Getting Better

More tales of life in the southern hemisphere… I have had yet another eventful week. I had to analyze a commercial for my Marketing Communications class and present my findings to the class this week. I chose a fairly disturbing commercial for the Scion xB that had absolutely nothing to do with the commercial. I believe that I did well. I finally received my approvals for the rest of my classes and only have a few more flaming hoops to jump through to receive my financial aid. It has been a royal pain in my backside but I feel relieved knowing that it is all coming together. I will take this opportunity to give a shout out to Rene, my advisor, for helping me through all my problems, thanks Rene! But let me refrain from commenting on the mundane elements of dealing with the bureaucracies of academia, and instead focus on the exciting elements of the Western Australia. Mayonnaise!
Yes mayonnaise. I now understand why J. Maartin Troost wrote in his book The Sex Lives of Cannibals “I don’t know if the mayonnaise tastes this way because it has gone off or because it is Australian." Australia mayonnaise is a supervising experience. Instead of being creamy and mild in taste, it is gooey and sour. This was a surprising sensation for me as I was making sandwiches. My reaction was of “BLAWH!” Not that is actually tastes bad, not as such; it is that when you are trained with expectations it is rather off putting to have them not met. If the product was labeled something different this would not be a problem at all. Another interesting event that occurred at the same time was finally seeing what canned Salmon looks like. My mom use to make me salmon sandwiches all the time when we were poor in Kansas City. I thought to myself whilst shopping that since I am a poor student here why not emulate some of my dietary habits of my childhood. I was a little shocked to see that can salmon is not at all diced like tuna but just a soled chunk of salmon (bones and skin intact) stuck in a can. It was still tasty but I did not need the visuals.
Now on to didgeridoos; several days ago Georg and I returned to the Didge shop. We both purchased some really nifty looking painted didges (painted by a local artist). We spent the rest of the night knocking on our fellow village dwellers doors and serenading them with our musical prowess. While this never got old for us, it got old for our some of our roommates rather quickly.
Last night one of the villagers (Kuzi) threw a black and white party at the Dusk Club. Black and white was not referring to race but to dress attire. The party was pleasant and was your standard “we are all here to party with the excuse of a birthday” deal. But the real fun came this morning when I went to my first footy match. Footy (also known as Aussie Rules Football) is an interesting combination of rugby and American Football, played without any padding. I went with Georg and George at noon today. The sports play is fast and very violent. I was noticing players getting clotheslined as they walked off the field. And the football is kicked into the audience quite frequently. The team we were rooting for lost pathetically but the game was still entertaining.
And that is my short update for all of you as to my week.
Yours truly,
Ryan

Highway to Hell

Yet another interesting day in Oz. Today Georg (Austrian), Rainy (American), and I (also American) put it upon ourselves to go see Bon Scotts’ grave. For those who do not know, Bon Scott was the original lead singer of AC/DC. He was from Fremantle (a suburb of Perth). So the three of us took a train this morning to Freo (Fremantle). It took us about an hour to get into Freo and when we got there we realized that we had no clue where the cemetery was. Georg went about being our navigator. He started accosting unassuming vendor with the question “could you please tell us where Bon Scott's grave is?” While waiting at a bus stop we discovered a Didgeridoo shop. Georg had been in search of a didge for some time so we entered the shop. This is a very very cool shop. Most of the free space is lined with didgeridoos of all styles imaginable (and some quite unimaginable). The space not filled with didges was taken with aboriginal art. This was not however some musty hole in the wall. This was a sleek and clean operation. We were greeted by a guy who looked very similar Bret of Flight of the Conchords. This store was unlike any music store I had ever been to before. Customers are encouraged to play as many of the instruments they would like. No dirty looks are given for touching the very expensive piece on the wall. On the contrary, I found myself enthused to play a $750 didge. And even more amazing no pressure was put on me actually buying said instruments by the clerks. The guys working their just seemed happy to jam out. I was able to demonstrate, the amazement of my friends, my abilities on the didge. There was another guy in the shop who was doing some serious didge playing and was at the side making surreal noises that I have only heard before on meditation CDs. The Bret lookalike showed the three of us how to do circular breathing, which mostly involved making silly raspberry sounds while inhaling. This came very much in handy later, when waiting in buss stations, much to the puzzlement of onlookers. By the end the other two were able to make passable buzzing noises on the didges.
From the store we made our way by bus to the cemetery. As it turns out it is very hard to find Bon Scott’s grave. There are no signs up and with the surprising number of people mulling about, all of whom knowing exactly who he is, none know the whereabouts of the actual grave. This led to many conversations that went as follows.

Georg walks over to a person either tending to a grave or paying their respects.
Georg (being a very blunt Austrian): Do you know where the grave of Bon Scott is?
Mourner/volunteer: We get that question a lot. You know, they just built an archway for him.
Georg: Do you know where it is.
Mourner/volunteer: Sorry I have no idea.

This was when they were being polite. On several occasions we found ourselves accidently causing car to speed off as we walked up to their window. And dirty looks were made at us more than once. In the end we spent two hours searching the grounds and bumped into two other tourists on the same hunt. This is a very large cemetery. In the end it was a woman that had just finished paying respects to a relative and who mistook us for muggers that showed us where that grave was. We knew that she thought we were muggers when she said “I thought you were fucking muggers!” Petulant is a word that would accurately describe her demeanor. When Georg first asked her the directions her response was “all I know is that he died thirty years ago of alcohol. I know that sound cold but it is true.” Surprisingly she knew exactly where it was, that is roughly one out of thirty people asked. And yes there was an archway in his honor. As it turned out we needed to walk on the side walk outside the cemetery to its side. This is where a large bronze archway stood reading “Bon Scott” and displaying the AC/DC emblem. His plot is actually very small and surrounded by many others. I was curious what the reaction would be for all those non AC/DC fans buried in such a flamboyantly heavy medal laden area. We showed our respect for the deceased by getting some snapshots and made our way back to the bus stop. At this point the bus very stubbornly chose not to come. But a fleet of out of service busses did pass us every few minutes. This just worked to add insult to the injury of us spending or entire evening waiting for a bus. In the end it took us two hours and walking to three different bus stops before we found our bus. But I still found the entire experience quite amusing.
Yours truly,
Ryan

The Land Down Under

Ca Plane Pour Moi

I am going to relate an event which occurred to me the other day. This is one of those amusing self deprecating anecdotes. So I am supposed to be taking a French class while I am here in Australia. As you may already know I had spent roughly a month in the states sorting out my classes only to discover that I could take none of them. My French class that I had originally intended to take was cancelled because no one signed up for it. I was told that my only choices were to either take the class in Mt Lawley (and almost two hour public transport trip), or take a more advanced French class in Joondalup (where I am staying). I said I could handle higher level French class and went ahead. It took a while to get the approvals done through both ECU and USF but I eventual was approved to take my French class. The coordinator at ECU sent me an email asking me I thought I could handle the class. He sent me a list of items listing items half of which I knew (vaguely) the other have I thought I would just fake until I picked them up. Now is the bit where it all gets amusing. Earlier this week I discovered that this class was located where? Mt Lawley! Yes, I ended up having to go to Mt Lawley. But being Mr. Optimism I thought to myself I can handle this. You see I realized today that I have a strong tendency to believing I can pretty much do anything if I really want to. And so far in life this has done me well, that was how I learned guitar, started college at 15, took up unicycling, and even got to Australia. But on this day the rug was pulled out from under me. I walked into the room and the entire lecture and syllabus were completely in French. This was not a class for teaching French, but rather a class for those who already speak the language. As this dawned on me I found myself turning red and noticed that the layout of the room was not conducive to being inconspicuous. The professor directed us to read a two page article (in French) and report on our findings. And of course the first question to be asked (in French) was directed to me! The only thought that ran through my head was “quoi?” I looked at the Professor and said “Je ne comprends pas le français!” (I do not understand French). He took me aside and the confusion was explained. He then said he would sign me up for another French class (one that would wreak havoc with my schedule). So to sum up this long and rather winy story I am no longer taking French at Edith Cowan.
The next will be more positive and will relate tales of the beach.
Yours truly,
Ryan Messer