Friends, Fans and Foes alike,
It is with tremendous regret that I announce that I'm back
in Dallas. My plane took off on time
and, just to spite me, even landed ahead of schedule, and at the correct
airport. Qantas Airlines just doesn't
get it. Dicks.
So enough BMW (Bitching, moaning, whining; brainchild of our
tour manager). In the prior chapter of
this novel I'm compiling, we discussed some cool stuff. The Maori cultural show, in particular, has
clearly had a lasting effect on me: I scored my first try (think touchdown) in
rugby the Saturday after I got home, on 3 hours of sleep. All Blacks for the win, baby.
After Rotorua we treated ourselves to another little nothing
town called Waitomo, home to the Waitomo Caves.
The Waitomo Caves may sound grand, like the kinds of caves the Aliens
who rule us all in the X-Files movie live in (Nerd points, give me some). They are actually little more than a hole in
the ground that happens to extend 100 meters down and horizontally for 4 kilometers. They're about 20 feet tall and 10 feet wide
at their largest, and so narrow and little that at certain points we went
single-file on our backs out of necessity.
Oh, and there's a huge river flowing through it that varies in depth
from just a trickle to hundreds of feet with zero warning, so our means of
conveyance consisted usually of inner tubes and paddling. At one point I was lying in my tube on my
back pushing myself along with the ceiling so close to my face that I had to
remove my fruity-looking hardhat and lamp to continue. The one thought running through my head at
the time was, of course, "my mom would completely go ape-shit right now
and leave." This was not an event
for the claustrophobic. The larger man
in our group did some impressive gut-sucking and the more well-endowed women
were grateful for the compressive effects of wearing a wetsuit.
During this caving experience we took some time with lights
out to look at the glow worms. Before
reading on, know this: Glow worms are so
much more interesting and romantic the less you know about them. That said, it's not hard to look up at them
and think "wait how the hell can I see stars from here? And isn't it only 2pm?" They're beautiful. With an enzymatic reaction in their stomachs
they create light, which lures little buggies of all sorts towards them. They then snare them with dangly
stringy-snotty appendages and go to town on their mothburger or whatever
through the lovely process of external digestion. They're actually in the spider family, and
therefore not worms. They are a larval
phase of an eventually flying arachnid which, once it has emerged from its
cocoon of sorts, can no longer feed itself.
It therefore just flies around looking to reproduce as much as possible
before it dies, just like [I don't honestly know who to rip on here. Insert your own joke in this space and give
me credit for setting it up. In the interim, I'll say...] my freshman roomie,
Nick Brait, who I still love anyway. The
females unfortunately have this same problem of not being able to eat. In order to have the biological raw materials
to make little baby glow worms (which would more appropriately be called glow
maggots), they eat the males immediately after, and occasionally during,
copulation. This is without a doubt the
harshest reaction to a woman realizing her partner didn't use protection in all
the animal kingdom. Even more
charmingly, should the male manage to call a cab in advance and thus get away
immediately after knocking up his little fly-lady, he may fly into some dangly
string-snot appendage nearby accidentally.
He can thus be chemically broken down while still alive, then digested
by some punk-ass maggot of his own species!
So aren't glow-worms one of God's little miracles?
Onto slightly less graphic subjects, after tearful goodbyes
I left my contiki group in Auckland the following day. After sleeping for 12 and a half hours, I was
on a plane the next day to Melbourne to meet up with Jonathon Simister, who is
without a doubt the Australian upon which most Aussie stereotypes were
based. He goes by Jono, has long floppy
hair, loves to drink with his mates, wears sleeves with the same frequency I
wear ties, and talks incessantly about partying, women, sports, and clever ways
to combine the three. We obviously got
along famously.
After spending the
first day at Portsea, the Newport Beach of Australia (please leave your poor
and ugly people at the county line), we were ready for Australia Day. Australia day is the equivalent of our Labor
Day, in that it is a vaguely understood excuse for adults to lounge by a pool
and watch cricket all day instead of working.
It curiously fell on a Wednesday this year, which only heightened its
awesomeness. I introduced the natives to
beer pong, who responded by grilling kangaroo and lamb (yes, the cuter the
animal the more delicious it is) and teaching me cricket. In terms of a sport to watch with your
friends from your couch when you can flip back to tennis at any time, it is
unparalleled. I actually
respect/understand it now, and I look forward to sounding snobbishly
international around you kids when the opportunity presents itself.
After thusly damaging
my liver and my country's reputation, it was time to see the city. Thursday was tourist day. And I have to say I was impressed. Melbourne is an excessively clean city, with
parks and greenery interspersed so frequently between skyscrapers that I think
they must pay rent to someone. Much like
King's Park in Perth, the Botanical Gardens begin so abruptly that you could
easily leave your soulless misery of an urban job and walk there and back for
lunch and not be late for your 1 o'clock appointment. Very cool.
Just like Dallas? Right? We cruised up to the Eureka Tower to look out
its 88th-floor window at our surroundings, and I was amazed at how much green
and how many artsy fartsy places I saw.
The Ballet Center is very prominent, as is the Museum/Gallery. The Footy/Tennis/Rugby/Soccer complex is
also quite cool.
On the subject of
sports, my best luck of the entire trip happened on Thursday night. Jono and I bought $20 lawn seats to the
Aussie Open to watch Federer/Djokovic in the beer garden at the arena. Cool enough in its own right - surrounded by
Serbian nutjobs and very chill Australians and Americans, we killed Heinekens
with extreme prejudice and cheered for Federer happily through the first
set. A gentleman then tapped me on the
shoulder and said "My wife is feeling ill and we must go, would you like
these?" In his hand were a pair of
the sold-out-for-weeks $200 each tickets to watch the match. "Um, what?" I gracefully responded,
and received my gift with a thank-you.
Once inside, we frequently had to ask our seat neighbors if we were
actually at a tennis match or not. If
you closed your eyes and just listened you'd swear it was a hockey game or a
boxing match. I'm pretty sure the French
Open doesn't get that rowdy.
Disappointed with the outcome but thrilled to be there, we went out on
the town to experience some Melbs nightlife and, aside from nearly getting my
ass kicked by a group of Muslims for doing nothing but looking at one and
smiling (this is why they rank above Maori), had a blast. We went pubbing, clubbing and had a 3am Kebab
from a restaurant run by the Turkish mafia.
One of the servers famously said "I got the 16 gig memory on my
phone to keep track of all my contacts."
I believed him. Having thus eaten
latenight and conversed drunkenly until 4, I went to sleep knowing I'd really
made a difference in the world that day.
And then I flew home. Shit.
Tomorrow I start work for Halliburton.
Also shit.
So here's my brief
philosophizing moment, which I partially encourage you to ignore. First, to the people reading this who are
around my age, get your ass on a plane and go somewhere. I don't care how much fun you have pouring
all your money into Kentucky Deluxe Whiskey-Flavored Beverage, shorts with
whales on them and XBOX Live. None of
that matters. Finding out who you,
personally and individually, are when your bros, hos and parents aren't around
is worth way more. Renew your passport,
get your time off at work or school, and go be awesome for awhile. Plus, if you've never actually been in a
situation where you knew no one and had the opportunity every morning to wake
up and be who you want to be without restrictions, do you even know who you are
yet? I only sort of did.
To the older peeps on this list, get your ass to New
Zealand. And take me with you. It's one destination I guarantee I'll go to
again, whether it be a random vacation, bro party, honeymoon or
whathaveyou. Even if you have a weak
heart and don't want to bungee and all that, the sights are out of this
world. But put me in your will just in
case, because they'll take your breath so consistently it could be a problem. Oh, and buy duty-free. Hooch is expensive there.
So now I'm out. I begin work at 8am tomorrow, and if it
absolutely kills me then Jack can have all my clothes and Marissa can have all
my workout stuff (jack3d tub, half full).
Travis gets my boots and Katie gets my car (with your driving record
you'll probably need it, it's in great shape although some upholstery needs
repair). Diltzy can have my men's league
points.
My new email address
will be russell.haake@halliburton.com and it would be lovely to get emails from
people who aren't work-related every now and then. If the emails contain or allude to sex drugs
or rocknroll please send them to this one.
And for God's sake let me know in the subject so I don't accidentally
delete it.
I've loved the
opportunity to write to all of you and to hear back as well. If you didn't receive all 5 of these emails,
please let me know and I'd happily forward them again. Maybe check out my videos and pictures on
facebook too? It seems like my mom is
the only one who looks at them. And now
that I've put you all on my list, please promise to keep me on yours. When you travel and party on Wednesdays while
I'm in the office it'll be my turn to live vicariously through you. My life is just work, hockey and rugby for
the foreseeable future. Fortunate but
predictable. Entertain me.
Hugs and Handpounds,
Rusty
ps - No one in Australia
ever drinks Fosters, and Outback Steakhouse is full of shit.
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