A Walk In The Woods...

It was just a normal morning when I browse my Facebook wall when a piece of memorabilia scrolls onto the screen. It was a photo taken from one of my online albums, World Backpacking 1 - on public view online. It's a small selection of film-based photos taken from the main physical album, titled, 1997 Travel Triathlon.

The album consists of four volumes covering Singapore, the Australian Pacific coast, and Southern California. Between them, there are 560 photos altogether, 140 pics in each volume. And those are the better quality pictures. There are more of them, rejects, often consisting of "sister photos" that is, two or more identical ones, out-of-focus snapshots or those of bad shading. They are all kept in safe storage elsewhere. In all, within the ten-week Round-the-World trip, I might have taken up to 600 photographs. The Facebook album has only 62 of the best pictures of the Australian coastline, including several taken underwater at the Great Barrier Reef.

At Low Isles, GBR, taken in 1997.

When the single underwater photo appeared unexpectedly on the laptop screen, my emotions rose, and I was consumed by a deep feeling of nostalgia. Linked to this feeling of nostalgia was my awareness of God's goodness in allowing me to see his creation firsthand, and furthermore, the availability of a cheap, single-use submersible camera which, back in 1997, was purchased for just AU$10 at a kiosk onboard the Cairns-Port Douglas catamaran.

At the same time, I was invited by a long-standing church friend of forty years, who is now in his seventies. He asked me if I would like to accompany him for a walk in the pine forest, just across the main road from where I live. During our walk, I would say, for the better part of an hour, our talk included our world travel tales.

He travelled further than I did, as his story included a working trip to South Africa and entry into New Zealand, the one pair of islands I couldn't reach on my 1997 RTW trip due to both insufficient funds and the shortage of time. His visit to Australia took in Perth, on the West Coast, Sydney, on the Pacific Coast, and the Great Barrier Reef of Queensland's glory. However, unlike me who travelled alone, his trip to Australia was with his wife to meet with one of his family members who, I believe, lives there permanently.

Like me, he too swam or snorkelled at the Reef, although at a different site from where I snorkelled. He wore a full wetsuit during his dive, as he admitted his awareness of the presence of "stingers." I knew that he was referring to the lethal and dreaded Box Jellyfish or Sea Wasp.

When I visited the Reef in 1997, it was in the weeks between late May and June, their "winter" - although the weather was certainly hot and dry. The Sea Wasp is, fortunately, a short-lived seasonal marine creature, spawning in November and dying around April, that is, during their summer. Therefore, unlike my friend who had to wear a full-body wetsuit, I was able to snorkel in just shorts and a shirt, the latter to lessen the chance of sunburn on my back as I checked out the corals directly beneath. The fact that I already knew of the stinger's demise was due to a study I made at a Cairns backpacker's hostel, where I was staying before moving on, before boarding the catamaran.

Although picture postcards of the Great Barrier Reef, along with books, magazines and television documentaries, always showing the submerged biosystem in bright colours and in crystal-clear waters, giving the impression of an underwater paradise. However, when I was there, the water was always slightly cloudy, hence my own photography doesn't quite match those from the pro's camera. And it was anything but an underwater paradise! At night, any coral polyps too close to their neighbour tend to fight over territory rights. Also at night, sharks can locate small fish hiding in rock crevices and pry them out. Other fish guard their territories whilst some preditors swarm the reef, looking for a meal. Other potential prey stays on constant guard or has developed incredible body defences. Meanwhile, the majority of both fertilized coral and fish eggs floating in the currents, along with their hatchlings, will eventually be eaten.

I have wondered what a coral reef might have looked like under a primaeval ocean surface before the Fall, assuming that, like all life on the planet, such a biosystem was created "with the appearance of age" - very much like Adam and Eve were, who looked to be in their mid-twenties or even in their early thirties to the observer, when in reality, they were only a few days old. Such a reef must have been a beautiful paradise, an incredible delight to the eye.

And for other natural beauty that I had seen with my own eyes, such powers of nature such as the trail winding through the rainforest - with its spectacular waterfalls- of the Blue Mountains National Park near Sydney, the sleeping crater of Mt Vesuvio, the active crater of Mt Etna, the thundering Niagara Falls, the Colorado River flowing through the majestic Grand Canyon, the Mangroves thriving in saltwater, a beautiful array of Traveller's Palms sprouting fan-like leaves, a mountain stream flowing from the Alps, the terrific display of stars with the Milky Way streaking across a clear tropical night sky...

 

Aso here in the United Kindom, I have always been enthralled at the Jurassic Coast Path, together with the mountainous landscapes of the Lake District National Park, and in Scotland, Loch Ness, and further north, the dramatic beauty of the vertical cliff walls of the narrow canyons, along with the sandstone stacks of Duncansby Head, all within easy reach of John O'Groats.

The lethal Box Jellyfish or Sea Wasp.

Indeed, it's through the mercy of God that after the Edenic Curse, God retained much of the natural beauty we see around us, allowing us to glorify our Creator and to thank Him for his goodness and mercy. Furthermore, I can't help but give thanks to my Redeemer for allowing me the pleasures of travel and the opportunities to see all these locations first-hand. Indeed, such was the privilege!

As such, that one Facebook picture opened wonderful memories.

While my friend and I carried on talking, it became apparent just where our focuses lay. He was more into political, cultural and current affairs both at home and overseas. He was also into the business world, as in his heyday, he ran two private enterprises. One was an agency to help young graduates find the right start in their professional careers. At the same time, he also opened The Good Book Shop, a retail outlet in the town centre specialising in Bibles and other Christian literature. 

By contrast, I am more into natural beauty and dynamism.

He was sharing with me his experience of life in apartheid South Africa before the days of Nelson Mandela and his ilk. The severance between white and non-white was so serious, that even the public conveniences had both exclusively white and non-white use, with separate entrances and rooms. He even described a footbridge crossing over a railway track. The bridge, so he tells me, had a dividing fence running along the middle. One lane was for the whites, the other for blacks.

 

The conversation had revealed such a beautiful world spoilt by the entry of sin, and the Curse, which not only turned vegetarians in the animal kingdom into carnivores but also brought in hate and division into human society, the division between races which not only blighted the history of the Deep South of the New World with negro slavery but also resulted in Apartheid in South Africa - a shocking spectacle which my friend saw and experienced first hand.

And the worst thing was - that both groups believed that both slavery and social segregation were ordained by God. Indeed, the atonement made by Jesus Christ on the cross was robbed of all its potential. For the Cross not only had slain the old man but had reconciled the new man to God and to each other, so Paul was able to write:

There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for you are all one in Christ Jesus. Galatians 3:28.

Therefore, when my friend testified about an all-white church youth group excluding all coloured people. This came as a shocking surprise to hear about. This is what I don't understand: How could a church - any church - profess to acknowledge the truth of the Bible and yet exclude by force anyone whose skin colour isn't approved?

As I read in an article in yesterday's Daily Mail online, Janet Street-Porter writes that the joys of travel seemed to have vanished with this Covid pandemic. She believes that the old bulldog spirit had evaporated and the nation had turned cowardly, with most of us too scared to leave our homes.

No other article had received such a huge number of hostile comments in the forum beneath it!

Perhaps they were all correct in their hostility. If I had my way, I'll be heading for the airport tomorrow. But as one married to my beloved who is partially disabled and in need of a wheelchair - plus - the rules for wearing masks, the need to take a Covid test, maybe more than one test, the need to quarantine at a hotel, long, stationary queues at border control - NO THANK YOU! Yes, the joys of travel have evaporated - but this, to me, didn't start with the pandemic.

It began nearly twenty years earlier.

In 2001, actually. In this case, Tuesday, September 11th. It's better known as the 9/11 attack. I remember that day. Alex and our baby daughter were at home. I was out on my job cleaning windows. Then my attention was turned to the customer whose windows I was cleaning. I watched on the news the World Trade Center in New York City - the roof of one of its towers that I stood upon in 1978, admiring the panorama of the city with the Empire State Building at the opposite end - was going up in a black column of smoke. The tower then went down in a mountainous pile of smoke, dust and rubble. The very building I stood on almost exactly 23 years earlier! 

The 9/11 Disaster.

It's my belief that it was this which changed the joys of travel forever. For example, before 9/11, I was able to head for the airport, check-in, board the 'plane and fly across the Atlantic whenever I felt inclined, thanks to the Visa Waiver Scheme agreed by our PM Margaret Thatcher and then-President Ronald Reagan. Travelling to the States was as easy as taking a ferry to France, and I took full advantage. But now, if I want to fly to the USA, I would need to get an ESTA document (Electronic System for Travel Authorisation) something not much different from the old tourist visa of the 1970's nightmare of vigorous form-filling and bureaucracy.

Maybe, you can ask yourself: Supposing you were at the departure gate, waiting to board your flight. You look around among all the other passengers who will be on your 'plane. You then spot two Arabic-looking young men with their hoods up, whispering to each other. They too will be on your flight. How would you feel? Nothing more than a passing coincidence? Or would you feel your hair stand on end in terror? Would you stay quiet? Or would you inform the flight attendant that you don't feel at all comfortable sharing your flight with these men?

Yes, I think I know what I would do. Inform the flight assistant to have these men removed. If not, then for them to go through a thorough security check. And that includes stripping down to a thorough body search. And have their luggage in the hold checked, if not removed entirely.

Indeed, the joys of travel had changed. But not by the pandemic. 

Yet, I thank the Lord for allowing me the wonderful privilege to travel when the times were good. Now, I can sit back and enjoy virtual travel on YouTube, having experienced the reality of the real thing.

A Life Changing Plastic Tube...

How my heart leapt with both surprise and joy as I sat by the window of the Boeing 747 as it cruised some 40,000 feet 12,200 metres above the west coast of the Australian Cape York Peninsula which just came into view from so far down below. It was early morning of late May 1997, not long after daybreak, nearing completion of an overnight flight from Singapore, when I was surprised by the sight of thick forest way down below, covering what I originally thought would be orange tinted desert landscape of this North Queensland peninsula.

After landing at Cairns Airport and passing through Passport control, the first task was to exchange a US dollar Travellers Cheque into Australian currency. With such a purpose-built kiosk near the exit, I was impressed with the pile of banknotes I had in my hand for the first time in my life. They were of thin plastic rather than paper, waterproof, and very much the same as our present UK fivers and tenners, both so recently introduced. It seemed a long time for the UK to learn a thing or two from Down Under, as their plastic currency was in full circulation more than twenty years earlier.

I was alone outside the airport under hot, dry sunshine when a taxi arrived, as it does automatically every twenty minutes, regardless whether there is anyone waiting. When the driver asked me where I wanted to go, I asked about an HI backpacker's hostel which I have read about before take off in London. Presently, the cab stopped and the driver pointed his finger about a hundred metres down the street.

"Do you see that building down there?" He asked in a typical Australian drawl.

"Yes," was my monosyllabic reply.

"That's the hostel."

As I sauntered along the tropical Pacific coastline, I thought about dear Mum, sounding rather exasperated at the time, asking me why I had to travel such great distances. Then a good friend at church, also with a level of concern, suggesting that I should stay with an Australian family he knew of. I assured them both that if I managed quite well in both Israel and North America, then why not in Australia too? To boot, it is one of the British Commonwealth nations with English as its primary language. I then arrived at the hostel, perhaps feeling uncertain about the outcome, as this was another example of my "off-the-street" hotel and hostel experience. I was happy to be told of a bed readily available in the men's dormitory, and I checked in.

There was only one sole occupant still asleep in the dormitory as I prepared the bed. It wan't until a member of staff spoke softly to him that I realised that here was a fellow backpacker struck down with a fever, forcing him to remain confined to his bed throughout the next two or three days, which was just a few feet away from where I would sleep.

I sauntered into the town of Cairns, and rested under a palm tree in a central public garden. If I recall, my eyes were swimming with mild dizziness as I checked out the town and approached the garden. In next to no time I was sleeping soundly, probably snoring too, according to what others said to me in the past, as I caught up with a sleepless night spent in a 'plane, flying 40,000 feet above Oceania after spending five days in Singapore.

It wasn't long before I became aware of the presence of the Great Barrier Reef just off the Queensland coast. After making an enquiry, the hostel receptionist offered to book me a place on one of several catamarans which leaves Cairns Harbour every morning for day trips to the Reef. I accepted her suggestion of Green Island, a coral cay surrounded by shallow waters which makes the location suitable for beginners, as I had never snorkelled before, and this was to be my first go at it.

On board, I hired a snorkelling gear and also bought a single-use cardboard camera sealed in waterproof plastic. It was whilst at Green Island that wearing a plastic breathing tube has converted me from an apathetic into a fanatic of coral and marine life. Indeed the sea was shallow, which was just right to gain confidence with a snorkel without coaching or instruction. Snorkelling turned out to one of these iffy businesses, when water can get into the tube or into the goggles, and trigger panic. And so was at one occasion at Green Island when I had to suddenly lift my head above water. Gradually I resumed, and to regain confidence.

Green Island Coral Cay, off Cairns.

But I returned to the hostel feeling happy, very happy indeed! I was keen for more. Therefore it was a few days later that I found myself boarding the first of the two catamarans at Cairns Harbour for Port Douglas Harbour, a resort further up the heavily forested Queensland coastline, where I was to change catamarans for Low Isles, another coral cay set in deeper water, therefore making the coral larger and richer. With confidence gained, I felt far more comfortable breathing through a plastic tube as I floated horizontally above the aquatic garden. Again as with Green Island, I purchased a single-use underwater camera also for 25 Australian dollars, and with it, took more pictures of these fascinating marine life. I thought of posting a few pics here. All were taken at Low Isles coral cay:

Low Isles, Great Barrier Reef, all taken June 1997.

The first two day trips were to coral cays: Green Island and Low Isles. The third day trip to the Reef was also on a catamaran from Airlie Beach to the Whitsunday Islands. Airlie Beach is another resort about 622 km, or 386 miles further down the coast from Cairns, hence the need to stay at a hostel at that location. The hostel itself was a unique experience, rather different from any other I ever stayed at. Unlike all other backpackers who were staying there, by paying a few dollars extra, I had the entire dormitory to myself, which was housed in a separate hut from the others. Oh the bliss!

At the first attempt to reach the Whitsunday Islands, the catamaran suffered engine failure whilst still at the harbour. So that trip had to be cancelled, and I was taken back to the hostel with a promise of a free pickup on the next day. That morning I was collected personally and driven to the harbour where the repaired vessel waited.

The trip involved two islands, Whitsunday itself, with its volcanic formation involving the creation of White Beach. As its name implies, the sand on that beach was not only nearly pure white but squeaks when walked upon. After a couple of hours, we were ferried to Heron Island, of continental formation rather than a coral cay, and the coral surrounding it was known as a fringe reef. Unfortunately there was no access to an underwater camera, which was something of a shame, because these corals were even more deeper than at Low Isles, with at least one species I instantly recognised as the Brain Coral.

These three catamaran trips to the Great Barrier Reef opened a wealth of knowledge on this tropical marine life. For instance, how could a colony of tiny polyps create exoskeletons of limestone to form a reef so fantastically huge that it could be seen from space? The reef is a phenomenon! Tiny polyps, related to the jellyfish, thrive on a wide continental shelf, a one-time strip of land now submerged under a sea which is naturally deprived of nutrition. Yet roughly at the middle of the barrier reef there is a break. The East Australian ocean current flows through this gap, and then throughout the whole length of the reef, bringing in plankton from the open ocean, on which the polyps feed. Furthermore, each polyp harbours many one-cell algae, known as Zooxanthellae, which photosynthesis providing each polyp with glucose, glycerol and amino acids with which the polyp benefits, in addition to the plankton. 

To add to all that, as the sea level rises, so does the reef. Various algae binds the dead exoskeletons to form a solid wall which is slowly but constantly rising as the living polyps thrive on the upper surface.

Then there are the annual storms which destroys parts of the Outer Reef. With such frequent destruction, I can wonder how on Earth the reef could sustain such a tremendous size over time. The storms literally break off coral limestone, and the fragments accumulate on the sea floor, forming a coral wasteland, indeed, a melancholic sight to behold. However, more than 80% of the coral in that area survive the storms to see another day, whilst at the same time the entire Inner Reef with its coral cays remain protected. But in time, when polyps spore, young larvae settle on these wastelands and life begins all over again.

Then not to mention the Parrot fish, which often arrives in large shoals. These creatures eat coral by the ton. As I wonder why such creatures exist, bringing such destruction to the reef. But there is a twist to the story. Coral swallowed by the fish is defecated as sand. Storms and ocean currents gathers this sand, along with broken exoskeletons and shells, into mounds which eventually breaks the surface of the ocean. Birds bring in the seeds of plants to these mounds and by taking root, binds the sand and calcium rubble together to form permanent islands, or coral cays.

The Parrot Fish plays a role in Coral Cay formation

Much of this I learnt from the experience itself, by reading books and by watching television documentaries and videos on the subject of corals. The Great Barrier Reef was not the only reef I visited. In the year 2000, in celebrating our first anniversary, Alex and I spent the day in Eilat, at the Red Sea, where I believe that the clearer turquoise waters brought out a greater beauty and fascination of the reef thriving within the fingertip of the Indian Ocean.

What can I say but to quote this Scripture:

How many are your works, O LORD!

In wisdom you made them all; the earth is full of your creatures.

There is the sea, vast and spacious, teeming with creatures beyond number -

living things both large and small.

Psalm 104:24-25.

As I watched the programme earlier in the week, I could not help acknowledge God's handiwork as the presentation warmed the cockles of my heart in praise and thanksgiving to God, at least in my thoughts. It wasn't difficult to ignore the bits about evolution, as the meticulous structure of the Reef became obvious.

The result of Evolution? Let's go over just once again. 

1. A large underwater platform, or continental shelf, exists on which the reef flourishes.

2. Each polyp creates its own limestone exoskeleton, which over time accumulates into a reef of tremendous size. 

3. Also within each polyp, algae co-inhabits - enabling the polyp to feed on the nutrition the algae provides by means of photosynthesis. 

4. As means of good luck, there happens to be a well-placed break in the middle of the barrier wall, through which a strong ocean current brings in adequate supplies of plankton to feed the entire reef.

5. When storms destroy parts of the Outer Reef, less than 20% is actually lost. Not only does the affected parts of the reef replenishes itself, but the Inner Reef with all its cays are protected from the storms rolling in from the open ocean.

6. The Parrot Fish may look to be a scourge on the reef. But its role in creating sand allows cays to form.

7. A coral reef is one of the richest areas to sustain life, being home to a high percentage of all marine life.

The probability of all seven features evolving by pure chance and without divine intervention seems to be a mathematical impossibility. Instead, by acknowledging God as the Creator, I find all this so exhilarating to the spirit. 

What an Insult!

Browsing the Daily Mail online is something I find so relaxing after a day's work window cleaning. So it was the case when I looked through the Travel section that one article caught my attention. Under the heading: Stress and cheap travel deals are main reasons why Brits are going on more holidays...the article went on to announce that 40% of British people fly out every six months. Whew! Sometimes it's great when you work for a generous company allowing you so much paid holiday time in the year, as well as earning an income which meets those needs, on top of all the mundane day-to-day living expenses, such as groceries, fuel bills, mortgage or rental, and household utilities, not to mention both local and national income taxes. Yet these lucky 40% are a world away from one of the poverty heap who has to make a somewhat embarrassing visit to a Food Bank just to sustain himself and his family.

With the class divide so firmly entrenched in Britain, I was taken back by this comment written by a female living in Leamington Spa, which read, word for word:
I'm not a snob, but I wish the working class would holiday in Blackpool or Littlehampton where they belong and let us middle class enjoy our holidays without having to see, hear and smell the working class.

At first I thought such a comment would arouse fury, but instead I just marvelled, perhaps even feeling somewhat amused. As it stands at the moment of this typing, this comment had received 29 red arrows of disapproval, and 16 green arrows of agreement. This woman knew nothing of the meaning of Travel. But just to remind those not living in the UK, and as such, may not be so familiar with British geography, Blackpool is a brash seaside resort on the Lancastrian coast of the Irish Sea, made famous for its Autumn illuminations, while Littlehampton, far from being brash, is a quiet and sedate resort on the Sussex coast which has a very middle class feel to the town. By using these two contrasting resorts as a haunt for the crowds of loud mouthing, smelly yobs parading drunk along the promenade betrays her ignorance, not only of Travel in itself, but also of English geography.

It was obvious to her that foreign travel should be reserved for the better off, you know the sort - the man wearing a suit and tie in the office, along with the equally educated female graduate, not at all unlike those who compete in Alan Sugar's or Donald Trump's The Apprentice. Fiercely ambitious, yet remaining stoic, with an iron-like stiff upper lip, and a vast education to match, these men and women with their British Bulldog reserve are a world away from the crowd of British students in Thailand, on a gap-year, getting utterly sloshed on cheap booze and drugs while frolicking on the beach, with sex thrown in. Somehow I find it difficult to believe that the fun-addicted student staying at a backpacker's hostel in the far East, stoned out of his wits on alcohol and cocaine as he attempts to seduce a young woman - will be the same serious businessman walking along Waterloo Bridge spanning across the River Thames in London, while dressed immaculately in a suit, kept dry from the drizzle by the umbrella held aloft. As he enters through the doors of the shimmering glass office block, it will never enter his mind that the very office building he is so proud to earn his keep was constructed by the "smelly working class."

The Gherkin is one of many office buildings in London.

Yes, the same "smelly working classes" not only built the shimmering office block, but had also constructed the roads and walkways leading up to it, along with the rail tracks on which his train ran, maintained and kept in order by these same "base" men. If at home, the water mains happen to burst in the freezing Winter, he is not going to call a fellow office colleague, but a plumber dressed in a greasy boiler suit. As he looks around, everything he sees, which has made his day to day living so much more convenient, were built or laid down by the "smelly working classes" who would not want to be seen sunbathing next to him under the warm sun at a beach on the Greek island of Rhodes or Crete, or for that matter, at the Indian Ocean islands of the Seychelles.

I, for one, am not ashamed to call myself a window cleaner, and as working class as I can get. When I first began cleaning windows in 1980, I asked my father whether I was a businessman, as back then,  as now, have always been self employed. His reply, quite correctly, was that I could not be classed as a businessman, as such a profession fulfilled a very different role to what I was doing. In other words, I was not in the same category as a bloke in a suit sitting at a desk. However, there was nothing in my line of work to be ashamed about. Rather, into the 1990s, I began to work extra harder, saved up harder, and started long-haul travel for myself, beginning with Israel in 1993.

Far from drunken frolicking on the beach, rather I was soaking in the ancient history and modern Jerusalem alike, checking out all the archaeology, as well as admiring the Medieval architecture of churches, and walking through the narrow, roofed souq with the pungent fragrances of spices and mint. Even the tiny backpacker's hostel I stayed in had a Medieval domed ceiling, and it was located at the heart of the Old City. To the east, the Mount of Olives overlooks the whole urban area, and I felt such a privilege to witness the very site where  the resurrected Jesus was lifted to Heaven and, sometime in the future, will return to that very spot, rather dramatically, as his arrival will cause the mount to split into two, according to Zechariah 14:3-5.

Hosteling can be a fantastic experience without the need of hedonism or excess alcohol. While staying at the hostel in Jerusalem, another backpacker from South Africa and I started talking, and eventually asked me why I was in Israel. I explained to him how close to Jesus I felt as I walked the same streets he walked, see the same sites as narrated in the Bible, and to pray over the city from the Mount of Olives. I then explained the Gospel to him, and he asked me questions. Although this grew into a discussion meant to be between my new friend and myself, when I looked up, there were three or four other faces looking straight at me and apparently listened into our conversation. Then at another time, still at the same venue, there was this Irish builder who had just completed a year's contract in Israel, and was spending a few days bumming around before flying back home. The friendly banter over breakfast between myself and the builder must have lasted a better part of an hour, but there again, I was in no hurry to leave, neither was he.

Then not to mention other places visited, such as Singapore, and particularly Sentosa Island, with its superb sandy beach, lined with palm trees which marked the edge of beautiful tropical gardens. These in themselves were a joy to wander through, without losing sight of the giant Merlion which dominated the whole island. Sentosa Island also boasted a superb outdoor water theme park with slides and other fun features, such as the Lazy River, where the provision of an inflated ring for reclining makes superb scenic relaxation as it drifted slowly, winding through lush tropical vegetation flourishing on both sides of the river. Who says we as believers in Christ cannot have some fun?

Then Australia, with the Great Barrier Reef! Did I spend my time there getting sloshed with alcohol? Rather, exploring the Great Barrier Reef using snorkel gear was an eye-opener. Imagine my fascination and joy as I stood on a small beach of coarse sand and broken seashells which surrounded Green Island coral cay, and then the even lusher Low Island coral cay with its rich reef surrounding the tiny speck of land in the ocean, with beautifully coloured Surgeon Fish and the striped Zebra Fish swimming peacefully near us, totally unperturbed by our presence. Then the Sydney Opera House, in which I bought a ticket to watch and listen to a classical piece - the skill needed for composition of the music earned a standing ovation even from myself, a smelly working class window cleaner, seen inside an opera house rather than at a nightclub or bar slowly becoming fizzled with alcohol.

Then I must mention the United States. Backpacking there was also great, if the humdrum of modern city after modern city can be absorbed without the tediousness of it all. Downtown New York City provided free education at a museum close to the New York Stock Exchange. In here I learnt of how New York was the original capital city of the USA before being transferred to Philadelphia, then to Washington D.C. as it stands today. Then not to mention the 630 foot high steel arch which dominates St. Louis in Missouri. This monument marks the Gateway to the West, commemorating the western expansion of the United States from the Mississippi River, which in a geographical sense, splits the whole nation into two distinct halves. Then how can I not travel across America without visiting - and hiking - the Grand Canyon of the Colorado River? This two-day trek along the Bright Angel Trail allowed me to take a closer look at the different coloured layers of sedimentary rock which erosion over time formed the pinnacles of Buddha, Zoroaster and Isis Buttes, along with Pharaoh's Pyramid, and the spectacular view of Battleship Rock set almost right above the trail. I then spent the night at a spot close to where the Bright Angel Creek joins the main Colorado River, under a dome of brilliant stars filling the sky to a level I have never observed over the UK.

The Gateway Arch, St.Luis, Missouri

Such was the experience of an unmarried working class window cleaner out on a long-haul backpacking trip. If I had an odour, then nobody told me about it, to make me aware of the smell, particularly on any of the overnight rides on the Greyhound Bus, where the passenger sitting right next to me would have suffered most. After marriage, I took my wife to Kos, Rhodes, Israel, Sicily, Malta and Lanzarote. Not so much as independent backpacking as package holidays designed for families, but as a couple we did backpack Israel in the year 2000.

So what does all this mean? The comment written by this female was published on the Internet worldwide which gives a bad impression of the working class as only flying to the sunshine abroad for a grand booze up. Okay, much of that is true. Ibiza in the Mediterranean is a hotspot for both working and middle class revellers, their social distinctions becoming blurred with the alcohol. But let us not generalise all working class holidaymakers as boozers and beach revellers while the middle class are all on educational tours. All that is pure tosh! If anything, the drunken revellers and beach frolickers on the shores of Thailand are more than likely to be university students out on a gap year, a bit of relief after remaining closeted in educational institutes for much of their lives. But to believe that foreign travel should be reserves for the middle classes only, would put the culture of Britain back by at least fifty years.

Vagabond!

Sitting at the cafeteria at Coral Reef Water World, close to my home, I was at a state of half-slumber after a gym workout and sauna session. Then I suddenly perked up, as if someone had tapped me on the back of the head.
In sauntered one off-duty staff member, who made his way to the buffet to queue up with the other customers for some refreshments.
This bodybuilder actually worked in the kitchen of the very buffet he was waiting at. In a few years he could have a superb, Truly-Ripped physique, if he steers his weight training gym workouts in the right direction alongside a proper, high protein diet.
My emotion started to rise. As I put out my hand to reach his, he took it, and I held it tightly. After a short conversation, all I could say was,
I've been to Santa Monica as well.
For instead of the characteristic blue uniform which distinguishes every Coral Reef staff from the public, he sauntered in wearing a black tee shirt with the lettering blazing across his chest:
SANTA MONICA.

Santa Monica

Why the emotion? Because seeing his tee shirt image brought back memories of this Californian resort which is actually a district of Los Angeles.
There were questions I would have wanted to ask this guy. Did he go as a backpacker? If so, did he stay at the superb H.I. Santa Monica Backpackers Hostel on 2nd Street, close to the famous pier? The same place where I stayed in 1995 and 1997? Did he stroll though 3rd Street Parade, a traffic-free avenue with bushes trimmed to look like Dinosaurs proudly showing off to the crowds? And did he wander through the excellent indoor shopping mall with a wide choice of attractive eateries? And did he stroll to the end of the pier to watch the sunset while the gulls encircle the air above, and then occasionally perch on one of the safety barrier posts, along with a pelican on another? How I would have loved to hear his stories.
But the more I got to know this fellow, the less convinced that he had ever set foot on the Californian coastline. As many of these working men, as opposed to gap-year students, he would have much preferred to fly out for a break in such places as Iberia with a group of mates to what really amount to a glorified boozing session. And the tee-shirt? Either somebody else brought it back as a present, or it was bought at a fashion boutique in the West End or even at a nearby town of Reading.
And that's what seem to be the experience I have seen of Britons traveling overseas. In groups. And booze, plenty of it. I'm not talking about escorted tours here. Rather, I'm referring to an informal group of mates flying out to have a good time. In a group, each feels safe in the company of others. Whether someone falls ill, or drank too much and is sick on the sidewalk, or has picked up a bug from the hotel pool, or suffered a bout of diarrhea, or for that matter had his wallet or bank cards pick-pocketed, in a group there is that assuring feeling that with such support, a crisis overseas is minimal and one can ride it much better in company.
It is very different to what I call travel.
When I say travel, I mean TRAVEL!
One term I came across while browsing an American website, was the word vagabond. It simply means to travel aimlessly, without too much planning, or even no planning at all. It describes a lone backpacker. A lone backpacker is vulnerable to anything that goes amiss. There is no support from others. Just a piece of paper called an insurance policy making him believe that he has peace of mind.
If you click on this page, December 2010, one of my articles, on being single, describes some of my experiences as a "vagabond", along with a later article, Jerusalem which detail some extraordinary experiences as a lone backpacker in the Middle East.
But this sort of travel does carry risks which are not felt so badly by those who travel in a group, whether escorted or informal. These are my experiences:
1976 - Catching a bug while in Israel. I was down with a fever for three days in bed at a home of an Arab family who offered hospitality.
1981 - Having all my travelers cheques pick-pocketed while standing in a packed train on route to Florence from Pisa. When I arrived at Florence, I came across this pensione, a hotel with shared, dormitory-style bedrooms. There was a bed available and I took it. Later that day I noticed all my money gone, and it could not have happened on the worse moment, Friday evening, after all the banks closed for the weekend. So instead of "living it up" in this artistic city, I spent more than an hour feeling very foolish at a police waiting room to register the loss, a necessity before I would be eligible for a refund from the bank.

Florence, Italy

When I told the hotel proprietor of my plight, she was kind enough to give me a panettino for prima colazione, at a hotel which don't normally serve breakfast to its guests, and she gave me a few lire to buy something to eat during the day. Such was a weekend which I had absolutely nothing to live on until the Monday, when I had the bank refund, after which together with the hotel tariff, I had to pay for the bread and repay the loan. Was I pleased to board the train for Viareggio, a random stop on the west coast of Italy.
1995 - I would think that booking a hostel in New York City would have been easy-peasy. After all, it was September, the kids were back at school, the students had returned home. So after being told over the phone that there were no places left, after arriving in New York, I went from one hostel to another, until I came across this seedy hotel on 8th Avenue and West 52nd Street. I had already knew of this hotel, I had spent a night there soon after landing at J.F.K. Airport that evening in 1978, after a good search around.
As before, I looked out across the avenue at a deli, closed for the night, as I was unable to sleep at one in the morning. Outside, a group of young Afro-Caribbeans were having a brawl, their loud voices carried through the street. In my room, the floor was populated with cockroaches scurrying across and under the bed.
Yet I was happy. Another adventure as a vagabond was about to begin, including sleeping at the Huckleberry Hostel in the suburb of St Louis, Missouri, where there were dead 'roaches in the food pigeonholes and a live mouse scurrying across the kitchen. And yet I made friends with someone who gave me a spare Greyhound map of the USA.
It was that same hostel which had toilet cubicles fronted by those Old West Saloon double swing doors. So the embarrassment I felt answering a call of nature and risking having other people looking straight in!!! Door-less loo cubicles I also came across in the San Diego area. Maybe the discomfort I felt in using them shows that I'm very British after all.
And the year 2000. That's when Alex, my wife and I decided to celebrate our first wedding anniversary by doing perhaps the last backpacking holiday in Israel. She was 18 weeks pregnant with our first daughter Rosina when we touched down at Lod Airport. Two days later, we began to make a bus journey from Tiberias to Haifa, then on to our hotel in Ishfya, some miles away on top of the Mt Carmel ridge, which separated the port of Haifa from the Mediterranean coastline.

My wife at Eilat, Israel

What I didn't realise as we arrived at the bus depot in Haifa was that the Rosh HaShannah or the Jewish New Year was about to start, and with just about the whole of Israel shutting down, the city was like a ghost town. The only form of transport still running were taxis.
As if to echo Florence of 1981, we were absolutely penny-less. But this time not as a victim of a pickpocket, but from my own lack of foresight to visit a bank while we still had the chance. Stuck with a wedge of useless travel cheques, Alex and I made our way across the city, and began the long ascent up the stairs passing through narrow alleyways as we slowly made it to the summit of Mount Carmel, allowing us a terrific view of the coastline below us. But with heavy rucksacks and an unborn child to boot, we made our way along the road which was meant to take us to Ishfya, eventually.
When we realised we still had a long way to go, we sat on a roadside bench, my face in my hands, in despair. Not so much for myself, since I had spent many nights away from home under the stars. But I was concerned for my wife and her condition.
Soon a taxi pulled up in front of us and the driver leaned out and asked in English where we want to go.
"To Stella Carmel in Ishfya! But we have no money on us whatsoever!"
"Get in!" The driver ordered as he got out to open the trunk to accommodate our luggage.
Inside the car, the driver actually gave us ten shekels! He then explained that he pastored a church nearby, and could not pass by two stranded travelers without lending a hand.
Backpacking. There is something about it which no group travel can match.
There are highlights in the experience, like from the bottom of the Grand Canyon in Arizona, after a day's hiking, looking up at the magnificent display of stars in the clear night sky, seeing thousands of stars I was never able to see from above the UK! Or likewise in Australia, looking up at the Southern Cross, directly overhead. And snorkeling above the corals of the Great Barrier Reef. But the most astonishing moment was in 1997, when the Greyhound bus I was on took a service stop between Townsville and Cannonvale, on the East Australian Pacific Highway linking Cairns with Brisbane and Sydney. As I sat alone at a table at the cafeteria, another bus pulled in for the same reason, and its passengers lined up at the buffet counter. Presently, while meditating, a voice calls out:
"FRANK!"
I looked up. I was alone, over 10,000 miles from home. Nobody knew me here. As such, I did not recognise the stranger standing right next to me.
"Yes, I'm Frank, but who are you?"
"You don't remember? I gave you the spare map of the USA in St Louise two years ago. Remember? That dingy hostel?
Yes, I remember that well. Backpacking - or Vagabond. With all its high points, it is an unforgettable experience.
But it's coping with the low points which turns travel into a real, true-to-life adventure.
Oh well, I guess it's off to the boozer...