Nullarbor, Schmullarbor.

Pinkawillinie. Karkoo. Koonibba. Eucla. The names don’t exactly roll off the tongue, and seem almost comically made-up, like some down-under, straight-to-tv cartoon movie. But they’re real and really do exist – I know, I’ve been there. Let’s just pick one at random and see what we have: Gundagai. 

Ok, so we’ve just had lunch at Wagga Wagga and my buddy Ben says we’ve got to take a little detour and go see the Dog on the Tucker Box, 5 miles from Gundagai. I’m like what the heck is a tucker box?

Clickety-clack here to find out >

 

Call me Icarus.

I love the ocean - I mean, who doesn't? But if you spent Christmas clinging to the wreckage of your capsized sailboat out in the middle of Long Island Sound like I did, you might have second thoughts. And you probably wouldn't need me to tell you that the freezing cold sea feels like a lot of icy knives trying to skin you alive, and an almost heart attack is probably not the day at the beach you had planned, so-to-speak. And no, I'm not making this story up for dramatic effect, or using my poetic license to add fancy heroic adjectives - in fact the opposite is true - I'm downplaying things so you'll actually believe I was as idiotic as I was.

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Is a puzzlement.

I just want to begin this article by saying there are many paths to enlightenment, grasshopper.

This was originally going to be a travelly blog about Bangkok, but I’m going to try to get Doha off my chest first, and hopefully swerve back to the subject at hand before I lose you out of boredom or frustration, or hit the guardrail of sense and continuity and swerve off to a pointless head-on collision with some drunk, irrelevant digression.

Take me to nirvana >