Across the street, while we loaded the luggage, S., perched in his window frame, waved a handkerchief. This wasn’t just any trip.
Then things got tricky. It’s funny how fate sinks its teeth into our happy moments—there’s this whole intermediate phase where the poison seeps in unnoticed because you’re still in the dark...
First, there was a delay on our flight to London. Dom immediately went on high alert, while I stayed calm. In my mind, we had two hours. I knew we had to go from Terminal 5 to Terminal 4, but two hours—come on, that’s plenty, right?

Bad calculation! Because those two hours were between the first flight’s landing and the second’s takeoff. But flights close at least half an hour before departure. Getting from one terminal to another means taking a shuttle bus. We waited for the one going to Terminal 4... until a young guy paid to direct people (who hadn’t seen us) informed us it was no longer possible to access Terminal 4 without going through Terminal 2 first for a connection! That really cranked up the pressure. We started installing a mental countdown with a programmed explosion at the end—guaranteed stress with added beads of sweat. The terminal bus was driven by a young Pakistani guy. We were *so* tense we bombarded him with our frantic, repetitive questions. “So? When are we getting there? What’s happening? Why aren’t we moving?” Our eyes were glued to our watches. The poor guy knew. Perfectly. Because it was obvious—no way around it. We weren’t going to make it. It was impossible. But Dom and I stubbornly refused to believe it. Then the kid stopped the bus. Me, hysterical: “What are you doing? What’s going on? Our plane takes off in... in... 4 minutes!!!! We’re gonna miss iiiiiit!” He wasn’t calm either. “You’ve already missed it!” He explained we had to cross a zone that required an escort car to clear a path through the runways. Impossible to do without. It’s forbidden. We had to WAIT (!!!). Then he got a radio call—he had to rush to Terminal 3 to pick up a passenger who was *super* tight on time. “Amir!!!! It’s RIGHT NOW!” they yelled in his already-red ears, thanks to the complaints of two hysterical Frenchies. Dom and I were in overdrive, hallucinating! We wanted to stop him, maybe even hit him to prevent him from turning around. He picked up the girl, whom we instantly hated like the most despicable witch. I turned on my data, searched for Malaysia Airlines’ number at Terminal 4, called, and actually got someone—quite a feat. A woman cut off my frantic rambling with a blunt “It’s over, the check-in is closed, the plane is about to take off.” I heard her but refused to accept it. I yelled, “We’re coming!” She shot back her monolithic “It’s over.” Finally at the doors of that damn Terminal 4, we ran—*really* ran—a marathon, Gate 6, security checks, pat-downs, “Take off your belts,” we asked questions, everyone seemed confident, we ran with one hand holding up our pants, the other clutching our belt, Gate 6—the room was empty. A girl was sitting there, calmly on the phone. We pounced on her. She calmed us down. Little by little, the light came back. Our brains rebooted. We finally understood it was over. We’d have to start crafting a new plan with the new reality. It started with a return to Terminal 5 to talk to British Airways, which took a good hour. With the same driver as before. We were alone with him. He took the time to apologize, to assure us it wasn’t his fault, that our problem had no solution, that nothing could’ve changed the outcome. At BA, we were exhausted. We were greeted by a handsome young man in a navy-blue uniform with gold stripes everywhere. We could’ve made a scene, but we were just relieved to find someone who’d take charge of our story. It was a minimal response, but it was *a* response. I suppose we could’ve demanded a business-class upgrade or a free trip, but we were just happy with a few vouchers for food, a hotel room with breakfast, and a little bag with plastic toys, a razor, toothbrush, hygiene products, and a T-shirt... Trinkets... But we were fine with it all—we said thank you eagerly because the essential was assured. He found us seats on flights tomorrow. *Tomorrow.* We were afraid to hope! We had the exact same flights but a day later. The same crappy times, but it was all good. We felt saved from the shipwreck, like survivors. - And what about the luggage? - .... !!!!

Monday, October 2nd, 2023 London - Kuala Lumpur

It wasn’t the Ritz, but with exhaustion on our side, we slept well. The continental breakfast was way better than we’d expected from an Ibis Budget. Still, it wasn’t enough to restore my joy for life. The course correction had turned into an arduous obstacle course. I scoured the car rental site every which way. Couldn’t reschedule the car. I’d done it before, but this time... Not to mention the laptop battery was complaining—the Brits have this quirk of making their power outlets incompatible with our chargers. Frustrated, I called them but ended up with a girl who declared herself incompetent and offered to have someone from Avis in Perth call me back—someone who’d supposedly handle rentals better. I decided to wait while taking a bath. Barely settled in, the phone rang. I was soaking wet, of course, and asked Dom to answer. Unfortunately, she’s known for disliking my phone, and in a clumsy move, she hung up. We got annoyed. She put dry towels on the edge of the bathtub, but—another false move—they fell in the water. The phone rang again... I completely redid the plans for the next two days, then transferred the files to my phone to consult them later offline. I plugged in my USB cable... *Plop!* The battery died abruptly—my PC shut down without any of the usual polite warnings! I looked around, hoping to find someone to strangle... Long story short, you can tell the day started under the worst omens. I was in a foul mood and spread my bad vibes to Dominique, who was initially in much better spirits... I called Mastercard, hoping to get a refund for the non-refundable night in Perth we’d already paid for. Same old song: “We’ll call you back”... Then... I’ll cut it short—buses, trains, lots of waiting... We rushed to reach the infamous Terminal 4.

We tried new options and convinced ourselves that a delayed departure flight is unrecoverable, no matter the scenario. We were furious that BA hadn’t bothered to tell us, leaving us to run around like rats in a burning house.
Tuesday, October 3rd, 2023 Kuala Lumpur-Perth
The flight was pretty nice. 13 hours, though. Dom and I were facing each other across the aisle. We could get up easily whenever we wanted without bothering anyone and chat when we felt like it. Besides, their chicken was amazing. They were kind enough to offer Dom a truly remarkable glass of rum. Good movies too, including the excellent *Prisoners* by Denis Villeneuve. At KL, during boarding, we developed a nagging worry about our luggage. We checked with some Malaysian Airlines staff. I sensed their hesitation. They made calls. Then changed their minds, giving us smiles and thumbs up...
Wednesday, October 4th, 2023 Perth
*Happy is the man who, like Ulysses, has had a fine voyage.* Well, for us, it wasn’t that. Finally arrived, we experienced the loneliness of tourists watching the baggage carousel spin, emptying of its precious containers one by one, until only a handful of travelers were left, staring at each other in disbelief. Without luggage, you’re kinda screwed. Not even a change of socks—our feet had been swimming in the same shoes for 3 days. No adapter, so no laptop. No toiletries. We could’ve cried! The lost luggage guy played his part. If you want compensation, fill out the disclaimer on the website made for that. And then, “Don’t worry, your luggage will arrive tomorrow!” “Don’t worry?!” From the start of the trip, we’ve been jerked around, fed lies. Tomorrow is the *absolute* last chance to get them back. Beyond that, we’d have to scramble a whole new trip. And lose a lot in the process! I have no idea how to go about it. Tomorrow... OMG... Tomorrow... We landed at 1 AM. Avis, the car rental place, opens at 6:30. Luckily, we found some decent breakfast. It cheered us up and gave us a second wind. Incorrigible, we started believing again! Well, then we just killed time. What else was there to do?


In front of Avis’s little shack, we were freezing. We’d been there since dawn. The girl who showed up, a Latina, immediately saw us as a nuisance who’d ruin her hopes of a peaceful start. Her face and tone were as unwelcoming as possible. You know us—it ended with hugs. She gave us a gorgeous, brand-new car! A hybrid with ultra-sophisticated features, all buttons you shouldn’t touch if you want to drive this thing without causing irreparable damage! We’re off! Driving on the left is easy at first. You think about it constantly. It’s counterintuitive, it takes effort. It’s later, when you get used to it and confidence sets in, that it becomes dangerous—old reflexes can send you into a wall. Anyway, the car and I immediately clicked.
In Perth, underground parking next to the hotel, friendly welcome—we ended up forgetting all the morning’s mishaps. Should we go sightseeing?

https://voyageforum.com/images/posts/small/1733767537-5Nwk6t3DsBZNOzf.jpg
Panneau Nullarbor










Another odd observation: *every* toilet, even the most remote ones hidden deep in the bush, always had a roll of toilet paper available. No shortages here!
And then we’re greeted by a big family of cute sparrows...


Apres 17 jours de voyage le long de la cote est, 17 jours plutot charges et rapides, facon bus de japonais, Melbourne est l'endroit ideal pour se reposer. Il parait que c'est le paradis du shopping selon un Australien (vrai, mais ca vaut pas Hong Kong), et comme ca va etre noel il faut bien qu'on s'achete des cadeaux l'un l'autre. Melbourne, c'est une grande ville, mais c'est juste une grande ville. Rien de special si ce n'est la tour la plus haute d'australie, un gratte-ciel en haut duquel on peut monter (voir les photos).
L'agence de Sydney qui nous avait vendu le pack "east coast" nous avait offert un coupon pour une nuit gratuite dans un hostel branche d'un quartier branche de Melbourne (St Kilda, au bord de la mer). On y est alles, on est restes parce que ca avait l'air pas trop mal. C'est cher mais y'a plein de routards a rencontrer. Cet hostel a termine de detruire mes illusions sur les routards australiens. Pas grand chose a voir avec les routards amicaux d'amerique du sud, ici c'est que des groupies, des gamins et des barriques. Je m'explique. Il y a en gros 3 types de routards ici (attention, ce qui suit est plein de prejuges, mais pas si faux): L'Irlandais. Lui il est venu en Australie pour boire. Il a environ 28 ans, il est typiquement plombier ou maçon, il a laisse tomber son boulot pour un an et il vient en Australie avec ses economies pour se bourrer la gueule a la biere locale. Il est gentil, il t'offre une biere, mais il a pas fait gaffe qu'il est 10h du mat et que toi tu prends tes cereales au pti dej' seulement avec du lait... a 16h00 il commence deja a entamer la soiree a coup de cubi (oui le vin en cube, ca c'appelle "goon" ici et le sac en plastique contenant le vin est sorti du carton et passe de bouche en bouche, le petit robinet servant a viser correctement directement dans la gorge). Le probleme c'est qu'a partir de 21h00 dans la salle commune il commence a gueuler bien fort parce que c'est encore son tour de boire (eh oui, il a encore perdu au jeu a boire, ou il a choisi "action" au lieu de "verite"). Il aime les jeux de lyceens surtout avec les groupies (voir ci-apres). La Californienne. Alors elle, elle est venue pour pouvoir cocher la case australie sur son CV. Comme l'irlandais, elle en a pas grand chose a foutre de l'Australie. Elle fait le tour, elle va partout comme tout le monde, mais dans les hostels ou en boite la majeure partie du temps. Elle a des fausse lunettes Dior ou Gucchi achetees a Bangkok qui lui couvrent la moitie du visage, facon "oeil-de-mouche", sauf qu'elle se maquille mieux qu'une mouche. Elle est toujours en shorties, raz les fesses (ce qui n'est pas pour me deranger), assorties de tongs et d'ongles de doigts de pieds peints aux couleurs de l'australie. Elle est bien gentille, le probleme c'est qu'elle a le ton d'une bande sonore de repondeur. Elle a rien a te dire, tout ce que tu fais est genial, elle te dit bonjour tout le temps mais ne sait pas ton prenom, te demande ce que tu fais ce soir et s'en va si tu ne va pas au meme club qu'elle (elle changerait pas ses plans pour toi), elle a une discussion basee sur le sexe (c'est pour ca qu'elle adore jouer a "action ou verite" ou a "I've never" avec l'Irlandais) et sur comment les autres filles sont trop des connes ou trop sympas (rien entre les deux). Elle a oublie son cerveau chez elle, en Californie (mais en avait-elle un ?). La lyceenne Allemande. Elle elle est toute gentille, trop gentille. Elle a 18 ans, elle vient de sortir du lycee et son copain, comme tous les allemands, est parti un an au service militaire. Alors plutot que de continuer ses etudes, elle fait un break d'un an et vient en Australie. "Ben ouais, si les mecs peuvent faire un break d'un an, pourquoi que moi je continuerais les etudes, hein ?" . Elle a pas d'argent (evidemment, elle sort du lycee) donc elle a pris un visa "Working holidays" qui lui permet de travailler en tant que cueilleuse de fraises a bas cout dans une ferme australienne, plongeuse dans un restaurant, ou dans un ranch si elle sait monter a cheval par exemple. Elle est payee 4 euros de l'heure, mais ca suffit pour vivre et voyager pendant un an en Australie. Elle est bien gentille, mais elle est vraiment trop innocente, elle croit a tout ce qu'on lui dit, et au final c'est pas une vraie amie non plus.
a 2h du mat parce que mon lit remuait (je dors en haut d'un lit superpose). Quel lit de merde, c'est de la feraille et c'est pas stable, comme une table bancale. Je me cale un moment, ca bouge plus, bien. Mais je me rereveille au bout de 3 secondes, ca bouge, regulierement. Apres diverses theories, je finit par elucider le mystere : c'est barrique (L'irlandais) et groupie (la californienne) qui sont tres occupes dans le lit du dessous a 2 h 30, bourres (bon en l'occurence ils etaient tous les deux anglais, mais la theorie reste la meme ). Je peux pas dormir, je me penche sur le lit du dessous, ce qui confirme definitivement mes doutes (deja bien solides avec leurs bruits a peine etouffes). MAIS j'ai pas eu le courage de descendre et de les arreter, allumer la lumiere, prendre des photos, et leur foutre la honte le lendemain. On sait pas ce qui peut se passer avec les mecs bourres. Ils ont termine donc, elle s'est barree, ouf. Mais non, elle revient parce que c'est son cheri de la nuit et elle veut terminer la nuit dans ses bras. (a chaque fos, elle ouvre grand la porte du dortoir et la lumiere, fait du bruit, bref...). Le lendemain dans la chambre, sous tifs, string, PQ, rembourrage de seins, tout traine par terre et elle doit venir 3 fois chercher ses trucs parce qu'elle en oublie a chaque fois. Elle se tape trop la honte, bien fait !!! hin hin...
Comme on est a Melbourne et qu'il faut faire quelque chose, on part pour une journee sur la "great ocean Road" qui relie Melbourne a Adelaide le long dela cote sud. Elle a ete demarree en 1917 pour donner du travail aux soldats revenant du front. La derniere section a ete goudronnee en 1982. Voir les photos dans la section Australie/Melbourne pour les vus magnifiques. On etait dans un bus avec surtout des japonais, ce qui nous a permis de bien rigoler, et on a pris des belles photos.
Un gars s'est pointe a l'hotel un jour, un designer, avec un look de designer (genre gay quoi...) en Jaguar. il avait besoin de deux routards pour nettoyer son appart. Ca marche comme ca le boulot ici, c'est au noir, c'est plus ou moins rapide et bien paye (plutot moins que plus), et y'en a tout le temps. Le gars de la reception passe des messages dans les hauts parleurs : "boulot de nettoyage de bar demain de 15 a 17, venir a la reception si interesse", "On a besoin de quelqu'un pour demenager des meubles cet aprem" etc... J'ai donc pris le boulot du designer parce que y'avait pas grand chose a faire et c'etat bien paye. On est partis deux avec lui et une neo-zelandaise. Ses parents arrivent ce soir et il veut pas qu'ils voient le resultat de sa fete d'hier. On nettoie tout, plie ses vetements, balaye, on vire la guirlande electrique dans le lustre (?!), nettoie le vin dans la baignoire (??!!), des trucs comme ca, et il nous ramene a l'hostel apres 2 heures et 24 euros de gagnes. Voila, on peut se payer une pizza maintenant :O)
Apres 5 jours, direction Uluru par avion.
some worrying bushfires

and a few opportunities to stop for a "warrior’s rest" (never go beyond the first second of the thought that starts drifting off the road…)
We cross an invisible border as we enter the Northern Territory, which comes with consequences—we immediately lose an hour and a half by changing time zones. The speed limit goes from 110 to 130.


We head back to enjoy our post-battle Happy Hour.
The concert’s over, but the crowd’s still riding the high. It’s indescribable. People are shouting across the room, screaming just for the fun of it—men and women alike. There’s pool, some beat-up arcade games being shaken like coconut trees. Dom and I feel like anthropologists. We’re pretty blown away. It’s epic! And the beer’s half the price it is elsewhere! We’ll definitely be back—that’s for sure!
It sounds amazing!

photo : Archives départementales de la Vendée












