Four months on and Phil and I have still got the smae contacts in that we started this trip with. Remember, we started with nothing at all, and in seriousness of not taking anything at all with us incase of emerencies or unexpected, or expected eventualities, we didn't take spare contact lenses with us. Luckily, we both prepared for our situation of not being able to get cleaning solution etc by having day and night contacts, great time and hygiene saving devices that never need to be removed before bed.
Off to the opticians we pop. Laubman and Pank in Darwin and talk to a guy named Graham Bailey. All we need is a prescription and then we'll be be able to fit you with contacts. Ah....here lies the problem. We not only do not have prescriptions but we cannot pay for an eye test and neither can we wait patiently for weeks until an appointment become free.
In true Australian style he replies "No worries mate." then books us in for a special appointment for free and fits us with three months worth of lenses, cleaning solution and cases.
The peace of mind after geting the all clear from the over use of contact lenses lifted a heavy worry and we were feeling fresh as newborns with our new eyes.
Thank you so much for helping us whinging poms get newly clear vision!
Much appreciation to Phuong Truong at Laubman and Pank
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Going for a thong
How do the Aussies do it?
How do they walk around all the livelong day with a thin membrane of foamed rubber flimsily attached to the foot and be such happy, carefree souls?
I tell you: because the thong compels it.
Call it what you will: the thong, the sandal, the flip flop even, the poor traveller unaccustomed to wearing the apparel will come, oh quite literally, unstuck. Choose wisely wont you, because there is much to bear in mind.
The thong thing has perplexed me since the beginning. My first pair were surreptitiously bought at a side market, where no one would see me buying items designed to flagrantly show off the foot, and I wore them with some trepidation, the way a cross-dresser emerges from his bedroom for the first time, into the world, to fetch some beers from the garage, only to be accosted by the neighbours, up late. 'Do they know?' I asked myself as I aired my feet in public for the first time ever. Like Hulk Hogan in high heels I was unsure of my footing, and walked as though bow-legged as my buttocks swayed and punched each other in my coiled jeans.
'Things have to get better' I mused.
They didn't. In a word. They got worse:
-I have had slippery thongs, that, after walking for two minutes, become greasy with perspiration (your feet sweat?!) making every step a potential dance move.
-I have had thongs that tear between my toes, that rub either side of the soles, causing blisters and tentative, toddler-like walking ('there-there, well done') .
-Those that come without any grip enable the greasy thong on the tentative stepping blistered foot to fly forward squat-leg-thrusting down the boulevard.
-There are those that burst themselves and pop out, making them unwearable.
-Others leave black, sticky residue all over the foot as the grime from dirt, dust and sweat comingle to cake the poor tootsie.
-"A dogs ate my thong at the beach, sir" is an unlikely excuse but a true event.
I'm down to a pair of castaway thongs, held together with tape and needles to brace them.
I can't go on like this.
How do they walk around all the livelong day with a thin membrane of foamed rubber flimsily attached to the foot and be such happy, carefree souls?
I tell you: because the thong compels it.
Call it what you will: the thong, the sandal, the flip flop even, the poor traveller unaccustomed to wearing the apparel will come, oh quite literally, unstuck. Choose wisely wont you, because there is much to bear in mind.
The thong thing has perplexed me since the beginning. My first pair were surreptitiously bought at a side market, where no one would see me buying items designed to flagrantly show off the foot, and I wore them with some trepidation, the way a cross-dresser emerges from his bedroom for the first time, into the world, to fetch some beers from the garage, only to be accosted by the neighbours, up late. 'Do they know?' I asked myself as I aired my feet in public for the first time ever. Like Hulk Hogan in high heels I was unsure of my footing, and walked as though bow-legged as my buttocks swayed and punched each other in my coiled jeans.
'Things have to get better' I mused.
They didn't. In a word. They got worse:
-I have had slippery thongs, that, after walking for two minutes, become greasy with perspiration (your feet sweat?!) making every step a potential dance move.
-I have had thongs that tear between my toes, that rub either side of the soles, causing blisters and tentative, toddler-like walking ('there-there, well done') .
-Those that come without any grip enable the greasy thong on the tentative stepping blistered foot to fly forward squat-leg-thrusting down the boulevard.
-There are those that burst themselves and pop out, making them unwearable.
-Others leave black, sticky residue all over the foot as the grime from dirt, dust and sweat comingle to cake the poor tootsie.
-"A dogs ate my thong at the beach, sir" is an unlikely excuse but a true event.
I'm down to a pair of castaway thongs, held together with tape and needles to brace them.
I can't go on like this.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
How can you swat it if you can see it?
tiny pissing sandflies. Literally. Tiny sandflies that urinate on you, for whatever reason, producing a welt on skin twenty times the size if the offending insect itself.
why would it want to do that?
In conjunction with the giant drilling mossies they cause ulcerated raised marks all over the already tender skin.
Mossies with a proboscis that drills into you. Dozens of them on you.
'THEY GET YOU WHILE YOU SLEEP', says Tropical Skin-Disease Boy.
"The worse thing you can do is scratch", the local people say.
"No matter how good it initially feels. Resist. Or you're in a whole heap of trouble then"
Guess it's a whole heap of leprotic trouble then.
why would it want to do that?
In conjunction with the giant drilling mossies they cause ulcerated raised marks all over the already tender skin.
Mossies with a proboscis that drills into you. Dozens of them on you.
'THEY GET YOU WHILE YOU SLEEP', says Tropical Skin-Disease Boy.
"The worse thing you can do is scratch", the local people say.
"No matter how good it initially feels. Resist. Or you're in a whole heap of trouble then"
Guess it's a whole heap of leprotic trouble then.
Monday, February 9, 2009
"ooh, looks like it might rain", he said.
...and we thought we knew about rain.
Incredible torrents of water fall from the sky thanks to the monsoonal systems passing over the tip of the west over to the Top End; an abundance of pelting precipitation hammers its way down, washing through the streets, gloriously satisfying the catchments with unending dopwnpours, an inundation of water hurling down from the sky.
It is incredible to witness this gushing assaulting deluge as it clean washes the Highways, rises over bridges, runs in streams over the roads, cutting communities off for weeks, forcing us to wait for the all-clear.
"oh, you'll be cut off for six weeks, mate" they say, the friendly assertive making it none the more palatable.
and we thought we knew about rain.
the cloudburst spectacular of a lightning storm in full fury, the heavy dank air full of foreboding, then the crash of rain, the bang of thunder, inches fall in seconds, gutters full with the first fall, water reigns now, and there is nothing we can do about it but watch it all happen.
and we thought we knew about rain.
Incredible torrents of water fall from the sky thanks to the monsoonal systems passing over the tip of the west over to the Top End; an abundance of pelting precipitation hammers its way down, washing through the streets, gloriously satisfying the catchments with unending dopwnpours, an inundation of water hurling down from the sky.
It is incredible to witness this gushing assaulting deluge as it clean washes the Highways, rises over bridges, runs in streams over the roads, cutting communities off for weeks, forcing us to wait for the all-clear.
"oh, you'll be cut off for six weeks, mate" they say, the friendly assertive making it none the more palatable.
and we thought we knew about rain.
the cloudburst spectacular of a lightning storm in full fury, the heavy dank air full of foreboding, then the crash of rain, the bang of thunder, inches fall in seconds, gutters full with the first fall, water reigns now, and there is nothing we can do about it but watch it all happen.
and we thought we knew about rain.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Going Gone Troppo
"What's wrong with your face?"
The often heard shriek of the horrified local on encountering a red faced, bemused and vaporous, perspiring Welshman.
It is a sad state of affairs when society's laws governing the hidden, reclusive nature of Freaks are loosened and the unbidden, unwanted ones roam free, a-glowing translucent crimson under the sun's steadfast, unyielding gaze.
The humid, moisture-laden air forces to the surface of pink skin steady rivulets, dripping droplets, spreading sweat stains, saturating the protective layer of clothing covering tender, soft white flesh.
Squelching flip flops squeek, soggy palms swing back and forth in an attempt to airate this overheating perspirant.
Gallons of water are consumed until distended belly cries 'no more!'
"Hi, my name's..." the words trickle away as the listener takes in the sight before them and, touching their own cheek as if through doing so confirming that what they see is actually real, utter:
"Your face.." they say, "it's.."
"Burnt. Yes. I've been in the sun."
"That's why you.. look so.." they lower their hand from their face to say "strange".
"Yes. That's why."
Heavy, damp air, a ball of fire in the sky and below it, treading the streets of Darwin, you will find, fanning his burdened, boiling face, in the shade of a magnificent Raintree, the melting Welshman of the Northern Territory.
The often heard shriek of the horrified local on encountering a red faced, bemused and vaporous, perspiring Welshman.
It is a sad state of affairs when society's laws governing the hidden, reclusive nature of Freaks are loosened and the unbidden, unwanted ones roam free, a-glowing translucent crimson under the sun's steadfast, unyielding gaze.
The humid, moisture-laden air forces to the surface of pink skin steady rivulets, dripping droplets, spreading sweat stains, saturating the protective layer of clothing covering tender, soft white flesh.
Squelching flip flops squeek, soggy palms swing back and forth in an attempt to airate this overheating perspirant.
Gallons of water are consumed until distended belly cries 'no more!'
"Hi, my name's..." the words trickle away as the listener takes in the sight before them and, touching their own cheek as if through doing so confirming that what they see is actually real, utter:
"Your face.." they say, "it's.."
"Burnt. Yes. I've been in the sun."
"That's why you.. look so.." they lower their hand from their face to say "strange".
"Yes. That's why."
Heavy, damp air, a ball of fire in the sky and below it, treading the streets of Darwin, you will find, fanning his burdened, boiling face, in the shade of a magnificent Raintree, the melting Welshman of the Northern Territory.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Official - size matters
No one told us that Australia was this big.
I mean they told us told us, but they didn't tell us, know what I mean? And now here we are, inflagrante, caught red handed, in the blatant act of trying to circumnaviagate a continent, trousers down, unable to conceal our embarassment, our hideous pimply cheeks clenched, as it becomes apparent that, gosh, we might have underestimated, gulp, the size of the undertaking.
Have we bitten off more than we can chew? Is it mammoth indigestion? Who needs the relief of being burped?
Me please! Me Please!
Whoever thought of such a thing anyway.
...Burps...
Back to Cheeky Homepage
I mean they told us told us, but they didn't tell us, know what I mean? And now here we are, inflagrante, caught red handed, in the blatant act of trying to circumnaviagate a continent, trousers down, unable to conceal our embarassment, our hideous pimply cheeks clenched, as it becomes apparent that, gosh, we might have underestimated, gulp, the size of the undertaking.
Have we bitten off more than we can chew? Is it mammoth indigestion? Who needs the relief of being burped?
Me please! Me Please!
Whoever thought of such a thing anyway.
...Burps...
Back to Cheeky Homepage
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
It aint 'arff 'ot mum
'Boo hoo', he said, flicking at his bottom lip, 'toughen up boys, this is springtime! Wait till summer, then it gets hot!' We're in the hottest part of Oz. It can get to 52 degrees here. Do these people have regular skin!
It's very hot.
Phil and I are carrying and laying stone pavers, baking, Anne's helping, melting. This is the Outback and it's 42 degrees celsius. Unprecedented heat. The sun - it beats down with a relentless fury as if to drive us to despair!
No amount of water helps. The mantra 'Pee clear twice a day - hydrate or die' has a curiously forlorn ring to it.
The sweat is pouring off us in rivers, evaporating as soon as it hits the parched, dry earth. A red faced Welshman sits on the back of a Toyota 4x4 and looks buggered.
Our heads are pounding; the rocks we're carrying are blisteringly hot. The earth 'neath our feet scolds us. A cigarette is lit off an all too rosy cheek.
Why are you so cruel mother nature? To harm and torture innocents like this!
Our tenderised flesh grown ever pinker.
Oh, for the goodly rain of home! The miserly sunshine! The gloom of cloudy days!
It's sunshine again tomorrow they say.
Bloody typical.
Back to the Cheeky Homepage
It's very hot.
Phil and I are carrying and laying stone pavers, baking, Anne's helping, melting. This is the Outback and it's 42 degrees celsius. Unprecedented heat. The sun - it beats down with a relentless fury as if to drive us to despair!
No amount of water helps. The mantra 'Pee clear twice a day - hydrate or die' has a curiously forlorn ring to it.
The sweat is pouring off us in rivers, evaporating as soon as it hits the parched, dry earth. A red faced Welshman sits on the back of a Toyota 4x4 and looks buggered.
Our heads are pounding; the rocks we're carrying are blisteringly hot. The earth 'neath our feet scolds us. A cigarette is lit off an all too rosy cheek.
Why are you so cruel mother nature? To harm and torture innocents like this!
Our tenderised flesh grown ever pinker.
Oh, for the goodly rain of home! The miserly sunshine! The gloom of cloudy days!
It's sunshine again tomorrow they say.
Bloody typical.
Back to the Cheeky Homepage
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