point, Danny, Alan and Roy had all either bailed on the job, or been fired. So now it was up to me to find someone else to work with me, or not bother to turn up at all.
Of course it''s ridiculous because i'm not a bloody recruitment agency, but this is the kind of company that doesn't give a shit about details like that. I would actually go as far to assume that if I didn't find anyone, the house would just stay half-demolished for years until the building crumbled of it own accord.
So I guess it worked out best for everyone that I persuaded hostel-mate Jay to come demolish with me. This may have been a risky move as during the few months I'd known him, he'd never kept a job for more than 2 days. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and thankfully, he was up and at the bus stop before I'd even got out of bed that morning
The property was still half-standing, but as the front of the house was heritage listed, it was staying put. So we just did what I do best - separate materials and put them in a lorry.
It was all very easy. We could take our time, the weather was great, and between the two of us we barely broke a sweat. However, it was all too much for Jay and he decided he couldn't possibly face another days work*
So I just turned up for work the next day anyway, hoping I could carry on regardless. And I could (so much for 'you need to find someone to work with') so for the next few days I turned up on my tod, bashed out 9 hours of hard labour, got a great tan, and went home knowing I'd earn satisfactory $$$.
Unfortunately, by the 3rd day, the brilliant weather I keep banging on about turned out to be more of a hindrance than a USP.
I was fine in the morning - chucking sticks and stones around the place like nobody's business - until suddenly I was overcome with an intense need to vomit. So I promptly dropped on all fours and spewed all over my shoes. As if this wasn't embarressing enough, the lorry driver sat in his truck witnessed the whole thing.
However, seconds later, my stomach was empty, so I brushed myself off and both me and the lorry driver carried on like nothing happened. I thought 'Oh, it's probably because I haven't been getting enough sleep or something, i'll be fine after a swig of water.
Wrong. Turns out I had sunstroke. It took me about 15 more minutes of pathetically swerving around the building lot, trying to carry small boulders whilst alternating between blazing migraines pulses and little sick-in-mouth episodes to realise I needed to be vertical, preferably on the bed.
Thankfully Manager Andy was fine about it and sent, me home. But the trauma didn't end there. I hadn't got more than 30 yards down the street before I was spewing again. This time, in a little bush that just-so happened to be outside a church whose worshipers just-so happened to be pouring out of the venue after service.
I quickly uprighted myself and staggered towards the train station, being sure to avoid contact with anybody for fear of vomiting in their face. And then the terror struck.
As I started work 3 hours ago, it was now rush hour. I had to endure a 20-minute train journey in a boiling hot carriage full of suited and booted business people. With no seats left and heaps more bile just waiting to be regurgitated, it was a recipe for disaster.
However, I was so overcome with pain, I slumped onto the completely inconvenient-for-sitting upstairs staircase, and stayed there - borderline comatose - until we arrived in the city centre. And that seemed to do the trick. No vomit anywhere.
And after a lengthy nap, was fighting fit for work the next day. And the day after that. etc etc. Until, finally, it had arrived. My last day in demolition.
I won't say I'm sad to leave it behind, because that would be a complete lie. However, I am glad to say I have demolished at least a few houses in my lifetime.
And I can't have even been that bad at it. As Andy and Eligh handed over my final pay packet (still addressed to 'Jack' as a result of my continuing white card fraudulence) they said if I was ever in the country again, to give them a shout.
If I wasn't such a newly-hardened man's man, I may have shed a tear at the realisation of finally achieving my life-long dream of being accepted into the ruthless world of manual labour.
Except it isn't a life-long dream, and I was now free to enjoy the sun, travel the state and spend the wad of cash that had just been placed in my hand. So long demolition, you've been average, but now I've got some living to do.
