Smile, You’re in Singapore Baby!

So I finally got myself out of Australia, slightly behind schedule, but then again, I didn’t really have a schedule anyway.  I wasn’t planning on staying more than a week or two, but the plentiful selection of superb rock, not to mention an incredible friendly and social climbing scene, made it hard to leave.  I’m already close to three months in and I’m just stepping foot in Southeast Asia (SEA) so there’s no way I can see all the places I was hoping to, but that’s alright.

We got hit with a bit of weather while I was in the Blue Mountains, my last several days in Australia were cold and wet.  It made for a real shock when I stepped off the plane in Singapore, just shy of midnight, into the thick steamy hot night air. Not near as much of a shock, however, as being back in an eastern culture.  Singapore is fairly westernized, relatively speaking, but I got lulled into a false sense of security having been traveling for three months yet still in English speaking societies with our western ways.  I forgot about the swindling, the bargaining, the Touts trying to get you on their bus/taxi/tour; I forgot that I’m now spotted as a tourist from across the room, long before I even open my mouth.

My first hurdle was getting a bus into eastern Singapore in the middle of the night.  I found the bus stop alright, after working my way through the maze of the Singapore airport, but I had read about how they use an electronic card to pay for bus and subway and I couldn’t find a station to get one.  They had an automated station to put more money on my card, but it doesn’t do a lot of good if you don’t already have one.  I worked my way back to a little food shop, figuring if they sold phone cards they’d probably have bus cards too.  No luck, and oh yeah, I forgot that not everyone here speaks English.  Unable to get any advice from the store worker I wandered around until I found a tourist information stand – they even had Hawaiian shirts and disposable cameras for sale incase you didn’t feel you were fully representing your inner tourist. I learned that Singapore cares so much about allowing you to express your touristic nature that they allow you to pay with coins on the bus, while everyone with their EZ card stares at you and then their watch, to let you know they’re in a hurry.  I quickly put two and two together, and headed back to the food shop next to the bus stop, put there so that tourists such as myself can buy something to get change for the $50 bills from the ATM. I picked out some 90 cent candy and really should have had the foresight, based on how this has gone so far, to expect that Singapore would have two dollar bills.  I explained that I needed change for a $2 bill for the bus, and the aforementioned shop worker told me in perfect English “Yes, you’ll need change to get on the bus”.  Thanks buddy.

My guesthouse was on the outskirts of town; a common form of SEA hostel where they line the hallways leading to the private rooms with bunkbeds.  Fine for a nights rest if you don’t mind lack a complete of privacy. The next morning I got vague directions on how to get into town – the number 12 bus should take me straight into Chinatown, in the heart of downtown Singapore.  It wasn’t until I sat on the bus and watched countless buildings and mini-malls go by that looked rather ‘Chinese’ that I realized I was in a heavily Chinese country expecting to know when to get off the bus by seeing Chinese architecture.  I took a gamble and jumped off at a busy looking intersection, complete with the red decorated lanterns strung across the street.  Five miles and several hunches later I arrived by foot into downtown Singapore.

I’ve heard the stories that everyone does about unparalleled cleanliness of Singapore. The stories of somebody’s brother’s uncle’s cousin’s roommate who spit in the street, or lit up a cigarette and the locals just about hung him until the cops showed up and saved him by just throwing him in jail.  Yeah well, I’m hear to put an end to that rumor. Singapore has all the trash, cigarette butts, dilapidated buildings, homeless, beggars, and thieves of any other city I’ve been to.  For a major city, sure it’s clean.  For a metropolis in SEA, yeah ok, it’s really clean.  But I’m still not going to eat off the sidewalk there.

So in the end Singapore is another major city.  It was fun to see, it’s easy to get around, there’s just about any food, electronic, or useless novelty you could want at your disposal.  By far the most interesting part of the city was simply the people.  The talkative shop owners that seem almost more concerned about showing off their English than making a sale, the confused locals that weren’t sure why the pale guy with the beard wasn’t eating with the other tourists in the expensive part of town, and of course – my favorite –  Asian tourists that must have their picture taken in front of absolutely everything.

Another favorite of mine was their love for catch phrases.  You know those T-shirt with a saying printed in large letters across the front.  The ones that may be kinda witty the first time, lackluster by the second time you see it, and by the third it’s just plain revolting?  Yeah, those – well the Singaporean actually use them in speech. “I is too kew-er (cool) for skew-er (school)”  one told me  …sure you are buddy.   I was walking through the night bazaar in China Town, a typical nighttime market where the streets are lined with booths selling knick knacks and tourist apparel, but with the Asian flare.  By that I mean the Touts that stand outside every booth, restaurant, and massage parlor trying to lure you in and convince you that their trinket/food/foot-rub is better then the five shops next-door selling the identical thing.  Once you learn to to use the Jedi force and repel these obnoxious salesmen with a curt twitch ‘no’ of the head they’re really quite amusing.

Two Chinese tourists were trying to get a photo of themselves in front of what looked to me a stereotypical Chinese building – go figure.  They were looking around for someone to help, saw my dSLR camera around my neck and figured I’d be a good bet at knowing how to operate their Nikon.  I got them into pose, pantomiming directions to get them to stand in front of a nasty fluorescent light in the background, checked my viewfinder one last time and found a nicely setup picture with two of the most non-photogenic deadpan expressions I’ve ever seen.  I think most kids look more lively while taking the SAT.  To try to salvage the shot I screamed at them “Smile!  You’re in Singapore Baby!”.  They crack a bit of a grin that turned into a full tooth smile as one of the Touts behind me started parroting me with mirth.  He was like a child with a new toy, he couldn’t contain himself.  By the time I handed back the camera he was jumping in the faces of passersbyes screaming “Smile, You’re In Singapore Baby!” in an Asian accent. It was fantastic.  If anybody happens to head to Singapore in the next year please let me know if you see it on a T-shirt, I want my royalties.

Never Trust a Skinny Chef

I was scurrying back to my hostel in Sydney to grab my luggage, print out my boarding pass, and head to the airport, so I swung through one of these roadside multinational fast food joints that offer everything from burgers to tibuli kebabs. They had a bunch of pies on display that they sell by the slice, and I eyed a tasty looking wedge loaded with meats, vegetables, chilies and just about anything else you could want on a pizza.  The sign next to it said Fatt Ma’s Special…  I figured how can you go wrong with that.  Someone secure enough to call herself Fatt Ma must know what she’s talking about when it comes to loaded toppings.  The lady I assumed to be Ma was standing behind the counter looking well fed, but not exactly what I would call fat.  I smiled, pointed at the pie, and said “I’ll take a slice of the Fatt Ma’s Special please”, in what I’m sure was detectable American English.  Ma looked at me, looked at the pizza, back at me – dismay, and back at the pizza.  She then informed me, in a restrained politeness, that I believe I’m looking for a slice of her daughter’s favorite pizza – her daughter Fatima.  Sure enough, that second T wasn’t a T at all, but a roman I with the brackets on top and bottom.  It’s a damn good thing I’m getting out of the country, Fatt Ma looks like the type that would track a bloke down and demand retributions.

I’m heading to the airport, finally dragging myself out of Australia after close to two months.  So much for my planned 1-2 week stay.  I know I’m long past due to update on what I’ve been doing out here for the past 6 weeks…  and I’m, um, getting to.  Perhaps the 8 hour flight to Singapore will give me time to catch up.  Or maybe I’ll just play Tetris on the inflight entertainment console.

Happy Mother’s Day

It’s the cultural differences that makes traveling abroad exciting. From the exotic foods foreign to your palate to the innocent faux pas – like sticking your thumb out to hitchhike in Greece – getting out of your element is both fun and necessarily awkward. The Ozzies have no shortage of opportunity to embarrass, even for a culture so Western.

The groceries are not allowed to directly sell alcohol here, so every grocery has a ‘separate’ liquor store on the side with doors leading to both on the outside and inside the store. The door leading into the grocery isn’t so much a door as it is a wide passage, leading one to assume that you simply grab your alcohol, finish your shopping, and checkout in one go. The grocery checkout assumes you paid for your alcohol before entering the not-so-well-delineated food section of the store, so one can just walk through with their now stolen alcohol completely unaware. It seems the only people who are paying attention are the security guards, who make sure to wait until you’re half way across the parking lot and surrounded by customers so it looks like the scraggly climbing kids are trying to steel booze.

By far the most prevalent cultural difference is the language, and that’s only because they supposedly speak English in Australia. I continually entertained myself with the vernacular, despite the frustrated Ozzies who felt their statement to “grab the slab of stubbies out of the boot and toss them in the Eskie” was perfectly legitimate and commanding of action not a blank stare and a grin.

The Ozzies never fail to disappoint. I almost fell over laughing when I walked past this window display in Melbourne. Evidently lace panties and camisoles are common gifts to give to Mum. Granted, perhaps chocolates and flowers aren’t the most sentimental way to say “Hey mom, thanks for raising me, I love you”, but it sure as hell is a lot less awkward.

-----------------

So as you can tell, I’m finally back from Arapiles. I ended up extended my trip several times, for many reasons. I have heaps of pics to get through, and four weeks of adventures and experiences to try to publish in something easy and readable. So I thought I’d put up this little post in the mean time, let people know I’m alive, and wish all the moms out there a Happy Mother’s Day. I’ll be back with some tales from Araps soon.

Melbourne: Less Crappy Than Giardia

I don’t know if there is some sort of international city motto committee, but if there is, I should be appointed head chairman. “We gather strength as we go”, pffffft…  mine has a lot more zing.  No pun intended.

I didn’t get any pictures of Canberra last week, and it’s a shame because it’s quaint little artsy city.  So how about a few pics from Christchurch that I never posted up instead.

Punting down the river Avon:

Chess at Cathedral Square:

Little Asian dude was unstoppable.  Watching him try to move the king was rather funny though.

Cathedral Square at night:

---------------------------------

 

I spent my time in Canberra running from shop to shop trying to get supplies for my trip up to Blue Lake.  I learned at the last minute that we would be climbing in the foothills below Australia’s highest point, Mount Kosciusko.  I had three T-shirts and a fleece in my pack.

I got an invite to climb at Blue Lake from a random on the internet and jumped on it, not knowing anything about the area.  Nick was so kind to not only invite me along, but came all the way into town to pick me up at the hostel so I could crash at his house the night before.  After dinner we were hanging out in the backyard watching the storm roll in when a pair of ‘birds’ landed on the tree next to us.  He called them birds, in the states you’d find them in an exotic pet store being sold as parrots.  I commented on the uniqueness of Australian fauna, and my desire to see the kangaroos before I left the country.  “Wanna take a walk, there’s heaps of them just down the street.  Yeah, right on the side of the road.  Close enough you can kick one if you want”.  I assured Nick that I had no desire to kick a kangaroo, and off we went.  He wasn’t lying, they’re everywhere:

 

 

It’s funny that they wouldn’t move when you drove past them, but on foot they’re rather timid.  Well, all of them except for this guy:

 

Blue Lake

The blue lake trip was fantastic.  Met up with a great group of very experienced climbers, a lot of them helped develop the area.  The weather was pretty good, for an alpine setting.  It was still a bit wet from the storm that passed through on Friday night, but we found some dry granite to climb.  I partnered up with a  motivated climber name Ken, so I spent most my time climbing instead of taking shots.  I’m still waiting to see if I get some pics from the others that were there.  A couple that I shot:

 

The clouds to the left of Ken are literally to the left of him, not above:

Camping Saturday night as the weather moved in:

Ken just happened to be heading through to Arapiles from Blue Lake and invited me along.  He was a strong climber, with a rack of gear, knowledge of the area, and a car.  Things couldn’t have worked out better… until I woke up Sunday morning

I had been told by the locals that the creek water was the cleanest in the country.  It was against my better judgment to drink it straight from the stream, but they were doing it, so…  when in Rome.  One of the older guys chimed in “Aw mate, you don’t want to drink the water, there’s giardia in there”.  Great.  I had second thoughts about sitting in a car for 12 hours driving down to Arapiles so I headed back to Canberra to recoup.  The next morning I found the only hostel in town was booked, so I caught the night bus down to Melbourne.  Been here for a couple days healing up and getting plans set for Arapiles.  I’m glad to say I don’t have giardia, but I’ll leave out any further details of my trials and tribulations for the sake of my readers.  I’m taking off tomorrow for Arapiles with a local who’s heading up, and I’m going to float around with different partners I’m met online and see what happens. It’s prime season up there, the weather’s perfect, lots of people to climb with, and the Goatfest party is next week.  Should be good times.  There’s not much there except rock, so this will probably be it for awhile.  See you then…

Dogs on Lead

Lead \ˈlēd\

transitive verb ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Middle English leden, from Old English lǣdan; akin to Old High German leiten to lead, Old English līthan to go ------------------------------ 1a: to guide on a way especially by going in advance ------------------------ 1b: In Rockclimbing – the first person to climb, anchoring in the rope as he or she progresses upward. On lead.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kiwi’s are hardcore, eh? They even make their dogs lead.

I found a sport climbing Pomeranian that I wanted to to ship back to my friend Snupes so it could hang draws for him on his long-standing project Luscious (5.11-), but the kennel owner said I’d insult the breed. He said that sport climbing starts at 5.12, and recommended getting a less ethical bloodline, like a French Poodle. Sorry Snupes, maybe you’ll send next year.

Perhaps I’ve just been on the road too long, my sense of humor has turned from eccentric to just plain odd. The sign absolutely cracked me up. I can only imagine what the kiwi’s were thinking watching some Yank tourist taking pictures of sign. Well, I liked the pics so much I decided to change the name of my blog. Since this trip seems to be getting more centered around climbing I though it was apropos, and more original than AWOL. So there you go. In case you were wondering.

Canberra: Better Than Sydney

That's what their motto should be anyway. I hightailed it out of Sydney yesterday in the pouring rain, jumping on a bus for the national capital - Canberra. I arrived to find mild dry weather and a centralized, laidback little town with an artsy flair. Very nice.

Spent most the day running around town spending WAY too much money on stuff I have sitting in bins back home. I didn't realize when I linked up with some local climbers that I'd be heading up to do some Alpine climbing. It's suppose to be a high of 10 c.

http://www.canberraclimbing.org.au/news/blue-lake-weekend.aspx

Looks like some fantastic granite, a place called Blue Lake. Be back on Sunday.

Down Under

This morning I was walking through gardens and Gothic cathedrals set upon the river Avon; funny how quickly your environment can change when you travel. I miss New Zealand already.

The Kiwi customs officer I talked to upon leaving the country was hands down the nicest of his ilk I've ever dealt with. In Australia it was the first time I've ever been detained by customs and had them rifle through my stuff.

I got off the train at Central Station to find myself once again loaded down with far too much weight on my shoulders, standing in a city I've never been in, with no idea where I'm going. Since my arrival was so late I picked a hostel off the net that was close, so I knew I wasn't too far away. It was dark, muggy and raining, and judging by the homeless, drunks, and prostitutes I wasn't anywhere near the Sydney Opera House.

I find my hostel on a grungy off-street, just a staircase leading up into a cement wall. The "office", an aluminum roll-up, is closed with a note to call for late check-in. There's an arrow pointing up the street to a payphone. I swing into a bar to get change for the phone, but the bartender gruffly says I have to buy something. Fine. "How much for a pint?" As luck would have it the beer is $5 and I happen to have one five dollar bill and a couple of fifties in my pocket. "I can't break a fifty" the bartender informs me. He's rather slowing at comprehending that if I used the $5 bill to buy the beer I'm no closer to making a phone call than I was before; though perhaps my nerves would be a bit more placated.

I find the 7/11 in front of the payphone to have more options in changing my five. Then I find that the payphone is broke. My final discovery is that people here aren't very helpful; Apu has no idea where another phone is.

I finally get into my hostel to find it looks worse on the inside than out. The kitchen is filthy, the air is stale, and they put me in the wrong room. I give up for the day, a bed's a bed. Perhaps the town will treat me better after some sleep.

This is still better than work.

Climbing: Froggatt’s Edge

One last set of climbing pics from the tour up on the North Island. 

The Wharepapa area is full of secluded areas with fantastic rock and interesting climbs that are usually not more than a [rather peaceful] 20-minute stroll through the forest.  We sampled a good amount of these places and never once did we come across other climbers.  But if you head down the street just 5 minutes from Bryce’s you’ll come upon a heap of pocketed ignimbrite grid-bolted with hangers just a stone’s throw from the parking area.  Seems the Kiwi climbers aren’t any different from the American lot, as most of them come here out of laziness.  That said, there are a couple of fantastic lines at Froggatt; some of them the best single-pitch climbs I did in New Zealand.

I did my first ever professional climb on a fantastic  route called Terror Incognito (5.10b). Bryce was guiding a client that day and was too lazy to lead the climb so he asked me to do it.  You should have seen the look on the client’s face when he found his guide for that climb was some ‘random’ guy hanging out at the cliffside.  Try doing that in America.  Of course, I only got a couple of beers for it while Bryce got paid $400 for the day.

Danny pushing onto the final headwall of Terror Incognito

Me just past the overhanging layback crux on Mister Daddy Long Legs (5.11a)

Froggatt is full of overhanging routes with huge holds.  It’s like a gym. Hanging out at a nice rest on Bring Your Daughter To The Slaughter (5.10b).

There was a Navy training course at the camp for a week so I snapped a couple shots of them on a rest day.

 

Here’s one of them learning the hard way that just because you climbed a route of a certain grade doesn’t mean you’ve mastered them all.  Some old school 5.8:

 

Took him awhile to commit to the slab topout, but he got it.

 

I put the entire set, plus the ones from Whanganui Bay in my climbing album:

The Samson Hierarchy

Backpackers have made an art of frugality; filling a used medicine bottle with liquid soap at a restroom and swiping ketchup packets from Burger King are just a few of the tricks. Judging by some of the people I’ve met they haven’t all learned the soap trick yet, but most maintain at least a modicum of personal hygiene. Shaving however, is a bit of a nuisance and requires you to carry a razor and cream in addition to everything else on your back. Most male backpackers just took to growing a beard, and what started as a convenience turned into a rite of passage.

Much like how the size of the Silverback Gorilla’s stripe determines his position in the troop, or the class of the businessman’s BMW relates to how quickly he gets his Mocha Latte, the fullness of ones beard determines your pecking order at the hostels. It lets your fellow dirtbags know you’ve paid your dues – or rather, haven’t paid anyone anymore than you had to. The resident magnate at my hostel is a skinny twig of a Scotsman, but he has sizeable mane, dreaded and untamed with bits of Top Ramen caught in it; his authority is not contested.

Yesterday I almost had it out with Brit as we sized each other up over a small foot stool near the door of the lounge. He looked more traveled than I, but the poor 17-year-old couldn’t muster more than a feeble goatee. The Scotsman watched amused as he sat on his throne next to the fire while Hostel Nymphs fanned him with advertisement flyers and fed him peanuts they stole from the bar’s happy hour downstairs. It’s not all fun and games out here, it’s survival.

I’m currently taking refuge in the bathtub while writing this entry, it’s the least likely place I’d be discovered. If they found out I owned a laptop they’d probably hold me down, shave my beard, and dump me off at the nearest Starbucks. Gotta run, my internet time is almost up and I have to find a good deal on some Rogaine so I can fluff this beard up.

Three weeks in, the beard may not be much, but my Blue Steel is full tilt:

Climbing: Whanganui Bay

About 100km south of Wharepapa is Lake Taupo, a brilliant turquoise oasis lined in rocky peaks and sheer cliff-side. The peaks as they stand now are mere piles of dirt, broken remnants of a former solitary mountain that used line the horizon. The lake bed is actually a crater, a vestige of what is believed to be the largest volcanic eruption in Earth’s history. Unlike the rock at Wharepapa (which came from this volcano) the magma at the epicenter cooled slower, creating a denser, smoother rock than the ignimbrite you’ll find further north. Denser rock is more prone to fracture than crumbling, which creates cracks. And crack climbing is better than sporto pocket pulling. Clinical studies have proven this fact.

On the west side of the lake is Whanganui Bay, a piece of land owned by the Maori tribe Tuwharetoa. They were kind enough to let us climb on their land, which is a good thing, because there is an almost inexhaustible amount of climbing on the cliffs lining the waters edge. The views aren’t half bad either. A couple of pics from our visit there:

Bryce on his first climb of the day. He's laughing because 10 feet to the right I was cursing him after he had me warmup on a 5.12a, telling me it was 5.10b/c. Normally one would be able to tell such things, but after almost 100 climbs in 10 days I couldn't tell if the moves were hard or my arms and hands were just shot. It was probably a bit of both.

Steve on an arete climb.

Doug hanging out on Eternity Road (5.11b).

Tibia

Tibia is a two-pitch climb that goes up between a huge detached pillar and the main wall. It’s a striking line you can see from all the way up the road; it wasn’t more than a few seconds after tossing our packs down that Doug insists I have to climb it. “It’s a classic!”

Doug working up an arete that is much steeper than it looks. The second pitch of Tibia goes up behind the large pillar behind him.

I’m not sure which type of climbing I dislike more, chimneys or off-widths (a crack that is wider than your fist but narrower than a chimney), both can be equally nauseating. Literally. What happens when you put the two together? You get Tibia.

The first pitch is a 5.7 chimney, which is relatively easy, but the upper half of it is completely unprotected. “The climbing is pretty straightforward, it’s a good width so you can keep your legs in front of you and your back on the rear wall...” Bryce explained cheerfully before pulling a somber face “…but if you fall on the first pitch, you’ll die. Seriously.”. With a recommendation like that who wouldn’t be dying to give it a go. Pardon the pun.

I know it's a poor pic, but I had to put one in showing the chimney. Doug getting started on Pitch 1.

Before we even committed to climbing Tibia Doug made it clear that he refused to lead the second pitch - seems he hates off-widths more than I. As eager as I was to lead the death chimney, I had to be a good partner and give the first lead to Doug since I was taking the second. I’m just considerate like that.

I caught an air of mischief between Doug and Bryce, and having already been sandbagged by Bryce earlier that morning I was suspicious. I was following the first pitch, so that couldn’t be it… must be the off-width. I stocked up on gear just in case. Doug cruised the first pitch and soon I was following my way up into the damp, dark, endless looking chimney. I moved further into the depths to a small ledge when Doug called out “You to the ledge yet?”. “Yeah” my voice echoed back to wherever he was in the darkness above. “Look left!” I’m not sure what I was expecting to see, perhaps an elevator to the top. Instead, I see a human skeleton staring back at me not more than two feet away.


Ahhh, ‘Tibia’ – got it. Thanks Doug, I probably would have climbed right past it without noticing if you hadn’t said something. At least I had a rope above me, I couldn’t imagine climbing a run-out chimney knowing the last victim is still laying at the bottom.

The rest of climb was uneventful, and I got some payback watching Doug struggle up the off-width. I found I had far too much gear for the short off-width section, and the gear for such cracks are big and heavy, so I put them all in the crack for Doug to haul up the rest of the way and on the hike off.

Doug following up the second pitch off-width section. Note the copious amounts of gear.

The view from the top made it all worth it: