Chain a blog by Jeff Barnes

Over the next two days we roamed the Mallee region to photograph the old concrete wheat silos. The towering landmarks alongside the network of railway lines have been the collection point for grain for over one hundred years. No longer used for storage they now catch our eye as vast canvases depicting farm and country life over the years. Local and International artists are chosen after spending time immersing themselves in this unique rural life. Their finished work ranges from hard weathered faces to celebrations of the purple tinged skies.

In the camp kitchen people are busy boiling kettles of water. Bags of powdery substances, dehydrated roast lamb, spaghetti bolognese, even apricot crumble are magically transformed into tonight’s dinner. The packets should come with a blindfold as the flavours and texture are questionable. Nick reads the roast lamb packaging to find the same meals were used by NASA for their space exploration. If it’s good enough for them…. But a walker’s hunger is not up for discussion, the meals fill the hole in our stomachs, end of story.
The real problem was the satchels of red wine, they are simply too small. Next time we leave the first aid kit behind and replace it with more red body numbing lubricant. Sunset is barely over when I stumble to my bunk and fall asleep to the gentle rumble of the nearby sea. Others evidently fall asleep to the gentle rumble from my top bunk. Disposable earplugs in the kitchen.

Eventually I make it into the large town of Dien Bien Phu. I’ve spotted a home stay and Mrs. Google weaves me through a maze of tiny back streets to a palatial home. My host, Yen shows me to my room and I ask about places for dinner. Come down at 7pm She suggests. I wash away the day’s road grime and front at 7pm. I’m expecting to be pointed towards a nearby cafe or restaurant but instead Yen walks me through town to her favourite noodle shop. We slurp away as she explains that her family like to have foreign visitors stay and expand their world. We sip a beer then walk some more before stopping at a modern coffee shop. This is my family’s coffee shop, she explains, we have a coffee plantation in the mountains. I nod like everyone at home has one too. When we get home Yen pours me a whiskey and announces that her mother makes the whiskey in the building next door.

The day’s fall into a pattern. A hot shower to loosen the body especially my legs and shoulders which tighten after long days on the bike. A few stretches but never really enough then down into the breakfast room to fill the petrol tank for the day. Repack my few precious items and then give the room a last sweep of my eye. My bike is usually in a garage locked to an old bed, a fridge handle or a disused cooker. It says nothing as I load the pannier bags fill my water bottles and clip on my handlebar bag. But like myself I know my bike is happiest when it is freewheeling down a hill or spinning silently next to a river.

The final piece in Roberto’s jigsaw is Francesco, a local Prosecco wine maker of some fame. He arrives carrying a box of his craft. It is the last time I see Francesco smile for the next eight hours. Within half an hour of leaving port Francesco has turned green at the gills, his nose facing the wind and regular involuntary lurches towards the side.

It’s Sunday night and I’m standing in the queue fidgeting. I am about to sit […]

A usually uneventful hop from Melbourne to Sydney was spiced up when the plane started […]

I washed as you do, like never before, then slipped into the steamy, cloudy water a haze hugging the surface from the heat and sulphur minerals. After a while you could hear girl’s giggling on the other side of the modesty screen and then through the haze comes a girl in her thirties with a washer as a headpiece and another wet washer in her hand. She glides through the cloudy water using her nipples as her bowline. The old men around me stirred restlessly, the younger ones stood and pretended to be getting out. She had a captive audience as she eased herself up onto the perimeter ledge flicking the wet towel casually over her body, she’d done this before. Ah she was enjoying herself.

We head back to our apartment which is on level five above the Main Street and above the White Rabbit. I hadn’t noticed the White Rabbit earlier but it is a very popular exotica bar opening at 10pm till dawn and they are true to their word. For the next three nights every drunk from ten miles around gravitates to the White Rabbit, like moths to a light. When refused entry, because they can only crawl or because they are over excited by the scantily clad girl in the window they would squeal and scream till they passed out. Meanwhile upstairs sleep was taken in small blocks of time.

As I leave I ask if the seals come here often ? Seals ? Seals are here all the time it’s the three grey whales playing behind the surf break we are interested in. And sure enough there they were lifting their massive bodies out of the water and enjoying life like toddlers at the beach before heading further North for the Summer.”