The man in Seat 31D

I was once on an airplane coming in to land during a thunderstorm at New York's LaGuardia airport. My palms were sweating as I wiped them on my trousers at ten second intervals, trying to think positive thoughts of loved ones, football games I'd played (yes, I know), parties I'd enjoyed, my Mother's easy laugh... anything other than the fireball at the end of the runway.

We landed safely. Of course. Everyone clapped. Except two people. I was busily wiping my brow, trying to look cool in a leather jacket. That wasn't sweat, just... humidity. The man in the seat across the aisle continued to snore, as he had since take-off two hours earlier. As we taxied to the gate, I wanted to take the pillow from the empty seat and suffocate him. Just quietly. The bastard.

Some people love air travel. We control freaks tolerate it. I'll only feel truly comfortable on a plane when I have a pilot's licence. And knowing my car-driving skills, perhaps not even then.

Sure, I know the statistics, the logic of the safety of air travel versus, say, riding a bicycle. I'm much safer strapped into a 747 than my Specialized Roubaix, but...

I travel overseas at least once a year. I still go through the same ritual before take-off (sorry, it's a secret); still grip the armrest tightly when turbulence buffets; still tilt my body in the opposite direction to the plane, making the woman sitting next to me very nervous (luckily, she's my wife); still host stomach gymnastics until the plane lands; still nonchalantly disembark, sometimes even trying to whistle to show off my calm demeanour. I end up facing the Immigration Officer with dribble on my lips. 'Je suis Australienne' I squeak. As if that's an excuse.

I have recently returned from Thailand. The flights home were a Boeing 737, one hour from Phuket to Kuala Lumpur, followed by a 747, eight hours from KL to Sydney. Except, half-an-hour before boarding in KL, they announced the jumbo had a 'technical difficulty' which is perhaps better than saying 'it won't get off the ground with three hundred people aboard'.

We all groaned. It was midnight. As directed, we trudged to another gate, where, miraculously, another 747 was being loaded with food and luggage. Malaysian Airlines had somehow scrapped one jumbo and found another. I was impressed.

It's why I fly only 'first-world' airlines - Singapore, Malaysian, British. And never 'third-world' airlines - Air India, Jetstar, Kenya Air, Qantas.

Flying is bad enough. Why make it worse.

I love reading the letters to the editor in the Travel Section of newspapers. People complaining of poor food, delays, surly flight attendants. I'm still in awe that we transport millions of people around the globe so safely. I'll happily eat plastic junk, wait an extra hour, abide the schoolmarm tones of the harried flight attendant, as long as the plane lands in the country it's supposed to. What more could you want.

Well, now you ask... I'd like a parachute under the seat, as well as a life-jacket.

Can you jump out of an aircraft at 37,000 feet and survive? And when do you pull the ripcord?

So, if you're sitting next to a sweating bald man who's leaning in your direction on a plane anytime soon, introduce yourself. I'd be happy to say hello... when the plane lands.

swimming with the fishes on Phi Phi Leh

It is early morning and, incredibly, we are on the only longboat in Pilah Lagoon on Ko Phi Phi Leh. We smile at our driver (Captain? Skipper?) in thanks. He pilots the boat to the end of the lagoon and cuts the motor. Three hundred metre high cliffs surround us. Despite the sun not reaching here yet, the water is so clear we can see the sandy bottom and sections of coral. I estimate it's ten metres deep, but I'm too scared to find out. Fish swim languidly by. I secure the ladder over the side of the boat and step in. Cathie follows. It's eerily quiet, except for our excited giggles when a fish swims too close. The skipper smiles at our enthusiasm.

Back on the boat, we chug out of the lagoon and head to Loh Samah Bay. Cathie reminds me that on Gilligans Island, they too were only on a three-hour cruise. She wants to be Ginger, not Mary-anne. I guess that means I'm Gilligan. At the next stop, there is another longboat with two snorkellers slowly drifting along under the cliffs. I've never used snorkel equipment before. I tentatively fit the mask and the breathy-thingy. Cathie laughs and takes a photo. I look ridiculous. But I jump over the side anyway. Splutter. Cough. Help, I'm drowning in paradise.

The Skipper tosses bread into the water and I'm immediately surrounded by a feeding frenzy of tropical fish. It's like walking past a Myer Store during a Boxing Day sale. I stick my head under the water. Sorry, I mean, I submerge gracefully, like a bald merman, and move dolphin-like towards the bread sale. Me and one hundred fish look at each other from a distance of thirty centimetres. They pout, disapprovingly. I try not to giggle underwater. Despite the technicolour overload, my favourite fish is the smoky maroon-brown variety. They look like cool Newtown types among all the Benetton wannabes.

While Cathie is enjoying her snorkel, the Skipper tosses even more bread overboard. I sit on deck and contemplate the dietary requirements of tropical fish. Do they need so much fibre? And wholegrain? I'm pleased to see it's brown bread we're offering. I hope they can find some protein after we leave.

Which is right now as a big cruise boat makes it way into the bay. A quick circuit of the south cliffs and we are approaching the famed entry to Ao Maya. And right in camera shot is a huge ocean-going cruise boat. The type owned by millionaire wankers who hang out in casinos and wear linen trousers. I'm sure it's owned by a Russian. I swear in Australian.

We putter slowly past and I wonder if my worthy Skipper has a paint-bomb in his drybag. Once inside the bay, we can ignore the Russian cruiser and admire the Russian bruisers. Cadres of them stand on the sand, legs-akimbo, swimming costumes slung low, facing the sun as if it has magic powers. And the men are even worse!

We walk along the white sand dodging Japanese photographers taking one shot of the bay entrance and another shot of the semi-naked Russians. It's all too much. Leonardo DiCaprio has a lot to answer for. Fancy setting a movie on Phi Phi about a bunch of foreigners wanting to keep paradise for themselves!

I know I'm just as much to blame as the next person for this population overload on Phi Phi, but I prefer my Shangri-LA without the overwhelming scent of coconut suntan oil and cigarette smoke. We ask the Skipper to take us back to the lagoon. Thirty minutes later, we join twenty-one other longboats in the shallow water. I jump overboard, hoping the fish will choose me instead of the other interlopers. We are fresh out of bread. The Skipper valiantly throws a potato crisp into the water. It floats past my nose, untouched. I swim around the boat and head to the cliffs, looking up until all I can see is rock and sky. It's paradise. Back on the boat, the Skipper taps his watch. Our time is up. We didn't get shipwrecked. But we had a lot of fun feeding the fish.

On the way back to our bungalow, we pass a secluded beach where monkeys play in the sand. They've never heard of Leonardo DeCaprio.

the road to Paradise... is an overcrowded ferry

We were one the first groups on board the ferry to Phi Phi Island. We chose our seats on the first deck carefully, near the back door, under the air-conditioner. We handed our luggage to the young man who added them to the pile beside the door. Fair enough, I thought, easy to get to when we disembark. For the next forty-five minutes, this young chap stacked luggage as people clambered aboard. All the passenger seats on our deck were full, the lower deck was overflowing. People were climbing onto the top deck where there were no chairs. Still the overworked young man stacked until the luggage mountain covered the entire back section of the ferry.

"You know, if we sink, that luggage is going to cover the exit,' my wife surmised.

The departure time had passed, people and suitcases were still crowding on. I ventured through the mass to the rear open section of the ferry. More people, more luggage piles.

Reassuringly, wrapped around each chair was a life jacket. Except there were far more people than chairs on board.

Finally, the ferry left the dock. Many people clapped. I wasn't so sure. I removed the life jacket from the back of my chair and did the same for Cathie. The Russian man behind me smiled.

'It is overcrowded, yes,' he said.

'Very,' I responded.

He looked at the window we sat near. 'Maybe we can make this open,' he suggested.

I didn't like our chances. Cathie and I stood up and took ourselves and our life jackets out to the rear deck, struggling past people to the back where there was a vacant space to sit beside the baggage handler. He was no older than fifteen. I smiled and sat on my life jacket. It made a soft seat.

The ferry didn't sink.

Maybe I was too cautious.

But, as the two hour journey passed, we enjoyed the wind in our faces and the view of the Phi Phi islands looming large upon us. When we were ten minutes from our destination, people scrambled onto the back deck to take photos of Ko Phi Phi Leh. The baggage handler ate his noodles out of a plastic container and when finished, tossed it overboard. He rolled himself a cigarette. Sunburnt Russians and Eastern Europeans shot videos of the gothic cliffs of Phi Phi Leh.

We docked at noisy Tonsai Pier. Workers scurried aboard to unload the supplies for the town shops. Everything, including water has be ferried across from Phuket. The tourists were left to locate their own bags with the help of the long-suffering single handler. He tossed bags wherever he was directed. Cathie and I leaned against the railing and enjoyed the mayhem. Our bags were at the bottom. We weren't going anywhere soon. Surprisingly, the ferry unloaded quickly. People helped each other to remove bags. I finally made my way back into the cabin and picked up our bags. We walked onto the pier and were met by a longboat driver who took us to our resort. White sand, low trees providing shade, a hammock, clear water with tropical fish swimming below us, a view across the bay to Phi Phi Leh.

Paradise.

At the end of an overcrowded ferry trip.

A cycle up to Siding Spring Observatory

I ride nervously into Coonabarabran.

Last night, I read that the town derives its name from the an Aboriginal word, gunbaraaybaa, which in local tribe Kamilaroi dialect means... ahem... shit. This morning, mercifully, the air is fragrant with the treacle-sweet aroma of honeysuckle. Children dressed in green tartan uniforms walk to school, shouldering superhero backpacks. A comfortably overweight woman strides purposefully along the footpath, being lead by a shaggy-haired minature dog. It looks like she's following a furry vacuum cleaner. The vacuum barks at me and hoovers along the zebra crossing.

Main Street is also the Newell Highway, so I keep well to the left as B-double trucks rumble slowly downhill. Outside the newsagent, two old blokes, dressed in neat shorts and long socks, discuss the affairs of the day. Both are sitting on mobility scooters. We all have an attachment to a set of wheels, I suppose?

At the roundabout, I turn left and catch my first glimpse of the Warrumbungles, a curious assortment of volcanic shield-plugs rising out of the north-western slopes. They are home to a colony of grey kangaroos and over one hundred and twenty bird species...

Thwaack!

A magpie mistakes my helmet for breakfast and pecks furiously as I duck, pedal faster and wave my hand above my head, a crazed conductor without an orchestra. I wonder what welcome the other one hundred and nineteen bird species have for me? As the houses give way to small farm holdings, I relax into my ride, a short pedal to the top of the Warrumbungles at Siding Spring, home to twelve telescopes, including Australia's largest, the Anglo-Australian Telescope. The night sky in these parts is largely immune from man-made light pollution, allowing the scientists a unfettered view of the Milky Way. And here, on the plain, local residents are in on the action. Every kilometre, I see a small igloo-shaped outbuilding housing an enthusiast's telescope. Some have turned their hobby into a business, charging admission to look into the heavens.

Outside one farm is a letterbox in the shape of a cow, complete with metal udders. Next door's letterbox is a yellow duck with the legs of an ostrich, you insert the letter into his (her?) bloated stomach. These are quickly followed by Ned Kelly, his chest plate glowing in the sunlight; a tree trunk with a narrow slit for the letters; a pair of semi-trailer wheels with hudcaps and mud-guards; a smiling running man constructed with tubular steel, holding the letterbox in his outstretched hand, like he's in an egg and spoon race; and my favourite... a man on a bicycle, at speed, his flowing scarf trailing in the breeze, on his head a jaunty beret. The letter, naturally, is inserted into his front basket. It's all very curious. Did the residents get together over a barbecue one afternoon, and after too many beers decide to brighten up their farm entrances. Or did the duck just arrive one day, and as each resident drove by, they were suitably inspired? The postman must smile, awaiting each new arrival.

At Timor Rock, I pull over for a drink. It's a splendid scene. I sit in lush grass shaded by a stand of gums at the foot of the rock, rising one hundred metres straight up, covered in spinifex, sun-faded native trees and grasses. Next to the campground is a pig farm. A gentle breeze blows towards me and the air is still heavy with honeysuckle, not... pig. The animals frolic in the open, squealing, chasing each other across the pasture. A large black sow stands wobbly, stretches, looks across the enclosure at me, before wandering off to the mudpatch in the far corner.

Timor Rock is the start of ten kilometres of slow climb. The road is not conducive to riding, being pock-marked, rough and gravel-strewn. At least I can hear cars approaching behind me from a far distance. As the sound gets louder, I'm learning to judge just how much space the driver will allow me. Thankfully, there are few vehicles this morning. As I round a bend, I catch my first glimpse of the Anglo-Australian Telescope on the ridge. It doesn't look that high, but then it's still twenty kilometres away.

The first climb is a gut-buster, but I'm slowly learning to control my breathing, concentrating on building a rhythm. Half-way up is a farmhouse with an expansive view over the plains. The owner contentedly mows his front lawn. He waves and I offer an exaggerated nod in reply, too nervous to take my hands off the handle-bars as I climb. The slow-going is because I'm carrying the added weight of a million flies on my sweating back. They take turns to launch acrobatic sorties into my nostrils and ears. A few kamikazes divebomb into my mouth, offering much-needed protein. If anything, it encourages me to pedal faster to reach the crest where I can speed down the other side and shake these insect freeloaders.

On my way into Coonabarabran this morning, I noticed at regular intervals, roadside billboards each displaying information about one planet in our solar system. A tourist initative by the Shire Council, it's touted as the World's Largest Virtual Solar System Drive (their capital letters, not mine). No matter from which direction you enter Coonabarabran, you'll see the billboards, and, hopefully stop and learn about Pluto or Mars or... that one with the rings around it. Irrespective, all billboards lead to Siding Spring.

And, indeed, as I turn off the highway and cross a cattle grid... or should that read aaaaannnnddd cccccrrrooooosssss aaaa ccccaaatttlllleee ggggrrrriiiidddd, I notice Earth's billboard welcoming me. The billboards are all written for the amusement of twelve-year-old children. So, of course, I stop at each one to learn another curious new fact. Did you know that earth is made up of 71% water? And is the densest planet in the solar system. Perhaps that explains why we need these billboards?

The final five kilometre climb is stupendous. It deserves a billboard all its own. I'm so preoccupied with the view stretching over the eastern plains, I don't notice the gradient steadily climbing until I check my Garmin. It screams a leg-popping 20% and I wobble in surprise. The road is shaded by grey gums and on each ridgeline, blackboys stand in elegant rows, admiring the view. Two more cattle grids and one tight hairpin and I'm on top. The village is a clutch of igloo-shaped domes on a windswept plateau. At the southern tip, the largest telescope is bordered by a high wire fence and keep out signs. Proving I come from the densest planet, I ride through the open gate and take a quick photo. Since the Earth billboard at the entrance, I have yet to see another person. There are a few cars parked in painted bays, but it seems the summit is given over to me and a family of blackbirds, who scuttle up tree trunks whenever I ride too near.

I park my bike outside the entrance to a non-descript brick building housing a kiosk and information display. As I enter, a lone woman quickly gets up from her chair. I think she may have been snoozing.

'Oh,' she says.

I take off my helmet, just in case she thought I was an alien. I'm not. I'm from Queensland.

'Are you open?' I ask.

She looks at her wristwatch, perhaps to see how long she's been asleep. It's midday.

'Of course. How can I help?'

I offer her my empty water bottle. 'Could you fill this, please?'

She hesitates. Am I planning on buying anything?

'And I'll have a bottle of ginger beer,' I look around for food. 'and a packet of potato crisps, please.'

She fills my bottle and yawns.

'Not many people here today?' I venture.

'It's Tuesday.'

Is Tuesday a solar-system-free day in these parts?

She looks at my outfit.

'You rode up here?' Emphasis on the here not the up. Meaning, she's not impressed.

'Do you get many cyclists?' I ask.

'I only started a week ago. You're the first.'

'It's a lovely climb.'

'Hhhmmm. The ride down should be fun.' she offers.

'Yep, the wind in my hair.' I'm bald. It's my attempt at humour.

'That'll be five dollars,' she says.

I sit on a plastic chair in the outdoor area, admiring the view. The sky is cornflower blue, a few clouds taper across the horizon. It's eerily quiet. Secretly, I was hoping to hear the clank of the telescope opening, with men in white overalls and hard hats rushing about on serious astronomical business. Perhaps a grey haired, goatee-bearded scientist would wander across and tell me about last night's discovery. A new asteroid. And he's still contemplating a name for it. He'd glance at my bicycle and mouth the word, 'Roubaix', slowly scratching his beard, considering...

Refreshed on salt and sugar, I hop back on my bike and begin my descent.

Whaaaooooo!!!!!

Luckily, there are no cars coming up the mountain because I'm all over the road trying to stop my bike from reaching terminal speed. How fast do asteroids travel? Who cares, when you're riding a Roubaix! I barely have time to admire the letterbox gallery as I roll past, my face contorted in a weird clown grin by the force of the wind. I just need a scarf and a beret to complete the perfect letterbox.