PREFACE AND INTRODUCTION - SYDNEY

PREFACE

I have been reliably informed by my parents that back in their day there was no such thing as a 'gap year'. But then, back in their day there was no such thing as the internet, inflatable furniture or rotating washing lines. Do we really want to go back to such a primitive age? In fact, when they were growing up smoking was being promoted as 'good for your health' and doctors actively encouraged parents to feed their new-born children whiskey in order to help them sleep. Of course though, the damage caused by this is laughable compared to the sinful delaying tactics used by gap year students in order to try and avoid the inevitable, harsh realities proposed by the working world. Perhaps they are right - after all, as a very wise man once said "the youth of today now love luxury; they have bad manners, contempt for authority; they allow disrespect for elders and love chatter in place of exercise. They now are tyrants." And who was this wise man? The great Socrates in 400BC. My point is that the youth generation have always been criticized for the changes they make to society and gap years are merely the latest victim. Unfortunately, the term is used so loosely that its merits will always be up for debate and I doubt whether a universal conclusion will ever be reached. Are they a waste of time or do they provide an essential tool in young adult development? For me it was definitely the latter as I did not see it as an excuse to avoid work but instead a rare opportunity experience a diverse culture, enjoy a proud heritage and search for acceptance. But I am not here to preach - I am here to tell you about my adventure and then hopefully you can make your own mind up. This is Bonza Voyage - the story of my gap year in Australia.

INTRODUCTION

Why do they call it 'culture shock'? You see, to me this seems to suggest that upon contracting it you will cower in the nearest corner, grab your ears for dear life and then rock uncontrollably back and forth. As I stood in the centre of Sydney on this first night though, nothing dramatic like that really happened. It was unfamiliar of course, but this was just a minor concern compared to my overpowering sense of excitement. I was a 19 year old, as far away from my family and friends as is physically possible with the exception of New Zealand or The Moon. That thought alone should have been enough to shock me, but I suppose naivety has its advantages after all. Even at this early stage though, it hadn’t been a completely easy ride. In fact, as the flight began its descent towards the antipodean tarmac, I positively hated the place. The reason for this was twofold: firstly, upon seeing the seatbelt sign illuminate each of the air stewards on the flight suspiciously made their way to a room at the back of the aircraft. Not only was this slightly disconcerting, but they very rudely evaded my enquiry concerning the possibility of acquiring another glass of ale. To the shock of the passengers surrounding me, they then emerged wearing what can I only be described as primitive, fabric gas masks – but gas masks nonetheless – and armed to the teeth with canisters of a somewhat sinister looking substance. Now, I am no flying expert but this twist was slightly unexpected to say the least. I mean, I knew I was a quite sweaty but taking industrial action against me seemed a little extreme. After all, I had been under the impression that the seatbelt sign was a safety measure designed for your own well being, not a devilishly, sophisticated snare to restrict tourists’ protests as they were disinfected against their will. The steward’s claim that the gas was ‘in no way dangerous’ seemed ever so slightly ironic coming from a man wearing a highly cautious and protective mask. It’s like a man in a space suit bearing a skull-and-crossbones badge dunking a uranium rod in your tea and telling you to drink up before it gets cold. So I was angry at Australia for this and we hadn’t even touched ground yet. Nevertheless, being a calm sort of person and since the on-board entertainment had been turned off, I tried to distract my attention and duly reached into my bag for some light reading. Prior to departure my mother had collected a couple of newspaper cuttings concerning Australia she thought I might find interesting. Now, if you can, please try to imagine my expression when, coughing violently having just been sprayed by some kind of mystery potion I read the headline ‘Croc show’s off man’s body to friends’. Basically I had flown twenty-six hours to a country where they clean you up like a salad before throwing you to a very cruel death. What a marvellous place......

.......Having arrived at our sixty-eighth pedestrian crossing, I was feeling more than confident about my traffic dodging capabilities and majestically swept between a Mercedes and white taxi without breaking sweat. On this occasion though, this feeling of success was short lived for above my head, I suddenly heard a loud ‘whooshing’ noise. I couldn’t tell what exactly it was - but it was obviously moving towards me at very high speed as the ground beneath my feet began to vibrate. I tilted my head very cautiously, but at exactly the wrong moment and duly received a face full of ice cold, muddy water. This was my introduction to The Sydney Monorail - the flying car that explores the city at a leisurely pace and, when it’s been raining, flushes gallons of water off its tracks onto unsuspecting victims. An event so hilariously unsubtle in its execution, it caused a homeless man to stop playing his recorder in order to have a quick chuckle at my misfortune. He soon realized however that we may be a good source of potential income so got straight back to playing his instrument in attempt to woo us with his charm. The wretched sound was simply awful. Next to him though, there was a sign next to him saying ‘At least I’m giving it go!’ That alone was worth fifty cents for its comedy value, although I would immediately regret the decision as this provided him with far more enthusiasm and, as a result, volume.

We rounded another stone pillar, hopeful that it would prove to be our final obstruction. It was. I was now standing in a glorious postcard facing a remarkable scene that every human recognises, but very few had actually experienced in the flesh. Like meeting a famous person, I felt so strangely familiar with the situation yet curiously lost. Lost for words certainly, as I stood back and absorbed the immense magnitude of the view in front of my eyes. Is it the finest known to man? It is undoubtedly spectacular and truly ranks highly in the ‘breathtaking’ awards. The date was January 27^th and it suddenly hit me that I was standing in the exact sport where Australian civilization began some 226 years and 1 day ago. Of course Port Jackson has changed a lot since then and it was hard to imagine how it would’ve looked for the 750 or so prisoners as they jumped off their lime infested boat. I imagine if Britain were to send another ship full of convicts now, they would simply dance as they realized what fate had so kindly dished out to them. I was standing in Circular Quay surrounded by lively street bars and restaurants, looking at Sydney Opera House and The Harbour Bridge lighting up the night sky in all their angelic glory. With the exception of riding across the outback on a kangaroo whilst wearing a large cork hat and drinking a schooner of 'Fosters', it there anything that says 'I'm in Australia!' more? Not as far as I’m concerned and at that moment it hit me, I had done it, it had begun, I had made it to Australia.