The crazy skills

Since dinner is just starting this will be a very short and quite boring blog - sorry.

As soon as I take some pictures I'll upload them to my flickr page and you can see what this mental place looks like. Currently I have no pictures but soon all of this will be mine.

If everyone can e-mail or text me your home and mobile numbers that would be great - phone is still dead - oh and my e-mail is cpn_justice@yahoo.co.uk

(and yes I'd love those letters or anything else I've left back home - although post appears to take about 6 million years to get here - thanks)

love to y'all, the hunger calls me

Apologies

To all who tried to convince me with no success that Poatina was a strange Christian cult village where they suck out your brains and turn you into robots - it's all true.
My main piece of evidence for this is that everybody not only claps during worship but also 'dances'. And by 'dances' I mean: throw themselves around in an ungainly and uncoordinated sweat inducing frenzy.

Anyway that aside today is the first day off since foundations started, as predicted the days ran from 7 am until around 11 or 12 at night and have left me a miserable and gibbering wreck. Everyone else on C4 did adult foundations which means that they've had a lot more free time than me (ie more than none) and they look fine. Judging by my housemate's response to the way I looked earlier today I probably look something like a mutant malnurished goblin. That was just after I'd managed to climb back to the top of my bunk bed having thrown up all my stomach contents after a profitable night of zero sleep.

It is possible that a number of factors have contributed to my current less than human state. The first is the aforementioned foundatiosn course which I was thrown straight into approximately 2 minutes after arrival, the fact that I had a youth leader to train during said course, the fact that it is way too hot over here, the fact that some bugger has stolen most of the ozone layer over Tasmania so you get burnt at some ridiculous rate, the fact that I participated in 'The great Tasmanian wheelbarrow race' and then got up at 6 am the next morning to go swimming with Bron (she was so cute I just couldn't resist). And a certain amount of strange meat last night.

For those who may hold some scepticism concerning the wheelbarrow race allow me to expand: 4 people with less than the normal amount of sanity form a team; 1 of them sits in a wheelbarrow and the other 3 push said wheelbarrow along a 3 kilometre course through a mudhole, a river, over a fallen log and then up what is affectionately known as 'heartbreak ridge' - by which they mean a 1+1/2K stretch of hill in a temperature of something around 30 degrees. If you're really clever you also choose to do it with a team mate who has injured her leg and so can't manage to do much pushing.

Needless to say I decided to take part and then promptly nearly died. I am so stiff that I can hardly move.

I think a lot has happened in the last week but I can't really remember much of it. I've already learnt more than I probably would in a month of living in Oxford (including the hassles of my Jamaican roomate who was nearly killed this morning - saved only by my inability to move), and had some amazing times with the young people in my group. That said I miss everyone and everything about England and feel generally awful. Time is still a premium but hopefully will get better soon.(?)

To anyone I haven't managed to e-mail or text my apologies. If you could e-mail me with your numbers that'd be great since half my luggage is still missing and so I don't have anyone's number. I haven't even managed to phone my parents yet so you may not want to hold your breath for a call.

God has already said a lot of stuff, Matthew your stones picture seems to be pretty dead on the money, and it does certainly feel like I'm being hit with a meat tenderiser so if someone could tell Emma and Jude hopefully they will find that funny.

love to you all

The blankness of my tiny little mind

unfortunately prevents me from thinking up a better title than that. This post however will concern my flight from the UK to the land of Tasmania - anyone who finds me a little bizarre or strange when it comes to reading these may want to stop now because I've been up for a long time since the last time I wrote and that was weird enough.

So it all began on Monday, except of course for the weekend of packing, saying good bye and a valuable trip to the Na-na's of poo. Thanks to everyone who was nice to me over that time.

So Monday morning I get up, apparently I'm having lunch with my dad, going to school to see my mum, going to winchester to see my gran and then leaving to get to the airport by 3 o clock. Checking my diary it appears that I hadn't planned for any of these things and so I rapidly repack my bags, go to the post office, buy a new watch and prepare for some craziness.

All of which was nice and completely normal.

On arrival at Gatwick I am informed by my dad that there is a chapel there (which was very thoughtful of him and I'd never have found it if I wasn't looking hard for it). So I decide to take a few moments of precious solitude. Or so I thought. I expect that it was punishment for cheating the baggage check people when they forgot to weigh one of my pieces of hand luggage and i neglected to mention it to them, but as I walk into said chapel I notice a lovely old lady sat across the room. I pick up a bible, am surprised to find several other non-christian texts in the catholic chapel (maybe there wasn't a big C?), and go to sit down. At this point I assume that said lady is praying out loud as I become aware of a sort of persistant murmuring - the sort of sound a hamster chewing through wood might make. So I look over at her and smile.
And then life goes funny.
She stares. Raises her right hand. And very agressively gives me what from my rock and roll background appears very much to be the pagan sign for warding off the devil.
I am a little surprised.
So she continues and I catch the following:
blah blah blah....contamination.......sinners.....people out there.....something something something.....you are the devil....he's the devil......(at this point I check just in case I've grown a tail and some horns, but apparently not)......that's it I'm leaving I can't stand even being in the same room as this filth, contammmmmination.....[she stands and starts to leave]....good bye satan...[exit].

As she leaves the room and she glares through the glass at me I do the only thing I can think of.
I smile and wave.

Then said lady tries to get me arrested for following her around the airport (which is almost true because I thought it could be fun).

I get searched for looking suspicious and asked if I'm carrying weaponry - I think it was because I was the only person smiling and being nice to the security people. I wander around for ages, turns out Gatwick is a bit rubbish and play naff music. We get on the plane, I'm sitting between Ben (aka the man bear, possible problem with showering, definite problem with the english language) and Nicky (aka I'm quite attractive but not really interested in acknowledging your presence so please don't even try to speak to me). To my joy the mad woman walks onto the plane screams at some poor unsuspecting man who is in her way for more than 2 seconds and then takes a seat somewhere too far away for me to drop by and say hello.

Planes flies, it's hot. It's longer than I thought was possible for a mere 7 hours. It is probably what will happen when people get consigned to hell - ie they'll be piled onto a similar flight.

By the time I reach Abu Dhabi I'm ready to go mad - partly also because it's 5 am with an outside temperature of 16 degrees. Fortunately someone has designed the terminal there with something between the ritz and a horse-racing course in mind and so I am so overwhelmed that I forget how rough I feel. The bathrooms are marble (complete with courtesy mosque, Ralph and Joy would have been having a field day with my life) and very nice. Investigating my state of mind I discover that brain functions are high, I'm unsure if it's 5am or 11:30 but stuck in a slight mental rut and unable to rid myself of 1 line repititions from a sample of some very annoying songs (mostly picked up from the awful choral renditions of famous musical songs played on panpipes at Gatwick terminal). Alas also anything I hear goes through my mind over and over so I spend 5 minutes hearing the announcement for our boarding pass. As punishment for this I decide that I will steal everythign I can from the plane including the inflight blanket and pillow - I later decided that the pillow wasn't worth it.

It is with some horror that I re-board the plane, but to my joy the girl next to me has purchased a bottle of jack daniels and consumes quite a lot of it so that she becomes instantly more likeable and friendly. We spend a significantly more pleasant 8 hours flying to Singapore during which I think I slept for an hour or two. Ben has now managed to say approximately 15 words - an impressive rate of almost one an hour.

.....and so dinner time is upon us, after which begins a week of 15 hour days doing youthwork. Suffice to say that Singapore is amazing but curiously full of 15 foot water features and more space than I've ever seen in any one place. The people are nice, crazy woman has disappeared (the poor muslims). Sydney is horrible, everyone is miserable, it's 6 am and 22 degrees, I get searched again, discover the buggers have lost half my luggage, discover that the airport transfer will cost me 5 dollars (cheapskates that they are), discover something around 2000 australians, no information people and only 1 cash machine - what are they playing at? And then like the holy grail appearing I rounded a corner and found a krispy Kreme store. A dash for the cash machine got me a breakfast doughnut, airport transfer, macdonalds (sorry Dan) and a lovely 3 hours in the Virgin blue room (executive lounge) - within which I tried my 'I'm British, love me' routine and got 2 towels to have a shower and free drinks. With 2 dollars to spare and a conversion rate that meant I'd spent less than 8 pounds I felt better.

Another hour of flying and an overly friendly Beagle (Tasmania's version of airport security) and I was home free. Sunshine and 18 degrees, 27 + 1/2 hours of flying, up since Monday morning - I felt great. Until 8:07 when suddenly my body stopped working.

Which leaves me with only the question: why does my roomate Kemar feel it necessary to get up at half past 5 in the morning and do press-ups, and why can't he do anything quietly? Should I appear on tv wanted for serial murder you'll know why.

Oh, and my first meal in Poatina:
"Do you guys need lunch?"
"Yes please"
"Do you eat meat?"
"Yes. But not fish"
"What?"
"Oh nevermind, anyway what's the likelihood that it's fish?"
"Pretty low I'd think"
"Yeah"

Lunch: Tuna pasta.

The magic of Elton John.........

I was half touched and half disturbed to find that someone had apparently been playing 'song for Guy' in my honour his weekend - a sentiment that was tarnished by the fact that it's about his gay lover as I recall, and so not something I'm entirely comfortable with.

Anyway, the point being he said that: sorry seems to be...blah blah blah.

In my humble opinion he could have been talking cobblers. After this weekend I am fairly convinced that one at least as hard if not more so is the word goodbye. Don't worry I haven't turned into some soft southern lad; but I have discovered through the medium of no small amount of packing, a not small enough amount of singing, one 'angry dragon', something that had some kind of baracrdi in it, some probably 'best forgotten' dancing and some definitely not 'best forgotten' friends that the art of saying goodbye is a tricky one.
It boils down in my estimation to this: you have a finite amount of time to see a certain amount of friends, during which you need too unfold all they ways you love them, assure them that you'll miss each other and that you do love them, and fight the desire to make some grand but slightly odd gesture from a heart which is probably (at least slightly) broken, and yet in line with your real self.
Which basically means you can't. Part of the amazing thing about loving people and being part of their lives is that you almost get too close to see them anymore or to be able to describe what it is you're part of. All you can do is try and look at one bit at a time and put together that sort of weird but beautiful picture of them in words and actions. Tough you might think.
So anyway, as the fact that I'll miss everyone I love is beginning to dawn on me I thought it appropriate to yell into the void that I love them and hope that somewhere it sticks. You all gave me more than I can say over the time I knew you. If you're reading this that probably means you.

So in my time of reflection this evening I came up with this equation to explain the problem of goodbye:

let U = the unfolding of time, G1 = having Good friends and g2 = feelings arising when G1 is absent(¬G1), time (T) is proportional when going away to busyness (B), r=real self and E = and existential expression

and so: business contracts time's passage proportionally to the amount of good friends you have, which is in turn balanced against ¬G1 which is partly dependent on an expression of love relative to your real self. Or:

BU"G1-><-g2 ER

Miracles the first

So there I was. A little over 1 week to go and so far I don't have a visa, don't have all the money I need (as though God ever works that way), still don't really know what's going on, and have what feels like six million things to get done in the space of about 2 minutes. It is possible that a late night session of battlefront with my house mate and a small amount of disorganisation-induced stress have made me slightly unreasonable, but I don't think anyone has noticed yet.

The next big problem as Daniel Haigh so marvelously pointed out was that if I tried to enter a country on a one way ticket without a visa of any sort it would be entirely possible that I'd get arrested. Normally I'd stubbornly carry on, but the prospect of sitting in a jail cell indefinitely doesn't fill me with any significant amount of joy. As it happened I'd just managed to apply online for a student visa - thanks dad - with a minimal amount of fuss. Alas the fact that I had been told by a faceless internet system that it was good idea to attach the 'necessary documents' when I was under the impression that I didn't need any documents really hadn't helped matters. Anyway, with 5 and a half working days to go and an estimated processing time of 5-10 days (delays expected over christmas/new year period) it would be fair to say that I was depositing a certain amount of bricks, and looking forwards to a nice stretch of fasting.

It was with no small amount of surprise then that I checked my e-mail on Saturday evening (just after aforementioned 'illegal entry into the commonwealth of Australia' conversation), to find an e-mail confirming that the lovely Australians in Perth had granted me permission to enter and bring havoc to their country. Not only that but the cunning devils had done it overnight on a weekend - proof if needed that either slave labour is still enforced in our former colony or there truly is a God. Is an 8 hour overnight processed international visa an unlikely occurrence, or just run of the mill madness? Frankly I don' t think I mind, at least I wont get arrested or have to do any fasting. (A foolish thing to say - for those in the know).

And as if that wasn't enough I've been given almost a third of what I need (nevermind the flight) over the last week by some lovely people - you know who you are and I'm amazed by your generosity.
And I won at settlers - you losers know who you are too.

And so it begins......


So there I was, sat in a coffee shop in Headington just minding my own business and enjoying a slightly overcooked croissant (it's Ox-foord darling), when the combination of The Lord and His agent Marty Woods grab me by the huutzpa and demand my attention.
"So essentially in 30 days you want me to leave the country and go to Tasmania for 6 months? And it's going to cost in the region of £3/4000 and I have approximately absolutely no pounds?"
"Yes basically."
"Ah well, just so long as we're clear - I'm in."

The mission

Should you choose to accept it is to go to a village called Poatina, in Tasmania by January 20th and undertake what we commonly know as C4 - and by commonly and we I don't mean plastic explosives. Whilst there you'll be put through a gruelling timetable of learning youth and community work with some of Australia's finest (and on this point for once my sarcasm is suspended), do battle with some of the most poisonous animals in the world (reinstated), and come back not only a different person but also a quasi Tasmanian. I gather you'll also be taking part in community running of the village (read: manual labour), conflict resolution and community living (apologising for the near death argument/chaos you just started), and an uncertain amount of psychology, sociology, mentoring and biblical study.
Ah yes, and for those of us in the know: memory verses.

The Problem


1 - I know nothing about Australia.
2 - I know nothing about visas, travel or insurance.
3 - I have no money.
4 - I have 30 days (which by the way include christmas) to get organised - a feat I haven't yet managed in my illustrious career of 23 years.
5 - I know nothing.

The Solution

After a week of weighing up what I want, thinking through what I have to do and praying like a frantic gibbon the following conclusion is reached:

I want to go.

I have some amazing friends who will support me no matter what I choose or where I go, I know people who can help me through the next 30 days, miracles occur and I just happen to know a little bit about the person who authors them. I'd be lying if I said I didn't think that God wants me to go and that other people hadn't said they agreed, and also if I didn't say that was the most important thing.

So What?

So someone offered to pay for a flight, an amazing couple offered me their love and support - and about £600 - my family gave me their blessing and support too, I got confused, scared, excited, overwhelmed, angry and weird, and then I decided to write this blog so that people can catch up with a little of what I'm doing. I expect it's also a touch of narcissism.
So if you happen to want to keep up to date with a little of my life and join me in this here craziness - take a look around.

Much love to you all