Around The World in Seventy Days

Day 70 [Sydney, Australia]

70 days and 40,000km later I'm back exactly where I started.

Its almost too strange to believe. Just like before, I'm a little afraid of acknowledging it too much, as if I feel I might be pushing my luck by doing so. After all, all those other great circumnavigation attempts I've been reading about recently either fell in heap before the end, or returned home in rather less than ideal circumstances.

But if I can put my superstitions to the side for a moment, in all respects I should be quite satisfied with having made it back in one piece. After all, I got to see that last ever space shuttle launch which was the whole reason for the trip in the first place. And although it wasn't accompanied by any wild Koyaanisqatsi/Jonathan-Harris style synchronicities, I did get an incredibly revelatory behind-the-scenes look at one of the great American dreams. I also got to hear this last ever space shuttle break the sound barrier as it came in to land - a double sonic boom the likes of which we may not hear again for a very long time. As sad as the end of the shuttle program may seem, my unforgettable trans-continental Greyhound experience in the US was not without inspiration for the future: I made quite a few new friends even met one of my heros.

Over in Europe I was blessed again: while Ramadan took its course, another one of my heros took me for a ride in his Land Rover, and further inspiration was provided by nature and her awesome majesty. After a briefly basking in a different light, my pace of travel seemed to increase until from up high I landed in a completely different land.

South Africa's revelation was its history. Its impossible to spend time there and not become a minor buff on its past, mainly because its still being created all around you. Staying in Soweto was for me living proof not only that everyday life carries on before, during and after a complete change in a country's philosophy but simply that such drastic nationwide philosophical changes are possible. Whether or not these changes require the presence of a capable and respected leader as catalyst or are simply inevitable given the circumstances remains to be determined.

And finally, just like the shuttle mission that landed safely, I made it back home to complete the circumnavigation. Astronauts often talk about how orbiting the earth changes their view on everyday life and I guess its not hard to see why: NASA's space shuttle went around the earth once every 90 minutes at a velocity of 26,000 km/h. At these speeds you are bound to observe things in a different manner. In comparison, my 70 day voyage translates to an average orbital speed of 23km/h - about the pace of a fast bicycle ride around the globe. Although I travelled over 1,000 times slower than the NASA astronauts, I nevertheless feel a certain fellowship with them - I've proved to myself that the world is indeed round and finite. In contrast I travelled about 20 times faster than those early circumnavigators (whose average speed was about 1km/h). Here too though, I feel a certain empathy. At these slower speeds you can see that although the earth's geographical bounds may be finite, there is enough detail and diversity - culturally, biologically and topographically - to fill any number of lifetimes.

But I guess the physical journey is only part of the story. Elsewhere I have compared parts of this trip with a kind of pilgrimage, and revisiting the goals of this project with such a definition in mind seems to make a lot of sense. Was it really just to see a space shuttle take off that I went to all that trouble, or did I hope that by witnessing such a 'miracle' with my own eyes I might gain some kind of in-situ enlightenment? Although I have a tendency to shy away from such a comparison because of the religious overtones, I have to admit that some stories of pilgrimage are among my absolute favourites. I also like this context because it transforms what could be construed as some weird form of stalking (the desire to track down and meet people like Jonathan Harris, Bill Drummond and Joe Jenkins in person) into that of simply seeking more direct and unfiltered teachings from the wise and enlightened.

So if what I just completed constitutes a pilgrimage, what happens next? What does a muslim do once they return from Mecca? What does an Elvis fan do when they get back from Graceland? What did the Blues Brothers do once they completed their "mission from god"? Well I guess they submitted to the authorities and got on with what they were doing before they left. Likewise, I had better keep filling out the paperwork and carry on with what I feel is most important. At the very least, this might give me some time to consider at more length the events of the last 70 days and hopefully come up with some observations a little more profound than your average "so long and thanks for all the fish."

So without further ado, its time to bid farewell to the adventure, danger and excitement that come with living life on the road, hunker down for some serious reflection and get back to the routine of everyday life... that is of course, unless I get another call from the divine.

Day 69 [Soweto, South Africa]

I wanted to write something about Trevor - the young guy who picked me up from the airport. I was at first shocked by his car - I certainly didn't expect to be driven to Soweto in a brand new shiny black Range Rover. I also didn't expect that someone so young would speak fluently seven of South Africa's 11 official languages.

I then wanted to write something about Isaac - the older guy who took me back to the airport. He also spoke seven of the languages (but a different seven to Trevor). Isaac was born in Soweto in 1959 and has been there ever since. After spending all day in museums learning about South African history at arms length, I didn't really expect to be sitting next to a guy who had actually been marching down Vilakazi street with his fellow high-school class mates when police opened fire, killing 13 year-old Hector Pieterson.

While both Trevor and Isaac's stories are fascinating, I don't have a good photo to match them, so instead I'm going to have to tell you about my morning catching Taxi's in Soweto. Maybe it doesn't sound as historically powerful or as politically relevant, but its certainly no less intriguing...

I was rather nervous as I strode out of the Hostel and past the first few piles of burning rubbish, clutching Maletsatsi's instructions about how to get to the Apartheid Museum. "Have you been there before?" she had asked me, in response to my query about using public transport to get there. "Never," I replied and fishing for more information I added "do you think I'll be OK?" She momentarily stopped her paper sorting, caught my eyes and gave me a long considered look. I don't know what she was searching for, but abruptly she went back to her paper shuffling with a curt reassurance: "Yes, you should be just fine." So it was this long considered look that was playing on my mind as I walked down the street scanning each vehicle that went past, trying to determine whether it matched her description of a typical Sowetan "taxi".

Already at the first intersection Maletsatsi had described, I decided to ask a passerby if they could indicate where the taxi's to "Bira" were located. Alas, the said passerby didn't seem to understand a word I was saying, and then spent an inordinate amount of time reading word-for-word the short directions that Maletsatsi had written for me. After a confused gesture of non-comprehension, he whistled at a passing mini-van and motioned that I should run after it. In response to the whistle, the mini-van stopped and began waiting expectantly. Not at all sure that the unmarked mini-van was any kind of a legitimate taxi, let alone whether the passerby had understood where I wanted to go, I very reluctantly climbed aboard and squeezed into the crowded row of seats 2nd from the back. Someone shut the door behind me and we immediately jolted off in a direction completely opposite to that which I had imagined we should be going. As our pace accelerated I stared out at the passing scene of red-brick shacks, razor wire fences and mangy goats, hoping desperately to recognise some landmarks that I might navigate home by, envisaging that at any moment I might be turfed out in an inhospitable corner of Soweto by our dreadlocked mini-van driver.

But my fears turned out to be totally unsubstantiated. After just becoming conscious of the exceedingly contemporary chilled-out house soundtrack playing through an incredibly decent in-car audio system (courtesy of our dread-locked driver), I felt a friendly tap on my shoulder. Turning to the passenger behind me I found him thrusting a 20 Rand note into my hand and saying insistently "Two. Two." Gingerly accepting the bill, but not quite knowing what to do with it, I turned back around to observe a similar scene being played out by the passengers in the rows in front of me. I soon realised that the money was being passed row-by-row toward the front where eventually the driver, in between negotiating corners and changing gears, would collect it, calculate the appropriate change, and then pass this back in the same fashion. I didn't hesitate in following suit - tapping the unknown passenger in front of me on the shoulder I gave him the 20 Rand note and repeated the originating passenger's command: "Two. Two." And away it went like clockwork, row-by-row the 20 Rand note made it all the way to the driver, then back along the same chain came a few coins change. When these coins got to me I turned to the passenger behind me who already had his hand out. Expecting a fight to break out any moment about there being too few coins, I handed them over, but the count seemed good. The passenger (and his wife sitting next to him, hence the "Two. Two.") was satisfied and I was over the moon. I couldn't believe that between all those hands the money had passed through, none of them were tempted to pocket a passing coin or note for themselves. In a seemingly poor and desperate place like Soweto, it was a revelation.

There was only one thing left to do then: I had to try it for myself. Leaving caution to the wind I tapped the complete stranger in front of me on the shoulder, gave him a crisp 10 Rand note and said "One. One." Just like before the note left and made its way row-by-row to the driver. About four blocks and two traffic lights later my change made its way right back into my hand by way of at least four complete strangers, and not a coin short of the price Maletsatsi told me I should expect. I was thrilled. This was the kind of commerce I loved: simple and efficient, yet human and personal. It was kind of like taking the collection-bowl and the "peace be with you" parts of church and rolling them into one happy little jolting mini-van (with a killer house soundtrack to boot).

And the row-by-row fare paying was just the first of my discoveries riding the Taxis. On later journeys I was to see the row-by-row scheme become even more elaborate - where a whole row of passengers (all completely unknown to each other) would work out their fares between themselves, the passenger at the end of the row diligently acting as accountant. At the end of the small flurry of note and coin exchange, a single wad of money would be passed forward accompanied by a "Four." or a "Five." depending on how many people were squished together on the said row. Then there was the seemingly psychic Taxi drivers, who without even the merest glance in the rear-view mirror seemed to know exactly how many passengers were on board, who had and hadn't paid, and where each person was getting off. At one Taxi transfer, a kind lady explained to me the "secret language of thumbs", used for signalling to passing mini-vans: thumb-pointing-up if you want to go to Bira, thumb-pointing-down if you want to go to Jalekiza - plus of course a whole host of other directions that I didn't have time to master.

All of this goes without mentioning the miracle of the system as a whole. I never had to wait more than five minutes for a Taxi. The Taxi's were almost always full (but never overcrowded), and because of the small capacity of the Taxis (13 to 15 people on average) travel times were rapid due to the relatively few number of stops. All this was achieved without any centralised authority to administer and dispatch Taxis, without any technologically complicated GPS tracking and certainly no state of the art electronic payment systems. The Taxis don't bear any specialised registration and no driver identification is displayed. Despite all this, everyone seemed to get where they needed to go and I never saw anyone short-changed or over-charged.

The moral of the story? Well the taxi's certainly got me where I wanted to go - there were no problems there. In contrast once arrived at my destination, the Apartheid Museum, my visit was heavy: history in South Africa takes on an incredibly relevant if not stifling-close tone and its hard not to leave with landmark dates (e.g. 1976, 1994) burned into your brain and a tear or two staining your cheek. But thanks to my journey on the Taxi's I also had a much more pleasant memory to take away with me: a memory that speaks of an alternative ends people can achieve when they work together. Not an ends languishing in despair that is based on fear, hatred and centralised control, but an ends that basks in hope, borne out of trust, cooperation and resilient independence.

South Africa is dead. Long live South Africa!

Day 68 [Soweto, South Africa]

"He was an ordinary child without glamour. Why the glamour around his death?"

Antoinette Sithole, Hector Pieterson's sister (and school-girl featured in the famous photograph).

That mothers and sisters can maintain such grounded wisdom in the face of such terrible tragedy shows there is always hope for our human race.

Day 67 [Soweto, South Africa]

South Western Townships.

Day 66 [Johannesburg, South Africa]

Back on the ground.

Day 65 [Marseille, France]

Not quite NASA, but pretty close.

Day 61 [Entrecasteaux, France]

In the town that bears his name, Antoine Raymond Joseph de Bruni d'Entrecasteaux lived in a nice big house, surrounded by beautiful countryside perhaps leading a lifestyle that most Australians would be quite envious of: starting every day with some of the world's best bread and finishing each evening with some of the world's best wine.

So why I wonder, was he so keen to get away all the time?

Day 60 [Cotignac, France]

In a different light.

Day 59 [Aix-en-Provence, France]

J'y suis.

Day 58 [Chamonix, France]

Ready to go again.

Day 57 [Fenalet-sur-Bex, Switzerland]

Et puis La Suisse.

Day 56 [Machaby, Italy]

Italy for a day.

Day 55 [Chamonix, France]

Safety first.

Day 54 [Chamonix, France]

Massive.

Day 53 [Chamonix, France]

Fire in the sky.

Day 52 [Argentière, France]

Fête des Guides.

Day 51 [Vallorcine, France]

Bouquet d'été.

Day 50 [Chamonix, France]

A la chasse aux souvenirs.

Day 49 [Bourg-en-Bresse, France]

La France à 320km/h.

Day 48 [Paris, France]

Payback.

Day 47 [Paris, France]

Réuni.

Day 46 [Paris, France]

All the way across the sky.

Day 45 [Paris, France]

De retour.

Day 44 [London, UK]

This man burnt a million pounds.

([Actually] Meeting Bill Drummond)

Day 43 [Eltham, UK]

Paying my respects.

Day 42 [London, UK]

Back in the big smoke.

Day 41 [Hawridge, UK]

Ramadan Kareem

Day 40 [Frankfurt, Germany]

Transatlantic Teleport.

Day 39 [New York, USA]

John Michelotti's Flag of Honor TM is on prominent display at the National September 11 Memorial and Museum:

"Those people who paid the dearest price just because they lived in freedom, should forever be remembered and tied to the symbol of America."

Just for the record, if I am ever killed as part of a terrorist attack, I would ask that my name not be tied to any symbol of nationalism, no matter which nation I happen to be in at the time.

Day 38 [Cambridge, USA]

American Poet.

(Meeting Dan Paluska)

Day 37 [Youngstown, USA]

"There are so many deep things in this world... I just can't understand why people still hate each other."

- Walker, Youngstown

Day 36 [Grove City, USA]

American Prophet.

(Meeting Joe Jenkins)

Day 35 [Oak Park, USA]

Praying, hoping, wishing upon a star.

Day 34 [Chicago, IL, USA]

The Blues Brothers.

I remember the very first time I saw this film. It was 1985 and I was just seven years old. We were on a family holiday in Tasmania and staying with well-to-do friends. They were so well-to-do in fact that they had a VHS video recorder, which was a big deal at the time.

My brother was quick to capitalise on this rare opportunity. While on a grocery mission at the local shops, he somehow persuaded my parents to hire us a copy of the said movie. Back at the house, we waited until the grown ups were safely out of ear-shot and then gingerly inserted the cassette into the machine. My brother assured me we were in for a wild ride.

And so followed 2 hours of hilarious comedy and exhilarating action (yes, including the scene of a car driving off a bridge more than a mile high) that thoroughly expanded the horizons of an impressionable seven-year-old. The star-studded cast of musicians that played throughout (Aretha Franklin, James Brown and Ray Charles to name a few) wouldn't be appreciated until I was older, but I'm sure it had a subconscious effect on my tastes. It was probably also the first time I had heard anyone say the 's' word on the television... always a thrilling experience at that age.

Needless to say I was impressed - The Blues Brothers was the best thing I had ever seen, but imagine how strange my perspective was. Through the wonders of VHS cassette duplication and distribution, the myth of 'Chicago' - where the movie was filmed - had been lodged in my head. Here was a seven year old boy in Tasmania whose mind was now racing with images of a far-off city and the sounds of a strange accent.

Fast forward 27 years to where I happen to be in Chicago visiting a friend. With a kind of slow-dawning surprise, I realised that The Blues Brothers wasn't just a huge Alice-In-Wonderland fantasy imagined and constructed by over-zealous Hollywood producers. No, in fact here were the real streets, the real buildings and the real accents. I became insistent with my friend. "We have to drive down one of those streets!", I repeated. "I want to see where they did that high speed chase... I want to see where they had that apartment by the rail road tracks!" Finally my poor friend Carla acquiesced. We drove down the streets, and I had my proof.

But why was this so important to me?

Was it the same for The Blues Brothers as it was for the Space Shuttle?

Why did I need to see it with my own eyes?

I've heard of Christians making trips to Jerusalem, and of course there is the Muslims' pilgrimage to Mecca. I wonder if what I'm doing is a similar thing?

I guess the next time I watch The Blues Brothers, I won't feel quite the same. My experience in Chicago will have changed the way I relate to the film and its story. I will certainly be able to more critically discern those parts that are pure fantasy with those that are more real, but is that kind of thing even important? I wonder if the Haj changes a Muslim's relationship with Allah or a Christian's pilgrimage transforms their ideas about Jesus?

For now all I can say is that I'm very glad I never identified so strongly with the story of Santa Claus and his reindeer. In Chicago, the chance to drive down the same streets as Jake and Elwood seemed too strong to resist. Thankfully the narrative of Saint Nick was just a little too fantastic to spike the same curiosity of a seven year old boy in Tasmania. Or maybe its just lucky that the Greyhound bus network doesn't go that far north yet.

Carla, do you have a pair of skis I could borrow?

Day 33 [Milwaukee, USA]

American Hero.
(Meeting Will Allen)

Day 32 [Chicago, USA]

"A Picnic near the lakeside in Chicago is the start of a lazy afternoon... We begin with a scene one metre wide which we view from just one metre away. Now every 10 seconds we will look from 10 times farther away and our field of view will be 10 times wider."

- Powers of Ten (1968), Ray and Charles Eames

Day 31 [Chicago, USA]

American Dream.

Day 30 [Chicago, USA]

After the party.

Day 29 [Atlanta, USA]

A-Town.

Day 28 [Titusville, USA]

Last Blast.

Day 27 [Titusville, USA]

Meet Murphy Wardman.

When I watched the final space shuttle launch 12 days ago, I kept hearing stories about what happens when it lands. Local residents were speculating that possibly the most memorable part of the shuttle era would be the window-rattling sonic booms heard as they fly home to land. I realised I had never in my life heard the boom of a super-sonic aircraft and with the shuttle program ending (and the Concorde already long gone), when would I get another chance?

So I came back to Titusville with my fingers crossed that the weather will hold out so they won't have to turn around and land in California. The forecast is good so far, but even if it doesn't work out, meeting Murphy Wardman today made the trip worthwhile.

Murphy volunteers at the "Spacewalk Hall of Fame" museum in downtown Titusville. Although it doesn't look like much from the outside, the dusty little ex-shopfront that houses the modest museum delivers a far more genuine space experience than its overpriced "official" cousin across the river.

But how does a donations-based community museum trump a multi-million dollar visitor's complex? Well, its only in the former that you can flip the switches of an actual Atlas rocket launch control, closely examine a real retro-rocket, reach out and touch a space-suit that was worn by a human on the moon and of course, meet and talk to people like Murphy Wardman.

Murphy started working as an engineer on the Atlas rocket program shortly after Russia launched its Sputnik satellite. He was in the launch control room flipping switches and trouble shooting problems as John Glenn blasted off to be the first american in orbit. He saw the Apollo program come and go, and now he has seen the same with the Shuttle. Murphy told me stories of how they ironed out kinks in the Atlas rocket design (a lot of the time it was by trial and error), of seeing people thrown across the control room when rockets blew up (because in the times before fibre optic cable, the control room was located only 500m from the launch pad) and of how some of his colleagues had been killed on the job (remarkably there have only been 47 deaths in entire history of the US space program). He talked with passion about the hands-on nature of his work and the exciting moments he lived through and was an active part of. Gadgets, technology and complex science was only a small part of it, creativity and working with others to overcome challenges was the bulk. Hearing him speak, I finally realised that a space program is not the impossible and exclusive domain of the world super powers, but rather an accessible and intensely human endeavour: one must simply have the vision to guide the way and the drive to overcome the associated challenges.

But of all Murphy's incredible stories, the one he told me at the very last was my favourite. When I asked him how he got the job in the first place, his eyes lit up and a smile brushed the corner of his lips. "Well," he said, "I came down this way looking for a job because I liked the weather. I had already gone down the west coast of Florida with no luck. I was coming back up the east-coast and down to my last $2 when I decided to see what was going on at the Cape. As I got close I recognised an old school friend walking by the side of the road and stopped to see if he needed a lift. He jumped in the car and the first thing he said to me was 'Are you looking for a job?'. When I nodded 'yes' he told me to turn the car around. We went back to where he was working and they signed me up that afternoon."

As they say, the rest (the Atlas rocket, John Glenn, Apollo, the Shuttle etc) is history.