Life for beginners

Travel with parents

Wed, 6 Jun 2012 00:06:15 +1000

There are numerous blogs around which dole out useful tips on where to buy diapers in Mongolia, child friendly Asian cities or how to mute your newborn on intercontinental flights (I strongly suggest generous lashings of Promethazine).
However, I have not yet seen any tips on travel with parents. Most people have parents, some of us even have parents that still require the occasional update on our lives:
“Yup, Hi Dad, yeah you were right Syria was a bad choice...” or
“Hi Mum... Chapelle here. What’s that....no, not that great...”
Myself? I am blessed with parents who have seamlessly evolved from two shadows haunting my childhood and pulling me out of trouble (or belting me around the ears) into great mates. Whilst planning my first world domination tour in early 2010 both of my travel virgin parents hinted at an exploratory itchiness:
“I have always wanted to see the Galapagos”
“I did a grade 9 project on the Inca Trail, have always wanted to go there you lucky bugger”
Without considering the ramifications and before setting off on stage one I said;
“Well, why don’t you both join me?”
I returned from about three months abroad,
thrilled to discover that my parents had taken my
advice and decided to join me. They not only had
booked flights in parallel with mine to South
America for six weeks, they had also arranged
tours, hotels, taxi transfers, a Galapagos boat
tour and made a shortlist of must see sights in
every country we were to pass through. We had
an absolute blast in those six weeks, learnt a lot
about each other and shared memories that will only serve to strengthen our friendship.
However, I did learn somE important pointers about travel with Parents:
• Your Parents have organised the entire logistics of your developmental years. It stands to reason that they will not be happy to lob into a country with a credit card, passport and vague plan.
• No matter how badass you try to look in dangerous suburbs, Mum will not hesitate to lick a finger to swipe a booger off your nose.
• There is a good reason your parents sometimes sleep in separate rooms (snoring)
• Your Dad’s love of the Akubra hat and little Aussie patches extends beyond his home country.
• It is extremely difficult to chat up hot Danish Lawyers on a Galapagos cruise with parents (I said hard, not impossible!)
• Even though you have spent far more time at altitude than your Mum, she will still hesitate to take your advice; “Slow. the. hell. down.” (Inca Trail)
• Take your parents to a local nightclub and they will proudly display their lack of inhibitions...and dance skill.

Do not despair though, travel with parents can be extremely rewarding as I have discovered;
• Watching your parents walk through the Sungate to Macchu Picchu after 5 days on the Inca trail arm in arm is an extremely satisfying and misty eyed experience.
• Having Mum steal a towel from a hotel before a 16 hour bus ride so she can nurse you through a terrible bout of gastro is comforting, even at 34 years of age.
• When your parents defer to you about how to avoid a riot or strike it is strangely satisfying.
• How many of you have spent days on a boat snorkelling the Galapagos Islands with your parents or drunk pisco sours in a shady bar in Lima with your Mum?
• On our last night together I was setting of for about 12 months alone when Dad said; “It is bloody nice to have a great mate for a son” I will never forget this.
I know that everyone has a different relationship with their parents, clearly I am very close to mine. Since this first trip my parents have continued their travels solo and unabated. I am currently helping them to plan a six week domination tour of Europe, something I never thought I would see them do.
Traveling with my parents has introduced me to two wonderful travel companions that I already know and love. It has certainly broadened my horizons, we saw and experienced things I would not have alone. So go on, ask your parents along even for a short stint, next time you are planning an adventure. I have not regretted doing it and doubt you will. At the very least you can authoritatively correct your Dad’s grandfatherly ramblings in years to come. I firmly believe that travel with parents should not be confined to compulsory road trips as a child.
I just hope that our travels together has not inspired them to spend all of my inheritance!

Happy daze and rainy days

Sat, 2 Jun 2012 22:17:36 +1000

Happy Daze/Rainy days

Busy times over here in Woolongong people. Since my last update I have collected Dad from the airport (he is going to beta test my Surprise Bucket list idea. Not that he knows yet) and I finally received my very first paragliding rig. Because I do not have a proper Paragliding cool-word vocabulary yet I will go with ‘rig’.

Things up here in the ‘Gong have been very quiet and a bit lonely of late so it is very refreshing to see a familiar face waiting for me at arrivals. I have not seen the old boy for a few months, however thanks to Skype and email we run out of news before diving into the melee of Friday afternoon Sydney traffic. It comes as no surprise that Dad has not changed one bit since we last spent time. He is still tall, brimming with Dad jokes, possessing a crushing handshake and I still need to run to keep up with his stride. Despite two recent prosthetic hips and an even more recent prosthetic shoulder the man is unstoppable. It is great to see his recovery and rehabilitation from almost 2 years of surgical insult going well. Dad, or ‘The Dave-A-tron’ is finally pain free.

My paragliding teacher Mitsi had sent me a text earlier in the day to announce that my long awaited wing is here so I take Dad straight from the airport to Mitsi’s house. Mitsi’s place is something of an airport itself being filled with wings, harnesses, posters, flying magazines, motors and all kinds of wonderful paragliding paraphernalia. Mitsi rips open the box and we fill one very content afternoon adjusting straps, hanging the harness from the beams and discovering secret pockets. At one point I find myself distractedly rubbing the squeaky, fresh-smelling wing material a little too sensuously...but moving right on.

Friday night. Dad patiently pretends to be interested as I shove endless videos with technical details under his nose before running off to grab the harness and display a previously undiscovered loop or feature.

In true Westy form Dad and I pass Saturday morning by spending up big at a camping store sale before Mitsi calls with some welcome news;

“Ben, get up here mate, it is on”

*Queue roadrunner speed montage*

Thirty minutes later Dad and I are on the hill counting wings in the air. Fifteen people are making the most of these perfect winds. I grab my harness pack from the car then with a magician’s flourish reverse it into a flying harness. That’s right boys and girls, this harness reverses into a very comfy backpack for climb/fly missions (and you know I will). The whole ‘rig’ weighs a mere 11 kilograms complete with wing, helmet and reserve parachute.

Mitsi wants to test the wing before letting me loose so he straps in, takes two steps and is flying. I am amazed at how lifty the whole thing is. He seems to go straight up. He flies for about ten minutes before top landing nearby. I go over to where he has landed;

“How’d you go mate?”
“Bloody hell, that is one stable wing Ben”
“Yeah I saw you did some steep turns, felt okay?”
“Brilliant, I also flew behind a tandem to trial it in wake turbulence and it hardly moved, you are going to love it”
“Okay then, my turn”
“Yup, will just duck home to get the radios, you get ready, won’t be long”
“No drama”

Now this is where my poor luck with the weather continues, guess what happens next... Yup, A big squall sneaks over the water bringing with it rain and wind too strong for me to fly. “That is flying ladies and gentlemen” We pack up the gear and adjourn for a coffee and a gossip.

The rain is predicted to last until Friday...A whole week of waiting is sadly in store for this keen student. At least this will give me time to hang out with Dad and to choose a good name for my new toy. I am leaning towards ‘Sky snail’, ‘Red Rocket‘ or ‘The Benphis Belle’

While Googling name ideas I found this which gave me a chuckle:

Paragliders vs. Women : 
paragliders can kill you quickly; a woman takes her time paragliders don't object to a preflight inspection paragliders come with manuals to explain their operation paragliders have defined weight limitations paragliders don't care about how many other paragliders you have flown paragliders don't mind if you buy magazines about them paragliders don't comment on your piloting skills, and paragliders don't make annoying whining noises unless you are spiralling towards the earth at an alarming rate.
Oh, regards the surprise Bucket list idea; I want to get Dad to either do a tandem Paraglide or a Skydive with me...this last sentence will also reveal if my Mum reads my blogs properly or not!

The paragliding grasshopper

Thu, 31 May 2012 23:29:50 +1000

Well kids, as you may have guessed from my crapping on about suitable languages for arguments and stupidly fast boats I have not had much of a chance to fly recently. Wind conditions combined with work conditions have kept my feet rather grounded. I have a shiny new wing currently in lockup at the Woolongong customs shack because the officer decided he needs to know the price of a stuff bag for import taxation reasons...it is worth about $5 Aus, you tosser!
Anyway enough of the boo hoo. Yesterday I got my second favourite type of call, Mark Mitsos, my trusted teacher from Sydney paragliding (http://sydneyparagliding.com) was on the other end of the line and after formalities (a discussion of recent weather events with me trying to sound like I know something about convergence and isobars) he said;
“Anyway wanna fly Ben?”
“Damn straight I wanna fly mate!”
“Cool, be at the hill at half one”
“See you there”
Next thing I know I am sorting out flouro green and yellow rising straps while facing a Liberace purple wing, behind me are spiky cliffs above sucking waves. It is a brutal drop if one were to run off these cliffs without the benefit of the aerofoil. I have that benefit, along with a helmet, a radio, and knocking knees.
I do not know why I am so bloody nervous, I have done this before at least three times, sure it was a month ago but harden up Ben.
“When you are ready in three, two, one...”
*Breathe out, imagine butterflies flying out of your mouth* (Don’t laugh it works)
“Okay Mitsi, three, aaand”
I lean back into the harness and the wing lifts beautifully. I turn and don’t look up like I should. I run like a mad man, watching the grass when I should be watching the horizon and monitoring my course. Soon grass turns to shrubs hanging on to steeper ground which turns to rock.
I am flying.
I lean back to sit into my seat (How cool is a sport you can do sitting down!) but cannot get in. I have left my leg straps too loose which means that I am hanging too low to get into my seat easily. I push and wriggle, swinging back on forth and finally get to my perch to take control of the glider.
They say that the launch is the hardest thing, this is true. Once in my seat and committed my brain slows, no, not slows, it focusses. I forget about being nervous, after all I am committed now, and I focus on flying the thing. One gets this real sensation of being in touch with an area when the flicker of leaves or ripples on a lagoon can signal danger. The lagoon is ripply which means that the wind has not turned convergent (cold wind dropping down a valley, like a Jihad joke during Ramadan). I monitor my height, resist the temptation to yahoo the young people smooching on the bonnet of a Falcon ute below and land safely on the beach. Woop!
Bugger, forgot to start my bloody helmet cam. Mitsi is on the radio saying; “Good one Ben, see you shortly lad” I am grinning too much to reply.
A repeat performance and the conditions become un-flyable, I go home, miss my girlfriend some more (Hey, I have only seen her 3 weeks in the last 6 months), sleep, eat breakfast, shower and get a call;
“...Anyway wanna fly ben?”
“See you there Mitsi!”
I face a rudely purple wing; today I have done two flights already with roaring success and much manic chuckling. The sun is sinking and the air is getting cold, dense and sinky. I blow out my flotilla of butterflies and lean back into the harness. The wing comes up beautifully, I check the lines (it’s kind of important to ensure that brakes lines don’t wrap around forward lines) turn and run.
It feels as though three midgets have jumped onto my back. I am pushing and running as fast as I can but don’t seem to get any forward momentum. The edge greets me with her gappy grin as Mitsi comes on the radio:
“Stop, stop, stop...oh, that was good”
“Hahaha...hahaha”
I have just run down the steep edge, hopping over bushes and grass and have barely managed to get the one last strong push off needed to send me soaring. I felt the wing trying to lift me and knew that one good push would get me airborne. Now airborne I pull on the right brake which puts my hand near the radio switch;
“Sorry Mitsi, I was committed”
“It’s all good, I’ll forgive you!”
My heart is racing, after all I have finally made my first paragliding decision, my teacher said to stop but I knew I was committed. Calmed by Mitsi’s forgiveness I turn to the right and fly further around the hill than I have even done before. I turn left and fly past the launch area. I am at the same height! I have just, technically, done a soaring flight! Ripper, no loss of altitude, dynamic lift, Aerofoils, the Wright brothers and all that cool flying stuff.
I fly closer to the beach and prepare for landing. A man has a girl sitting in his lap as they smooch away on a rug, they are unaware of the soon intruder. I descend close to this sunset interlude feeling like Batman but looking like Mr Bean on ecstasy. I apologise for the intrusion and coil up the lines.
Looking back up to the hill I finally manage the mile long stare that Mitsi keeps telling me to give those camera toting tourists at the launch zone who wait for a launch fail and make me nervous.
I have made a correct launch decision all by myself. I have ruined a sneaky beach root for some poor punters (kind of satisfying for a bloke who has not seen his girl in 52 days!) and I have doubled my solo flight time.
Not a bad day’s work then.
Tomorrow Dad is coming to visit, he is the unsuspecting subject of my surprise bucket list project.
I’ll let you know how it goes...

Cool boat people

Tue, 22 May 2012 19:07:30 +1000

So the other day I asked what do a plumber, supercharged methanol burning V8’s and Cassonova racing in boats have in common. I will start at the beginning...
Last Monday the main sewer draining my rental property blocked up with tree roots so I called my mate Chris who owns a Plumbing business. Chris is quite formidable, he is quietly spoken and shaped like a triangle. In his shed Chris climbs ropes with huge weights tied to his ankles for fun, from the back he has the profile of Mr Strong except that he is not red. I know no other human being as powerful as Chris. He was the Australian Judo champion for umpteen years and, despite only ever being friendly toward me I tend to choose my words carefully around him. Chris assured me that a plumber would be at my house directly with a root cutting/pipe unblocker thing so conversation turned towards fun stuff;
“So where are you these days Ben?”
“Just near Woolongong, doing a bit of work and a bit of Paragliding”
“Still climbing mountains”
“Nah mate, not recently, about to get into the training again though, I’m getting fat. What about you mate?”
“I’m on the road to Sydney, racing this weekend at Penrith, you should come up, say G’day. Noodles will be there”
“Hell yeah, I’m free, Penrith eh”
“Racing at the old Olympic rowing course, world champs”
“Sounds good man, see you there, good luck”
“Bye”
This is how I got to be stepping out of my Mum’s pastel blue Honda Jazz last Saturday morning to the tune of stupidly large V8 engines burning fuel at a furious rate. I stole mums car when she left for Jakarta, was getting sick of the motorbike in rain. Chris’s boat “Outlaw” burns about 120 litres of Methanol over a 3 lap race. The power of these engines is felt in the stomach more than seen. I mean, when you see a boat skitting at 140+ mph (or 225 kmph) over water the brain cannot compute the sight, like if you saw a sheep running to overtake you on the freeway. For some reason the sound of these engines make me want to both void my bowels and dance with excitement.

The outlaw team ponder the oil light situation

The little boat
I walk beside the lake and spot Chris’s white boat in a race. Chris races his big boat in the unlimited category, this means that you can do whatever you want, you could even strap a jet engine to the back of your boat if you thought it could negotiate the corners. Most people choose huge methanol burning V8’s similar to those used in NASCAR races (One especially wealthy racer has a V8 EXACTLY like a NASCAR V8) Walking over the bridge toward where Noodles is meeting me I look back to see Chris. He is dead in the water, yellow flag is out.
I grab my phone to call Noodles. Noodles is a very good friend who travels as a problem solver with Chris’s “Outlaw” racing team when he is not building gizmos in his shed or fixing other engineers’ mistakes. Noodles got his name due to a habit of once sporting poo-orange dreadlocks, he is known to a few as Ian. An engineer, the things he builds in his shed puts Maggyver to shame, however Macgyver did not have a C&C machine the size of a small car.
“Hey Noods, where are you mate?”
“Cuntface! Wassup?”
“I just got here man, where are you?”
 “Next to the commentary block, halfway up the disabled ramp”
“Not surprised to see you loitering on a disabled ramp mate!”
“Haha. Spot ya soon anal warts”
We sure have a special way of addressing each other!
Ian explains that Chris has a dodgy oil pump (an important bit apparently). When Chris saw the red oil light he killed the engine. After having already blown up one engine this weekend he did not want to explain to the wife that a second $100 000 engine is on order.
The weekend of racing is over for Chris, before I arrive he was crashed into whilst testing out the ‘little boat’. The ‘little boat’ runs a mere 5 litre V8, which is neither supercharged or Methanol burning. It was built for his teenage daughter to race. Noodles and I take a stroll to look at the vintage boats on display.
The Molinari Hydroplane was built in Italy and raced by Cassanova, it is one sexy wooden boat with a huge leather steering wheel.

Ian (Noodles) Stuart wishing he was Cassanova

We wander over to the F1 boats.
“Feel this Ben”
“I’m not falling for that again Noodles!”
“Haha good on ya, the propellor champ”
“Christ, you could shave on that edge”
“Yup and see my hand? This is how much of
the prop sits in water” An F1 boat
“Serious? Only halfway in the water”
“And only about one metre of boat in contact with water, they steer via propellor movement not rudder”

I love hanging out with Ian, not only do I invariably learn a few novel sayings or curses I also learn heaps about engineering or machines in general. Noodles shows me around and with his formidable knowledge (I really should write a blog one day about the things he has invented or blown up) he explains about how these boats go and turn so damn fast. I decide that these beasts need a more racey collective than ‘boat’. ‘Celestial water hoppers’ maybe or ‘Introspheric surface skimmers’.

Soon it is getting dark so Noodles and I retire to the pits to be surrounded by literally millions of dollars worth of shiny boat. As the mercury falls John, another Outlaw team member, decides to light a fire.
Obviously no one wants a normal wood fire which would get ash all over the boats so John fills a 20 litre open drum with Methanol and lowers his cigarette lighter. I back off nervously as Ian assures me it is quite safe.
“Yeah mate, lighting an open drum full of aviation gas seems quite safe... you fucking idiot!”
“Nah, only the top one or two mill of vapour burns, the fluid methanol below actually cools off as the latent heat is drawn out to vapour...see”
I look at the drum which is now emitting a steady blue flame about one metre in height, it seems stable but dear god, no one kick it over! We warm ourselves around the fire, eat hamburgers and catch up on news before I have to make for home.
“See Ya Noods, great to catch up old boy”
“You too Westy, spot ya in Devo mate”
“Spot ya later Chris, hope the next race goes better for you mate”
“Cheers Ben. No bother, that’ racing. Oh Ben”
“Yup”
“Be careful in those paragliders, they seem really dangerous”