Luke punching our passport during the Berryman 36 Hour Adventure Race

For those of you who don’t race, the passport is an official race form that you punch with a differently shaped hole punch at each CP.  This proves that you were at the CP and ensures that you get credit for locating it.  If you lose the passport you have no proof of getting any of the CP’s and cannot officially finish the race.  The Berryman was the first time in a big race where I was in charge of the passport.  Usually Luke handles most of the navigation, BLD is the passport guy, and I am the guy that reminds everybody to eat and drink and tells an occasional bad joke.

With just me and Luke on the team for this race I inherited the passport duties.  First, I had to decide where to keep the passport.  I needed a secure location that was easily accessible since you need to punch it at each and every CP.  I decided that I’d put the passport in a Velcro sealed pants pocket on the outside of my right leg.  It fit the criteria; it was safe and easy to get to.  This worked great through the first night.  I’d punch the CP, slip it in my pocket, and then push the Velcro flap down to seal it and not think about it until we needed to punch it again.

The pocket on the outside of my right leg was home for our passport this race

As the race went on and we collect more CP’s the inherent value of the Passport went up proportionately.  If I lost it early in the race; in theory we could get another passport and then retrace our steps to collect the CP’s again.  However, after about 12 hours I realized this was no longer an option.  If I lost it now, our race was officially over.  We’d have another “unofficial” finish under our belts this summer (I swear Luke’s almost done with the Lionheart Report).  I became more aware of the passport and began to check the Velcro seal between CP’s.  I’d reach down and pat the closure assuring myself that it was still sealed and that I hadn’t lost the passport.

By the time the sun went down on Saturday we had many CP’s collect and I was even more anxious about the passport.  I could feel the weight of the passport in my pocket.  It was as if I were Frodo and the passport was the ring that I was sneaking into the depths of Mordor.

HOW COULD I HAVE LOST THE PASSPORT? LUKE IS GOING TO EFFING KILL ME!

I felt my pocket again, and it wasn’t there.  The pocket was sealed but there was no passport.  I began to fear it got washed out of my pocket when I was in the water at some point.  I thought about telling Luke I didn’t know where our passport was and quickly decided against it.  I was afraid that he would kill me.  After all the effort we put into collecting all those CP’s, how could I have lost the passport?  I mean we only had 3 CP’s left.  I kept it safe for so long.  I decided that it had to be in my pocket.  I felt again through the pocket and didn’t feel it.  Was there a hole in my pocket?  I opened the Velcro flap and put my hand in the pocket.  No hole.  Nothing!  I dug deeper and felt around.

I felt something, deep down in the corner of my pocket.  It was kind of folded into the material of my pocket.  I grabbed a hold of something.  Was it our passport?  I pulled my hand out of my pocket and I was holding onto our precious passport.

Phew!!!....So Happy!!!

I breathed a sigh of relief.  My heart rate returned to normal and I felt so relieved.  I was so happy; Luke wasn’t going to kill and our race wasn’t going to be “unofficial” (assuming I could keep track of it for just a little bit longer).  It turns out that I didn’t lose the passport.  It had been in my pocket all the time.  I thought about finding a new home for the passport but figured it was safest in its previous location.  I mean after all that we have been through and to have it still be there.  I decided it was a safe location to keep it for the duration of the race.

For the duration of the race I found myself checking for the passport almost nonstop.  I constantly was feeling down the outside of my pocket confirming its location.  As I grew sleep deprived and became more delirious it grew worse.  I kept a hand on my pocket almost the entire time for the rest of the race.  I actually carried the passport in my hand from the final CP to the finish line.  The only way I felt comfortable at this point was if I could actually feel and see the passport.

I have thought about this a lot since the race.  I wonder why there isn’t a better way to keep track of your passport.  Why hasn’t somebody invented a case to carry it in?  Or why isn’t the passport made of laminated card-stock with holes punched in it so that you can put a string through it and carry around your neck?  There has to a better solution for the passports than a piece of paper that you fold up and stick in a pocket.  I will waste much time in the near future pondering a better passport solution.

Has anybody else ever experienced this type of anxiety over your passport?  Does anybody know of a better way to carry your passport?  Where do you carry you passports during a long race?  What’s your worst PSA experience?

Let me start all the way from the beggining to tell you just how fucking retarded we may appear to be. On Friday June 24th we thought we left the country and our flight departed at 9:40am from the Gold Coast Airport that morning. But, it didn’t. It actually left Saturday the 25th. Way to be a tool and get the day of your flight mixed up. Next up on the list of being shit at travelling, we didn’t organise a Visa for our stay in Malaysia. I realised this about 3 hours through my flight on my way to Malaysia when there was not a single thing I could do if I got to immigration and was like, “Sorry, you are a shit unorganised Australian who has failed to even look at the Visa requirements. I’m going to take great pleasure in sending you home”. What the fuck was I going to do if that happened? Furthermore, we didn’t even have accommodation booked for that night, we were just going to chill and shit (if you haven’t guessed by now, I like to travel slightly unorganised and deal with shit as it happens rather then be an OCD worryer over something that may never happen – similar to what I was doing exactly at this point in time. Good one you fucking hypocrite.) I didn’t think it would be a problem, I have spent heaps of times in airports  from when I was a little boy walking past people sleeping on thier bags in front of thier terminals to my friend Ben and I experinencing it ourself when we travelled to Japan last year (we had run out of money on our last day and got to the airport at about 9:00am for a 4:00pm flight. All we did was sleep and hang out because we had no money, it is exactly as boring as it sounds). We just figured spending 22 hours in an airport when you have heaps of money at the beginning of your trip would be awesome, we would just sleep and drink.

But I am getting way to ahead of myself. The point is I didn’t have a Visa, I had pretty much a whole day in the country and I didn’t have a valid address that I was staying. When I landed in Malaysia and crossed the tarmac into customs and immigration I had the worst feeling in the bottom of my stomach, Nick didn’t give a fuck, but he really hadn’t read anything – he just did what I told him. So really everything was on my head and I was starting to second guess and doubt my somewhat of an unorganised and chilled itinery.

After waiting about an hour in a line that representing a level 55 snake on the old school Nokia cell phone game, Snakse II (remember how awesome that game was? Fuck Apple for killing that shit) I got up to the counter and presented my passport and country card hoping that old mate would be able to let me through and wish me safe travels. And he did. Fuck me, was I releived. I didn’t know whether I needed a Visa or not for that short time or whether the dickhead behind the counter just wanted to see the arse end of me and my 10 hour plane BO so he just stamped my passport. But who gave a fuck, I was so relieved to get through the border.But little did I know that the slight feeling I had about my Visa would be the least of my worries to come while I was in Malaysia.

When I land and pass through into the actual airport (to call this place an airport is a stretch. It’s literall half the size of a Bunnings Warehouse and generally as dirty as a coffee lovers toilet bowl - No, seriously) I sit down and eat. I’m jetlagged as fuck and all I want to do is curl up in a ball and die. Nick got me some spicy as fuck Asian soup that I couldn’t eat, so I had to settle for some nuggets and a Coke. There was no bar, three coffee joints, 1 ATM and only a handful of places to eat (did I mention a seriously lack of seats)? 22 hours was seeming like a fucking long time. It was one of those times when you check your watch about 17 times every 20 minutes to see how much longer you have to spend somewhere you hate where there isn’t anywhere to spend your money or amuse your time. For some reason we thought 22 hours would be alright. Then we actually did the math…

Let’s say on average we are awake about 12-14 hours. That time is spent actually doing shit and being productive members of society. Or sometimes I will smoke some weed watch sitcom re-runs and listen to records and write about them. But my point is the time I spend during the day is actually spent doing things and amusing myself, followed by hours of solid sleep on a bed that was probably made by Vietnamese slaves that I probably paid way too much for. In Malaysia I had no internet, no alcohol, no drugs and an iPod that was out of battery – Fuck this 22 hour bullshit.

Making a collective decision to get out of the “airport” Nick and I found some hotel within about 1km so we trekked it out there. This whole time I had no idea what I was going to find out when I got to the hotel, but for now I was happy. I just landed in Malaysia to see other parts of the world and I had found I place to park my arse for a night instead of slumming it in the airport. When we arrive to the hotel we find out that they are fully booked up but they have a taxi service that can take us to another hotel and back to the airport tomorrow if need be. Of course, Nick and I were keen as beans. We would get a night’s accommodation and a return taxi service to the airport for literrally $40 or $50 (alright for Australia raping the shit out of the economy right now), our worry would be gone and we found a place to sleep. I replied to the bloke, “fuck yeah dude, let’s do that”. “Sure thing sir. I will just need to see your passport”.

I opened my bag to get my travel wallet and the fucker is gone. That thing you keep with you that has your passport, itinery, euro rail pass, couple of hundred euro, a phone card and your travl insurance details - Yeah well that was gone and I no idea where the fuck it was. When I opened my bag to find that it was gone I was actually suprised how calm I was. The whole thing was so surreal, it’s like I didn’t actually lose it. I thought that if I thought hard enough about where I left it or that it I looked everywhere it would just turn up, like the fucker was going to mystically appear in my top pocket or something. Sometimes I am just far far too naive and stupid for my own good. When I realised that my passport was actually gone and I wasnt going to find it I ran like Forest-Mother-Fucking-Gump back to the airport and checked everywhere I had been. Nothing.  I came up empty. People must have been looking at me thinking I was some idiot tourist. I was running through the carpark of the Malaysian airport in a white shirt and my highschool trackpants that stunk of BO from the plane, they were now soaking wet and smelt even worse thanks to the 35+ degree heat.

At this point in time I realise how fucked I am and how much I hate Malaysia. First the Visa troubles I was thinking about and now I am actually far, far more in the shit then I would have been. I rang everyone I knew that had a copy of my passport. I started with my mum, I asked her to send copies to the hotel reception straight away, she said she would but after impatiently waiting about half an hour and nothing actually happening, getting a return email or phone call (I even rang her back to ask what was happening and she replied “Are you calm now? You are stressing me out”. Oh fuck mum, You’re stressed? I’m so sorry to be so inconsiderate of your situation”) my brother ended up calling his girlfriend and she was able to email though a copy in a matter of minutes. Being a Saturday and about 6:00pm I knew the consulate would be closed but I decided to ring them anyway, I thought it would at least be a somewhat smart thing for someone who just lost thier passport to do. It was at this point in my life that I am the most proud to say I am an Australian. The bloke on the end of the line was a champion through and through. For some reason everytime I talk to an Australian when I am away they are by far the nicest, most friendly and most willing to help than any other nationality (except maybe the Japanese) and this bloke was no exception. He talked me through everything. It was as simple as getting some passport photos and seeing the consulate when it opened on Monday and filing a police report. He then went on to help more than expected and told me that if I had travel insurance (I did) I could go and stay at really nice places and eat well and then I would be able to claim it all back on travel insurance because it has affected to rest of my plans. What a fucking champion. Some dude who works for the Australian Government is off telling people to legally get as close as you can to ripping off insurance companies. If that isn’t true blue and just downright Australian, I don’t know what is.

Evenutally I got out of Malaysia, it took me about 4 goes at finding useable passport photos but I eventually got one and fucked off out of the country. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t bad and I had a pretty good time, but the circumstances as to why I was there made it worse. When I checked into my flight to England the next day I had news. The staff at Air Asia had found my travel wallet. They found it dtiched in a toilet cubicle with the money gone. At least I had my passport though. 13 hours since getting on my plane from Malaysia we finally got to our first destination – Stansted airport, England. Before I failed miserably at life we actually had places to stay, but because of my royal fuck up there were no beds left pretty much anywhere in London (apparantly the world stops over here from some tournament called Wimbledon). We were fucked, again.

To cut another long story short (I have so many things to say and stories to tell that I have had to omit. I mean, this blog is already pushing 2200 words and I am sure that it is nowhere near as fun to read as it has been to write. Actually, that’s a lie. It hasn’t been that fun to write, it is just giving me something to do while I wait for my brother to wake up. I also have things to write for my magazine that were due 2 days ago, my editor is so far up my arse it’s not even funny) my bro and I are hanging out in Stansted airport sleeping against our bags at about 2:00am and emptying our coins into Time Crisis II and Daytona Ralley. The plan was to bypass England instead of staying there for a few nights and just head to Belguim, so that’s why were are up so late hanging out at the airport playing arcade games. By 4:30am in the morning we had a group discussion, it was decided we were going to go to Amsterdam straight away, which meant a 2 hour bus ride to london, a ride on the London underground (or Tube) to Kings Cross Station, then Kings Cross to Brussels (where they only speak French. J’em a parle un peu francios, parlour vou ongli has never come in handy as much as it did then. Translation: I speak little French, do you speak English)? We had to then get off at Brussles, get on another train, get off at a local Belgium station and then get another train to Amsterdam. All up, including our plane ride from Malaysia to England the trip across countries had taken about 46 hours – we did all of it without sleep. There is a point you get to where if you push through the tiredness you are more awake than you were if you just got out of a freezing shower, I’m sure it cant be good for your health or body though.

When I arrived in Amsterdam I felt like my trip had finally started. I got high and walked around town. The first store I came across the man asked me if I like mushrooms. I told that I don’tyusually eat mushrooms, but he told me they were magic so I bought some anyway and Nick and I ate them in our hotel room. So there we were, two stupid Australians who had just got to Amsterdam after 46 hours of straight travel without sleep muching away on a box of magic mushrooms, I wouldn’t reccomend trying this shit at home. After they kicked in a bit, I went for a walk around town, ordered some old “authentic” dutch pizza from an Indian man who reheated them after they had been no doubt sitting in a marijuana hot box (yeah, they tasted like fresh donkey anus but when you are tripping shrooms in Amsterdam you just take whatever the fuck you given). I don’t want to use the short amount of time I have left on the internet tell you about my experience on mushrooms, I’ll do that in my book, but know it was completely mind expanding and I can understand why wordsmiths such as Grace Slick, Audios Huxley, Lennon and Morrisey (to name a few) have all openly spoken about the benefits that ego death and self exploration hullocinagenics may bring an individual.

So as I sit here eating my dutch hamburger (it is only a meat pattie, salad and chips. Is that what hamburgers are like here? Or am I still tripping balls that there bread on the plate and I just can’t see it. Or maybe the waiter can tell I am still on my trip and just wants to fuck with me? either way, I’m eating a hamburger) and I’m not sure whether all this time without sleep has finally taken it’s toll and as I take a moment to look back at what I have been through in the past couple of days, but more so the last 48 hours I can’t help but put a smile on my face and finish eating this hamburger. I am not sure whether I am super proud of myself for handinling shit alright so far, the fact I am smoking weed in Amsterdam with my best mate or whether I am just coming down of mushrooms and your brain is all scattered and fucked for a good 12 hours afterwards. Either way, I made it to Europe safe (finally), ready to see the world, experence different cultures and just generally continue being awesome and getting one step closer to the finish line of life that is self exploration and happiness.

As for now, my brother just woke up and he is hungry. I might go and buy a waffle.