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Hasta luego.

Breakfast musings

I HAD breakfast this morning with my neighbours Pete and Brent, a surfer and bodyboarder from Sydney. I mentioned to them that afterward I was going to head down the road to an upmarket resort to use their internet cafe, that I had to check whether I had passed my final university course, thus becoming a graduate. Turns out Pete, 25, is doing an engineering degree (I'm not exactly sure what kind of engineering) and Brent, 22, has just completed a business marketing (I think that's what he called it) degree. They're both in the same boat as me – young, clueless and afraid. The conversation, taken place over rough, black, sediment-filled Sumbawan coffee and banana pancakes, went something like this:

Me to Brent: 'Have you got a job out of it yet?
B: 'That's the thing, I'm working as a lifeguard right now and earning twenty-four bucks an hour, but all the jobs I've looked at in business marketing have been paying about sixteen bucks. So I'm not that keen to leave my job right now you know. It's like I've done three years of uni but if I get a job in the field I'll be behind where I am now.'
P: 'Yeah and while we've been chipping away at uni all our mates that have got carpentry apprenticeships or whatever and are earning twice what we are. And they'll all be owning their own businesses too and killing it when their older while we'll probably be stuck in office jobs earning fuck-all.'
'My sentiments exactly', I tell him.
B: 'My brother reckons he might be able to hook me up with a job with his company a few days a week but I'm just not sure whether it's going to lead anywhere, or even whether it's what I actually want to do. The other thing is from what my bro's told me, the boss there would be looking to groom me for a full-time gig and give me training and shit so if that happened, I wouldn't be able to do what I'm doing right now.'

I look around: the sun is shining on our bare backs, world-class waves are breaking on the beach just in front of the restaurant and a beautiful woman (who I believe is South American) in a white bikini saunters past our table. It's like a postcard. Who would want this to end? Once our curvaceous Brazilian friend is out of view, we gather our composure and the conversation recommences:

P: 'Yeah that shit's going to happen more and more. There's going to be a point where there's a job or some girl and we're all going to get stuck back at home and the traveling thing will be up. You might get a couple weeks or a month per year for a holiday but it won't really be traveling.'

It went back and forth like this for about half an hour but you get the picture. I think the conversation is a reflection of the feelings of many twenty-somethings – a breed on the cusp of the rest of their life, yet so unsure of how to proceed with it that it hurts. What career do you choose if you have absolutely zero idea what you want to do with your life? Is there a point where seeing the world, and I mean really traveling, has to cease because of your career or can the two go hand-in-hand? If you decide to travel the world for ten years will you return home a penniless loser with only the clothes on your back and if you do, will it all be worth it? Would you be happier if you just picked a career now, anchored yourself in your home town for good and saved up for a house, like so many others my age are doing/have done? These are the questions my friends.

Dog day afternoon

I'VE ALWAYS seen in the mangy mongrel dogs of Indonesia, parallels with human beings. The younger ones – the puppies and those equivalent to canine teenagers – while often still incapacitated by some horrid disease, parasite or disfigurement still cling to the hope that there is good in the world and promise for the future. You can see it in their eyes. These Indonesian puppies, they roam around searching for rotting scraps of food in gutters and on the beach, same as their older, crustier compradres. But there's a spring in their step, a youthful exuberance and those innocent eyes. If you get a chance take a close look and you'll see. They are too young to comprehend the dire situation they're in – that chances are they'll either perish after a slow painful death from their numerous ailments or be hit by a speeding car or motorbike and be left to die a lonely death in a ditch somewhere.

So these puppies, they trot around without a care in the world, playfighting with the other dogs and chasing crabs on the beach. But at a certain point, I'm guessing when they reach the age of about twenty-eight to thirty-five in dog years, they become resigned to the fact that they're fucked. That spring in their step is replaced by aching bones, debilitating skin conditions and major organs shutting down from years of neglect and a tough life on the street. After being trodden on by people and life itself for so long they begin to realise it's all downhill from here and all hope for a better life is lost. And in their sullen, glassy eyes you can see an infinite sadness. It's probably the reason they won't even bat an eyelid, let alone move out the way when you're tearing towards them on your motorbike at eighty clicks an hour. They just don't give a shit anymore.

It's the same with humans. I reckon these older dogs that have given up are much like the guy in his 30s or 40s who is stuck in a mundane job and a lifeless marriage and looks around at his mates wondering how he ended up with such a sorry bunch. His best years, his carefree and fun-filled 20s, are behind him and he knows it. You'll find those same depressing eyes on the drunken heads of countless men at the local pub or TAB on any given night. Here's hoping I've still got a fair few puppy years left in me.

On a lighter note, here are some happy snaps from the first couple of weeks in Indo:

Where are you now?

I'VE BEEN doing some carpentry work for my old man the past few weeks to top up my savings before I go overseas. The other day I stumbled upon this old photograph while knocking out some decrepit bricks from around a fireplace in an old house. Don't ask me how it got there behind the brickwork. I'm not sure what it was about the image that got to me - maybe it was the fact this little guy (or is it a girl?) had his whole life ahead of him when the photo was taken. Or maybe it's his haunting stare. Whatever it was, it got me thinking: what has become of him?

I'm guessing the photo was taken in the 1970s (I enhanced the photo a bit which is why it doesn't look so old) which means 1. the kid would now most likely be in his late 30s (middle aged); and 2. poor old Whitey playfully posing in the foreground would've carked it decades ago. Does the guy now have kids? A good job? What about his dreams - did they ever eventuate? Or is he now stuck in a dead-end job with nothing to show for it, hating life like Lester Burnham in American Beauty? Is he even still alive?

Spaghetti Blog

I'M NOT completely sure why I started this blog. For most of my life I’ve regarded with disdain the millions of nobodies who share their banal observations about their meaningless lives on the interweb. Every fucker out there has an opinion and through the joys of blogs, Facebook and Twitter they can put it out there for everyone to see. Approximately 99.87 per cent of these opinions – no one cares about. But with a newfound urge to pen my thoughts and an extended overseas jaunt waiting in the wings, I decided a blog could be a good way to let my friends, acquaintances and enemies know how I am going while I'm on the other side of the globe.

I suppose the blog will focus on life, love, music, travel, and surfing/bodyboarding, which should be fascinating in theory. But most likely it will feature poor attempts at humour, pointless observations no one cares about, and too many swear words.

I tried to come up with a snappy title for the blog, but alas it escaped me. I settled on “Fear In English” because as a 22-year-old nobody with no direction in life, angst is a feeling constantly saturating my brain. A website I can’t remember defined angst as a German word, which means fear in English. I thought the title was also fitting because I’m about to become a university graduate and walk away from four years of study with a brand spanking new Journalism degree. Therefore my future livelihood is to come from my supposed mastery of the English language. A scary thought.

I don’t expect anyone to read this drivel - I’m writing it mostly to work out things in my own muddled head – but if anyone out there gets some sort of enjoyment from my ramblings and attempts to be insightful then good on you. And may God have mercy on your soul.