A Travellerspoint blog

The idiots guide to landmine identification

Originally written in March 2011

I have long been a great admirer of how people in other countries drive on their roads. It’s not a criticism by any means, just a curious observation of how people behave when behind the wheel. In Kosovo for example, I found it amazing how intersections can just be packed with cars going in every direction and not a horn is sounded. As someone who has come out of Sydney, one of the most aggressive driving cultures I have yet experienced, I often imagined how long this kind of gentle chaos would last back home before a disgruntled motorist got fed up and stabbed someone. And yet in Kosovo, they just waved each other through and everyone got to where they were going without a care in the world.

Sudan, so far, appears to be a mixture of the two. A little bit aggressive (though not as bad as Sydney by a long shot) and a lot of chaos. Quite often you will come to an intersection and be confronted with a gaggle of vehicles, each tooting horns and yelling at each other whilst a poor lone traffic policeman is standing in the middle, wildly blowing on a whistle and waving his arms in a manner that resembles someone being attacked by a swarm of bees. And yet despite all this everyone seems to weave their way through, yell something I’m sure is quite derogatory at each other in Arabic, and proceed merrily on their way to the next intersection where they get to repeat the process. It’s really quite fascinating.

Another quite obscure thing about the local population is their penchant for wearing woolen beanies. Now I am not one to judge any culture on fashion. There have been a great number of people in the west who have looked foolish or suffered for fashion, like anybody wearing a tie for example. But I am at a loss to explain how wearing a beanie in a country whose average temperature doesn’t dip below 25 degrees ever actually caught on. It is one of those unexplainable things, like how people started eating chilli’s. Chilli’s can be nice once you get used to them, and they can add a lot to a meal, but could you honestly say the first time you EVER ate chilli’s that you wished to repeat the experience?? It’s like going back up to the school bully and asking him to punch you in the face again, just in case you might enjoy it the second time around.

This week I have had the pleasure of meeting and greeting more of the local population as we commenced our site set up for my next job. A couple of industrious fellows were busily erecting a fence when we halted their progress. Halted because they were building into the dangerous area where, amongst other things, there are quite a lot of unstable cluster bombs. After being told what the problem was they left quite happy, only for us to turn up the next day to find they had not only completed the fence, but were starting on a new one. When I gently inquired why they were still building they explained that they thought I only meant they couldn’t build while I was there. This, I feel, is going to be an interesting experience.

Various RPG's

M-42 Sub Munition or "Cluster Bomb"

Random Ordnance

120mm Mortars

After a hard days work

We have progressed quite well on setting up the site, we have managed to clear our access roads and admin areas and I am a lot happier about getting started. So far we have collected a few RPG’s and mortars. Soon the hard work will begin. Today as well I was accosted by a local man who claimed that he had a landmine near his house.
“You’ve come to the right place my good man” I informed him cheerfully, “Now why don’t you show me this mine.”
He seemed quite pleased with himself as he strode purposefully through the village, collecting all the admiring glances from his fellow Sudanese. Along the way he made enquiries about becoming a deminer, and asked just how dangerous the job was. Perhaps he felt that it could help him with the girls if he added a little danger to his resume. He did seem to be rather bereft of cattle, which is the major currency among the Dinka tribes for attracting a wife, so perhaps demining could be his ticket. Regardless he took me around a corner and showed me his work and I must say I was impressed.

In the middle of the road was a circular piece of metal, it had been cordoned off so nobody could possibly disturb it and his friend was standing nearby as a guard. He seemed well pleased with himself as he noticed my reaction to his handiwork. So pleased in fact he felt it would be far more impressive if he showed me exactly where it was. He did this by walking over and tapping his foot forcefully on the object and saying proudly
“Here it is.”
Now for those who don’t know landmines are nasty little devices designed to maim people through the use of explosive. They are not usually a fatal device as it is far more fun to just blow limbs off people and have their friends need to fix them up and carry them out, all the while wondering if they are going to step on one next. As a psychological weapon landmines are awesome. (Oh and don’t believe what you see in the movies. You won’t hear a click, in fact you won’t hear anything but a rather loud bang.) They are basically small devices, usually buried just under the surface of the earth and they detonate when sufficient pressure is applied to them. This can be done by someone just walking over the top of it or maybe, just maybe, STAMPING THEIR BLOODY FOOT ON IT.

After the initial shock of what he had just done wore off, and the realisation that he hadn’t in fact just immediately thrown bits of himself over a large area kicked in, I came to the happy conclusion that either he was the luckiest person in the world, or that it wasn’t a landmine. It did in fact turn out to be the latter. It was instead the base plate from a Chinese 107mm rocket imbedded in the ground. So after digging this up, I politely pointed out that perhaps demining wasn’t the right career path for him to follow.

During the week I was told a story about a dismissal that just had to be relayed. Now telling stories about stories does have its pitfalls, in that something can always be lost during the process. I will however try my best to do justice to it. A former mechanic of G4S was sent to Nairobi to buy vehicle parts. In order to achieve this goal he was given US$10 000 a not unsubstantial sum. The employee (I shall call him Roger) was an American chap and by all accounts a well liked and trusted member of the team. He did however have a fatal flaw, or possible two or three, for after a week he contacted the office and asked for more money. Without too many questions a further $5 000 was sent to him. After 2 more days further contact was made. Roger, it would appear, had a rather large cocaine habit and had managed to somehow spend fifteen grand on drugs and hookers in a little over a week and a half, a feat I’m sure that not even the members of Aerosmith and Kate Moss combined would be able to achieve. Nairobi, it seems, is a major launching point for drugs to reach Europe from Africa, and poor Roger just found the temptation too much to bear. It must have been a hell of a week.

Posted by Dangermouse 09:22 Archived in Sudan Comments (0)

Gorillas in hats and vulgar loops

Originally written in Feb 2011

My arrival into Juba, the capital of South Sudan, was again without fanfare. In fact I was starting to wonder if I would ever see a band heralding my arrival. Not that this has ever happened mind you, but I do remain hopeful. After alighting from the plane we had to take a short stroll into the terminal. There is something about walking on airport tarmac that is somewhat thrilling to me. It goes back to a much gentler time when all air travel included a brisk walk along the black top to your waiting aircraft. To venture out onto the runway at most major airports these days will probably get you a few years in prison and an opening spot on the evening news. Our days of super caution, (dare I say maybe healthy paranoia) have taken away these little pleasures in life. Things like runways, visiting the pilot to check out all the buttons and flashing lights and wondering why nobody is actually steering, clearing customs without a complementary full body cavity search, and carrying toenail clippers. (Though I am yet to figure out a way that someone could successfully hijack a plane with a set of clippers, or even any of the other small items that are now banned from carry on luggage. I had no idea that planes and their staff were quite so delicate that you could take it over carrying nothing but a corkscrew and a small pair of scissors.)

After entering the rather optimistically labeled Juba International Terminal (I would have gone more for “Only building that resembled something that could keep the rain out located near the airstrip”) I obtained my visa stamp, argued vigorously for the return of my passport and then fought for position by this small opening in the wall. This was where, we were reliably informed, our baggage would be delivered. Now baggage handlers the world over have a bad reputation for mishandling luggage, and I like to give most people the benefit of the doubt on such matters. However I have a feeling the reputation originated in this very airport, as our baggage was literally being tossed through the hole. (I didn’t see the individual doing the actual tossing but he must have been a man of some stature as they were coming through the opening at an alarming rate. It wouldn’t have surprised me to find a trained gorilla on the other side of the wall, quite possibly wearing a cap). This display caused a small crowd to gather near the hole in the vain hope that you would not only see your luggage come sailing through the air, but that you were able to retrieve it before it was covered quickly by other peoples. One poor soul advanced bravely into the fray to fetch his bag before being suddenly knocked down by another Samsonite missile and quickly consumed by baggage. I believe that he may still be under there.

I was met by one of my bosses, a man named Don. He is a delightful chap, Scottish and one of these people who only ever seems to turn red and white. He had to do some minor negotiation with a Sudanese customs official that thought I was a journalist attempting to smuggle myself into the country. Apparently anyone carrying a large camera is immediately identified to be a journalist. I had initially told this customs official that I was here to do a spread for Sudans next top model, and if he played his cards right I could introduce him to Tyra. However he failed to get the reference, or my subtle attempt at humour, and this only caused further trouble when I then changed my profession to EOD. He did kindly offer to look after my camera gear for me and suggested that I could collect it on my departure for the country. I then explained that I felt there was more chance of me being elected the next pope than of ever seeing my gear again; however he gave me a quizzical look and stated that he didn’t know they were looking for a new pope yet. Sarcasm, apparently, has not yet made its way into Africa and I am fairly sure that I now have at least one new devout follower. I found out later that an American man with a camera was detained and help for 3 days while they tried to figure out if he was a spy or not.

I am working for a company called G4S and my first week has been an interesting one. I was firstly introduced to everyone in the camp and naturally instantly forgot all their names. I am still picking them up slowly and continually call one of them Shane even though I am now fairly certain that’s not his name as he never answers me. During the course of the week at least three members of G4S have been struck down with Typhoid. One supremely lucky chap, Nigel, managed to get Typhoid and Malaria at the same time. He is at the moment happily lying in his bed sweating profusely and hallucinating to his hearts content.

Nigel is currently in charge of the team that I will be taking over. This consists of 6 deminers, one 2 I/C, one medic and 2 drivers. The Sudanese I have met so far have all been quite cheerful people, and seem to be happily getting along with their lives. Upon driving through the villages you will see them carefully sweeping the immediate area around their Tukul (grass huts usually with mud walls), clearing it of all stones and rubbish and generally making their little patch of the world as nice as they can. They seem to make the most of what they have and do it quite well. What they don’t do well is drive. In fact I am fairly certain that the requirement for passing your driving test is to complete the expert level on Daytona 2000, as they appear to treat driving as if it was some kind of arcade game. I have so far witness the aftermath of a few accidents that have left me scratching my head and wondering just how they managed to get a vehicle into that position in the first place. Today, in fact, I passed a car on its roof in the middle of the road with three rather dazed looking Sudanese men standing around it talking on their phones. There were no other cars involved, no skid marks, and no real solid account as to how they managed to turn their car upside down. They just did.

During the week it became clear to me that whilst it is possible to kid around with the locals, it needs to be done in a way they understand. For example, one day whilst on site with Nigel, he was asked by the one of our locals working with us if he ever boxed.
“Only with the missus” came his reply, with a broad grin and a little wink.
As this was met with a relatively stunned silence I felt I should chip in.
“Yeah mate but who wins?” I asked, getting the joke and trying to carry it on a little more.
“Oh she does” replied Nigel. “Every time. In fact even bouncers are afraid of her.”
This was still being met with a little silence and the conversation was moved hastily on. As we were preparing to get back to work Samuel, one of the Sudanese, came over to us and said rather solemnly,
“In Sudan we don’t fight with our women, they aren’t strong enough.”

On another occasion one of the team leaders, Demir, fell over and hit his head, getting a decent gash for his troubles. When asked what had happened he informed his team that when he had asked Jo, our rather petite logistics manager, for some extra money for his team she had not only said no, but beaten him with her shoe for daring to ask. This caused quite a stir amongst the Sudanese. A few days later Jo was in their camp to oversee the moving of some containers and was given quite a wide berth. The next time the team met up they said to Demir,
“We have been watching Jo and she seems very strong. We will be careful of her.”
Demir then tried to explain that it was a joke and that he had in fact just fallen over, but by this stage they believed that she had made him say that. I think they are still very careful not to upset Jo.

During the week I was introduced to my next task, clearing a site in Juba. It had been a military ammunition storage area that had had an unauthorised explosion in 2006 and destroyed quite a lot of the depot. An unauthorised explosion is one that isn’t supposed to happen. We had been tasked to recommence clearance on the area as the last company to work there had had an unauthorised explosion of their own, badly injuring one of the de-miners and blowing off the lower part of his leg. We were told what to expect and went for a drive to get an initial look and start some planning. As this was my first real job I was accompanied by Al my operations officer. As we got to the site there was ordnance scattered rather haphazardly, as is the way when it is thrown around by an explosion. I was thinking quietly to myself that this wasn’t good, but kept quiet as it may be normal for this line of work.
“Fuckin’ hell” exclaimed Al. And then again just to reinforce his opinion,
“Fuckin’ hell”
Al is a great Welsh bloke who has been around for a long time, so I was starting to get the vague opinion that this wasn’t just a routine job.
“It’s bad then?” I said, assuming my secret identity of Captain Obvious.
“Fuckin hell”
As this appeared to be all that Al could say at the moment, I alighted from the car and started to have a look around. The site was huge, and there were bombs, shells, rockets, grenades, sub-munitions and mortars scattered everywhere. In fact a little bit of everything. Almost like the ordnance fairy was sick of delivering explosives and dumped the rest behind the shed and went home for tea.
“I think this is you ‘till the end of contract mate” said Al, finally free of his vulgar vocal loop.
“This is fuckin’ huge” he added, and finally “Fuckin’ hell” just in case I hadn’t heard that one yet.

I am actually looking forward to starting on this site, and as a first job goes it will definitely keep me busy and let me play with everything. Except landmines that is, but I am secretly glad of that. While you can see bombs and mortars there is nothing more unsettling than walking along and suddenly seeing a flash of light, hearing a rather loud noise and realising that you appear to be missing half your leg. Or at least that is what I am reliably informed. There are two operators here with wooden legs, and one with a story that would make your jaw hit the floor. But that is for another time.

Posted by Dangermouse 09:14 Archived in Sudan Comments (0)

Airports, lounges and steel benches.

Originally written in Feb 2011. Leaving Sydney Australia for South Sudan to start work.

Why is it that I don't like airports??
Surely there must be something special involved with the promise of international plane travel. The chance to go hurtling through the atmosphere in a relatively comfortable seat, eat small meals and watch movies on a really small screen. All the while playing secret arm rest wars with the person sitting next to you before getting very little sleep and waking up somewhere exotic. What could be better?? I find it amazing that so many people complain about air travel, as if getting from one continent to another in under a day is something of a pain. I wonder how they would have fared with the 3 month sea voyage that it used to take??

But I digress, because I have to say that I get jittery in airports, I just want to get into the terminal and get it over with. I also get so paranoid about missing flights that it is not uncommon for me to arrive at least 6-8 hours before my flight. So I will wait patiently on hard plastic chairs for hours, but as soon as I have checked in I have an urgent need to enter the terminal. So urgent in fact that I treat anyone who comes to see me off in a rather off kilter way. So I must apologise to anyone who accompanies me to an airport, more to my parents, and most of all to my poor wife, who in her own personal distress was convinced that I would die in the coming months (she has the most endearing bleak outlook on the future sometimes) and was trying to hang onto me for dear life whilst I was attempting to extract myself from her grasp and enter customs. It's not that I don't love her, or that I won't miss her, it's just that I am busy controlling my internal panic about missing my flight. If all my appointments instilled this same reaction I am sure I would never be late for anything, though I would spend an inordinate amount of time sleeping on floors and would probably never actually get anything done as I raced from place to place in a weird compulsion to be there 6 hours early..............just in case. So baby, I love you, I miss you and I'm sorry.

After clearing customs in a relatively speedy manner (I do allocate 2-3 hours for this task, so 10mins is absolutely lightning) I wandered happily through the duty free areas looking for some power adapters and slowly realising that my carry on baggage is extremely heavy. So heavy in fact that I start to imagine the sheer weight of it forcing the overhead compartment open and crushing some poor unsuspecting traveler to death as they sit blissfully beneath it. I hastily checked my ticket and, realising I had a window seat, ceased to worry any further about it. In fact if the worst did happen it may give me the upper hand in the ever entertaining arm rest wars. Surely if my adversary was crushed to death then I would have the centre armrest to myself, and therefore a rather satisfying victory. I find the arm rest war quite fascinating, that silent, but all important struggle for the optimum amount of comfort. It's something those in Business and First class have no notion of I'm sure. They are too busy receiving massages, discussing the finer points of cosmetology with their ever helpful and, I'm sure, extremely attractive airline staff. Whilst in economy, my meals were served by a portly middle aged man who had trouble even fitting in the aisle, let alone actually maneuvering himself low enough to retrieve food from the trolley. My choices had been limited to the fish, which seemed surprising as I was sitting relatively close to the front and was mildly suspicious that the only reason I was being offered one choice was that the chicken was on the bottom, and therefore out of reach. I wondered silently how long it had been since he had seen his feet, or any other appendage below belly button height for that matter.

Still the meal was adequate, as airline meals are, and I had a pleasant chat with the older lady next to me. So pleasant in fact, that I considered moving half my carry on baggage into another compartment, just in case. Luckily the lockers remained closed for the duration of the journey. She had been in Queensland on a trip of a lifetime and had been inconvenienced by both the floods and the cyclone. In fact most of her trip had been changed or spent in a hotel room wondering if a wind could actually push over a high rise building.
"Don't worry" I assured her, "God's just giving them a touch up for being so cocky about the State Of Origin".
"Oh really" she replied, quite seriously, and then eyed me for a moment whilst she took in this revelation, possibly wondering just how I knew about Gods doings.
"Perhaps you should come to NSW, we missed all the bad weather" I offered in an attempt to move the conversation along again.
"Oh no" she replied softly, "I don’t think I will be coming back, you see there are far too many poisonous things for me."
This is a fact that I thought was well known to travelers before they come to Australia. Apparently this poor woman only discovered it after arriving, so not only was she attacked by the weather, but spent a lot of her trip worried that everything she came into contact with was going to kill her. I can just imagine the stories told on her return, perhaps over tea and scones in that rather British way that I imagine most middle aged Brits behave. I think I may have watched too much of Midsummer Murders.

We arrived in Bangkok airport just ahead of schedule thanks to some following winds. Why pilots feel the need to explain every part of the process is beyond me. I would be just as happy flying at 25000 feet as 30000 feet for example. I don't know of any other profession that relays this time of information constantly to you. I am fairly sure that the last time I was on a bus the driver didn't tell me when he was going to make a turn, or what speed he was traveling at (this can sometimes be a blessing as I have been on some fairly interesting bus journeys) or even most of the time what the actual name of the place he has stopped at is called. On buses you are just supposed to know. But I digress, I had exactly just enough time to get off my plane, hurry through the terminal, find my next plane and board it. For someone who needs a substantial time buffer at airports this is quite a harrowing experience.
"What do you mean the plane leaves in 20 minutes; I've only just got here!" I explained rather flustered to the man at the Air Kenya desk. He just looked at me, smiled and said
"Gate 2, you better hurry they are boarding now, have a pleasant flight."
Obviously he had no idea of my need for time, nor my immediate requirement to go to the toilet.

Airport toilets in the arrivals section are some of the grottiest on the planet. I'm sure this is because they close the toilets on the plane half an hour before landing and the change in altitude as you descend increases the pressure on your bladder, so that by the time you land you really need to go. And everyone heads for the first available toilet. This particular one I darted in to on the way to my plane was small; both urinals were out of order being clogged with toilet paper?? and some other foul smelling substance. The only toilet cubicle was occupied by an Asian man who appeared to be practicing yoga or calesthetics of some kind as there was an awful lot of stretching and arm waving going on for someone who should have been concentrating on his aim. After watching this somewhat amused for a couple of minutes I raced out in order to make my flight. I would just have to go on the plane, the equally grotty in air cousin to the arrivals toilet.

On boarding my Kenya air flight I was almost immediately introduced to the Africans lack of perception about personal space. I was seated next to an elder gentleman who had his legs spread so wide I started to wonder if one was perhaps false and had gotten away on him. So wide in fact that his right foot was almost in the aisle, and he had no inclination to change his manner of seating in order to accommodate me. When I politely pointed out that perhaps he should place both his feet under the chair in front of him he looked at me with some form of bewildered shock as if I had asked if I could run off with his daughter. The man in front of me, despite having both chairs in which to arrange himself decided the best position was in fact with his seat fully reclined and his arms hanging over his backrest so far that if I had been eating, they would have been soaking themselves in my tea. The whole trip left me wondering if all Africans were in fact double jointed, or indeed even made of some fantastic rubbery substance and it had so far escaped my knowledge. The temptation to poke at his enormous hands to test their consistency proved a little too much after a while but my results were inconclusive. The flight passed thankfully without further incident as it was a red eye and everyone was busy sleeping. It is the first time that I have seen people sleeping on the floor in the aisle of the plane and having flight attendants and passengers creeping delicately over them as if this was a normal occurrence on air travel.

My arrival in Kenya was without fanfare. Still I had set foot on another continent, now I just need to cross off the Americas and I have done them all. Except for Antarctica, but I have met very few people who actually count that one. Apparently you haven't really established yourself as a continent in the majority of the worlds eyes unless you can get there on a Contiki tour. Still it would be nice to see one day, before the Americans discover it and put in a McDonalds. Anyway, I was greeted by a gentleman holding my name up on a sign. I have always secretly wanted to be one of those people at the airport who have drivers waiting with their name on a sign. I always imagine them being whisked off to some important secret meeting by a man named Geeves. My man unfortunately didn't speak English and therefore didn't appreciate any of my jokes, or attempts to call him Geeves. I was simply handed and envelope and given a form to sign to say that I had received it. At least this part had more of the secret agent appeal about it, though I doubt he would have appreciated that either. After signing for my documents he turned and left leaving me wondering what I did next. I retrieved my flight details and asked a guard where I would catch the plane from. He helpfully pointed that out that I had to go around the corner then walk a little way to terminal 2. Apparently his idea of a little way and mine are extremely different, for as I rounded the corner I was a little doubtful that there was actually a terminal 2 at all. In fact I wasn't exactly sure I wasn't just walking into town and would at any point have someone come and stop me for stealing an airport trolley.

Still after a small hike it appeared before me, terminal 2. It was now 0630 and my plane left at 1230. Normally this would be just the right amount of time for me to be comfortable about my ability to make my flight, however after close to 20 hours flying already I was quite willing to forgo my usual requirements. I wandered over to the check in desk and asked if I could check my bags early. The nice young lady looked at my ticket then spoke rather rapidly to her colleague in Kenyan, and they both had quite a good giggle.
"No I am sorry you will have to wait" she then informed me with a smile, oblivious to the fact it was obvious she had just had a good laugh with her friend at my expense.
"OK, well when can I check in then?" I inquired hopefully, giving her my best cheeky grin. This is a technique my wife encouraged me to use with female staff in order to get things to go my way. Apparently a little flirting can go a long way. Unfortunately charm doesn't seem to work when you have spent 20 hours on a plane and smell rather like a homeless person.
"You will have to wait." was all the reply I got; I guess time is not such an important factor when checking bags in Kenya. So I sat on a rather uncomfortable steel bench for the next 4 hours and after checking another 5 or 6 times, was finally allowed to check in my bags. The intriguing part was that every time I checked I was treated to the same experience, as if it was the first time. She would check my ticket, laugh with her friend, and then tell me to wait. In fact when I finally got to check in my bag she addressed me as if it was the first time we had met. I was starting to wonder if I was stuck in some kind of Groundhog Day loop, or in fact whether she was not just made of rubber, but also had the memory of a goldfish, or early onset Alzheimer’s.

Still I was in the airport and on my way to South Sudan. Now where is the toilet??

Posted by Dangermouse 09:27 Archived in Australia Comments (0)


Greetings, as with all journeys they have to start somewhere and mine is starting here. It's as good a place as any I suppose and gives me at least one point of reference in the almost guaranteed obscure ramblings that are to follow. Where is here you may ask, well it's here. That's all you really need to know.
About me, well I do EOD for a living. That's Bomb Disposal for those who have no idea about acronyms. I do use a lot of acronyms in my job as otherwise we would spend more time conversing than actually doing any work. So let me get a few out of the way right now, if any more pop up (and they are bound to) I must apologise in advance.
EOD - Explosive Ordnance Disposal. What I do for a living. Basically it's finding and destroying or defusing anything that didn't go bang like it was supposed to during a war.
UXO - Un eXploded Ordnance. The term for what I deal with. I have a suspicious feeling that the term was created by an American simply because they use the letter X for a word that clearly starts with an E. Perhaps they are hoping it can one day be included in the X-Treme games (another word that begins with E by the way).
AT - Anti Tank. These are mines designed to take out large vehicles rather than people.
RPG - Rocket Propelled Grenade. Everybody's favourite weapon, just hire any Rambo movie and they are bound to show up at some point.

Actually there are way too many to list here, this would become an epic first post. Lets just say that I use a lot of them, and if you really really need something clarified then let me know and I will tell you what it means.
So apart from that I am ex Royal Australian Navy and moved into humanitarian EOD. Why, well unless you have blown something up before it's kind of hard to describe. I love the smell and the pressure wave, lets leave it at that. This job gives me the opportunity to do far more dems than I was ever able to achieve in the RAN. The added bonus of course is that now I get paid to do this a lot, and I help people affected by war. We are the silent workers cleaning up so people can get their lives back together without worrying if they can walk or dig somewhere.

What's not to like, well human heads are heavy, lets leave it at that.

I like to use humour to make fun of situations that can be quite dire. It's the way I get through. Now this can sometimes be rather odd humour, and people don't always get it, but bear with me. Everyone has their own methods, some stress, some drink, some laugh it off. I'm one of those.

So to begin I am going to go back in time to Feb of 2011. The initial tales were written to my family as a means of explaining what was going on. I'll start posting them up here and then I hope to keep this going as I progress from country to country.

Lets hope that lasts quite a while :)


Posted by Dangermouse 00:11 Archived in Australia Comments (0)

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