A middle finger here, f#@$% idiot there, let me in the lift before you get out annoying pregnant lady, I don’t care if you were waiting for the bloody car space clearly I’m in the biggest hurry, no… I was first in-line arse-face, you’re not old enough for me to offer you my seat on the bus saggy hag, just wait dumbo pedestrian this crossing shouldn’t be here, get your own God-dam bags outta the taxi tourist…
Good old-fashioned manners have clearly left the building.
What’s your ultimate procrastination? Emptying the dishwasher? Cleaning out the turd-o’clock kitty litter? Calling your nut-ball mother? Losing the belly bulge? Sex this month… this year? Having your balls or boobies checked (this is a non-negotiable… Google the self-check now boys, girls book that mamogrambo).
Self-help evangelists squeeze bestseller billions out of aspiring to be more proactive people’s pockets every year. I’ve a few dozen ear-marked 7-day improvement volumes lining my bedside shelves. Everything from The Art of Mindfulness to The Four Hour Working Week… I’ve eagerly devoured, preached and procrastinated them all.
“Live life with Passion”
Salar de Uyuni, Bolivia
It’s great to be back. The magic of Sydney’s summer is just around the corner. Although, a quick jetlag-induced 5am flip through Gourmet Traveller this morning had me scribbling the next yet-to-be itinerised takeoff. Some find their happy place in pub footy finals, others trawl eBay for super soft Japanese denim, drop their under fives at the in-laws on un-returnable loan, get that 10% return on a well-diversified super-yawn portfolio, spec a pure-analin leather option in an oversized stupidly taxed Euro all-terrainer… I can happily Kennards the whole lot. Shove me in a taxi with 13 kilos of don’t-care-if-it’s-stolen luggage airport-bound. With noise cancelling headphones and the latest Monocle in hand? Josh is in smack’d out stratospheric Valium-free happy-land.
Why the continual need to long haul? It’s an addiction. I’ve always put coffee in a lick the toilet bowl category (recently re-affirmed by a rather handsome Barista’s attempt to bring me back… it wasn’t his deft frothing skills that held my interest). I can give or take a glass of grape once a week. My grandmother handed me the virginal ciggie chug at age five and ever since I’ve coughed at the inhale. I sleep like Dumbo so have never taken knock-out drugs… ie. I’m Captain Vanilla when it comes to the up in headlights addictions. Check-in at 1am though and you’ll find me scouring skyscanner.com for the cheapest minimal stopover sky-express to Mumbai.
My name is Josh… I’m a flight-a-holic.
For my final week of NYC escapade I’ve sidelined the SLR for iPhone’s retro-lovin’ Hipstmatic App. Think saturated cross-processed colour palettes with super-contrasty vignettes, torn edges and a virgo-friendly square format.
Join me for a short series of street-side snaps from my strolls here and there…
The Patriot
Welcome to the hiking superhighway. A government-capped 500 International Inca aspirationals depart Cusco city in Southern Peru everyday to begin the rather arduous 4 day Machu Picchu trek. That’s over 180,000 intrepidicious, designer-brand clad, $500USD a pop experience seekers zipping in from around the globe to reach on their final day’s ascent the Inca Sun Gate, the first vista point of the most jaw-dropping wonder of the world… Machu Picchu. Statistically the Inca built MP is the numero uno must-see old-stuff tourist ticket for South America, which means big dollars for the Peruvian government pocket.
If you’d trekked the same trail just 15 years ago you’d have camped amongst the 500+ year old ruins, played football on the semi-wild grassy terraced flats and used the high priest’s well-preserved amenities for a post Inca Cola pit stop (The Peruvian Coca-Cola alternative… big bottles of vitamin B-loaded sugar-packed urine-tinted crap). Today however there’s a strict no food on-site policy (that only the French seem to ignore), no dunnies, a sizeable $40USD entrance fee and strict opening hours. And you can’t just rock up for the trip… there’s a 3 month waiting list for a foot in the door on the classic Inca trail.
The descent begins
A young Aussie backpacker died recently on his ascent of the towering canyon that stood before my rather small self. He was a mere twenty something ‘unstoppable’ who chose to Conan this 3 day trek alone. It happens. You’re travelling, you’re free of any burden, you’re king of the world and nothing is too dangerous. This would’ve been the last thing his family and friends would have considered a reality when they bid him au revoir, backpack and Lonely Planet in hand to explore the globe.
Ok so that’s not exactly the most comforting story to be told by your guide at 5.15am before starting the final 1,200m climb of an adventure. The reality is there’s a few foreigners who perish every year taking on these once Inca worshipped God-like peaks, but 100s of others huff n’ puff the zigzagged rocky path every month – out of breath – but minus injury.
"Yes I'll have the tray of up-chuck thanks"
It’s all aboard the get me outta here travel train. I’m finally back on the road cruising at 35,000ft over some ridiculously large mass of ocean suffering chicken or beef cattle class. For the Sydney to LAX sector I’ve sidelined my usual ‘fly with style thanks to Dad’ upgradable benefits, instead charging this one to the Frequent Flyers accumulated tab.
I’ve been super spoilt when it comes to the international jet set. It’s entirely my parent’s fault. They planted a seed back in the 70s when air travel was regarded as special, dressing us in our Sunday finery be our destination Brissie or the London long-haul. I know air culture has changed with price accessability and massive improvements in global coverage, but just because you’re Bali bound doesn’t give anyone the right to skip the shower, slap on a Bonds n’ stubbies and snore like a comatose elephant for 8hrs (a true ‘sitting next to me’ unfortunate experience). On that note could the girl sardine-canned next to me please refrain from using my shoulder as her snuggle blankie… was that a dribble?
I’ve been Captain Slack Arse of late. Not because I’ve taken to weeknight bucket bongs and 80s teen movie re-runs (16 Candles though – a classic), rather I’ve been 60% a victim of my own contradictory mantra, letting work take precedence over ‘me stuff’. In just over two weeks though I’ll be sweating the 1,500m ascent of Machu Picchu, so the current short term slog means more time for doing what I love… experiencing ‘the new’, photography, writing, struggling to communicate, 20hr mountain hugging bus rides, sleeping in ‘interesting’ beds and most importantly…stuffing my face.
Right enough whinge, whine n’ gloat – this week I’m stepping off my soapbox and into my comfortable eat-shoes (although with a damn cold all I really crave at the moment is dairy free and bland). Here’s a collection of Josh’s fave Sydney bites worth the post-stuffed-up hike.
Photo. gastronomousanonymous.com
The clock is well into its tick for many of my peers traversing the propagate trail as they dive headfirst into the latter echelons of ‘the 30s’. Right now within their ranks a mixed bag of non-refundable decisions are being made. For some it’s Swiss time’d perfection… everything’s in place including the Danish cot which thankfully matches the fluffy flocked Marimekko wallpaper. For the other lastminutewantbaby.com’ers it’s a trawl through Craig’s List’s (I think that’s double apostrophised) personals for a ‘you’ll do’ shack-mate.
When Sydney starts promoting Bondi Beach as its premier ice skating destination it’s time to head for the mountains. Last weekend I zipped up to Blackheath for a rather splendid gathering of eat and drink loving comrades. The ‘Blue-ies’ in this most wintery of seasons offers all the charm of single digit temperatures, misty morning vistas, open hearths and lungs most happy with an abundant supply of pure oxygen. On my morning stroll I encountered a few rather tame feathered friends… here are a few shots of the cheeky wing’d monkeys.
Mr Magpie