a fruity cocktail of this and that http://theprojectsomething.com som 2012 http://theprojectsomething.com/icons/icon.php http://theprojectsomething.com composed and passed on to me last Saturday...concieveI'm sick of this trick.42 dimensions, i read only 2.I want and want and want.locking down my annoyancesecurely for decades to comeBecause I've never known what to want;Cascading over me in a nightmarish fashion.Expectancy, desire: dwindling demon -Stop drinking so deep. Desperatedestruction, so determined to darkenOur room filled skulls with theaccuracy of a Dart: The ferociousappetite of any normal person.I'm sick and sick and sickI think. Well I say it with Authority;Why wouldn't I be? It's my right!I Concentrate on consciousness of everyChromosone, copiously craving a newchemical order: - carousing my choicesceasing all censures: - Choosing somethingCarnal. A thing to centreMy entire being on for a second.Its too much, too much - much too muchto be so uncertain for so long: -Seeing the gap between allContrasting sensible directionsSynergize into one misshapen globule;a thing you Cannot Cope with.Oh theory, I have you!When did you stop trying to help?you've lost your creed and belief!and every sense you had of yourself.Impossible to grieve: - you were onlyan idea to begin with!But the potential was so great.Every idiot has a Conceptand you've sold yourself out toeveryone.by Nakita http://theprojectsomething.com/#/blog/2010-09-03 Fri, 03 Sep 2010 11:51:11 +1000 http://lh4.ggpht.com/_2rCp1gmeAs8/SunO02zXwXI/AAAAAAAAAWQ/x7jXOcbcPlM/s288/Waiting%20for%20Friends.jpg http://theprojectsomething.com/#/blog/2010-09-03 Fri, 03 Sep 2010 11:48:13 +1000 "the boy sits alonea warm moon fuelling resentdarkness prevails here"The light from the lounge spilled over the veranda, down the steps, and onto the newly mown grass, illuminating the dulled steel of the clothesline."Waiting..."Natham sat further back again -- past the lemon tree, on the log beneath the old mango -- head in hands, glaring into shadows. Habit decided that what he couldnt see he knew was there. Like the shiny black bamboo from which his Mum's friend had once fashioned totem poles, wrapping the stems with coloured fabrics and ropes until they reflected the strange fancy from which they were born. And the corrugated iron shed, with its rusted walls and hidden hoards of abandoned bounty, its destiny dictated by the giant boughs reaching through it. Like the fallen mangoes, their scent a sweetly rotting tribute to the screeching fruit bats, hanging, bauble-like from the branches above."Patience. opportunity will arise."Pineapple plants convened nearby, each cradling a golden jewel in its crown. His Mum's shade-cloth greenhouse too, potted mint, lemon grass, small tropical ferns, and aloe vera. His ears readjusted to the din. Above the relentless cry of a thousand and one cicadas he could just make out the slosh and clink of dishes being added to a full sink. Familiar sounds affording a sense of mislaid calm."Tonight."Natham pictured the old ceramic stove that rested next to his log, its blackened contents spewing onto the grass at his feet. He knew it was there, he could feel the fragments between his toes. The stove hadn't been used since the night his Mum had stocked the hearth with river rocks. The ones they had collected together and from which he still bore a scar. He had been in the kitchen that night, helping his Mum chop onion to fry with the fish, when he had heard the first pop ring out from the backyard. The next one came a few minutes later. And then again but louder, and this time the sound had echoed throughout the neighbourhood. From the top step everything appeared normal, as indeed it had from the second, fifth, and finally the bottom. The fire crackled softly at the base of the stove, flames calmly licking the edge of the blackened cooking plate. It had taken Natham a few moments to notice the slow crimson trickle creeping down his leg. He let the shard he held between his toes drop as he fingered the glossy dint on his shin. His mind drifted."This was it."Natham's left ear twitched as silent whispers ran up his spine. He straightened his back, suddenly alert. With the absence of mind, time had been forgotten and now he strained to regather his bearings. No longer did the smell of home cooking hang in the air. His dinner -- the marinated wings and lemongrass rice -- was surely as cold as the avocado salad beside it; the pots cleaned. http://theprojectsomething.com/#/blog/2010-03-10 Sun, 14 Mar 2010 13:24:09 +1100 http://lh5.ggpht.com/_2rCp1gmeAs8/SunOkMUrZYI/AAAAAAAAAUI/dHdh2XEy7X8/s288/Full%20Moon%20Clouds.jpg http://theprojectsomething.com/#/blog/2010-03-10 Sun, 14 Mar 2010 13:24:23 +1100 http://lh4.ggpht.com/_2rCp1gmeAs8/SunO67uj6eI/AAAAAAAAAXE/c37pE2_OU8I/s288/Fern.jpg http://theprojectsomething.com/#/blog/2010-03-10 Sun, 14 Mar 2010 13:24:38 +1100 http://lh6.ggpht.com/_2rCp1gmeAs8/SunOnclrWgI/AAAAAAAAAUo/yk_0IL8dn0g/s288/Moon%20Walker.jpg http://theprojectsomething.com/#/blog/2010-03-10 Sun, 14 Mar 2010 13:24:47 +1100 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cuDdW8vp94M http://theprojectsomething.com/#/blog/2010-02-17 Fri, 12 Mar 2010 17:59:11 +1100 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F10l11hUD6o http://theprojectsomething.com/#/blog/2009-12-10 Thu, 10 Dec 2009 15:16:51 +1100 beside me the girl's pale, gollum-esque form mirrored my own, shrivelling away from the intense glow of a zebra-crossing-lollipop-bulb. it had only been an half hour since sunset, but our epic slog down the deadly mudslide that is arthur's seat's eastern slope had taken its toll - we'd turned troll. as we made our way towards lothian road's edinburgh playhouse in eager anticipation of a pub, a pint, and some sick music i damned the thieves who had made off with my bike light a week earlier. bastards.arriving at the venue we were elated to find shakespeare's next door, a deadly palace of pints, full to the brim with sexy, thirty-five to seventy year old hipsters out for a night on the piss. hoorah. having seduced our way into a couple of seats we each downed two pints then bolted... http://theprojectsomething.com/#/blog/2009-12-10 Tue, 29 Dec 2009 11:49:13 +1100 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8llsiEIvvM0 http://theprojectsomething.com/#/blog/2009-12-08 Wed, 09 Dec 2009 12:09:26 +1100 i recently stumbled upon yeasayer's microsite for their trippy new single ambling alp. there's something amazingly cool at work here. the site is a circular portal into their strange brand of being, where themes of journey and self prevail in a series of spacially-interactive, eerily psychedelic films. all very intriguing!i'd originally been wowed after finding their's among a series of daytrotter session gigs i was given a few months back. if i were forced to make comparison i might suggest vocals echoing a pillow-muffled-ritalin-enhanced Cedric Bixler-Zavala of mars volta esteem, but then why pidgeonhole? this is some righteous stuff. check it out.http://www.amblingalp.comhttp://www.myspace.com/yeasayer http://theprojectsomething.com/#/blog/2009-12-08 Wed, 09 Dec 2009 12:10:57 +1100 7pm, a nice time to start. Need to make it to dinner in two hours, must also take back 'cleaner'... its an honourable notion. People appear understanding but suspicions run high. An outlet for a mind in overdrive. Grab the spray, a blue cloth from the box and head for the women's. The soap dispenser sits in a pool... its what I like to touch least. Rub, brush, mop, the routine. Chairs on tables, too much moving means overtime. Outside in, that's the signs and the bowls. Smell of the polish, its pine-flavoured. Bins are coffee. Rub, brush, mop. Ten minutes over already. Seating down, sugar out. More brushing. Twenty minutes over, I'm late again. She won't mind. Lights, keys, doors. On the bike and away. http://theprojectsomething.com/#/blog/2009-11-10 Tue, 10 Nov 2009 12:28:06 +1100 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nkKxGzm98AU http://theprojectsomething.com/#/blog/2009-11-05 Tue, 08 Dec 2009 15:42:40 +1100 After much procrastinating I finally found the strength to begin decrypting the confusing mess that is the facebook api. So confusing in fact that I relapsed into procrastination mode and mastered the youtube api instead. To celebrate I included the video to the song I woke up singing this morning. I hadn't heard it in years.. have you? http://theprojectsomething.com/#/blog/2009-11-05 Sat, 07 Nov 2009 00:44:06 +1100 So here it is, version 1.0 of the blog. I've been plugging away at this particular section for a week or so now, keen to include some stories and photos from a few recent gigs... namely massive attack last night and fuck buttons last thursday. Needless to say we're still in major construction mode but the basics are here. At the moment i'm working on a way to embed external video goodness (so as not to dwindle my own precious resources), along with a search function, commenting, and some other basic bloggy stuff. We'll see how that pans out. More soon. http://theprojectsomething.com/#/blog/2009-09-29 Fri, 23 Oct 2009 14:13:51 +1100 The last few weeks has seen me slowly digesting Stuffed & Starved, a book by Raj Patel discussing the flaws in the world food system. One of the most interesting little nuggets gleaned from the book was this extract, taken from the manifesto to the slow food movement:"Our century, which began and has developed under the insignia of industrial civilisation, first invented the machine and then took it as its life model.We are enslaved by speed and have all succumbed to the same insidious virus: Fast Life, which disrupts our habits, pervades the privacy of our homes and forces us to eat Fast Foods.To be worthy of the name, Homo Sapiens should rid himself [sic] of speed before it reduces him to a species in danger of extinction.A firm defence of quiet material pleasure is the only way to oppose the universal folly of Fast Life. May suitable doses of guaranteed sensual pleasure and slow, long-lasting enjoyment preserve us from the contagion of the multitude who mistake frenzy for efficiency. Our defence should begin at the table with Slow Food. Let us rediscover the flavours and savours of regional cooking and banish the degrading effects of Fast Food. In the name of productivity, Fast Life has changed our way of being and threatens our environment and our landscapes. So Slow Food is now the only truly progressive answer. That is what real culture is all about: developing taste rather then demeaning it. And what better way to set about this than an international exchange of experiences, knowledge, projects? Slow Food guarantees a better future. Slow Food is an idea that needs plenty of qualified supporters who can help turn this (slow) motion into an international movement, with the little snail as its symbol."Manifesto to the Slow Food Movement http://theprojectsomething.com/#/blog/2009-09-28 Sun, 25 Oct 2009 14:52:46 +1100 "I realised these were all the snapshots which our children would look at someday with wonder, thinking their parents had lived smooth, well-ordered, stabalizd-within-the-photo lives and got up in the morning to walk proudly on the side walks of life, never dreaming the raggedy madness and riot of our actual lives, our actual night, the hell of it, the senseless nightmare road." (kerouac, on the road)Good evening friends,So, where was I? Goa. Sweet. If I didn't make the point clear enough in my last email, here it is again. in bold. the place is rocking. Here the skills I attained in Mahabaleshwar were honed into a fine-edged sword of fury. My days consisted as so: I woke at 11, sometimes 12... I strolled down to, and then along, the beach... I got groped and assaulted by the overly enthusiastic local store girls ("you come see maiii shoppe!")... I had a swim -- the water in Anjuna is somewhere between that of the tepid bathwater of Cairns beaches and Byron's cool, yet refreshing swell.. think Mackay maybe? -- and then I walked into the closest beach shak to have breaky and read until it wasn't midday anymore. I usually picked Sunset, one of the only restaurants that didn't start pumping infected mushroom from about 10am. Then I'd jump on my bike (see picture below) and head to one of the northern beaches to have another swim, grab some more food, doze a bit, and read some more. good times. Come eight and, after inhaling a kofta (basically potato turds floating in a brown soup), the shenanigans would begin. The food at Sonic is bearable, the service is slow. but the atmosphere is pumping and the staff are mad.. in a great way. Most nights were like an episode of neighbours on speed. awesome. full power. From sonic the party usually continued at Paradiso, basically out of a lack for a better option at the end of the season. The place is a pretty mad 3 level setup built into the cliffs where, after talking the door boys into a stamp (without the chat the thing was worth anywahere from 200-1000rs) we'd chill out to the soothing beats of acid trance. More often than not it was a bit too much, Japanese DJs especially seem to demand some kind of cathartic epileptic fit. But every now and then someone would slow it down by about 10,000bpm, add some melody and progression, and it would be perfect. When we were done here it would be on to Hanumon, the 24 hour bar, to talk, drink crazily sweet chai, and dance unto death.. who usually arrived somewhere between 7 and 9am. Then I'd wake up and attempt to repeat the effort. Before arriving in Goa I had visions of heading south through Karnatika to Kerala and then across into Tamil Nadu. It was going to be great. But then I arrived, infiltrated a particularly fun, cool, and intriguing bunch of people and, as one one thing lead into another, my plans were obliterated one by one. major culture crime? bah. In the end I'm not totally sure how long it was that I spent in the place, all I know is that I wasted at least 800rs on unused interstate train tickets.. and that when I did finally decide to make my 4am train to Delhi, I did so directly from that night's party, and it was under duress. The train was a ball, full of confusing conversations and funny encounters. and funny conversations and confusing encounters. Delhi wasn't a ball. I see the place as Mumbai's louder, uglier, cousin.. the one who lacks manners, farts a lot, and has a complex about her height. Everything was a wet, dirty, growling pain in the arse. and I'm going to stop talking about it... now. So it was to Pushkar and freedom. Rajasthan is possibly the most beautiful place I have ever ventured, let alone adventured. The short Journey from Ajmer to Pushkar, a small town built up around a holy lake, is inspiring in itself. The epic ranges are worthy of John Ford and what apears to be an arid, unforgiving terrain is in fact a fertile oasis of rich colours and abundant life. Trees, crops, and camels. Flourescent turbans (seriously) and shimmering saris. Closely followed by a large sand dune and a motorcycle repair shop. According to the book, Pushkar is 'an important Hindu pilgrimage centre', which has also made it some kind of psycho-spiritual mecca for the likes of the gen-x hipsters mentioned in my last email. I guess they come here when the val runs out in Goa. Of course, once you get used to dodging their resentful stares ("you do not belong.... but peace be with you") and have a workable routine for the local snake charmers, flower 'gifters', shop owners, 'businessmen', pen-needing children, henna-painters, shoe-shiners, 'nice guys' on bikes who 'only' want to give you a lift back to your hotel, cart-men, fruit-sellers, musicians, and sunglass-wearing, incense-burning, cross-legged, skateboard-sitting, holy men, covered in face-paint and flowers, then you're all set to discover the real pushkar and have a really peaceful time. Which I did, doing almost nothing at all for almost a week. It also provided a great detox. The place is entirely veg (no meat or eggs) and completely dry (no beer). In fact the only sin on offer (inside the restaurants at least) is the bhang lassi, a yoghurt-based refreshment with hints of mint and a whole lot of charras (weed). Though after watching a lassi-loving friend turn decipticon in the matter of an hour I decided to give it a miss. definitely next time though. I left Pushkar for Agra three days ago now, the 18th to be exact, and as it stands I now have less then a month left in the country... and that bites. But hey, right now I'm pretty much resigned to the fact that I'll be back closer to Christmas so I can take up where I left off... seeing the rest of the south and more of the north. And this time without temperatures that rival the sun's. So yes... head up, lips pouted, change pot at the ready... we'll make a eunuch of you yet, son. Until next time. Som.The India series in order:1. incommunicado2. puttin the auranga in baddass3. mahabamadone4. india - the campest nation on earth5. goodbye country hello nightclub http://theprojectsomething.com/#/blog/2007-05-28 Mon, 02 Nov 2009 15:07:00 +1100 "Happy people are not interesting. Better to be accept the burden of unhappiness and try to turn it into something worthwhile..." (Coetzee, "Youth") Swagatum friends! And what does that mean? Nothing, apparently. But how are you anyway... healthy? Wealthy? Wired. It's been great to hear from you, despite some of the dribble being sent by a few crack smokers (what the hell is 'face friends' anyway?). No, really. Thanks. Just thought I'd reiterate that. Again. Also, I've been requested to clarify a few issues. I've blabbed on a bit about my Goan wheels in the last couple of emails, nonetheless it has been pointed out that I neglected to mention the following major details:I would regularly drop the clutch and pull earth-turning burnouts.Once thoroughly satisfied I would then assume and maintain a 'wheelie' position until word of my athleticism and radness had reached and become lore among indigenous communities to an appropriate distance.These skills were acquired during a five-minute phone call to my fourteen-year-old brother/life coach Daniel. Satisfied little boy? Ok. Down to business. Where did I leave off? I think I was just hitting Agra (home of the Taj) and moaning about only having a month to go. Well now I'm sitting outside a hostel in a suburb that may as well as be central Sydney, surrounded by Rezas, eating a boiled egg, stale bread, tomato, capsicum, and cheese, and listening to INXS. But I'm not going to go there, err here, yet. So back to Hindustan! If I were to use the word 'fun' in the same way as I did 'crack smokers,' I would say that Agra was just that. Even the bus ride there was a riot (think confusing and violent). Now I understand most of you have heard about my Indian-bus complex: I have an entirely rational fear of Indian 'super-deluxe' Volvo coaches. These Volvos are made overseas from modern alloys, with big jet-like engines and aerodynamic designs, and they go hard. Evidently space program rejects get to drive. Two (richter) steps down from the Volvo is Tata's Semi-Deluxe beast. These guys are made in India out of steel and plywood, by a household name known for everything from forks to throw rugs. The engines are Victa worthy and top out at about 60. Initially I thought these poorer cousins, lacking even the most basic comforts, were to be my Nirvana. Annoyances like air-conditioning were absent... when it was hot you'd open a window, when you got cold you'd try and close it. AC can be great when coupled with either a functioning thermostat or an 'off' switch, but when its 40 degrees outside and you're inside fighting frostbite with farts (a futile practice -- the pleather seating ensures your arse is kept isolated, submerged in its own bubbling thermal spring)... well, you get the idea. Moreover, the Tata's lack of functioning entertainment system guaranteed a Bollywood-free journey. For while bus movies are often fun (especially if you're into melodramatic musical epics so removed from reality that they may as well open with the line 'A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away...') the accompanying soundtracks are bound to be painful. They blare from speakers above every second head and when the films finish (there's always more than one) the driver cranks his favourite tape, usually a Hindi rendition of 'Genie in a bottle' or 'Give me some kind of sign...giiirl' And though I'm the first to crank traditional Indian music of any form, the modern fare is pure donkey shit. I actually really wanted to pick up something new and inspiring while I was here, but (and now it seems obvious) the best stuff I've heard was on a CD back in Australia; if you don't already own 'Incredible India,' go get it now. And if you do, do as was scribbled in the cover of my copy of 'American Psycho' and "take it, read it, burn it..." and then send me the copy. So getting to the point, in the end the Tatas turned out to be more of a Villi Manilli, delighting me until I found they double-booked and their horns were totally programmable. Bah. But Agra, the place came and went in a flash of three days and two painful nights due, in full, to a constant state of buggery ("yes... can I help... what good country are you from... where are you going... get in my rickshaw... eat in my restaurant... buy my [insert useless trinket name here]... my friend, a ticket out of here will cost you three times what its worth"... and so on). On a positive note the Taj was beyond amazing and JB and Mayuko were excellent companions, completely restoring my faith in both the dirty French and the smelly Japanese. When I finally got hold of a train ticket out of the place I was lucky enough to share a cabin with 40 police officers sans tickets, two of whom were more than happy to steal my sleeping berth until (three hours later) they were threatened by a shotgun-wielding conductor-type with a mo bigger than theirs. Varanasi was cool and in the end I spent quite a few more days than I first intended. I had travelled here with the idea that I would head onto Nepal for a week or so but, with the clock running down and my time-management skills akin to those of a Ganga dolphin, I decided to forego the sherpas and make the most of where I was. I saw corpses burn, became fluent in Japanese, downed litres of chai (though none of it 'Ganga chai'), ate from a menu with 465 items (one of which was 'Gaylord Iced Cream', that we tried), got offered hash by every seventh guy on the street, was rowed up and down the ganga by a chai-serving local kid who spoke Japanese better than I do English, made a t-shirt, was attacked by monkeys (actually I ran and hid while Mayuko fought them off... brave girl), finished at least two good books, went to see some live music but ended up eating Japanese food and chatting with the closeted Indian restaurant owner who, like the boy, also spoke better Japanese than I do English, befriended a 9year old tailor, got lost at least three times, got others lost at least twice, met some really cool people, and stayed in a place called 'Homy Paying Guesthouse'. It was grand. From Varanasi I headed to Delhi (that stinking hole), and then north to the Himalayas and Old Manali. I had come up here purely on the word of every single person I met in India, and had loose (very loose it seems) plans on connecting with a couple of people. As usual nothing worked out as it was supposed to and of course this led to the best five days of my trip so far. Having never met any Portuguese apart from Giselle (who I guess is technically from South Africa... could someone please forward me her email address?), my first impression of the gangsters I met was one of intrigue. In fact I can still picture Eduardo scaling the back of the bus (a Tata) in Delhi to face off with the bag-guy, who I later discovered was looking to 'guarantee' the safe arrival of luggage... it was a brief yet heated exchange that seemed to sort itself out when Eduardo launched his pack at the guy. Anyway on arriving in Manali my doubts were quickly assuaged, with Catarina and the guys turning out to be the best bunch of people I'd met in a while. I must have looked lost, and possibly a bit slow, as they invited me to join them pretty much as soon as we got off the bus -- they'd heard about a Baba who let rooms in his hilltop shack amid the 'trees'. While we never found the house or the Baba (though we did find at least one nut-job claiming to be him) the guys somehow sorted another house high up on the hill, this one affording views of Old Manali and the valley, with Vishisht and the snow-capped Kullu peaks in the distance. The following days were somewhat of a blur. Banana cake, Bhung, and Bob... I think that's how it went. Oh, and the creek turned my balls into walnuts at some point too. Anyway before I knew it my time was up and I had the house to myself. Raf and Andre had headed home, Catarina and Eduardo to Mcleod Ganj. I spent my final week in India the valley over in the town of Kasol. The place was beautiful, as were the hot springs I basically baptised myself in the next town up, but after the shenanigans of the previous week... well, who's David Wenham (the arse) when you've just met, well, anyone really. Nothing could compare. I spent most of my time about one kilometre up the creek that ran through town, sitting on a rock, reading and sleeping. This was half because I needed to get away from the evil Israelis who had conquered the township (but wouldn't venture more then ten metres from their favourite caf or chillum, so I was safe in the forest... I'm not being xenophobic, head to India and you'll understand), and half because I just needed to wind down. And that was it; my last day was spent on a horror bus trip down from the mountains, my last night in a dodgy Delhi hotel, my last hours in the country with a whacked out Swiss guy who was finalising his move to the country and whose company caused me more customs trouble at Indira Ghandi International Airport than his disjointed conversation was worth. Nice enough guy though. And yeah, that was it. Sad but true... My Indian epic finally over. Next Week -- Destination: Moon. Som.The India series in order:1. incommunicado2. puttin the auranga in baddass3. mahabamadone4. india - the campest nation on earth5. goodbye country hello nightclub http://theprojectsomething.com/#/blog/2007-05-27 Mon, 02 Nov 2009 15:24:11 +1100 Unfortunately for us (that's you and me both, kid) things are definitely slowing down here on the subcontinent... After arriving in Anjuna my adventures, as they were, basically came to a standstill. Of course it may well have had something to do with how much the place reminds me of home, but then again it's more likely that (having gone slightly nutty myself) I'm finally adapting to the country and thus what was once a surreal peculiarity is slowly but surely deteriorating into a lopsided normality... Bugger. I have started to relax though and that's been great... not travelling for the sake of it adds a wonderful new dimension. After my Aurangabadian adventure I hit Pune for a day... a town famous for its 'meditation' ashrams, which are in turn famous for their policy of 'free love'. Just picture a bunch of sex-crazed, sheet-clad, clinically insane westerners: silently wandering, tantrically humping, and deeply contemplating... reaching for that higher consciousness; just how high being directly proportionate to the number of chillums choked back at morning tea. For those who don't know me as well as you should, it was one hell of a mind-fuck and I'd recommend it to all.Ok so that was a lie. Sorry if I offended anyone, I'm quite sure the ashrams aren't nearly that bad. I actually skipped the Punese love-shacks and ascended to my own higher plane, the tiny mountain town of Mahabaleshwar. In fact it was here that I lost my touristy drive and really began to relax. The place is spotlessly clean (go anywhere else in India and you'll understand the significance of this, here street signs read 'cleanliness is next to god'), and absolutely beautiful. And despite a riot -- coinciding with (but apparently not a result of) India's untimely exit from the world cup -- that forced the early and extended closure of every shop in town (my first 40hour famine was an experience, involuntary as it was), I had the most refreshing and spiritual week I've had anywhere. Every morning I would wake up before dawn and head up to Wilson's Lookout -- a 15min stroll out of town -- to watch a mountain sunrise. The rest of my day would then be spent eating, drinking strawberry lassies (the town is world famous for its strawberries which just happened to be in-season), going on long walks down deserted forest roads, and revelling in the fact that I was the only foreign tourist in the entire place (though there were a hell of a lot of Indian honeymooners). Then, at about four, I'd head back up to the deserted lookout with my book and read until sunset. My favourite day was the one I sat at the temple at Pratapgad Fort, overlooking epic mountain ranges and distant strawberry fields, and listened to Joanna Newsom. Check out the photos, it was just rad. When I finally came down, both mentally and physically (on a bus), I resigned to the fact that my travel habits were to change for good. This revelation was then cemented the moment I arrived in Goa. Everyone raves about the place and everyone is spot on. It is well cool. Apart from being beautiful (it really reminds me of home), the people here -- travellers and locals alike -- are awesome, and the party scene is fucking mad. Oh, and you can hire a motorbike for about AU$3 a day and ride wherever you want in the state, no licence or helmet required (though the local doctors must be paying one hell of a baksheesh here -- there's more dreadlocked, crutch-bound, valium gobbling gen-x hippies here then there are cows at the beach... and Goan cows love the beach). The cops are also only mildly offensive, as while they're more than happy to pull you over, or even poke a large stick in your spokes (giving a light 'flipping' sensation), more often than not the boys in khaki are just looking for a quick chat and a 'friendly' handshake. Bar four wheelers and postie bikes, which are kinda similar I guess, I'd never ridden a roadbike before coming to Goa, so naturally I managed to meet the guys on more than one occasion. Even then the only handshake I gave was with an aussie $5 note (175rs?)... and that was after I changed lanes without the use of my non-existent indicator, hit a speed bump at about 40km an hour, didn't have a licence, and was found riding a bike that was two months out of its tourist rego. On a separate occasion I even got away with hitting a police barrier (ie. A cop sitting by a number of large rocks placed over the road) and then speeding off -- though that one wasn't really my fault... and I'm still really sorry Elaine.But hey, once again my drab crap is going on way too long. Sorry. I guess I'll cover Goa in two parts. I'm actually in Delhi at the moment so my next email will be soon, way shorter, and attempt to bring things back up to speed (did I say that last time?). I'm a bit over all this writing in way-past tense. So yeah, look forward to it. Thinking about you, one and all (no really, I've been having some crazy dreams and everyone's been involved)...Peace and badness, Som.P.S. In lieu of any useful tips I'd like to add one thing. While I'd love to be able to say, as many others do, that travelling India is as arduous as it is rewarding... if I did I'd be lying. Sure, the place is absolutely fantastic, but there is no hardcore traveller status to be gleaned here. Anyone can and must handle Goa at the very least. It's more badass than Aurangabad. The India series in order:1. incommunicado2. puttin the auranga in baddass3. mahabamadone4. india - the campest nation on earth5. goodbye country hello nightclub http://theprojectsomething.com/#/blog/2007-04-03 Mon, 02 Nov 2009 14:54:01 +1100 Greetings friends. Today's tale takes us to the small east-Maharashtran city of Aurangabad. Approximately 400km inland from Mumbai, this bustling metropolis is best known for what its kind of near... that is, the age-old (and mag-bloody-nificient) Buddhist, Jain, and Hindu caves at Ajanta and Ellora. Being the clueless twat that I am, when I first heard the name Aurangabad I immediately pictured Baghdad. I guess they both have some kind of dakka-dakka ring to them. 'Aurangabad'...'Baghdad', there's definitely something there. Of course once I arrived I was proved absolutely right. But I'll start at the start.Sorry 'Nam, but traffic in India takes the cake...it is truly nuts. Traffic in Mumbai adds an expletive to that description. Niyati put it best, explaining that road-rules in India (and all rules for that matter) are more like loose guidelines... fully designed to be stretched, bent and, more often then not, completely disregarded. Traffic lanes exist but are rarely utilised -- the average two-lane road usually accommodates (at very least) two cars, a rickshaw, a motorbike, a bike, and two (maybe three) paan-chewing pedestrians across. It's not unusual to see a taxi weaving its way the wrong way up a one-way road and, while disco-ricks (rickshaws with huge pumping stereos) exist, they're hardly necessary alongside the trance-inspired song of a thousand blaring horns ... more than enough to get shyest of hips a-shakin. The roads themselves don't help. Its like the money ran out while every road in the city was under major redevelopment -- large unmarked and unattended ditches, open sewers, and piles of dirt run the length of every road in the city. Niyati has a theory that it's a Pakistani conspiracy. That said, I must admit that having been here nearly a month now, I am starting to understand the odd harmony that underlies the chaotic faade. Its hard to explain though so I won't bother.Buses tend to leave late at night here, that way you arrive wherever you're going with a full day ahead of you and having saved a night's accommodation. cool. After arriving at the bus stop at about 9.45 I waited for a little over an hour for my 10pm bus. Luckily for myself, Niyati, and Alpesh (who were dropping me off), we managed to park right next to a couple of local kids taking a dump in the gutter -- by the smell of things a pretty common habit around here...a lot of the public toilets actually cost a couple of rupes so I guess this is often a cheaper and easier alternative if you're out and about -- so rather than moving the car (we had a good spot) we sat there with the aircon pumping. I'm not sure what I'm saying here, I guess I felt a little spoilt and a little deprived at the same time. My luxury Volvo arrived (I've found India to be a very brand fixated culture, if you want to travel in style on a bus you ask for a Volvo... if you want buy anything else you ask for a Tata) so I jumped in, found my luxury reclining seat, and began to relax... little did I know that the next 9 hours (slightly long for a 375km journey I know but, given the condition of the roads quite acceptable) were to be spent gripping madly to an armrest as my bus swerved in and out of traffic, over huge potholes, often on the wrong side of the road, and at a little over twice the speed every other vehicle, in what I could only assume was a mad attempt to break some kind of land-speed record.... all while the rest of the bus sang along to hits from the pirated Hindi films showing on a tiny screen at the front of the bus (but absolutely blaring from a speaker directly above my head).I arrived in Aurangabad at 8am completely buggered and went to look for accommodation. Through pure good fortune I managed to find a lovely rickshaw driver named Ali, who conveniently spoke great English, was parked right next to the bus stop, and knew exactly where to take me. Cheap and good he said. By the time we got to the 'hotel' it had been revealed that Ali also owned a 'tourist car' (overpriced cab) that was great for taking in the sights and which, for a paltry fee of 1800 rupes (the kind of money that puts a child through school here), would do just that with me inside. Knowing that I could do the same thing for about 60rupes I pleasantly declined his offer, went up to my hastily agreed-upon room and crashed. Four hours later there was a knock on my door -- it was the bag boy telling me my cab was ready. I told him I hadn't ordered a cab and tried to go back to sleep. I gave up when the fan started clicking loudly so (still stuffed) I turned the tv on... or at least I would have if it was a real tv -- turns out is was just the empty shell of a tv. I thought that was a little dodge so I decided to check out the rest of the room. It was hilarious. I took some photos that are attached to the email. When the boy came back an hour or so later to tell me about the taxi again I questioned him about it... that was about the time he forgot how to speak English. I waited about half an hour then ventured outside, really hoping that my friend Ali wasn't waiting for me. Luckily he wasn't. This time it was his almost identical twin brother who introduced himself. I wont bother going into details over what went down next, but -- due purely to my ninja-like stealth -- I finally lost the guy an hour later and by that night I had changed hotels (I was just getting a bad vibe about the place, that coupled with the fact that I found Ali playing cards with the dudes who ended up charging me 250rupes more than had been agreed upon), and booked a ticket out of there. On the next available bus of all things. When I finally left the next afternoon I had managed to see the caves (though only the outside of Ajanta, which by that stage was enough for me), get cheated a couple more times, check out most of the town, and meet a cool group of travellers from France, Holland, and Scotland.But once again this is getting beyond lengthy and I should really sign off. Thanks for reading, my next instalment will cover Mahabaleshwar (rockin place) and Poona (phonetically spelt). Check out the photos and please heed the following pieces of Indian travelling advice:Never get in a rickshaw that's parked by a private bus stop. Let alone one that's run by a bloke with slicked black hair, a car salesman attitude, and answering to the name 'Ali'. These guys are piranhas.Don't bother with midrange hotels, they're really just budget with glow in the dark stickers. If you feel an absolute need, make sure to check that everything in your room is real.Aurangabad bitesRegards from afar,Som.The India series in order:1. incommunicado2. puttin the auranga in baddass3. mahabamadone4. india - the campest nation on earth5. goodbye country hello nightclub http://theprojectsomething.com/#/blog/2007-03-28 Mon, 02 Nov 2009 14:42:16 +1100 Ok, so here I am... two weeks into a sub-stratosphere orbit and yet to tap 'send' on the obligatory 'first group email'. I'm genuinely sorry if, when you didn't hear from me in the first couple of days, you thought you might have been spared the droll pot-induced ramblings of another soul-searching bum. Did you know that gmail actually gives you the option of trashing this sort of crap before it even reaches your inbox? Every Dog and her left ovary are travelling these days, and if Dog isn't that interesting when she's around, how can you expect anything different now? You really can't. Anyway whatever. I have your email so now you're fucked. Enjoy.For those who don't know, I left for India in early February... that's two weeks ago tomorrow. First port of call was Mumbai, though it seems 1996's name-change hasn't really hit home yet as most of the locals seem to be pro-raj and prefer 'Bombay'. I would also like to take this chance to add that, despite what every single person I've ever spoken to about it has told me, Mumbai rocks. Sure, the city is huge (about 15mil), grossly polluted (everywhere stinks), beggars run riot, and the police-beat is slightly more literal than it should be... but hey, who orders boring? So far I've been begged, robbed, swindled, and treated like a pair of really large breasts (lots of gawking from middle-aged mustachio men). It's way cool. I even managed to get my phone stolen by a pair of dirty Swedes at a jazz bar that was doubling as a blues bar, complete with Indian blues band called Beetroot. Eternal life maybe?No worries, I've got insurance and it afforded me an excuse to visit the local constabulary. Now this was awesome. Long story short, I turned up to find the main building under repair and the office set up within the onsite Hindu temple. Easy. As we ? Niyati, friend and makeshift translator, and I ? went to enter we were yelled at (in Hindi of course, so I had no idea what was going on) to remove our shoes. No shoes in the temple. Of course every man and his lathi (it's a stick for beating things) in the place was stomping around in cop-boots so I'm not totally sure what the fuss was all about. Anyway, so it was a fuss. After being lightly interrogated in Hindi by about three cops (all these guys speak English) they filled out the appropriate form and got it stamped. But I couldn't have it yet, in fact the guy kind of lolled it around just out of my reach as if I was a smaller kid (I was clearly a kid here) and it was a lolly or something, then went outside to talk with one of his mates. We followed to the door, making sure not to step on the stray dog that was licking its balls in the middle of the room (and had been doing so since we arrived), put our shoes back on, waited for a bit, watched a guy get a beating then get thrown into a truck, waited a bit more (still chatting), checked out what the old guy with the fruit stall was selling (we're still in the police compound here), waited a few more minutes, then promptly removed our shoes again and followed the guy back inside. I only had to tell my story to one more guy and then the piece of paper was mine: 1x nokia 6330i officially stolen (or lost/misplaced). Awesome.So yes, quite a bit has been happening here and I have lots to tell, but for everyone's sake I'll keep it short. As for photos, I've only really got artsy ones of touristy stuff (the fun stuff is never photogenic)... I've attached them anyway. As this is two weeks worth of email there's quite a few attached, so feel free not to bother. I'm sure you all have better things to do, and I know how boring this stuff can be... thanks for getting this far. In my next instalment I'll tell you about my Aurangabad adventure (which happened over the last couple of days) and possibly fill you in on all the funny stuff I left out from Mumbai. There was lots of it. I'll leave you with three quick facts about Mumbai:At least one road in every suburb is named MG (Mahatma Ghandi) Road. This can be highly confusing.Despite fact #1, a large proportion of the population is anything but pro MG. I've had long discussions about this ? I still don't get it.A swastika adorns the entrance of most buildings in the city. However, unlike its hate-inciting equivalent (employed most notably by our soon to be 'officially un-German' friend Hitler), the Indian 'swastik' is more likely to breed hate for bad spatial energy. It's some kind of feng-shieu thing. Regards from afar,Som (loving it).The India series in order:1. incommunicado2. puttin the auranga in baddass3. mahabamadone4. india - the campest nation on earth5. goodbye country hello nightclub http://theprojectsomething.com/#/blog/2007-03-15 Mon, 02 Nov 2009 14:43:19 +1100