Hello, World

Having survived the red-sand vanishing-point tracks and fat blue skies of the Australian outback, John Mee tucked a gleaming white Simon Anderson 6'5" indo gun underarm, and boarded Garuda flight 16 one-way to adventure. Since, he has looked into the beckoning boneyards of a boiling Sunset Beach reef from atop twenty-foot swells. He has criss-crossed, in a poo-brown two-litre fuel-injected 1979 kombi, the slate-grey concrete ribbons of American heartland. He has defeated, in a marble-lined mall beside the open sewers of Surabaya-Indonesia, all-comers at that late-great arcade game: Street Fighter II.

John yearns to ride a tyke Jap motorbike through jungles of Laotian tribesmen, over ranges of Himalayan porters, through bustling bazaars of Iranian merchants, just to languish awhile in the teeming town squares and moldy cheese ruins of patronising English peasants, moustachioed Deutsche burgomeisters, and precocious, yet petite, French princesses.

But today, in the vanishing point of ten to fifteen hours under the fat blue-grey glow of an Apple eyemack, his yesterdays and tomorrows blur. Patient, slumbering, adventure stirs; stretches and yawns.