Observations on an adventure in Australia, starting mid October 2009 and ending a month later.

ONE

It’s the little things that make the difference. We’re at a launch party held by small press publisher Vulgar Press for a book chronicling one woman’s adventures in the world of mental health. Not somewhere you’d generally find me, despite or in fact because of my own experience of such matters, but I warm to her when she describes it as being like a particularly turbulent episode of a local soap opera. I like that.

But the telling difference was when a fellow writer stepped up earlier to introduce her, and did so in part by drawing attention to a couple of Greek words. Back in the UK, that would have only happened in the company of classicists or Christians. Here in Melbourne it’s because Greek culture is a living tradition. Later, stopping off at a supermarket on the way home, I notice a wider range of Greek and Mediterranean products than a British supermarket would typically stock, and remember the flatbreads and feta that my friend and host Vicki has in her pantry.

The launch party has the same kind of mix of bohemian 40-plus types, female mostly, I’d expect to see at an event for a woman writer with mental health issues. The venue too strikes a chord, an arty cafe with space for poetry readings, small scale theatre shows, and people threatening to play acoustic guitars. It’s near a health centre for aboriginal people, whose life expectancy and other statistics continue to make depressing reading, and whose urban presence often goes hand in hand with public drunkenness and the like, for much the same reasons that people in Britain whose lives have been broken tend to a chaotic street existence.

Rightly, the publisher is proud of what he’s done in bringing this book into the world. He says that as publishing operations goes his is pretty large, taking up half of the living room. He urges us to buy copies to liberate some space for future volumes. Vicki enthuses about The Slap, written by Christos Tsiolkas, who introduced today’s star turn, an account of a barbecue where someone slaps another guest’s child. It’s causing quite a stir, putting Melbourne’s mix of cultures and generations under the microscope, and I promise to Vicki that I’ll read it while I’m here.

Vicki too is an author, of twenty-something books for Penguin. Her name scarcely appears on them: they’re generic volumes about anything from composting to blokes and their cars, with a particular focus on cooking. As far as I can see, her writing is at least the standard of other books where the author’s name is noted on the cover, and I’m left wondering whether this is a peculiarity of Australian publishing or merely an aspect of the business worldwide I’d not come across before.

Times are changing though, and Vicki wants to find new ways to support herself in the future. She and son Jerome (9) lead a lovely life here in the Northcote area, but it’s not financially stable, especially given what Australians are calling the GFC — Global Financial Crisis. In our small quiet way, we’re going to see what we can do to change things, for Vicki and me too, by developing a treatment for a feature film that draws in part on her life experience. Plus, having worked together twenty years back at a London ad agency, it’ll be a fun way of connecting with someone I’ve missed all this time, and just maybe creating something new for her future and mine. Whoever said a holiday had to be about goofing round on the beach?

TWO

Brunswick Street is where a lot of alt.lifestyle.shopping can be done in Melbourne. It starts with a hospital at one end, and it’s not far from there that I use a Telstra phone box to make a call. As I do, a sweaty man in his twenties starts mumbling about a guy who’s waiting for him. This is intended for me, while I’m waiting for an answer to my call. I continue to keep an ear out for the stranger, who is now embellishing his tale by saying that the bad man is somewhere by the bank.

I turn from the phone, and he addresses me directly: can I walk with him to protect him from his antagonist? You’ve got to give the guy points for trying: his performance is worth the fifty cents I spent on the phone. But I have no desire to get caught up in a junky psychodrama, so telling him I have an appointment I make my way.

So far, so San Francisco: the first person who spoke to me on Haight Street told me that there were microscopic cameras embedded in America’s paper money, but at least that guy wasn’t looking to profit from the situation. The wannabe panhandler with the story about the bad man at the bank was a holdover from Brunswick Street’s shabbier times. Others have adapted and thrived, selling anything from second hand Eagles cassettes to overpriced cheesecake to hipsters local and imported.

I’ve been told about the Brunswick Street Bookstore, and discover a pleasant venue with friendly and efficient service, something I’m getting used to more generally in Australia. There’s no undercurrent of surliness as there can be in Britain, the hint that the server could be doing something better: all the people I’ve had transactions with have been genuinely helpful and enthusiastic.

The book I’m after is The Slap, which Vicki had recommended. She’s not the only one: there was a pile of chunky paperbacks within reach of the till, the book a publishing phenomenon that’s won international acclaim, and has been declared Overall Best Book by the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize. This is usually precisely the sort of thing that puts me off delving into prose, but with Vicki’s assurance that it’s pukka stuff I’m in for some quality holiday reading. Besides, I’ve yet to see an Australian edition of a Lee Childs book: the other prose I’ve been hoovering up this year is his Jack Reacher novels, which have a kick like Harry Potter cut with Andy McNab for me.

The bookstore has cafes either side. I choose Cafe Nova because the architecture is more idiosyncratic, and am rewarded with smooth sweet mocha and a tasty but overpriced slice of cheesecake. I wonder what my acquaintance with the scary pal by the bank is doing now. Probably trying to hustle another tourist.

THREE

So, I went for a swim at an Olympic sized open air pool the other day, and did a kilometre for the first time in longer than I care to think. Then walked back to Westgarth, the Melbourne suburb I’m staying with my host Vicki, most known for its high lesbian population. That statistic is the bane of Vicki’s life, given her desire to score a date with a guy, and the high incidence of females among the people who actually do ask her for a date.

Westgarth itself is a subset of Northcote, a small area defined by a strip of shops — but what a strip. There is a Thai eaterie, a fish and chip shop, a bakery, a winebar, a cafe, and a gluten-free allergy-friendly place for the truly picky eater in your life. Then there’s a well-stocked film rental store, which calls Vicki to check whether her 9 year old son can take out the films he’d like, a general grocery and a wholefood one, and a newsagent.

And, come to think, I’m missing a few places out — there’s a creepy looking second hand store at one end of Westgarth’s small row of shops, seemingly owned by someone whose OCD won’t let her stop until she has filled the pavement itself with floral breadbins and tatty paperback tributes to Heath Ledger. And, of course, a Spanish language centre. And a small funky cinema, and a legal firm specialising in property transactions. Phew.

Of course, you read that list, and will be thinking of what’s missing. Actually, the answer is ‘not a lot’, since this is a tiny area, and a half mile up and down the road that Westgarth is on are other micro-economies offering pretty much the same range of consumer delights. What’s amazing is what’s to come: an abandoned shopfront has a sign on it indicating that a bookshop is on the way. And both of the sub-suburbs within half a mile have bookshops already.

This, bear in mind, is all happening during the Global Financial Crisis. And I think I have the solution to that for Australia, if you’ll bear with me. America and the UK are already experiencing a huge growth in the cupcake sector, and Australia has yet to catch on.

Now, anyone who knows Melbourne knows that you can’t move for cake out here, and usually of surpassingly good quality. There are brownies and baklava, iced buns and almond croissants, cheesecakes and — of course — Victoria sponges. But I have seen no evidence of the cupcake, and believe that the future for Australia lies in a cupcake-led recovery.

The trick, of course, is not to overdo it. But there are plenty of artisan bakers in Melbourne who’d like to open places of their own, and the cupcake could provide the Unique Selling Proposition that they’re lacking. This is a country that loves its confectionery, and has a seemingly endless appetite for a decent coffee to go with it, and the cupcake offers the chance to combine both in a comfortable package with a novel twist.

Vicki is a freelance writer, a trade which combines procrastination with the need to write at a laptop over a coffee. I’m thinking she could, especially as a fine cook herself, produce a valuable second income by doing the above in a cupcake store of her very own. And, if this community can find a place in its heart for the macrobiotic and lactose-intolerant, surely it can welcome a heterosexual cupcake shop where the owner gets first dibs on any passing hunks.

FOUR

I met my first Melbourne dullard last night. An accountant with a vacuum where a personality would ordinarily be. He asked me about my holiday plans, and when I shared the fact that I intended to do a train journey called the Ghan he told me it was boring: all that outback landscape is pretty much the same. This from a cricket fan.

In a way, I was reassured. Up to him, everyone I’d met had been friendly and interesting, which seemed to be testing statistical norms to breaking point. The occasion was a trivia quiz on behalf of a charity devoted to helping Thai tsunami victims. The venue was a town hall, and there were ten or so teams dotted round the room, geed into action by a slyly funny hostess who said that owing to time constraints we wouldn’t get to see her dance tribute to Kate Bush. I liked that, and the none too subtle allusions she made to her need for a decent bloke in her life.

Our team comprised a couple of people Vic knows from a pub quiz she goes to, and a bunch of waifs and strays like myself at a midweek loose end. The format was to alternate live questions, with sheets of prepared ones, so that you could answer one while the others’ points were being totalled. Each of the live rounds started off with a music question, problem being the hall’s lousy acoustics, so poor Michael Stipe sounded like a pub singer. I consoled myself by chowing down on a duck roll that a team mate had brought a tray of along with her.

Whoever had put together the movie quiz sheet I’d like to meet. It outlined a dozen films in a couple of sentences each, leaving you to deduce their titles from tangential clues. The first, referring to a stepdaughter and her association with a bunch of miners, was one of the more obvious ones: Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. After that it got tricky, in fun ways, Thelma and Louise alluded to by a reference to the confirmation that the protagonists were indeed women drivers.

It was a hokey way to enjoy an evening, some real characters revealing themselves as the night went on and the wine bottles were replaced. I helped out with special Anglo knowledge, being able to recognise a photo of Martin Amis and having the title of Russell Brand’s Booky Wook indelibly stamped in my mind from unavoidable confrontations with it in book stores. And we got to win the night thanks to five bonus points won for our team by another Brit, who’s lived here for twelve years now.

The real thrill of the evening came from an unexpected source. A distinctive — and familiar — guy appeared on stage, trailing five Thai girls in their teens behind him. I’d borrowed his pen to fill in a form for the Australian authorities on the flight from Bangkok, and sat next to two of the girls. Small world. These girls were beneficiaries of the work the charity does in Thailand, coming from impossibly impoverished backgrounds but nevertheless managing to raise money out there as well as over here in Australia. One of the girls beamed as she squealed in recognition, said something excitedly in Thai to her friends (probably ‘Hey, it’s the big guy who snored all the way from Bangkok!’) and hugged me. And a sincere hug from a sweet kid makes up for any number of dullard accountants on the planet.

FIVE

Ballina is a very different kind of Australia to the one I’ve come to know and love in Melbourne. Don’t think I’ll have a chance encounter with a gypsy band playing tunes from Serbia and Greece in a boho cafe in this small town somehow. The attraction is that we’re by photogenic Byron Bay, but I’m thinking I might spend my time here, cruising the stores and walking along the river.

Besides, something special happened here last night, and it might be the sort of special that I’m more likely to encounter in small town Oz than in the big city. I arrived tired from an early start and two flights — stopping at Sydney from Melbourne before picking up a new plane to Ballina. After checking in at a superb youth hostel (they don’t discriminate against 40-somethings fortunately) I showered and decided to check out the neighbourhood.

Never mind what I found in the day…what matters is that I decided to go to the cinema in the evening. It seemed a simple enough walk, and I got there through streets where an unlikely number of physiotherapists and chiropracters were doing their thing. There’s not a great deal to say about the film itself, except that Couples Retreat is an interesting example of a badly written film, its numerous faults clear to the casual viewer.

The fun started when I tried to get home. Walking to the cinema, I’d enjoyed a light refreshing shower, sheltered from it in my Melbourne hipster hat. Now though…sheets of lightning filled the sky, and the rain hammered down like tapdancers on a corrugated roof. Which is when surprise #1 happened: the teenage girl on duty at the cinema asked if she could call me a taxi. Anyone who has been to a multi-screen cinema in the UK will think I am bullshitting at this point, but I swear to you that a teenage cinema employee went out of her way to help me out.

Naturally, once I was in the cab the storm started to die down. So I asked the driver to drop me somewhere I could pick up food before walking back to the hostel. He indicated that most places would likely be closed, this being 9pm on a Monday, but I figured I’d find somewhere.

Turns out the local was right of course. Everywhere was shut — apart from one Italian place where the lights were on and a cute 20ish couple were eating to a moshpit soundtrack. I came up to the counter, only to be told that they’d stopped cooking for the night. Which is when surprise #2 happened — the guy in the couple offered to share the pizza he was eating with his girlfriend. They’d ordered two, and were more intent at this point on gazing into each others’ eyes. I contributed to the romance of the evening by bolting down tasty triangles of pizza at their table.

Just think though — how often would something like that happen in a city? These two were celebrating the guy’s birthday. In fact they’d planned to eat Chinese but found the restaurant was shut for the same reasons I had, and ended up at the Italian instead. Just in time to demonstrate their Samaritan tendencies to me. How sweet is that? I gave him a $20 bill for his birthday — quite a bit for the pizza I’d had, but in terms of what it represented, nothing could have paid for that experience.

SIX

The flight up to Cairns holds a truth that most Australians would rather not face: they are a surface infection on this continent, which is largely composed of deserts and jungles hostile to the human organism. Get outside Australia’s cities, and the facts soon become apparent — this is not a place for people.

But folks have a way of kidding themselves, and never is that more clear than in the drive from Cairns to Port Douglas. This is Great Barrier Reef territory. The sea, one way, is full of things that can sting and bite you. Facing the other way we have jungle, in which there are all manner of things hostile to humanity. Between them is a thin road. On it, a cheerily painted minibus. The driver is playing soft rock.

I haven’t worked out Australia’s fascination with soft rock. It’s the all-pervasive soundtrack to experience here. And driving to Port Douglas we were treated to choice cuts in the form of Fleetwood Mac’s Rhiannon, a variety of indistinguishable rock ballads, and Twisting By The Pool by Dire Straits. All the while, nameless creatures threatened death in a thousand ways just seconds off the narrow concrete strip that took us from one outpost of civilisation to another.

The local newspaper speaks in defence of a local croc, a mere 5 metres long, saying that his recent boat-biting tendencies are not enough to put him on the ‘concern crocs’ register. Get real: this is a 15 foot monster made out of leather and teeth. Giving it a nickname does not remove its primal menace. But hey, here’s something from Crowded House.

It makes sense though, this bland soundtrack. It’s all about anesthesia. If Australians listened to music that really reflected the brutal horror of the country they live in…Nine Inch Nails would sound like Simon & Garfunkel by comparison. Pantera would weep. Gangsta rappers would insist they were never forced to tour this godforsaken country.

Somewhere inside, Australians know they are treading in land that man was not meant to walk on. They know it in their bodies, it gives them deep muscle fear that only practiced fingers can release — which is why there are so many physiotherapists, chiropracters, and other body workers here. Drink all the coffee you can to stay awake, Melbournites — at some point, after your honey chai lattes and machiattos, you will still fall asleep and your body will be contorted with the knowledge that this is not a place for you. And when you turn the radio on, the lite blues that the FM show offers is nothing compared to the deep inside blues that every Australian feels but dares not acknowledge.

SEVEN

Who would you choose to be your guide deep in a jungle? Someone who you necessarily put your trust in, knowing that they hold the keys to your survival in a potentially brutal environment. Hmm. Not many people are cut out for this kind of work, and you’ve got to hope that one of the few up to the task is attracted to the low-income world of being a tour guide.

At any rate, I made it back from the jungle under the tutelage of Chris O’Dowd. An innocuous sounding name, the Irish aspect perhaps indicating a blokiness appropriate to the matter at hand. And that’s how things appeared when Chris first picked me up from outside the hotel in a four wheel drive vehicle. His grip was manly, his hair long enough to indicate that fashion is not a concern: two more ticks in relevant boxes.

It was only after we’d picked up the other tour guests and were a few hundred yards away from the road and in the world’s oldest rainforest that Chris revealed that he is an authority on poisons, showing us how we could make curare with the aid of the distinctive plant that he showed us — I now know that curare is indicated by a vein tracing the perimeter of the leaf a few millimetres from the edge, as well as the more conventional leaf veinage.

There was more to come. Stinger plants like nettles on steroids that would pump you full of paralysing neurotoxins through silicon needles. Tasty looking plums that go down a treat if you’re a cassowary, but will slaughter any human eating them. And so on. The litany of deadly flora did little to dispel my conviction that Australia is a savage place, its people living in deep denial of the futility of human existence on this perilous continent. Face it, when even the Aborigines can only eat some of the local fruit after boiling them and washing the vestiges through running water five times, you know that things are pretty grim.

So, what was our tour guide’s fascination with all this venomous stuff? It wasn’t until late in the day, when the group had bonded, that Chris announced the other salient point about his origin. He had been the vocalist in a death metal band called Cataclysm. He’d gone through singing lessons as a child, and at the age of 13 discovered that he had the dread Cookie Monster vocal capacity of his idols in bands like Cannibal Corpse. Are you spotting a theme here? I’m thinking it’s not just me.

Now, at some point there is an essay to be written exploring the similarities and differences between death metal vocalists and those whose vocal stylings are of the equally rough ragga persuasion. But, in the middle of a jungle, with no idea how to get back to our vehicle, let alone what direction the hotel was, my thoughts were not of musical genres but of how I came to be stranded in a rainforest with a Satanically inclined singer who knew an awful lot about poisoning.

Of course, Chris is no Satanist — he is a highly knowledgeable and articulate guy with a lot of information at his fingertips about plant lore and wilderness survival. He just happens to be a greater authority on toxins than P.D. James and to be able to stun a charging rhino with his deathly scream. Just another good bloke, like the ones Australia is filled with, then. Nothing to worry about here.

EIGHT

It was the words ’swimming with turtles’ that sold me on the tour back in Cairns. I was immediately transported into some aquatic reverie with music by Eno in which a huge and wise turtle allowed me to hitch a ride out to wherever it is that turtles go.

What I’d forgotten was that hanging out with turtles involves boat trips, something I’m not big on. And this one was on a catamaran with around 16 or so other experience-seekers. Such things are cheesy thrillers made of, with me in the back of the shot since I’d detract from the more gorgeously bodied types the camera is there for.

Now, swimming itself is something I very much enjoy. Snorkelling is a variant that I’m not too keen on. Especially when trussed up in gear that made me look less like a diver than the Michelin Man with an exhaust pipe poking out of my mouth. But, I got out there into the water and with some persistence managed to snorkel for a while and get a buzz from floating over coral. It kind of felt like Fantastic Voyage, travelling through warm currents over fascinating bits of creatures that are both botanical and biological.

And, really, that would be it — a pleasant enough experience but nothing truly special. Only, on the way back something happened that made the whole day a lot bigger than the one I woke up to. In heading back to the marina, I perched myself at the front of the boat, and we faced a windy voyage back.

That simple.

Only, somehow it became a poetic elemental experience that I felt truly alive in, my body responding to the movements of the catamaran and eyes watching out for new waves. While around me people vomited into paper bags — and you could sense early on who those people would be — I got to enjoy the journey way more than the turtle watching we’d supposedly come out for.

So, goodbye to Port Douglas and then onto Cairns airport to fly out to Darwin. I’d heard interesting things about the redneck nature of this town, and seeing three guys heading in there from a fishing competition, one of them ogling a porn mag and actually reading the articles, prepared me for somewhere that’s as far away from Melbourne culturally as it is geographically.

As for today, I’ve seen more crocodiles than I care to write about, and been exposed to the stark beauty of Aboriginal art in the form of painted rock walls in Kakadu national park. And, acquired my very own nutritional and exercise coach in the form of an 89 year old Chinese lady from Sydney, who sat next to me on the coach and was concerned about the shape I’m in. Either that, or she was wondering how many dumplings I’d make. It’s hard to tell, given her poor English and the way she was prodding me.

NINE

The one thing I knew I wanted to when I travelled here was to have a long train journey. And there’s one called The Ghan that seemed perfect: a journey from Darwin through the outback to Adelaide that’s been going for 80 years now. Just the kind of way to get from A to B that appeals to me.

So I get on at Darwin and immediately notice that there seem to be a lot of pensioners about. Which makes sense when you think about it. The Ghan is the kind of trip you do in your retirement. It’s a cruise ship on land in essence (only without the pool and dancing).

Not only was I travelling with older folks — which is fine — some of them were falling apart and might not make the journey. I had lunch with one couple; the guy was missing an arm. I had dinner with another couple; the lady had lost a leg. This kind of carelessness with limbs was making me uneasy.

The cabin was approximately the size of a toilet. A very carefully arranged one at that. Peering out the window in a wooden cabin I got the feeling I was a monk belonging to a contemplative travelling order. Somehow they managed to put down a bed in the space while I went and had dinner — I have no idea how this was accomplished.

The Ghan was kind of enjoyable whle being a letdown too. I’d had notions of kangaroos racing the train as it whizzed through the outback but they are apparently nocturnal creatures and I didn’t fancy staying up with nightgoggles peering from my cell.

Right now I’m in Alice Springs and that’s where train travel ends for me. I’m all toured-out so instead of seeing where flying doctors learn their stuff or looking at the town’s original radio station I’m mooching round town.

Alice Springs is a small town and I’m getting some idea of its dynamics. I had lunch at an arty cafe where representatives from the police and artistic and aboriginal communities discussed matters of concern over soft drinks.

From a taxi driver I already know that Aboriginal artists will sell work direct to tourists for prices lower than the galleries representing them: hardly news since I know the same happens back in Britain. But the whole matter takes on a different aspect given the historic treatment of Aboriginal people and the fact that they receive a poor deal economically. If it’s hard being an artist (and economically it certainly can be) then it’s harder being an Aboriginal one.

TEN

Uluru is a rock in the same way that the Grand Canyon is a hole in the ground. Quite a few people have died climbing it, and I have very little sympathy for those who have: if it’s not acceptable to bungee jump from the centre of St Paul’s Cathedral into the font, why would it be ok to mess with this majestic rock, that plays an important part in Aboriginal life?

Note there that I don’t say ’spiritual life’ for the simple reason that spirituality is an integrated thread of existence for indigenous Australian peoples. That, at any rate, is the sense I get from listening to Jessica, an Aboriginal tour guide in Kakadu National Park, and Emma, a white one here on the trip to Uluru, also known as Ayer’s Rock. It’s also implicit in artwork I’ve seen by indigenous creators.

So, this rock. We’ve all seen pictures, but the reality is something else again. Awe inspiring. Fantastical. Impossible. All these states of being and others I experience as I encounter different aspects of Uluru.

First, from a distance. A bold pink/orange silhouette on an otherwise anonymous stretch of the outback. A perfectly judged solo from a musician responding to their environment. Closer in, walking round parts of it, details of colour and structure become apparent.

Here a section like kids have scaled hands-first down the rock. Here a piece that opens up, furling silver inwards, enough to hold a hundred people yet tiny in comparison to the whole. Turn a corner, and first a place sacred for what women did there: out of respect, as requested, I turn my gaze away. Another corner, and here is a communal space for men.

Uluru is a profound personal experience that I shared with a group. It didn’t feel right to be having a barbecue with it in the background, a feature for photos as we gnawed chicken kebabs and assembled burgers. And it felt wrong when people from other coach parties took pictures that made Uluru appear as if it was between their fingers. Ha de ha. Making Uluru something funny is a way to make it safe, pretend that it is comprehensible. And I remember the tourists I saw at the Grand Canyon twenty-plus years ago who bought ‘I hiked the canyon’ t-shirts without having walked beyond the shop they were on sale.

ELEVEN

Melbourne. Back where this adventure started, and where it will soon end.

I’ve had a remarkable time here, and the fun has continued. Went last night to see Dungeons & Dragons: The Opera, a hugely enjoyable show by musical comedy outfit Tripod. Musical comedy is too often a painful business, but Tripod’s take on it is inspired, both music and comedy developed to a high degree.

There was something very Australian about Tripod’s take on their inspiration: it’s all too easy to ridicule everything to do with Dungeons & Dragons and those who play or have played it. Instead, the show is a celebration, that takes the silliness on board but doesn’t use it to create anything malicious. You can see the same spirit at work in Australian comedies The Castle and Kenny, neither of which look down on the people they’re about — their frailties are all too obvious, but instead they’re presented as decent human beings getting by however they can.

Coming back from the show, I talked to an Indian taxi driver who’s been lucky to do a Masters in computing of some sort in Australia. His sense, and it’s one I agree with, is that Australia certainly has problems with racism, but is nevertheless a more successful example of an integrated society than the UK or America. The unanswered question on this front is how China will deal with Australia in the future, when it starts to utilise its wealth and power in ways that Europe and America have done before. That day will come pretty soon, and its impact on Australia will be one to watch.

For now though, Australia is a good example of a culture that’s doing pretty well at a time when other economies are faltering. A small example of that was the meeting Vicki and I had with someone working in the film sector regarding possible collaborations in the future. All very tentative at this point, but the tone was encouraging and we’ll be staying in touch.

I’m hoping to come back here. Preferably with a film project to work on to pay for what I get up to. Whatever. But this is a country that I like a whole lot, where the American dream of rising from humble roots to achieve economic success and win social status seems a lot more possible than it ever has done in America. And where a beautiful continent encompasses rain forests and mountains, deserts and oceans, and flora and fauna that you’ll find nowhere else.

Besides, the coffee is a lot better than I’ve come across anywhere else. I met an American in Port Douglas who was sniffy about the expense of Australian coffee, saying you could get three times as much in America for less money. Quite possibly, but you’ll note that the comparison was made on the basis of quantity and not quality. And that says a lot about both countries. You’ll note which I’ve chosen to spend a month in.

Grateful readers are invited to support my caffeine habit through PayPal donations