Not all Wanderers are Lost

By Ross Radich

Ross Radich loves to travel and has done plenty of it. As 'one who lived nowhere and was available to travel anywhere', he visited most of the planet. On finding himself with no home, just a TV and a cat called Nelson Mandela, Ross, with no qualifications, decided he wanted a job with no responsibilities. He got one with no training. He nearly resigned but his daughter advised him to enjoy a free overseas trip first. So, using the quality of toilets as a grading system, he travelled the world, causing chaos as he required workers to work, refused to inspect a bulldozer suspended above him and realised nobody sat next to him on planes. Filled with hilarious observations on overseas culture, attitudes, people he met and the abuse of rental cars, this is the diary of that rare creature, a happy man who truly loves his job.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781528909648

Ross Radich

Ross Radich was brought up on a dairy farm in northern New Zealand, and just managed to scrape through high school. In the early eighties he migrated to Australia with his family to seek his fortune. Having no formal qualifications, and having had such other jobs as cleaning public lavatories, and packing meat in a slaughterhouse, he managed to get a job where he travelled the globe, not as an impoverished traveller, not funded by family, but in paid employment.

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Postscript

About the Author

Ross Radich was brought up on a dairy farm in northern New Zealand, and just managed to scrape through high school. In the early eighties he migrated to Australia with his family to seek his fortune. Having no formal qualifications, and having had such other jobs as cleaning public lavatories, and packing meat in a slaughterhouse, he managed to get a job where he travelled the globe, not as an impoverished traveller, not funded by family, but in paid employment.

Copyright Information ©

Ross Radich (2018)

The right of Ross Radich to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

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A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781787103856 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781787103863 (E-Book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2018)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

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L  eave everything. Leave Dada. Leave your wife. Leave your mistress. Leave your hopes and fears. Leave your children in the woods. Leave the substance for the shadow. Leave your easy life; leave what you are given for the future. Set off on the roads.

Andre Breton

Preface

I   was wandering through the airport terminal in Chicago O’Hare, when I saw a sign in a bookshop which said Not All Wanderers Are Lost. I couldn’t believe it. That’s me. It couldn’t have been more descriptive of my lifestyle. I wander all over the world, but am never lost; well, not very often.

This job has seen me visit the following countries, some of them numerous times, and it hasn’t cost me a cent. All air fares, hotels, hire cars, food and drinks are covered by my trusty company credit card. It’s just such a wonderful invention.

New Zealand, USA, Canada, UK, Portugal, Spain, France, Belgium, Luxemburg, Holland, Germany, Austria, Italy, Slovenia, South Africa, Japan, China, United Arab Emirates, Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore, Indonesia, New Caledonia, India, and Chile.

There have been many times when I’ve gone to bed in one country and not known in which country I will be going to bed the next night. I could wake up early in the morning, turn on the laptop, and find travel arrangements for that day that could take me to the other side of the planet. To a lot of people that would be horrendous, but to me it was a purely wonderful experience.

Once I flew into Cairns, Australia, for a week’s leave. I’d been away for three months and had just emptied my suitcase, put the dirty clothes in the washing machine, when my phone rang. It was the office asking if I would do a quick, urgent job in South Africa. It involved one day’s travel there, one day inspecting, and one day’s travel back. Of course I said that I’d do it. I finished washing and drying my clothes, re-packed my suitcase, had a shower, dressed in my nice clean clothes, called a taxi, and I was off to the airport. I returned not in three days, but five weeks later. It’s just good luck that I’m not married. From South Africa I transited to Cape Verde Islands, visited various places in the USA, and then on to Germany, returning to the USA before heading across to Japan, then back to Cairns.

On another occasion I was in New Zealand to look at a grader, and expected to travel across the Pacific to Chile the next day. Early the next morning, I was rung up and told that I had an inspection in Galveston, Texas, another one in Germany, another one in Baltimore, and then to go down to Chile, all within a week. I flew out that day.

What is this job? I hear you ask. Well, you probably haven’t asked at all, but I’ll tell you anyway. It required me to carry out pre-shipment inspections of used heavy machinery to ensure that they were in a clean state, and suitably configured for shipping.

Because Australia’s quarantine rules for imported machinery are so draconian, it is cheaper for an importer to have me carry out a pre-shipment inspection in the country of origin to make sure that the machine complies, than to run the risk of having the quarantine inspectors reject it when it arrives in Australia. If that happens, they can order it to be re-exported out of the country for re-cleaning at the importer’s expense.

While I was doing this job, I was the only one on the planet doing it. There were others that did the same type of work, but I was the only one who lived nowhere, and was available to travel anywhere. The others were stationed in one country or one continent and worked only there. I lived out of my suitcase, ate airline food when and if they had it, drove hire cars, traveled in trains, slept in hotels, and loved every single minute of it.

Now let me wind back the clock a bit to explain how one gets such a wonderful job. After my business went bust through the incompetence of the accountant (yes, it’s true), I was left standing with a hundred and four dollars in my wallet, nothing in the bank, a TV that I’d won in a Bourbon drinking competition, my clothes, a bit of bedding, and a cat named Nelson Mandela because he was black, which my daughters gave to me when Nelson Mandela was released from prison. No wife, no car, no house, no furniture, and a job that was commission pay only. There was no salary, and it was selling real estate, but I had no car. Gone were the four properties, two cars and a boat.

After that shock, I decided that I would never again have a job that required attending meetings, needed any thinking, and carried with it a responsibility over which I had no control. I wanted a job where if I turned up and did as I was asked, was treated fairly, had time off, and I got paid at the end, I’d be happy. I didn’t much care what it was. I made myself a resolution that I wouldn’t stay in a job for more than six months, and I didn’t, and in most cases I changed my place of residence at the same time. I’ve cleaned supermarkets, cleaned public lavatories, washed dishes, worked in a slaughterhouse, made beds in a resort, run two coffee shops, driven a bread delivery truck, done resort gardening, mowed lawns, worked as a citrus inspector, and then I fell into this job.

I had been working in a job that involved enormous hours, enormous miles to be driven, and no job satisfaction. I was the regional manager of a commercial cleaning and property maintenance company, and I’d been doing it for five months. The six months’ time limit that I’d set for myself was quickly running out. One night, after having worked all day, I was rung up at just after midnight while I was asleep, to say that a supermarket floor cleaning machine wouldn’t start. The supermarket was two and a half hours’ drive away. I got dressed, drove out there, fixed it, stayed on to help my staff clean the store, and then set off to drive all the way back, to go back to bed.

On the way, the phone rang again and it was the supermarket manager ringing to complain that the floor wasn’t clean enough, even after I had explained to him the problems I had in getting it done at all. I was not a happy fellow, so I had a drink of water and carried on driving. Just as the sun was coming up I fell asleep behind the wheel and ran off the road. Fortunately, the car sustained no damage, and nor did I. That was the second time I’d fallen asleep at the wheel. I thought to myself, I don’t need this crap, so I bought a newspaper at the next town and looked for a new job immediately.

I set myself up in a coffee shop and began ploughing through the Help Wanted advertisements. I came across one from a company in Brisbane that was looking for a quarantine consultant. I had been a quarantine inspector in New Zealand twenty-four years earlier, so I thought that I should apply and see what happened. One of the requirements in the advertisement was that the applicant must like international travel. Can you believe that? Who the hell wouldn’t? And so I applied. This wasn’t an easy job to accomplish because they required an e-mail reply. I had little computer experience, so I drafted up a minimal two-paragraph response and sent it off. I heard nothing for a couple of weeks, and then I got a reply asking me to attend an interview a few days later.

I bought the cheapest suit that I could find, polished my shoes, and bought a plane ticket to Brisbane. When I arrived at their premises I was the only one wearing a suit, or anything remotely similar. All the male staff was dressed in jeans and open shirts. They looked at me as though I was from outer space. I thought, What sort of hairy-arsed place is this?

At the interview I had to complete a form to determine if I was suitably mentally stable, and could fit in with the rest of the company’s employees. Would I want to? But apparently I did, in both cases, so the interview continued. I was told that they would let me know shortly. I flew back home and waited, and waited, and waited for three weeks without a word of response. I rang the Human Resources Department and I was told that they were still thinking about it, and then I heard nothing more, so I concluded that they didn’t have the ability to recognize my talents, and dismissed any chance of getting the job.

Two months later, I was rung by the managing director and asked if I was still interested. ‘Yes, of course, but I thought that I was unsuccessful because I hadn’t heard anything for so long, and I’ve got another job.’

He told me that he would call me again the next day at nine thirty a.m. and give me a decision. At precisely nine thirty a.m. my phone rang and it was him, telling me that I had the job, and to start on Monday, and to pack for two months because I was leaving for Europe on Wednesday. How the hell do I do that? I thought, but do it I did. I resigned from my job as a citrus inspector, arranged for my mail to be diverted, found someone to pop her head into my apartment every now and then, and to take my car for a drive every week or two. By that stage Nelson Mandela had been run over, so I was a free agent.

On Sunday afternoon, I packed my bag, slammed the door shut on my apartment and flew to Brisbane, ready to attend at the office at eight a.m. Monday for training. The training consisted of standing around doing nothing. I didn’t even have a chair to sit on, and no-one spoke to me. On the second day I was given a laptop computer, but I didn’t know how to turn it on and no-one showed me how. I didn’t even know how to open the lid. No-one trained me in anything. That week went by with no indication of going anywhere. The next week I was taken to a machinery cleaning facility and told to clean a Caterpillar scraper. At the end of the day I was covered from head to foot in grease and dirt and filth, and for the rest of the week I sat around doing nothing.

At the end of that second week I rang one of my daughters and told her that I was going to resign, if such a feat was possible for a job that I hadn’t even started. I’d had no training in what the job required, no training on how to operate the computer, and no indication of going anywhere, and still no chair to sit on. Her advice was the best that she could have given.

‘The fact that you’ve had no training is not your problem, it’s theirs, so just go to wherever they send you, and then at least you’ve had an overseas trip which will cost you nothing.’ So that’s what I did. I left not for Europe, but to Singapore and Japan, the following Sunday.

The following chapters are a small insight into the fun and wonderful experiences that can be had while being a single middle-aged chap, wandering across the planet with someone else’s credit card in your pocket.

Chapter 1

A   fter sitting around Brisbane for two weeks waiting for my direction to travel, I’ve finally made Singapore. I’m on my way to Japan, but first there is a Caterpillar D10 bulldozer here to inspect.

But first, the flight up. It was on Singapore Airlines, and the damned thing was packed to the rafters. I was in the middle seat, and on my left was a person who had the most magnificent hands. Fine, and with nails that had obviously spent considerable time and money in a nail clinic. However, a closer inspection of their owner revealed that she was a he. On the window side was a German. Not the fair-haired Aryan type that you would expect to be the owner of a fine German automobile, but a filthy, smelly, untidy individual.

After leaving Brisbane, and partaking of the less than sumptuous meal, it was time to get some sleep (the flight left at midnight). Some sleep was all that it turned out to be, because when I woke up, the flight tracking device on the screen showed that we were just over Mount Isa. We’d flown just a couple of hours. Being jammed in the middle seat, with less than desirable company on either side, made the flight very uncomfortable. It arrived at Changi International Airport at about five thirty a.m., so there was time to kill before ringing the local agent to go and do the inspection. McDonalds was handy so there it was that the time was spent, drinking coffee.

At about nine thirty contact was made with the agent, so into a taxi for the trip to his office. I was last in Singapore in 1975, doing similar work for the New Zealand Department of Agriculture, but at that time I was inspecting military equipment from the Vietnam War, which had just ended. My stay then was for six weeks, but this time it was for just a few hours.

This city is just magnificent: very clean and safe. The drive from the airport took me to the opposite end of the island, a distance of about fifty kilometers, and showed what pride they have in the place. All along the freeway were beautifully tendered gardens, and in some places the trees grew right across the road, giving a complete canopy overhead. The taxi driver knew exactly where to go, and pulled up at the front door of the office.

The agent was an Indian fellow, and gave all the indications of being sharp. All the people in the office were rounded up for introductions. After he got himself and a vehicle organized, it was off to do the inspection. The vehicle of choice was an Isuzu three ton truck. The seating position for the agent and his offsider was in the cab. This left the back of the truck for the inspector; me. Off I went through the streets of Singapore. hanging on for dear life, while the agent and co. enjoyed the comfort of the latest in seat development that the Isuzu Truck Manufacturing Company could provide. The seating on the back for me was an aluminum tool box.

At the site where the machine was, it was like something from the movies. There was every race (except Caucasian) imaginable. The person allocated to assist with the inspection was a Pakistani chap, only about four foot six tall (or short). There was heavy machinery everywhere; bulldozers, excavators, and various parts thereof. This chap wore no boots and surprisingly he still had all his toes. It was dark, noisy, filthy, and everything was covered in grease, including the staff.

After the inspection, it was lunch time, so off we went. The lunch premises were where all the local workers ate from the various factories and work sites around. It consisted of a huge shed, about an acre in size. It had a roof but no sides.

Included on the menu board was pig organ soup. I was given that, with a rice side dish. Outside, and quite close, was the dish washing facility. It consisted of a few forty-four gallon drums cut in half, filled with dirty water, and several Indians toiling away in the heat to try and cleanse the dishes, unsuccessfully, I suspect. I saw no evidence of Sparkle, Ajax, bulldozer degreaser, or any other substance to advance the cleaning process. They were merely rinsed in the filthy water.

After the pig organ soup lunch, I needed urgently to go to the toilet for number twos. What an eye-opener. I’d never seen anything like it in my life. It was an Asian-style toilet where you squat over the hole in the floor with your feet plonked on the footprints in the ceramic tiling on each side. Now I am not a young person any more, so squatting was a very difficult procedure to accomplish, but accomplish it I did; there was no alternative. The whole procedure involved taking off my boots, totally removing my overalls and hanging them on a nearby hook, putting my boots back on because the surroundings were not in an hygienic state, dragging my underpants down, and then attempting the squat, to do the business. Worse was to come. Because my stomach had been under enormous pressure, and the contents of my bowels were very liquid (sorry about this, but you need to know the difficulties that I endure) and the hole into which the whole business was intended to go looked like five miles below, the resulting explosion caused a general spraying effect (sorry again) resulting in some ending up on my socks and boots. Even worse was to follow. Looking around for some cleansing toilet paper revealed that there was none. There was just a hose connected to a tap on the wall. I found the whole business of trying to wipe myself clean disgusting. All I had was my hat, so I had to sacrifice that. I then finished off by washing myself with the hose. Trying not to get my undies and socks wet was impossible, disgusting, revolting, and impossible to achieve. The whole procedure was just revolting; and there was no bum drying facility, except the natural evaporation of the tropical air. My undies were wet, because I’d had no previous practice in correctly aiming the hose, and my socks had a disgusting brown spray on them which I couldn’t remove completely. It was made worse by the knowledge that I would have no access to any bathing facilities until I flew to Japan, about three thousand miles away, late that night. Anyhow, my innards were now empty, and hopefully, I wouldn’t become afflicted with nappy rash, so it was onto the back of the truck again for the ride back to the agent’s office and the taxi ride to the airport for the flight on to Japan.

At Changi airport, while killing time (about eight hours, because I was on another midnight flight) I purchased a T-shirt from the souvenir shop. In recognition of Singapore’s strict rules of behavior, it has printed on it, Singapore, a Fine City. Fine $400 for spitting. Fine $500 for littering. Fine $1000 for unnatural sex etc, etc.

At that stage of my career I didn’t know that showers were available at the airport, so I set off for Japan.

The flight was very rough. The Boeing 767 shook all the way because of typhoons south of Japan. Anyhow, the rivets all held together, and I arrived at five thirty a.m. at Kansai Airport, Osaka. Passage through Immigration was swift, if you were a Japanese resident, but for the rest of us, it took two hours.

Chapter 2

T  he area where I live is an up market suburb of Osaka, called Nishiohashi. There are wide streets, nice trees, and quality people. The apartment is tiny. The kitchen is nine hundred centimeters by twelve hundred centimeters – true. The bathroom is the same size as in a Boeing 737, except I’ve got a shower as well. I can’t put on my pants in there. I can’t bend over because my head and bum bang on the opposite walls.

I am writing this aboard the Shinkansen train bound from Yokohama to Osaka; however I’m not sure how far I will get on the trip because there is a typhoon heading in this direction. The Shinkansen is also known as the Bullet Train. It cruises at around two hundred and seventy kilometers per hour, which is the same speed as a Boeing just before it lifts into the air. Hopefully this thing will stay on the rails.

On Sunday night we had an earthquake. I was woken by the bed shaking. I thought that I was dreaming I was traveling on the train but when I woke up the whole apartment was swaying; even the toilet water was splashing around, the kettle fell on the floor, and the washing machine and drier fell over. I leapt out of bed and stood under the door frame. A useless act that was, considering the whole building was about to fall into the street. The apartment is on the eleventh floor, so it is a long way down, particularly if you are tangled up in concrete. The earthquake lasted two hours; no, it didn’t, but it felt like it did. I was terrified.

These Japanese people are just so lovely. The conductor on the train is checking the tickets. At each passenger, he takes off his hat, bows, stamps ticket, bows again, puts on hat and goes to the next one. It’s just great. In the shops it’s the same – stand, bow, give service, bow again, and then sit down. It is refreshing to be with people who know how to behave, and to respect each other.

I asked our agent, where are the police? because I have not seen any, nor a police car. He said that they were probably sleeping because they have no work. The traffic flows easily even though the drivers are eating, drinking, smoking, and talking on the phone all at the same time. It’s just like the old days before the police realised the money-making potential of us drivers.

The workers here that I deal with have not heard of workplace health and safety. Yesterday I was asked to inspect the underside of a Caterpillar D8 bulldozer while it was hanging from a crane! Like hell I would. I got it dropped onto the ground and wriggled underneath. They said, ‘You are clazy,’ but I told them that there was only one of me, but there are millions of them. They all laughed like hell. They are just fantastic to deal with. They call me Lossa because they can’t pronounce Ross.

Today I was at the port of Yokohama, and a gust of wind blew all my papers away. The three of them took off, and came back with every piece. I told them they are too late for the Olympics.

I don’t spend a lot of time working, mostly traveling. Last week I was in Kobe and traveled on a train with no driver; it was all automatic.

I really enjoy their food, but last week I bought lunch from a stall outside a railway station. About ten minutes later I thought my whole digestive system was about to explode. I had to get off the train at the next station, and run to the toilet. Unfortunately it was another Asian style. No sitting down in comfort, but at least it had toilet paper. Only the tough can do this job.

The trains have Ladies Only carriages. They are painted pink and white and are available for ladies in the peak traveling times. Apparently Japanese men have a tendency to thrust their hands up Japanese girls’ skirts on the crowded trains, so now these women have somewhere to escape to.

Last night we had another earthquake, but I survived.

I went to Nagoya this morning to see a machine at the local Caterpillar dealer. Outside the railway station, I hopped in the taxi, and gave him the address. No luck, so I gave him my Caterpillar Product Manual so that he might get the hint of where I need to go, but still no luck. I rang the dealer and got one of them to explain over the phone. Success, but the taxi fare cost seven thousand one hundred yen (about seventy-five US dollars).

After I inspected the machine, the dealer was going to call a taxi to get me back to the Nagoya Station. I said it was too expensive and asked him to drive me to the local railway station and I would get train to Nagoya. That was pretty simple, I thought. He didn’t know where the local station was, so he set up the satellite navigation system in the vehicle and off we went. He clearly didn’t know how to navigate, because when the arrow pointed left he just went where he felt like. Even when we crossed railway tracks he could not link them to trains. Eventually we got there and it was only about a mile from his dealership. I got the train back to Nagoya and the fare was only a hundred and forty yen (a dollar sixty), so I don’t know where the taxi took me.

This afternoon I went to Kobe. It is really a very attractive city. It was rebuilt after the earthquake in 1995, which I can remember clearly. I have to admit that I’m terrified of the damned things. With a hurricane you know it’s coming and can get prepared, but with an earthquake, it hits suddenly, and unexpectedly.

I have absolutely no idea what is happening in the world. There is only Japanese language on the TV, no radio, and no-one who speaks English. I haven’t seen pictures of anything that looks like news from outside Japan. Is the war still on? (No, not the Second World War.)

Chapter 3

I   saw a sparrow in Nagoya yesterday and another one in Kobe this morning. I hope they get together, because the bird population here is a bit depleted. In Australia there are birds everywhere, even in the cities, but here, there are none anywhere. The most useless piece of equipment for a garden is a bird bath.

At Kobe this morning, I went to a different part of the port, and on a different train system, from the last trip down here. It really is a great experience to ride on a train for several miles, but without a driver. Where a driver would normally sit, there is a seat and a covered-over dashboard, but no controls. On this trip a young fellow was sitting there, and at the end of the trip I said to him, ‘Thank you very much; you are a very good driver.’

He said, ‘No problem. I did my very best,’ but of course he was a passenger like the rest of us.

As the train travels, it passes several apartment blocks. When it passes each one, the glass of the windows on that side of the train instantly turn white, so the passengers can’t look into the apartments, and returns to normal again as soon as the train passes the building. It is some electronic device. The first time it happened to me, I thought that my glasses had fogged up. When I took them off the view was still blurred. It thought that I had contracted some disease, but in just a few seconds my vision was perfect again.

The street identification system in Japan is a mystery, even to the taxi drivers. There is no street numbering, or name system, like we have. A taxi can get you from a suburb to a suburb but after that you have to know where you are going, because they haven’t a clue.

This afternoon I had to find the address of a machine I had to look at. I had it written down, gave it to the driver who looked up his maps, but no success. He asked a passer by, but there was no luck there either. In the end I hopped out and walked around ’til I found it myself. You would think that such a sophisticated society as this would get to grips with such an obvious problem. When I discuss this with our agent he says that in the past the Japanese people didn’t move around very much, so they didn’t need to know. Fair enough.

I’m back on the Shinkansen Super Express bound for Yokohama, which departed precisely at the scheduled time of ten fifty a.m. Not a second before or a second after.

Yesterday, I was working on a dump truck with a large hammer (about a three pounder). I was working above my head, giving it a good hammering. In fact, I was trying to install the safety pins that stop the tray crashing down when you are working under it. Suddenly, the head of the hammer came off, and came crashing down to hit me just above my eye. Blood was everywhere. I wiped it off with my sleeve and I kept on working. One of the Japanese helpers said, ‘Stlonga Aussie,’ and gave an approving look.

Everyone here seems to have a job. To replenish a drink vending machine takes two men. One with a tie on has a clipboard, and opens the machine and takes note of what is needed. Another one, in working man’s clothes, works at lightning speed to fill up the machine, watched by the one with the clipboard and tie. At a car parking building there is always an old man outside with a flag, uniform, whistle, and torch, to guide cars in and out. Same at building sites, roadworks, etc. At the railway station platforms, between the hours of seven to nine a.m., and five to seven p.m., there are two men in uniform, with whistles, and pink signs warning men not to board the Ladies Only carriage.

I arrived at Yokohama at exactly the scheduled time of one thirty p.m., and we’ve covered about five hundred kilometers.

This job just gets worse! Like hell. I love every minute of it. I traveled from Osaka, arrived here at Yokohama at one thirty p.m., been to work, and am now booked into the Yokohama New Grand Hotel. What an attractive place this is. The hotel is situated right on the harbour front, and is surrounded by beautiful streets, and parks. On the harbour front is the International Cruise Ship Terminal. Surprisingly the hotel is not expensive. Ten thousand yen, about a hundred and thirty US dollars. I think I will bathe shortly, and then go for a wander to see what’s what.

When I arrived at the city railway station this afternoon, I asked a man in the station ticket office for a map of Yokohama. I meant a map of the rail system, but he thought I meant a city map. He rummaged around in his office and found one which was in Japanese. I asked if he had one in English, but he said that he didn’t. I walked out of the station, when all of a sudden he came running out of the station with a map in English that he had found. Top people, these. While I was studying my new map, a woman came up to me and said