And it's back to the land of biscuits and gravy this evening. Only 15 hours this time, but I'll be back at work in 24. That's an ugly thought. Won't be gone for long, Australia.

Saturday night I finally got a chance to challenge a couple locals to a game of Drink. I should have known it would be ugly from the start. I went with a couple new friends to a casino in town. I got in, found the nearest bar and ordered a bottle of Toohey's (Australian equivalent to PBR; tasty but holds not a candle...) and a shot of Jack Daniels. The bar tender cracks a beer, sets it down in front of me and says, "No shots. Welcome to Newcastle." Not a single bar in the whole beshitted town served spirits by the shot. Mixes drinks and beers only. Had I been able I'd have been tempted to drive to Sydney, but as I have mentioned, my only means of transportation is my mom's neurotic girlfriend who was afraid to put me on the insurance for the rental car. As it was, Newcastle was my only option, and I was determined to make the best of it. Now, they told me that Australians can hold their liquor. I assumed that this meant more than not throwing up. I was mistaken. They certainly had a knack or pounding beers, but after a few they tend to become complete fucking neanderthals. Mind you, I was hanging out with my buddy John, a good kid, but a bit of a bro-man-dude, or a mate-oi-crikey/what the fuck ever they call each other down here. Consequently, all his friends were muscle-necks and juice-heads. After the casino we went to a place called the Brewery and had a few beers, waiting for one of the brahs to get back from the gym or something. They all stood around flexing nuts and comparing notes on the latest creatine powder. I stood around laughing in their faces and trying to get drunk as quick as possible. Fifteen minutes in, one of John's buddies was offering me a 20-dollar bill for a cigarette and spitting on his own shoes. One thing I'll say for the bars out here is this: sluts. And plenty. Old meat-head John was pretty useful when it came to reeling them in, then all that was left was to use the old American accent. We went to a few more bars after that, the final stop being Fanny's, a den of perversion so replete with anonymous nasties that I didn't know what to do with myself. So I parked it between a few of them at the bar and struck up a loud conversation with John about California, where I happen to be from, did you know... ahem...CALIFORNIA. Worked like gangbusters, as one Dave Chappelle might say. And wouldn't you know it, "it's my last night in the country and it would be awesome to hang out tomorrow, but you know how it is. So, if you could drive me home..."

Stockton beach and Works Burgers to soak up the excess Sunday morning. And all the Mormons were off to church for three hours. I stayed in and held a religious ceremony of my own, eating fried egg sandwiches and watching Zombie Strippers. God bless your jugs, Jenna Jameson.

I'm going to find a kangaroo today. The outback is a two day drive, and the opal mine is 9 hours away via car. So I'm taking a drive into the local swamp. A friend here told me something about salt-water crocodiles in the bush, but I'm pretty sure he was just taking the piss out of me. Saw a couple of wombats this morning on a walk before sunrise, and there were a pair of koalas in the eucalyptus tree on the edge of a nearby pasture. Everyone eats Vegimite on toast here. I'm not sure what's in it but it tastes like fermented soy sauce. No wonder I can't find B&Gs. Everone here eats shit for breakfast. I did have a "works burger" yesterday with beats and pineapple and a fried egg on it, plus all the usual veggies and a few slices of bacon. Pretty much a party in my mouth and I wasn't sure who all was invited...now I know how all those drunken college chicks feel. Topped with BBQ sauce it was actually pretty good. I can't say the same for a freshman after her first weekend in Chico, but hey, they've got to learn somehow.

After a highly eventful afternoon at the Auckland War Memorial Museum, boarded a plane for Australia. We flew into Sydney, Australia last night around 8:00 local time. Got back into Newcastle by 10 and knocked out. This morning was met with fresh disappointment. No biscuits and gravy in this country either. Apparently "biscuit" means "cookie" in this country, and they have no concept whatsoever of the Pilsbury Doughboy and the incredible flaky buttermilky possibilities he represents. Australian gravy is brown and goes in mince meat pies. Nasty, greasy, shit-smelling mince meat pies, but I am in Australia. Which is pretty awesome. One last thing: NO one here says "shrimp on the barbie." In fact, all shrimp are referred to as prawns. Lloyd Christmas, you have broken my heart.

High hopes are the clay pigeons of emotion: flung skyward by careless hands and shot to shit. The group of "college kids" turned out to be a bunch of Asian students from an all-boys high school in Tokyo. I mean, when you squint your eyes they all look like 12-year-old girls, but that's not my bag either. Their translator was kind of hot, but not much on talking. I got a "Thank you prease" out of her when I asked her name, and that was about it. Total communication breakdown. But one must roll with the punches, even when said punches are ten 17-year-old Charlie Chans who think you're supposed to get entirely naked before you put a wetsuit on. I've never seen so much chode in my life, and I don't even like using that word. After the unfortunate wardrobe ordeal, we were given headlamp helmets and then loaded into a van (yes, just like the retarded hikers at Hell Hole). Our guides warned us not to pee in our wetsuits--while submerged or otherwise--drove us to the mouth of Two Dogs Cave. Every time the driver hit a bump it was like a scene from an old Gojirra movie. All these kids would widen their eyes, grab for their helmets and make this weird "Ohhh!" sound. You'd think that we were driving along a cliff at 100 miles per hour.

We got to the river, grabbed tubes and dropped into the Earth. It was a pretty bizarre feeling to hike a quarter of a mile into the side of a mountain guided by the dim glow of our headlamps. I was the only English speaking person on the tour apart from our guides, so I had plenty of time to survey my surroundings. The water was cold. Really, really fucking cold. Imagine river water in the late Fall, after the first few cold rains have diluted any heat the sun might provide. Then send that water into the bowels of a mountain on an overcast day. My hands and feet were numb inside of fifteen minutes, and judging by fellow tourists' endless exclamations of "Oh wow! Berry cold!", they felt the same. We finally came to a small waterfall. After jumping off, we were in water 5 meters deep and had to rely on the tubes. At least I relied on my tube. The others seemed to think that since I spoke English that I was somehow in charge, and they followed me almost as much as they did our guides. One of these was a young native named Raj. He was at the front of the group, and as we paddled through the immense silence of the deep underground, he sang several old Maori songs. They echoed off the cavern walls, adding an eerie touch of archaism to our little tour. Phosphorescent glow worms lit the ceiling in small clusters like neon constellations, dangling webs to catch the massive and decidedly creepy crickets that lived on the cave walls. Lloyd, our second guide, told us to kill our head lamps. We sat in almost complete darkness; our only light came from the glow worms. All was quiet and still save for the lapping of the water at the cave walls and the subdued, unintelligible chatter of my companions who simply didn't seem to know when it was time to shut the fuck up. Raj let off a couple of M-80s and half of them probably broke the wet-suit rule. One kid actually screamed and fell out of his tube. It was pretty hilarious.

Eels. There were eels all over the damn place. They live back in the caves and even though they go out to forage or hunt or whatever it is eels do, they come back to the exact same spot to sleep and rest. The first one was small, maybe 18 inches. But in the deepest pool (about 8 meters) there was an eel upwards of five feet long. They don't generally bite, but I have to say when I saw that mean-looking motherfucker winding past my feet I came dangerously close to violating the wetsuit rule in more ways than one. And no, that's not a sex joke.

Somewhere along the line, the Asian kids started referring to me as "Captain." I laughed at first, but after awhile it started to piss me off. I couldn't tell if they were making fun of me or not. God knows I couldn't understand anything else they said, even when they tried English. Their second translator (some stiff-necked asshole with a string tie and a bad attitude) told me later on that they all assumed I was planted among them as a team leader. I wasn't sure what to make of that. Chalk it up to cultural misunderstanding. The rest of the trip was uneventful. I asked Lloyd if I could take off for a bit, and he said it was a straight shot out to the exit, but that I might as well go on because he and Raj planned to take the kids' headlamps and leave them in the dark for 15 minutes or so. When you give the same tour 3 to four times a day, 5 days a week, I'd imagine you'd do some pretty fucked up things to keep yourself entertained. And anyway, it's not like the kids knew how to ask what was going on.

Back at the main building it was hot soup and bagels and "Thank you prease" left and right from every one of the Asian students, none of whom seemed to understand that I had no part in their little adventure other than being stuck with them instead of a group of tasty co-eds...who it turned out were scheduled for a tour that started 5 minutes after mine ended. They were loading up in their van just as ours pulled in. One poorly timed phone call and I end up "Captain" of the King Kong Klan.

Letter to my brother back in LA

Hey Pancho-
Thanks a shitload for the camera and Bad Behavior Allowance. I swear if I find a decent looking prostitute I'll give her every penny to go down under on my down-under. The one thing you might take away from that statement is that there are NO girls in this little New Zealand fishing town. Big fish though. I was down at the hatchery a couple days ago and saw a few rainbow trout well over 2 feet long. You'd be shitting yourself. This is the trout fishing capitol of New Zealand, and Turangi, the village we're staying in is about an hour's drive from Lake Taupo, the biggest lake in the country. Way bigger than Tahoe. It's like going to one of the Great Lakes. Only there aren't creepy Asian kids fishing for carp off the dam.
On a grimmer note...no biscuits and gravy. No country gravy at all, for that matter. I inquired at the local breakfast diner and the guy looked at me like I had just asked him to give me a blumpkin. They serve everything in pie crust. Ham and eggs, broccoli and cheese, mince meat (fucking gross) and whatever...this joint is pot pie central.
I can already tell you and I would have a blast down here man. Daisy is a real sweetheart for doing all this, but a trip around the world at 22 sort of loses something when you're traveling with a middle-aged, menopausal lesbian. Doesn't much help in the "game-spitting" department. So what I'm saying is: Sometime within the next year or so, you, me, Southern Island of New Zealand. Many ladies...no fat chicks. Seriously, I didn't see a single one in Wellington (big SF-style city on the southern end of the North Island). Except the natives. They're basically not-so-jolly Samoans with facial tattoos and a disobliging partiality to huffing lighter fluid. But the local white chicks? Mouth-watering.
Anyway, probably rambled a tad there but it's been a busy time here. I'm about to head out towards the west coast to go rafting through a bunch of caves. They're sticking me in with a group of college kids, so keep your fingers crossed that there might be a porkable piece of pagina in their midst. Because I had a dream last night about fucking Tamera...and I enjoyed it. God help me.
There's more to tell when I see you next. Take care and keep in touch. Hope you enjoyed the trip home, even if it was to see Grayson sign his life away to a colossal cunt-rag.
-Sam
PS Their antismoking campaign is a little heavier down here.

Drove to Wellington yesterday on the southern tip of the North Island. On the way we stopped at Gravity Canyon and did some touristy stuff. I got a couple of videos from the company there. Kind of funny watching myself trying (and failing miserably) to play it cool when I'm all but shitting in the only pair of pants I brought with me from the States. Better make a list before I pack next time. The drop on this swing was 80 meters, something like 250 feet...playing it cool didn't pan out the way I planned. Wellington was a mess. Bunch of narrow one-way streets with cars parked on both sides, plus driving on the left side of the road in rush-hour traffinc and it's raining like a bastard and we're all the way down there for some Mauri museum of art. 5 hour drive for a museum. The coffee was pretty good. And there was a big wildlife reserve right near the city that I got to hike through for a couple of hours. I keep hearing about the South Island like it's the place to be. I wouldn't recommend the North to anyone. Bunch of alcoholic natives stealing hubcaps and sniffing glue. There are signs literally everywhere warning against car theft and pickpockets. Real friendly folks.

Went and saw Huka Falls today, as well as an old Maori hot spring. Apparently the local folks who own the only breakfast diner in town have never heard of biscuits and gravy. So I ate an egg and bacon pie. Not too shabby, but a little gravy would have gone down nicely; greased the wheels, if you will. Stopped and spent an hour on the beach of lake Toupei, the biggest lake in New Zealand. The entire beach is made of quartz and pumice stone. Skipping rocks that float sort of felt like cheating. The locals don't much care for "Staties" apparently. Most of them lost interest after hearing the California accent. But that egg pie thing gave me pretty gnarly gas, so that might've had something to do with it.

Friday, May 14, 6:50 AM (No free internet in Australian airports)

Sydney, Australia

Landed in Sydney after 14 ½ hours. Got a few free glasses of merlot and some curry chicken on the plane last night, and they served eggs and tator tots for breakfast. Outstanding. Flight to Auckland is delayed, hope to be heading out soon. I’m getting hungry and I can’t wrap my mind around buying another 10-dollar cheeseburger from the terminal Burger King. They taste bad enough when you’re only spending a couple bucks on them.

Getting gone from the land of Coca Cola this evening. 14 1/2 hours to Sydney, then an hour layover, then a 3 1/2 hour flight to Auckland. Once there, it's a mere 4 hours to Turangi. I shudder at doing the math on that. I really hope the seats on the plane are comfortable. And I swear Christ, if I have to watch "That Thing You Do" in-flight one more time, I'm probably going to kill Tom Hanks, Forrest Gump or no Forrest Gump. Garcia for the bucks, Benjamin.

All this sure looks official on a blog page. No wonder people believe most of the crap they read on the internet.