Were the Groundskeeper to have a single wish for its brothers and sister, for its good mate William who the Groundskeeper knows is struggling right now, for all of humanity it would be a simple wish, a Groundskeeper type of wish.
The wish would simply be that for five minutes the whole of humanity could feel what it is to live in the Groundskeeper’s skin.
The Groundskeeper knows for five minutes the world would completely stop, every human being would be still, no noise would be made.
There would be absolute silence for 30 seconds followed by the most beautiful tears the world has ever imagined, the world would cry in unison for a minute. Tears would represent every heartbreak, every joy, the love that isn’t, the love that never left.
The final three minutes and thirty seconds would return to silence, not an eye would be open, the world would be pitch black, nothing would exist but what it feels like to be the Groundskeeper.
It is phenomenally beautiful being this thing. There is no confusion, the thoughts are simple and clear, they are often never there. Closed eyes come with blackness, silence, stillness, the body reflects it. It cannot be felt but it is overwhelming, it is all there is, it is all there needs to be, it is an understanding that comes without doubt. The message is clear, this is where peace lives.
Peace lives here, in every one, at all times, one can work for it, worth every moment.
The first 30 seconds, the quiet, the what is this, the feeling, the beauty the peace, the silence, it will be brand new. It opens space, for the minute of grieving, the most important part, you get to grieve like the Groundskeeper.
You grieve for the absolute waste war is, scream from your being that this is not the answer, the evidence is clear, everybody knows it.
You grieve for the starving around the world, wail at how we can allow people to starve while others waste so much, waste so much to kill others, to fill our filthy pockets. You grieve at you filling your pockets while others go without the basic safety necessities for life.
The pain turns to clean water, you know what comes out of your tap, the clear shit you can put in your mouth, the absolute basic safety necessity for life, the basic necessity for life that others, many, do not have. You grieve at how kids have to carry buckets kilometres and kilometres just so their family can put this most important resource there possibly could be in their mouth. One minute of true grief.
Grief turns to your mate, a man you would be proud to call your father, the most beautiful man this world could know. A man who has been so beaten down by others hatred of themselves, hatred they projected onto him that he thinks he is worthless, he says these words. Your heart breaks, how can it be like this, how can we be like this. How can a man who saves a strangers life, projects nothing but kindness, gives nothing but love believe this rubbish about himself.
Grief turns to yourself, everything you projected to this world, the violence you create with your words, the you in your mate. You know all these things, the worst of the worst is you, you know you are it. You grieve for the terrible war you have created with every word, the seperation your ignorance has caused.
The depths of your being releases itself. Stillness comes. Eyes close, you know the most important thing that matters now.
Love comes through, oves shows you that you are the best of the best too, violence is a choice, one you will learn now to make, you know you are doing the best thing for the world you possibly could be, you are trying. Trying to remove your violence.
Love turns into compassion, care, empathy, oneness, a unity with yourself that is new. A oneness that shows you the oneness in all things, that you are not seperated, that your stories are not true, they only get in the way.
You know your stories are your trauma, discrimination, judgement, bias, rascism, sexism, bullying, and all the rest of it. You understand these are only stories, they do not matter.
You understand this is where peace lives, you feel the peace in yourself.
The final three minutes are spent thoughtless, in awe of the phenomenal PHENOMENAL being that exists underneath all these layers you created, these curtains you put up, the walls you built.
You know this is the way, you’ve never felt like this, you never want to let it go.
To be the Groundskeeper is this, to get a sense of peace and pursue it with your whole heart, make nothing important but it. Peace in your own heart is the only thing you pursue, it is the only thing that matters, once you find it you give nothing but it.
It’s beautiful to be me.
It is phenomenally beautiful being me.
This is my journal, there have been many iterations, this is the one that I enjoy the most, they were all fun, but this is how I have always done it. Written, expressed on paper, burnt it when the pages finish and start again. Repeat, repeat, repeat. This is the same thing without the waste, my journal gets expressed to the world there are no secrets.
It is no secret that I will tell you if you cannot explain that thing you are talking about you do not know what you are talking about. Extend this process to anyone you listen to, particularly your teachers, gurus, swamis, medicine providers, whatever else.
The above doesn’t explain what it is to be in the Groundskeeper’s skin, it shows what it takes to be there, the love and oneness, the removal of all seperation. The truth is everybody does know what it is like to live in the skin of me, you know words like phenomenally beautiful do not explain, by the time I am finished writing you will understand, know it too.
This is the walking and public transport explanation, I do not recommend trying it while you are driving, all though you do it then too just in a slightly different safe way. The scenario takes time, to put yourself where you need to be, to allow silence to come into your space.
Remember, you do not need to imagine, this exercise only requires memory, so remember, allow yourself to remember.
Remember walking, being stuck in your own head, errant erratice thoughts, the body not allowing a moment of peace. Remember.
Remember walking, remember the moment a moment broke your distraction. A thing of pure beauty presented, removed all thoughts from your head, stopped you dead in your tracks. Remember having your breath taken away. Remember.
Sunsets, sunrises, butterflies, the smell of lavender, a green hill, cows grazing in the field, a small river crossing, the ocean presenting itself when you reach the top of the mountain. Remember, what that thing is for you, remember.
Remember taking it in, remember remember closing your eyes for a breath. Remember the inhale, the way the breath feels, moving freely through the body, it is unrestricted.
The warmth, oh the warmth. Every cell in the body feels like your description of absolute comfort and safety, to me it is my mother’s hugs, every cell in my body feels like it is hugging every other cell, the same hug my Mum once gave me.
Remember being moments from sleep on the couch when a loved one, one who loves, gently covered you with your favourite blanket. Remember the feeling as it slides on your skin, the smile that comes to your face knowing someone cares enough about you to care. Remember.
Remember pausing.
Remember the outbreath. The world of trouble, pain and suffering does not exist, there is nothing but calm, there is peace in the body, you know this is it, whatever you are looking for this is it.
As you exhale with a gentle hmmmmmm, all the beauty of the world exists in your heart, your universe is nothing but love, this is perfect, you are perfect, just as you are you are perfect.
The gentle hmmmm, this is what it feels like to be me, to be the Groundskeeper, it is phenomenally beautiful, you know this already.
Getting it right
I’m getting the journal right now, I know, I am content with everything unfolding how it is. Starting to understand that all of the topics, with the exception of the posts will have an end point. The end point the topics completely stop and are left alone, they stay up.
The topics are mainly done on pages, WordPress speak, with the exception of Groundskeeping, the PM and my wish, all done in posts. The posts I imagine are my ongoing narrative, the topics are left for Australia to ponder should she wish to. I care about her, always will.
Here we talk about me and my beautiful life, I talk about me and my beautiful life, and I am going to do my best to write everything in first person.
A different Maria once told me, spiritual seeker Maria, that I do not need to talk about myself. What else do I talk about Maria other than my own experiences? There is nothing else to talk about, oh, of course, except, your experiences.
Your experiences, the only thing you actually can talk about.
This, Maria, you beautiful woman, is how I know your path is not the path. It is a wall that you cannot see through the light show projected on it. You cannot see the children being abused to run the wheel that powers the lights. The wall is not a wall, it is glass, the scene is right in front of your eyes and you cannot see it. Hence, you encourage others to visit the vast voidness of space with you, be anywhere, every where, but here, your bodies home, earth.
My body on this earth is home, they are what the words that came out of your mouth that day truly mean. Please, for everybody’s sake learn to listen to your own beautiful words.
Travelling, God I love it, internationally between 26 countries, took out a few stop overs, I have spent just shy of four years on others shores. Exactly speaking, it works out at an average of 7.3 weeks per country. Yep, not a lot, but a hell of a lot more time than most people per place.
In these 7.3 weeks I will go to two locations, experience them as much as possible, make sure my feet are the primary method of transport. I get to know and experience this new exciting place, uncover as many secrets as possible, it is the purpose of travel, is it not?
Also, I have travelled domestically, means within my own country, Australia for the same amount of time and more. Eight years of my life I have spent travelling, working a little on those travels. Work and volunteering was a means to open my travel right right up, it bloody well did, I am writing about it elsewhere, here too.
The beautiful shit I share in this post isn’t only about other’s backyards, it is equally about my own ridiculously phenomenally beautifully magnificently perfect one too.
Let’s talk beautiful shit together good buddies.
Earth
I’m 42, I have spent eight years travelling, eight of 24 adult years. 33.33% of my life has been doing the only thing I want to do, experience new shit, purely that, not a thing else. It is all I do now.
I want to experience new new shit now, a real conversation, a proper relationship, maybe a kid or two, see if I can make a proper family. Potentially nestle the proper family in a proper community, go from there, master all that first and then see what comes next.
My game, Fred’s game, is a simple game. All of us are playing our own game. I refuse to give Fred’s game complicated words, even the levels are titled simply. Level one, what is me? Who am I, what is my purpose on this earth, who do I want to be, is there a God? All of these questions are level one questions, questions that need to be answered through experience to defeat the boss.
Who’s the boss? You buddy, you are the boss that needs to be defeated to get past level one, your ego and belief system the final monster.
What is We? Level two.
What happens when two people who know they are Me, just Me, their own version of Me, come together? I do not know, cannot give you an answer, my intention is to find out. The point of all of this, have a real conversation. Not even there yet good buddies and that is level 2.1 out of ten steps to get to level three.
Level three, not there yet but I know the name of it, funny as fuck. A collective of me is a we, so therefore, in my thinking, a collection of we are we’s, is it not? So level three together we have to become we’s, just we’s every where, we’s at the supermarket, we’s at the cinema, we’s in bed.
I invite the final we’s on this occasion, not the current version of wee’s.
8 out of 24 adult years travelling. Plus the year off after the army. Most of my jobs have been in new locations all over Australia. The places I loved on the travels and had a general curiosity towards I set up roots there for a little bit, expanded my exploration, got to know it more intimately. Believe it or not, had a bloody good time.
My entire work life itself has been travel, phenomenally beautiful.
I move forward in life now with no direction or real intention, I wait while not waiting. Travel, have fun, live my life. While living my life I am waiting, I know I will be where I need to be at all times, of course I will be, it is where I am, where my body is, the only place it needs to be.
Earth.
Australia, I love her, if I need to come back I will, get me another 20 grand and bugger off again. I know I have loving homes to come back to now, people who will accept me in a heartbeat, I have learned not to let myself get into the desperation I did six months ago.
Should I run low on funds I will return before they get too low, jump on Centrelink, apply for the pension. After six months grab more Super, and continue to wait while living my life fully, completely, absolutely, here, in my skin all over this phenomenally PHENOMENALLY beautiful planet. My home, my only home, my body and where it exists.
Earth.
Love them like I do
Should I return to my mother country, she will always by my mother, as will wherever I adopt, adopts me. Should I return the second place I walk into after the Mission to see the Centrelink representative will be the Hobart RSL, and David if he is there.
I will say to them, without knowing what I will say to them, would you like to try again? Of course, the response I will be hoping for is yes.
I can almost guarantee my next words will be along the lines of, let’s make a deal that we will both do better than last time, provided the RSL agree we work to achieve it.
I do not dislike David or hate the RSL, or anyone. Together, all of us, were not at a point where we could work together, that is all, nothing else. The issues getting in the way get in the way of many environments, I can only speak to your environment through mine, my own experiences.
I will not apologise to anyone here ever for any of this, for breaking their hearts, destroying their lives. My heart bleeds of course, I am making that clear to you, but I will not apologise. I hold no guilt, everything needs to be said, we all know it.
We can be better together, given the chance I would like the opportunity should the opportunity present.
Should this go anywhere everybody mentioned is collateral damage to my outcomes simply because we have a personal relationship, some had no choice in the matter, they are my experiences.
Please, love them like I do, with your whole heart.
Be your own reason
There was a destination in mind for the upcoming travels, but I am going to delay arriving there, if I arrive at all. All of my previous trips have had a basic intention, this one too, kind of.
The last trip pure drug tourism, went to learn about them but was absolutely drug tourism. Mad honey in Nepal, Iboga in Gabon and Europe, mushrooms in Europe and Guatemala, a variety of stuff in Mexico, DMT based journeys in Peru, Ketamine too.
Cannabis everywhere.
Intention this time, be where I am at all times, give it a whirl, see what is also waiting for me out there. Let me guide me home, wherever that home is.
Just now I pulled the top off a burger, eat it first, then the contents, final bit of bread last. The bread, my favourite part of the burger.
Which, funnily enough is a nice segway into the reasons I changed my mind, plus bring some attention to details within my natural home land.
The burger, no chips, and coffee I am currently consuming cost me $33.22. Basic burger with the lot, nice coffee. The place I was going $8, the new first destination, $5. Both those prices sitting at an above average cafe, in air conditioning, with wifi, surrounded by other tourists who love the place for its great food and ambience.
Without the ocean next to me there would be very little ambience here.
I could get a better quality burger and a good quality coffee, not quite as good, for $3.50 at the first country were I to walk 200 metres. The second, I do not know, it is a new place, applying the same theory, $2.50.
Place two is where the locals eat, many tourists too, the locals are always there however and the tourists are not. Keep the regulars happy and you are always happy is clearly the motto. The local cafes and eateries are full ambience, crazy at times with people having a blast, I cannot understand a bloody word almost, speaking way too fast for me to understand from the next table.
The new country speak faster than the old from what I hear. I can speak the language and engage in basic conversation but I have to concentrate, it is still a lot effort and I am a long way from fluent, just putting my feet in the intermediate space.
That I cannot understand the table next to me while still being able to communicate with them is beyond ideal. The rubbish I hear at every cafe where English is the primary language is a hell I do not want to listen to if I do not have to. My reasons are fairly simple.
Original location, were I to rent a little shack with a separate shower and toilet overlooking the water or mountains I am looking at around $2000 for three months. At this price it also comes with electricity, water, gas, cleaning once per week, free lifts into town from the owners, no questions when you ask to extend, fresh fruit left on doorsteps, becoming part of each other’s lives, having a great time.
Could find somewhere a hell of a lot cheaper too but I want things, a full kitchen including oven and fridge with freezer, space and privacy, hot water, calm and quiet, a washing machine.
New location, the exact same thing $600 for three months, my money suddenly goes a very long way. Cigarettes are no longer costing me $37 per packet of 20, yes you read it right, instead three. I never have to buy another packet, all I have to do is walk to the bloke on the road with the trolley which is actually a convenience store, choose a single cigarette from a variety of options, pay 20 cents and continue on.
I get to practice my Spanish and build a relationship, many of them. I spread myself around, visit many venders, in the process.
The above in Australia would cost me, at the very conservative end $300 per week minus bills and it would not be within walking distance of anywhere useful, no shop, no nothing. I would need a car, or at worst a very good road bike. Another cost, the fuel and car maintenance, maybe have to buy a car. I personally do not have a car.
Suddenly, my options are very limited, the only one really being to share, to maintain the only privacy I can trust to my bedroom. No thank you, I will stay on the street.
Cigarettes, I have discussed this, do you know what it is like to have absolutely no company at all? None, zero, zip? To have no place to turn to for company? Do you really know?
Isaac’s mother, Amanda, triggered a feel of embarrassment in me one day I did not think possible.
Amanda is quite pregnant by now, noticeable. We were on our way from doing a TAFE thing before Christmas lunch. Might have been Easter Sunday, pretty sure Christmas. Yep, terrible Dad, do not remember Isaac’s birthday. Haha, I do not discriminate, I remember nobody’s birthday, barely my own.
Quick quick, completing TAFE before going to University mature age, getting a heap of credits for it was an outstanding way back into study. The ultimate preparation course for academic success.
Stop into a service station, fill the car up and walk inside. The attendant is almost in a zombie state he is so buggered.
Amanda says something, the bloke replies with whatever, she says you look you are about ready to go home. ‘Another six hours love and I get to go home and be with the family.’
Been working for a bit, look exhausted? Old mate laughed, ‘yes love, I started here yesterday at 12am, I went from there to another job, had a 30 minute power nap in the car and came back here. My family is waiting for me to come home, I want to be at home with my wife and children, yes I am exhausted.’
I know what that’s like.
The look on the guy’s face was straight to me, it said how are you with this woman, my return look clearly said I have no choice. I didn’t but I did, I simply didn’t know it yet.
Be warned people as beautiful as we talk here this heading will end up describing my very real internal discussion regarding my battle with suicide when I was 28. I never attempted it but I was extremely close, we will talk about my journey with Amanda, Isaac and her family intimately. It is hard for me, this will likely be reflected in the writing, will do my best.
Food, weekly shopping bill in the most expensive of the South American countries being talked about, because I try to speak the language and am willing to give the local markets a crack $50 all I could possibly eat. Fruit, vegetables, grains and, for me and my consumption, meat, for two weeks.
My morning coffee on the walk, $2.50, $3.50 if at a very fancy place. Here, today, $6.
However, I will say, from my experience, Australia makes the best cup of coffee consistently anywhere in the world, all over the place. Everywhere I go, every tiny little town, bloody the Meander corner shop, really nice coffee. Other countries, city and tourism areas great, countryside terrible.
My morning walk goes past two or three villages, ends in a town that has a bus station, two hour drive for a city getaway, or a flight to see my mates at a festival in Brazil. The bus is $1, $2 maybe because you are a tourist.
All Aussie money equivalent here pals.
The hotel in the city, good hotel in the vibrant city centre, $75 for bottom rungs of upmarket. $6 for a shitty dorm room, $3 if you can find a local host with a spare bed. Can’t do much proper rooting in the last couple, definitely could pay to bring one home, a root, pay the $100 for the premium service, maybe even for the whole night. Australia? Ha fucking ha, would not even get you a rub and tug, let alone with a woman, or man, who you cannot believe is not a supermodel.
I looked it up, I check it out sometimes, there is nobody I am interested unleashing this beast of a load on yet. But cheapest for an hour $250, you want them to come to you, $500 plus the taxi fare.
Taxi fare, shall I continue or have I made my point?
The 20k in my pocket I know beyond doubt means I will not step back in Australia with 12 months no matter how much I exceed my budget by. 12 months I’ll be reenergised to come back and do the things that need to be done. Within 12 months I’ll definitely have been rooting, it is part of the trip intention and if I don’t get it organically I will pay for it, pay for a week at a time, have a bloody good time, treat each other well and move on, I-fucking-DEAL.
My organic chances are maximised by having all of my interests, every community everything I love to attend at my finger tips, within walking distance. I meet people, women mostly, naturally, has always been successful, was very successful in Mexico without trying for it in any way, simply doing shit I love that was available easily.
Fucking cold sore though, didn’t get to stick me wick in a stupidly beautiful French woman because of it. Had to settle with looking into her eyes and rubbing each other up and down in bed all night.
Compromises I suppose.
But anyway, my morning walk through town, goes past cafes, supermarkets, local markets, food venders, pharmacists, restaurants, night clubs, travel operators, medicine experience providers, the jungle, a ridiculous range of the activites which interest me all within walking distance. I never ever have to get back behind the wheel of a car.
The wheel of a car, if anything bores me it is driving, so my choice also includes removing it from my life.
My simple life, my simple choice, yours will be just as simple. Make you the reason to travel, nothing else.
Getting mugged can be a good time
I’ve been chatting about missing out on coitus with Laura over with the ladies contemplating my letter to them. All you need to know here is I booked to go to Colombia for two weeks of sex with Laura, the meeting up part was cancelled.
I still went to Colombia, one evening walking through one of the many beautiful parks looking for the perfect spot to sit and smoke a spliff I saw her. Walked off to my right and away, found the right spot, got high as a kite.
People, people, PEOPLE. The Central and South Americans do parks and central plaza’s (meeting spaces, not shopping centres) better than anyone in the world. These places are colourful and vibrant every night of the week, some nights especially so.
The first little town I arrived at in Colombia after leaving the city I walked straight to the central plaza, by now knew it was always the place to start my adventures. The moment it stepped into view bells and whistles, hoots and horns, the apex of the party popped. As you might expect, I bowed, said thank you, all this wasn’t necessary for me.
Second last night in Bogota, walking through its central plaza and I am mugged by a young bloke, 170 centimetres tall, 50kg wearing a scuba belt. The only time I have ever been mugged or faced with any real danger, pickpocketed once too, we’ll come back to that.
The young fella pulls this thing out, it looks like scissors, opens it up and presents a blade to me, I laughed at him.
Clearly, this was not the reaction he was expecting, immediately he started to shake. I maintained my calm, the smile did not leave my face.
Conversation in spanish, it is better.
Que es eso? Says me.
‘Es un cuchillo, dame tu telefono.’
Un cuchillo?
Pause for dramatic effect, did it at the time, my smile is wide as can be right now, laughter is about to burst.
Eso ne es un cuchillo.
Fucked I laughed friends, my mate in front of me, the mugger was almost shitting his pants but fuck I laughed. If you didn’t get the above I just Crocodile Dundee’d this bloke, in Spanish and all!
A knife? That’s not a knife. Yep the last line I said translates to this.
‘Dame tu telefono!’
No tengo telefono, amigo.
‘Dame tu dinero en efectivo!’
I lifted my arms and let him go through my pockets, the young fella went through all of that for $3.50, enough for a burger and a coffee.
Walking through the place I was at the time was dumb. Dark, alone, a tourist and the activity had settled right down for the night. I should have taken a taxi, the mugging was my fault, this bloke was simply a young bloke who knows no other way. I made it fun, it was fun.
Even getting mugged can be a good time.
Colac cops, really good at their jobs
Post the final meeting with the brother and sister I am talking about at the Paper Bags I made my way to Blanket Bay, my once-upon-a-time favourite place in the world. In Victoria, about a 25 minute drive off the Great Ocean Road, 15 minutes, depends who is driving.
Mum’s ashes are at Blanket Bay. Funny, ha, Danyel had the honour of tipping up the earn and leaving Mum to float off into the world. Arm outstretched off the rock and over the open ocean he turns it over for the ashes to release, the exact moment they started pouring out the wind picks right up, blows them straight into Danyel’s face, mouth, eyes, ears, hair, clothes and everything. A good final slap for a nincompoop, do you ever listen buddy? Ha.
Blanket Bay was the scene of one of my two favourite Christmas’s, Danyel’s least.
Our parents had nothing, like nothing, just getting us to Blanket Bay this year was a challenge. Camping at Blanket Bay at the time free, still a challenge. We made it, were there for two weeks and it was the typical Blanket Bay blast.
Blanket Bay was full permission to be a kid, Fred there or not. Barely during these trips did he get stuck into us for anything, we were never there. It was all day every day explore mode every time.
The beautiful yellow sand, crystal clear waters, rock ledges that you can walk 100 metres out to sea, two of them, surrounded by cliffs and a rock shelf you can walk on, with enough courage, for hours.
The rock pools were chock full of life, everything that one thinks they can find in one they will, including a blue ringed octopus one day.
On the colder days there were bigger rockpools that stayed warm, somehow even in the freezing weather of Easter, we barely left them.
Every day, every two days, hot or cold outside we bathed in the creek a few kilometres away that always ran from Antarctica, freezing is barely the word. All of us did it, even Fred, Mum sometimes made the plunge, cold water not her thing, nor mine.
Yeah buddies, we had a bloody good time.
Every trip, happy family story after happy family story, they were the only consistent ones.
The weather wreaked havoc sometimes, rain nonstop for days until we got fed up, sat in the car while Fred and probably Danyel pulled everything down and we made our way home to hot chocolate and a nice warm fire.
Fishing, massive part, we caught heaps. When Benj and I got bored we had our own spot away from the main rocks, a deep pool where we only had to drop our line over and would reel in little fish all day, occasionally a bigger one, the only one big enough to end up on the plate that night.
I loved many things about Fred, he was a greedy man but he wasn’t always greedy. We didn’t take more than we need, he did is best to not waste things and teach us not to in the process, he did this well, he didn’t know he was teaching us, was simply being the beautiful him that is there.
Fishing, Rachel is snagged on the rocks and the weather is coming, no storm and rain, but wind and the sea is picking up. She can’t get it in or break the line, Fred needs to take over by now as the waves are starting to crash onto where Rachel is standing, this is not safe.
The waves pick up something crazy, the waves are belting into the rocks, Fred getting punished by them.
By now however he is pretty sure there is something at the end of this line, he is excitedly reporting what is happening back. None of us can hear him, the waves are drowning out the sound.
We had caught nothing by this stage, looked like it was another night eating periwinkle stew. I did not like the stuff, some of us did, it was like drinking flavoured water with bits of rubber chucked in for texture. Periwinkles are shellfish found in abundance on the rocks here.
Fred finally pulls this thing in, half an hour later, the waves are literally, actually, breaking over him they are so big. Occasionally we lose sight of him, he sadly pops straight back up. Joking, not joking.
On the end of the rod is a massive lobster, crayfish, whatever you want to call it. Amazing. Yeah, happy family.
The funniest thing, I still asked for periwinkle soup. Could not stand the taste of lobster, still do not like the Australian kind.
The Christmas, had nothing, we arrive at Blanket Bay on the 23rd and are there for two weeks. The santa stockings are placed up and hanging from the tent. I’m excited, there are going to be goodies.
Christmas morning comes along and everyone jumps out of bed ready and raring to go, it is present time! I am nine, Benjamin, seven, Rachel 13, Danyel 15 or so. Mum hands us all our stockings, the look on Danyel’s face was absolutely priceless, it simply said what the fuck is this bullshit!
The look on my face would have been priceless too, we all got the same thing, all equal and it was one of the things I loved more than just about anything, walnuts.
Ha fucking ha. That was our Christmas present, all of us, a bag full of walnuts all to ourselves, heaven.
For two weeks I took the bag everywhere, tried to open the walnuts in every which way, learned that crabs breathing and smashing open walnut shells really are not a great mix.
Blanket Bay, the best days.
My brother and sister came to visit because I was very clear that I would not scrounge for a living, when I run out of resources that is it, I am done.
I hadn’t really had to scrounge for a living yet, wasn’t quite at the point. My resources being pulled completely meant that there was no way possible to feed or shelter myself without giving myself up, going back to working purely to money in my pockets. It was never an option.
I never said the words suicide or I was going to kill myself, not once, people heard what they wanted to.
In my conversation with Colac Police for example who told me I would become watch number one after my siblings raised concerned and I pointed them to the writing as it was then. More difficult than this, including YouTube, I’ve improved.
I’ve improved, plenty of witnesses to show I am trying to do this better without giving myself up, it is much better. You will notice it too no matter which angle you read from, any chapter. The language becomes gentler, the stories more from my heart now, the english behind the writing, the grammar, is also becoming very good. Is it not?
My tool to teach, this, is about breaking through discrimination, the things that stop us from hearing each other. You will hear me and me only, as I want to hear you and you only, our language and grammar will not get in the way. The Groundskeeper as it is now is me, it is the me I want to be, I cannot imagine much further change.
Language nazis. I am not good with the apostrophe, I want to be better at it for you to be able to read without your insides blowing up, you can see I am doing better. I am actually studying using the piece of grammar as I write. I’m trying buds. But thirst, youre insides need to be maid aware that im aware off them.
Colac Cops are so good at their jobs that the number one on the watch list walked for 30 hours to the cliffs of Blanket Bay from Colac, yes walked, exactly what he said he would when he said he would do it. I walked 76 of the 90 kilometres. 50 of which were on the main bloody road.
Colac cops, yeah they’re really good at their jobs.
36-Hour day
Just had the closest to a 36 hour day I have experienced, taking into account sleep probably was, but sleep does not count.
Staying awake for 36 hours does not count. Been there done that, even before iboga. Alcohol benders. Yep, been there, done that, have absolutely no interest in doing it again.
Never say no people, not to anything, not just when travelling. There may come a day I will repeat the bender, hell would pretty much need to freeze over, still possible.
Veganism, vegetarianism, any other ism you are just missing out, like completely. Especially if you say no to food when the host offers it to you. Mate, you do this and you are a piece of shit to that family, you are and cannot recover it. Not in a short time anyway. When you leave thinking these people loved you, they didn’t, you were just another privilege laden tourist that came through their door.
They will obviously understand your rejection should it be for medical reasons but it’s not, almost never. You are, it’s true, swimming in your privilege.
I despise travelling, the travelling part of it, usually split a trip to Europe, the getting there, over a month. I had planned a couple of weeks to get to Central America. Last week, maybe the one before, nope straight here, want absolutely nothing to do with the US. Even, given, Hawaii was the US, my first stop, LA second.
Woke up at 3am in Beaumaris, caught the bus at six, first plane 10, second 440pm, I am out of Australia. All of this on the 16th of May.
I am in Hawaii, it is 5.50am on 16/5. LA at 9pm, out of the country around 1130. Yep, whatever this works out to is as close to a 36 hour days as I have ever had, like actually experiencing what a day would be like were it 36 hours.
Travelling is extra exhausting but there is no other way we can do it.
It is absolutely tiring and would be anyway, I’m rooted by 8pm, yesterday I had two 8pms, double rooted. Sticked twice on the one day.
One sleeps when they travel but it isn’t sleep, nothing of any value other than stopping the eyelids feeling like bags of wet cement for about 20 minutes. Travelling is this, over and over and over, never any real rest or sleep.
Or used to be.
This time around only felt dead for about 10 minutes of walking with the pack on. I went somewhere comfortable, closed my eyes, a few times throughout, opoened them refreshed. Lasts about two hours, more.
Should I have the opportunity to sleep in the two hours I’ll bloody well take it. Almost as soon as I sit in the airplane chair fall straight to sleep for half an hour. It’s the most solid sleep I get travelling, on the bus too, five episodes yesterday. Then in and out of sleep on the planes, total 26 hours or so yesterday, haha, 26 hours in one day on a plane. Funny funny.
It is pure meditation, pure experience that made the day extremely easy, in it immediately when I sit, no prep. Were tonight last night I’d be fast asleep. It would be hard to wake me up. But, as things are, I arrived this morning, had two hours solid sleep, woke up feeling great and ate some acid. It has been an awesome day!
Of course you did Fred. Great, mates, we are getting to know each other, of course I bloody did.
Sadly haven’t done any actual sticking or being sticked but man it has been fun.
Took the acid at 4pmish, likely will not sleep until 2am and I am exhausted. Not too tired to sleep, too LSD’d for it.
Had a great chat though, helps me explain this to you, a bloke named Alex.
Pure experience, anybody understand it?
Do you still have a meditation, yoga, tai chi, prayer, anything else practice? Yes? Then your answer to my question is no. It is the only answer, you know none other. That you argue right now before hearing me out is proving my point. This, my goodest buddies is of course called attachment.
Pure experience means I meditate in a way that looks like meditation when I fucking need to. Exhausted, it is when I need it, the only time, none other. I do it many other times, pure meditation is pure love, my eyes do not need to be closed for this one. Often they are, the beauty in my body is equal to the beauty out there, we humans can feel all of that love, it is available to everybody free of charge.
I do not need to yoga anymore, pray, eat dinner at 6pm, nothing at all. I do what I do when I do it because that is when I bloody well want to? Understand?
I love all that shit, heaps more, I do it and love it absolutely. Do it and love it absolutely because it is what I want to do when it is being done. Here I get to do it with beautiful people, probably having sex with some of them, awesome buddies, absolutely awesome.
Money, have never had a job where the base salary was more than 90k before tax, not huge at all for Australia. I never even save, simply just do not waste and hoard useless rubbish. 85% of what I own is practical, 15% fun but the practical is also fun, it’s all required in the shit I love the most, win win.
Nine years basically with no wage and travelling, eight years let’s make it, remove one for what I received from Iraq. Iraq money, deserved or not, of course I earned it, we are not discussing military service, this is a practical conversation.
The 20k I have now will last me at least a year, and I’ll come home before it gets too low and repeat the process I just have. Can do it for 10 years. I have 10 years to find the place that is absolutely me, set myself up and live my life in the most beautiful way imaginable. Personally, cannot imagine it, can completely wait, clearly life is brilliant living in my skin.
Every moment. Pure experience. And my fucking eyes are open for all but nine hours of it.
There is the second benefit, if I am still relying on my super to keep me alive in 10 years time when the double payment runs out I’m pretty fucking bad at my job. This point I’ll come home and admit that I was wrong about everything, grovel at my family’s door, plead for someone to give me a job, all that fucking rubbish.
But, you know, I’ll make absolutely sure first. Literally living on the edge of the Amazon jungle, everything I could possibly need to make sure I am absolutely sure I am shit at my job is right there in my fucking garden!
36-hour day, give it a go, and then give LSD a go the next day, brilliant.
Goodnight good buddies.
Pura Vida
Pura Vida, poo-rah vee-dah, directly translates to pure life.
The beauty in the Spanish language, pura vida and many more words/phrases are similar enough to English, alternatively the English version was taken from them. As an English speaker there is never a moment you have absolutely no clue in the spanish world. It is great, absolutely perfect language to learn, learning in the countries that speak it extra great.
La Fortuna, Costa Rica, I arrive and this word is being repeated ad nauseum (over and over). San Jose, I heard it a few times but not enough to pay attention to it being something of meaning. Move a few hours inland and one realises it is extremely important.
Aboriginal people, simply being involved in the community is the only way to fit in, Solomon’s start by learning the brow raise, a place like Costa Rica and many more listen to the phrases, understand them.
Waiting for food yesterday when it was time to explore the word. Old mate the waiter said it, was literally the 50th time I had heard the phrase today, before lunch time. Yep, time to research.
The definition first, understand the words as translated into English, simple enough. Research further and we come to understand it is a hell of a lot more than this; a greeting, I’m great thanks, the coffee is bloody good, the food blew my socks off, this world is nothing but pura vida.
The last point, I added it, but is plausible.
The waiter brought out my coffee and tucker, took one sip, looked him in the eye, thumbs up, pura bloody vida, amigo. It was, great, whatever it was, great. We both laughed.
The food in the Central Americas is great, where I am in La Fortuna ridiculously expensive. Ha, kind of. Needed a full plate of food the night before last, craving vegetables and proper sustenance, the body is ready to go again after travel.
The plate that came out, local dish, was ridiculously beautiful. Perfectly cooked bit of steak, massive pile of veges, another heap of salad, platano (banana for cooking), rice, black beans, sauces, fajita bread things and a smoothie, pure pura vida smoothie, god it was good.
Australia, if I am lucky, the above would cost $35, here about 12. Again, the 12 being ridiculously expensive for the Americas, it’s Costa Rica and it is what it is.
The food though, is real food, beautiful real food cooked ridiculously perfectly and simply. Everything the body needs and more, Australia we rely on salt, sugar and food additives. Everyone’s taste buds are completely ruined because of it, hence our restaurant food is terrible, personally almost never eat anywhere but a cafe or bakery.
Forgot to mention, the food here is organic already, no need to add another how many dollars, the food is cooked with ingredients sourced naturally and without a heap of shit being pumped into them. Yes, again, yours are too organic grocer high rope stander.
Coffee, the best in the world still Austalia, I’ll continue to give us that.
The waiter at the restaurant I write from today asked me if I am seeing any of the sites, do I have any plans, hike the volcano?
Nah, buddy, I’m pretty happy just chilling for the week. Been for a couple of swims, and thought about doing the volcano hike but at this stage it is very unlikely. I’ve learned from my travels that this whole world, every step of it, is pure magic, beauty beyond words, the essence of pura vida. Pretty happy chilling.
Fist-pumped me.
Clearly dudes, the conversation was phrased different, had some back and forth, this being the crux.
Ultimately, the truth of it, every mountain is a mountain.
Every ocean, sea, lake, river, creek is another body of water.
Each hill, a hill.
Animal, animal.
Plant, plant.
Etcetera.
They are all the same, everywhere, in every version, there is no difference in their sameness.
This world, every step, every view, every smell, every sound, every everything is pura vida in its absolute original form. Every mountain is unique, yes, but every mountain is equally as unique as the other, pure pure beauty, nothing else.
Every step, every country, every place, is my favourite place in the world, the most beautiful place in the world, they all are, they are all the same, they are the same earth, the same entity, the same body.
The only thing that changes from place to place is the people, the community.
Costa Rica, expense aside is not for me, it is a clique destination.
Clique destination, basically means people come here because everyone else is. Getting a photo of myself in this place to show others is the only thing that matters, pretending to fit into something I either am or am not. The prices, getting upwards towards Aussie and US prices are a factor making identification easy.
Still, phenomenally beautiful, the people ridiculously beautiful, the general culture not my pura vida.
Move on.
It’s the people, the community that make a place, almost none of us travelers take the time to get to know the people behind the party, they are the one’s that matter.
Costa Rica too, the central plaza’s, meeting points, seems to suffer because of the cool effect, they are lifeless in comparison to the other countries I know so far. Nothing in the lifeless bounds of Australia and western countries but compared to their neighbours very lifeless.
Travel itself does not need to be move, move, move. In fact, the approach takes away the most important aspect, the beautiful stories created by sharing beautiful moments with the people you have come to visit. So, visit them, stay in small towns, hang out and be cool as, in this case, Costa Ricans do, do it with them.
The best tuft of grass
Nepal, love it, visited three times. The second time was Sarah and my very last ditch effort to save our relationship. It was good and not good, had its moments.
Seeing a white rhino in the wild was definitely a bonus, walking the Poon Hill track and seeing the complete divide between mine and Sarah’s interests now, yesterday, moving forward.
Moving on from us was very easy this time.
The first visit walked the Annapurna Circuit, second took about two and a half weeks to complete the seven to 10-day Annapurna Base Camp circuit. Didn’t actually complete it, made it to Machhapuchhre Base Camp and decided that was far enough.
Got back to Chhomrong to an almighty carfuffle.
Apparently, the whole village spent the night looking for me, apparently I am their guest and just took off without saying a word. Panicking, thinking I could be dead, fallen down the side of the mountain.
First, buddy, I’m not your guest, I’m paying, so am a customer. I booked the room without expectation I’ll be here every day, I’m a tourist and an adult.
The guy kept going on and on and on.
Mate, please, you looked up and down the hill and everywhere and didn’t even think to call to the villages ahead? Your mate who stayed last night and ate dinner inside with your family, we chatted along the way, did you call him?
Now, of course mates, conversation was difficult, very different languages, we understood each other by the end, kind of. Was much more complicated than the above.
Long after the third conversation has finished the owner of the Tea House comes back in and starts again, mate, please, we are all okay now, can we settle?
‘Yes.’ We did.
Then this random moron runs in 30 minutes later and gets real angry at me from about five metres away. I look at him, a smile comes on my face. He runs towards and tries to scare me by throwing a punch before catching it with his hand, made the most stupid of stupid noises. Smile stayed, shook my head, didn’t flinch at all, turned around and back to my dinner.
Just rubbish with travel we have to deal with and our hosts have to deal with. People from places like Nepal and India do not think like other places, as other places don’t think like more other places.
No matter what you think of my position on the above I will not budge, regardless of who you are, will not budge on simple common sense type of crap, and I will not let you call me a guest when I am paying you money.
No guest, ever, in any of my spaces, the family home, the new family home’s, friend’s homes, has ever asked me to pay to stay when I have been invited. I have never asked anyone invited or not. They are invited, have an open door at all times should I have the capacity for the door to be open policy. Guests do not come with transactions of anything but open hearts.
Absolutely adore the tea houses along the walks, that one too, they are beautiful and filled with beautiful hosts. Scattered every three to six kilometres, less, along the tracks and have an all day menu and beds to sleep in, cheap as fuck too. And, if you go at a time like my story coming up below many restaurants won’t be open, instead you eat inside by the fire with the families, GOOD BUDDIES!!!!
Each little village along the tracks has one to 20 or 30 tea houses, depending the popularity and the placement along the tracks. For example, Manang on what was the 15 to 21 day track when I walked it has a lot, and also has some basic services, most people stop here for a few days for altitude acclimitisation. Personally, got here quite quickly, then slowed right down, three days before moving on.
I saw a few others who were well behind at this stage, including Peter who I started with and had a great 24 or so hours walking and chatting with. Moved on from Peter mainly due to the photo taking, he overtook me at Manang.
Each village has a different vibe and culture. Some heavily dominated by Tibetan asylum seekers, others from various regions around Nepal, and the local villages that have been there for much longer. Dhal Bhat is the signature dish everywhere and is very hard to get sick of, never is it the same from one place to another.
Dhal Bhat is a bunch of stuff, mainly vegetarian in these parts due to the difficulty of getting supplies to the villages, no roads. Well, there wasn’t, now they go a lot further up, the big walk is only a 10-15 day track now if you start from the end of the newly developed road. Can do the whole thing still. Either way, ridiculously worthwhile.
Time of year depends too, last time tourist season, it was busy. First time I started mid January, number 16 I’m pretty sure. It was very very quiet.
The weather in Nepal around Pokhara, check out January and February, it’ll make sense. Remember to consider the Annapurna Pass, Thorong La Pass official name, is at an altitude of 5,416 metres.
The three hours it took to get from the last tea house, High Camp, before the pass to the pass were the hardest three hours of exercise in my entire life. They set me up to understand how phenomenally strong our bodies are, that our physical limits are well beyond what I have let myself believe, same applies to all you.
God it was hard. I had a GPS watch and only had seven or eight kilometres to walk. After what felt like an hour or two was absolutely exhausted and checked the watched, I had gone 300 metres, it had been no time at all.
Have you ever pushed through mud, swamp slogs, snow up to your waist? How about at an altitude starting at 4540 metres, finishing at just shy of 5500? Try it, highly highly recommended.
Altitude and physical labour is crazy, but the only person on the path was me, the choices were push through the snow, fight and move forward or go back. Tantrums, god like two out of 10 of them, chucking myself on the ground punching my fists on it, convincing myself to turn around knowing as soon as I start to drop in altitude everything gets easier, saying fuck you Fred and continuing to move forward.
The final kilometre is the worst of worst. Every 100 metres feels like kilometres and hours, it is not, is 100 metres and about 20 minutes. Hard hard work.
But then buddies, reaching the pass in the middle/end of Winter the morning skies are perfectly clear, every single mountain is snow white, one swears they can see Australia from here the visibility is so far, much like the middle of the ocean I imagine. Phenomenal.
Snow angled, took a selfie, had a dart and then sat there all alone, for I don’t know how long, long enough. So so beautiful.
Looking around, suddenly 6500, 7000, 7500, 8000 metre mountains are no longer looking like mountains, not big ones anyway. Instead small hills, big hills, quite big hills but that’s it. You see them from Pokhara and they seem impossible, no human could reach that. Reach the pass and you know humans definitely can, you know you can.
God, maties, the power this gives you to yourself, there is nothing like it.
Beautiful learning came during the sitting, when it comes to mountains and altitudes, no further do I need to go. Absolutely content with what I have achieved here alone. There is a knowing that the hills around me are in my capacity, from the thoughts of no human to this human, it’ll be the same for you too.
Never have I needed to reach the top of a mountain or hill since. Like, really, this was hard, really really hard, the moment on top showed me my capacity. Support around me, like, seriously, who knows my boundaries, your boundaries, our limits together. But, I just don’t care for limits, or even getting to the top of any mountain any more.
The four months at Mount Barney Lodge, never did I mount Barney. Got within a couple of hundred metres once but did not care to go further. Everywhere my feet move now is for whatever reason, mostly a completely dawdle getting to know where I am, foraging, practical purposes and to keep myself fit. Barely ever reach the end of anything now unless it is less than four or five hours return, anything else is excess mostly.
The Lodge work was physically orientated, absolutely loved it, the About page photo was taken two or three months in. Working on the land is just beautiful, using every muscle in every way, ensuring the body is toned, strengthened and gaining fitness evenly everywhere. Really pushing myself outside hours was not necessary.
Even La Fortuna, there for a week, the most out of town I got was the swimming hole two kilometres from the accommodation. Was relax time rather than explore time.
After all, every tuft of grass is the greatest most beautifully amazing tuft of grass there has ever been.
Where you really really want to be
Travelling, the conversations, the conversations in the right spaces, man they are beautiful.
Right spaces, your spaces, the space you want to be. We have talked about this already yeah?
Our eyes are opened to how things are rather than what we want them to be. Hearts are opened, phenomenally beautiful tales are told. Mostly, however, everyone has a good bloody laugh.
Like, Australia for example, it’s not what you think will kill you that kills you, it’s the things you never considered.
Magpies, perfect example. They are a bird, black and white bird, kind of look like a raven. In most places, including Tasmania they are placid. On the mainland of Australia they are much much less placid.
One bailed me up amongst some trees at Red Rock one day. 30 minutes worth. All I could do was change sides of the tree every time it swooped me, every five seconds, relentless. It paused when some neighbours came down the hill from their walk, I took the opportunity to flee. Horrible experience.
Magpies kill more people in Australia than snakes, spiders, crocodiles, jellyfish and sharks combined. Vicious cunts. Most incidents occur when they swoop people on their bikes, people lose their shit, pull the handlebars and run straight into oncoming traffic. Yeah, magpies hey?
Plovers, another bird, these cunts of things. The magpies don’t get you from the air these things come straight up from the ground.
Plovers lay their eggs in the grass and then protect them like Cercei Lannister, except more coldheartedly towards their pray. Watched one bail a whole Aboriginal family up one day, it was hilarious and horrible at the same time.
Fucking funny are not the words for that story when one tells it live.
Fucking beautiful are not the words for the two youngish brothers from the Netherlands, Vince and Enso, every time I saw them had the biggest smiles. Even just watching them walking down the street when I was drinking coffee, and the bounce in their steps. Super kind beautiful loving men.
Enso, similar role to me, but working with refugees in the Netherlands. All the same shit I had to deal with in community but with the added difficulty of needing to be there with the authorities when people under his wing were deported. Heartbreaking.
They lost a child a couple of years ago, Enso tells the story with a smile of absolute love, it was beautiful, helped my wife and I are both social workers, we worked and talked through it so beautifully. Kept the family involved at all times, open and freely expressed our grief and heartache together. She is now building towards working with parents dealing with the same trauma. It was amazing.
It is what it is all about.
We get to help people too, share our skills. Another story like the one above, Bernd, lost a child after fighting and fighting just for it to take a breath, it was never supposed to. It did, 20 minutes worth of them maybe, that was it. Parents heartbroken, never got to a stage where they could talk to it freely.
A mate was going to support him through iboga, it was not the right medicine, not yet. Bernd needed compassion, compassion for himself, to know he did his best, just to love himself a little bit right now. Ketamine and compassion go together.
So, we gave him Ketamine, two hours later he sat up and told the whole story. The first time ever without breaking apart, he could express his grief and be okay with it.
Ketamine quickly, it’s a drug, before considering it, do research. Start with the drug shit I have written in the drug chapters, set yourself up, know what you are getting yourself into. Understand, above all, Ketamine is highly addictive, you build a tolerance to it and you build it quickly. Ketamine does nothing for you but take away the pain momentarily, it does this to help you understand the story underneath, that is all, it will not fix you.
All along the way people, others are an opportunity for us and we them, hearts being open to opportunity is all that is needed for the best of best times on travel. And, of course, putting yourself where you really really want to be.
The Paranormal
Random stuff happens when travelling all the time, funny as hell generally, but sometimes it is both funny and what the fuck at the same time.
The bloke who I got a haircut from yesterday. Pretty excited by the price to start with, the number three clipper to the back and sides perfect, the cut-throat at the end great. It was what happened in the middle that had me beaming a huge smile for five minutes, trying not to burst into laughter.
I couldn’t laugh, I did and my hair was completely gone.
In Spanish, but we’ll do it in English, three up the back and sides, neat on top, not too short please.
Clippers done, removes the number three clipper guard and the guy combs back my hair. Starts to attack the sides with the clipper, no comb, no scissors. Bit different but I’ll give it a go.
Combs it back again, starts at the top, repeats repeats repeats. He stays at the back of my head, never moving around. I am watching what is going on from the front, it was not good! Not once did he use scissors or look for accuracy, what happened with the clippers from behind my head was good enough. But was it, was it really?
Yeah, buddies, the worst haircut I have ever had and then some. But also the best, funny as fuck. I’m getting around in it, little choice other than to cut it all off, me and bald head do not go together.
It was a couple of weeks earlier at Papacho’s Hostel in Banos I want to talk about though. Great hostel, beautiful people, luckily one had extremely good English.
12.30pm I lie down for a nap, siesta here. Wasn’t planned, wearing my shirt still, woke up at 2.30pm completely dry, the right half of the bed still completely made.
That morning when I got up the curtain was open, it was strange, I closed it at night to stop the light shining in my eyes, yet in the morning it was open. Window fully open too, that was me, wasn’t an issue.
After 2.30 I get on with whatever I do, walk the town, eat food, hang out and get stoned with some mates. 8.30pm I go back to the room and get ready for bed, the bed is still made.
Decide to get into the bed from the other side, am standing there already, why not? Pull back the covers and the bed is saturated wet. Saturated, push my hands down on the mattress and water bounces out there is so much.
I look, WTF are the only words in my head, this does not make sense.
The mattress is absolutely soaked through, well almost, the bottom is completely dry, no water on the ground. I look up, the roof complete concrete, definitely no leaks. Inspect further, the top blanket is completely dry too, the next a little wet, the sheet saturated, the mattress of course as you already know.
Literally stand there for five minutes trying to work out what the hell has gone on here. All the questions you have, your water bottle Fred? Nope buddies, always with me, a third arm. You piss yourself? No buddies, as mentioned completely dry.
The only practical and sensible explanation I could come up with which is in no way at all sensible is somebody came into my room, pulled back the covers, emptied a water bottle on it and then made the bed all over again. Yeah, not sensible at all.
Got the team at the hostel involved, 30 minutes later we are still looking at eachother, how on earth is this even possible?
There was no answer, swapped my rooms and that was that.
Crazy weird shit happens when travelling, crazy weird shit to me, crazy weird shit to our hosts.