Ghostly Groupies Gather around Melbourne

There’s a new kind of groupie in town and they aren’t here for the music.

“I prefer the term 'Paranormal Investigator.'” Says William Tabone, who along with his wife, Amanda, own and operate The Australian Paranormal Society (APS,) based in Melbourne.“There is a saying, "for a sceptic there is never enough proof, for a believer no proof is necessary. Sceptics are good for us as they make us work harder to verify the proof we come across and criticism is good for us as it makes us work harder.” He adds. Which is why the pair, along with their team, often travel long distances to investigate paranormal activity. “We have driven over five hours to get to cases in Victoria, but we act as consultants to clients all over Australia and the world, particularly America and the UK. ” He says.

The City of Melbourne Council, estimates that 710, 600 people use Melbourne on a typical weekday. That’s about ten times more than the amount of people who actually live in it, leaving large scope for all tourism sectors to grow. One of which many have not heard of, is called Dark Tourism - the umbrella term for travelling to the sites, attractions or exhibitions surrounding great suffering or death. “In Melbourne there is at least one ghost tour, several crime tours taking people to sites of violent crimes and there are cemetery tours, such as at the Melbourne Cemetery.” Says William. “Also, some tourist locations such as old historic homesteads run ghost tours and some also run ghost hunting events giving tourists the opportunity to venture into the world of the paranormal investigator for a fee… So I would have to say that this sort of tourism is taking off and growing at a steady rate.” He adds.

Often the ghost tours and walks include historical aspects of Melbourne. William highly recommends going through a reputable company, as this will ensure your safety and that your not breaking any laws. “These are businesses, like any other. Some of them are over the top and very theatrical, they are really just for entertainment purposes… I believe that payment is relevant to what people want to experience. If people want to take a ghost tour with a company that provide them for a living then yes people should pay as it is like going to a theatre or cinema…” He says. Although William recommends that people go through a reputable company if they wish to seek out the paranormal, Melbournians do not need to travel long distances to experience it. “There are so many places around Melbourne that I can say without a doubt are haunted. The Old Melbourne Gaol has definite activity. While on a tour of the site, not even during an investigation, we captured two full bodied apparitions on digital camera. There are a great number of individuals who have had experiences of a paranormal nature in the gaol. Also one of the investigators, who is sensitive, was attacked by an unseen spirit and had to be carried out of the premises.”

William has experienced the paranormal from a young age. It is those experiences along with the drive to prove the existence of what cannot normally be seen that has lead William not to only co-own the APS, but also be highly involved in the analysis process, being the Lead Investigator and the Liaison Officer who deals with clients before assigning an investigator or team to a case. But even Ghost Busters need time out. “I do have other interests outside of the paranormal, such as martial arts, but the most important thing for me is to spend time with my family, my wife and my five children.” He says. William’s two eldest children, Emily and William are also investigators for APS.

“Its the mystery of the unknown. It’s human nature. People like to be scared but safe at the same time, like when people watch a horror movie. It has been this way since the beginning of time, when stories were passed around in front of the fire.” Says William. “By ordinary people showing an interest and trying to find out more about the paranormal, I believe that it will demystify the industry and allow people to talk more openly about their experiences and thoughts.”

With the Internet now at nearly everyone’s fingertips, people can join any number of websites and groups around the world and in many cases they can have input into the cases. If you would like to know more about The Australian Paranormal Society, or perhaps have a location you would like to see investigated, please visit their website at http://www.australianparanormalsociety.com/

For information on tours through Melbourne’s Old Melbourne Gaol, please visit, http://www.oldmelbournegaol.com.au/

Review - Captivating Coffee Bay

Above: View from a tent in The Coffee Shack Camp Grounds.


“ BUFFALOOOOO!” The War Cry is loud enough to be heard from Cape Town. The victim, inevitably a newbie is stunned, looking wide eyed around the room at beaming folks. Then recollection dawns, she was warned within half an hour of her arrival along with her free welcome beverage. “Left handed drinking only, everyone is a Buffalo Soldier in Coffee Bay.”

Coffee Bay is about 60km from Mthatha, the former Capital of the Transkei Region, in the Southern Cape of South Africa. Mthatha is regular drop off/pick up point for the major buses and local taxis, and for the car-less, Shell Ultra City in Mthatha is the departure point for the 3pm daily shuttle to Coffee Bay.

The Coffee Shack is one of two hostels. It’s a cosy fairytale place flecked with hidey holes and hammocks, where it’s common to see teams of dreadlocked, sun laden, bare footed souls playing board games, reading books and sharing meals. Nightly rates range from ZAR 70 – 300 pp per night depending on your lodging preferences, and your fifth night is free. “No matter how hard we tried to leave, we kept waking up there the next morning. Coffee Bay seems to have that pull, it can haul you in, and then you find that you are just part of the furniture. So be careful if you don’t have much of a time limit on your travels, are a little bit easy-going with your plans or can somehow move that departure date, you might just find yourself here for life!” Warns Belinda Malherbe, Australian born and manager of The Coffee Shack since March 2000.

A nightly meal is prepared, generally of local origin, at a cost comparable to that if you made it yourself. However it is advisable to bring any other food with you from town, as the local stores have an extremely limited selection.

The bay consists of no more than four commercial lodgings, two or so local stores and local shack huts that the local Xhorsa people live in. You can expect cultural immersion, rustic surf beaches, stray cows, green hills, and an electric atmosphere. The lack of commercial stimulus is what makes the Bay so unique, it is a kingdom of childhood riches. There are trees to climb, hills to roll down, sea beasts to be caught, woods to traipse through, drums to bang, rhythm to dance to, local jewellery to make, cliffs to jump off, surf to be carved and hikes to be conquered. And after all that, there are friends to be made and discussions to be had about lives gone by, before retirement to a safe, warm place to sleep.

If you would like further information on The Coffee Shack, visit their website at http://www.coffeeshack.co.za/

RETROSPECTION - Mountain Madness at Summer Camp

It’s 5:25am and I awake to a THUD and hushed whispers in the corridor, my unconventional wake-up call and sign to begin my day at work. The sounds linger then diffuse through the floor boards of the late 18th century house. I pull on a pair of track pants and a fleece and emerge to the corridor with a smile and forced animated face. This brings Monday-itis to a whole new level. It is day one of camp for the youths, but week five for me.

After the British chills shake me to sobriety from the grog of sleep, I supervise youths playing ping pong until breakfast reminding myself that I actually get paid for this! The kitchen has outdone it’s self again with a smorgasbord of pouched and fried eggs, bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms and hash browns, there is also yoghurt, cereals and fruit to choose from. The belief that camp food is unfavourable is definitely not the case here and I am grateful as today my group are going on the mountain walk. I attempt to inspire them and make believe the walk is going to be a blast. I do everything short of jumping on my chair and declaring my love of the mountain before they look at me, then out the window to the pelting rain. I sigh.

I am working at Camp Castlehead in the Lake District, UK for the YHA, an added layer to my Gap year and way to top up my travel funds. Each week we have children from single parent to two parent homes, the wealthy to the not so well off, from adoptive homes and foster care, children who have been abused, children who are gifted to those who have disabilities all who arrive on Sunday and leave on the following Friday for a week of action.

The day drags on as we march troop-like through the muddy English countryside. No man is left behind, though the weaker try to sacrifice themselves with loud affirmations of hate and weakness. However it is the quiet ones you have to watch out for. I keep an eye one young man as he slows and lags. I walk with him for a while trying to pry from him what was the matter, its moments like this that we are trained for. Was he being bullied? Was he ill? Was he homesick? After an hour of light-hearted conversation and carefully constructed questions, he admits to blisters on his feet and it’s obvious he comes from a household where it is not acceptable to admit to pain. On closer inspection his feet were blistered red and raw and as we walked, the rain and gritty mud were getting into his shoes and causing further trauma to the seeping, open wounds. We called it lunch time for the troops while we cleaned, bandaged and strapped our damaged man.

I would be tough to get everyone going again. Motivational speeches don’t really work on angry, stubborn youths. So I bribed them with promises of hot chocolates. My work partner pulled her pants up to her armpits, put her cap on it’s side, pulled on an amusing face and led the way up that mountain, marching and belting out all the chants and war cries we knew. Our man “Blisters,” sung and skipped with the best of them, forgetting his ailments and succumbing to the endorphins, mountain air, and idiocy of my partner.

Later as the bus pulls back into camp and I say a silent prayer that we got back in one piece after the cold, the rain and the tears. It was a hell of a day, though I relish in the fact that I now get about 10 minutes to myself for a hot shower, before I am back to work until the last youth is asleep tonight. As we disembark my fellow team mates also roll back into camp from their activities like rock-climbing, canoeing and the obstacle course. They walk with a heavy step and a look in their weary eyes that says, “You’ll never guess what happened to ME today!”

Ghosts, Grave Yards and Dark Tourism

Above: Aerial view of Melbourne General Cemetery

Alicia Drew speaks to Jan Davidson co-founder of Melbourne Cemetery Tours, about ghosts, grave yards and dark tourism.


Photo albums full of grave stones may not be for everyone. But for Jan Davidson, co founder of Melbourne Cemetery Tours, it’s no different from any other hobby. “It’s like stamp collecting,” she chuckles, “why would anyone tear off the coloured corner of an envelope and stick it into a book? Though I am sure my children are going to have the albums burned as soon as I am gone.”

Jan, a social historian met Helen D. Harris, a genealogist, through a mothers group many years ago. “It was great to talk to someone else who didn’t turn pale when I mentioned my fascination with cemeteries.” She said, well aware of the topic’s affect on some people. Shortly after they discovered their mutual love of history, the pair dabbled in historical tours for various organisations, before going solo. Melbourne Cemetery Tours has now been running for over 25 years and is exemplary for other tours of its type.

“It’s the people. It’s all about the people. Many think they have taken their secrets to the grave,” she says with an ‘oh how silly can one be?’ tone. “But through much research, Helen and I dig up all their secrets and that’s what people come to hear, it’s just fascinating.” She tells me excitedly. “There’s no particular type of person that attends the tour, they can be international, interstate or local, but what they all have in common is that they’re all interested in the local history of Melbourne.”

For some, a leisurely walk through a graveyard may conjure up images of religious sacrifices, full moons and underworld creatures. After a comment about Dark Tourism, the game in Jan’s voice subdued and become more straight edge. “That’s not us,” she said strongly with confidence. Dark Tourism is the umbrella term for travelling to the sites, attractions or exhibitions surrounding great suffering or death. This includes Fright tourism, Grief tourism, Hardship tourism, Tragedy tourism, Warfare tourism and Genocide tourism. “We make little money from the tours. We do it because we love history. My children have always been around cemeteries; in fact we have had many-a-family-picnic in cemeteries. It is all about the people and how they lived. We’re just not a part of that.” She says.

It is what is written on the grave stones and the story behind it that interests Jan. “I have one photo of a man’s grave stone that dated 1866. The inscription on his grave read, “Victim of a fatalist and unfaithful wife,” and I just think “wow,” we could never do that today.” She says, clearly curious about the life of the man. “I also have photos of many famous peoples graves.”

Jan’s response to my query about the paranormal makes it clear that she and Helen have worked very hard to provide a professional, entertaining and educational, tour for history enthusiasts, “I’m not into ghosts,” she laughs. “Ghosts don’t come into my cemetery walks. It’s all about the people, how they lived, how they died, and the differences between our past and our present.” She giggles. “Nothing more than the occasional fox, and odd snake in summer has ever been seen.”

For more information about Melbourne Cemetery Tours, you can visit the website at: www.helendoxfordharris.com.au/melbourne-cemetery-tours or call Jan on 9872 5492.

TRAVEL BITE SUBMISSION - DRESDEN, GERMANY

(PURE TRAVEL’S WRITING COMPETITION.)


I flew towards her.

Pale, wide eyed witnesses are standing on the footpath behind the parked tourist bus, hands on heads, letting their cigarettes fall heavily between their mouths and their feet, dully fizzing out. Others crouched down, as if to hold on tight, or they would fall off the world while it seemed to crawl underneath them. One girl had vomited.

The tour guide can be heard frantically appealing to the public, “Does anyone know first aid? Does anyone know first aid?” As the woman lay in the middle of the road, the sound of her uncontrolled limbs slapping the car roof still rung in everybody’s ears and the heavy THUD of her body hitting the ground had simultaneously struck the chests of all who watched the scene, leaving them unable to breathe.

“DON’T MOVE HER!” Barked a voice at an apprehensive couple who had got to her before me.
“Everyone step back! Call an ambulance!” Ordered the voice again, the same voice that was coming from my mouth.

The European, sun drenched road, carved curly, pieces of skin and flesh out of knees while I got down to her. The right side of her body was visibly shattered from where the car had hit her and she was bleeding from cuts and grazes, but I noted that most of the damage was internal.

With the vulnerability of a small child, the woman peered up at me. I spoke sweetly and smiled, lowering my head to meet her frightened gaze, “Hello, my name’s Alicia, I’m a lifeguard in Melbourne and have extensive first aid training. What’s your name?”
She promptly squawked, “Catherine,” before writhing in agony again like she had moments before.

“Catherine, I am going to do what is called the vice grip,” I said with clarity, “it is going to minimise any damage you might have done to your neck and spine.”
She lay awkwardly on her side, with her limbs contorted and pale. Hovering over her, I place my right hand under her chin, holding it, with my forearm flush against her chest, between her breasts. My left hand cradled the back of her head and my forearm ran down her neck and upper spine, sandwiching her body between my arms, locking pieces of her in place. I held her tightly and asked about her family as she shrilled, begging me to make take her pain disappear.

This was not the Dresden I was supposed to know. The city had completely rebuilt itself after the Air Raid Bombings of World War 2. But once again, sirens can be heard not too far away. And vomit can be smelt in the stale, stagnant, summer air. And the new-old buildings loomed over us, casting deep shadows from the dying sun, drowning us all, in what was supposed to be good about this place.

Bug-ger Off - Published in The Tnt Down Under Magazine

RETROSPECTION - JACKING AROUND WITH JACK BLACK

Location: London, United Kingdom


The day I met Jack Black, began as any other Sassy, Summer, Saturday afternoon in London. After waking to the blaring sunshine, through the window of my curtain-less share-house digs, I had seriously considered bailing on work so I could spend the day sipping cider and looking ultra chic with the best of them along the canals of Camden. But with every excuse under the sun already used up and the apparent need to be able to pay for those lazy ciders, I decided to do the grown up thing and go to that little place society calls “work.”

The sports store that I worked at in London’s south attracted all sorts of people, like the mama sisters who dressed up in their finest 1920’s furs, gloves, and heels, who harboured screw drivers in their pockets and never paid for their enormous, bounce reducing bras. There was also the likes of your yummy mummy, desperate housewife and corporate business woman, made up or down, and had the one handed pram wielding skills of a Russian race car driver, who was also able to balance a mocha or check the quality of a running top with her other hand.

I had just spent the morning looking like Amy Winehouse at the bad end of a night out. There was a notoriously good fresh food market across the road from our store and they made the best brownies in London. The smells of thick caramelised sugar would catch and linger in the clothing of unsuspecting traffickers and slap me across the face as they walked by. I had it bad. But one hit of those bad boys and I would be on cloud nine for the rest of the day!

I returned from my break, having just scoffed a whole brownie, with enough sugar to run three under ten football teams for a week and I was a buzzing, bouncing miracle child. I’d walked straight to the front of the store to torture my colleges, and halfway through a celebratory crow I saw him.

THE Jack Black was standing like any mortal, looking at the Frisbees with his mate, which I would soon learn was his stunt double. A reminder message flashed briefly before my eyes. It was written in my boss’s handwriting and it read, “You must always treat everyone who comes into this door the same, no matter who they are!” It probably should have also reminded me to also use my common sense. But it did not. Shame.

The way the light hit his face made him look like a Greek god. To remain professional I had to suppress the shivers vibrating down my spine, brought on by such beauty. I also had to flick out a neck spasm and a twitch of my left eye, brought on by the copious amounts of sugar in my system. And that’s where I go blank. Nothing. Nada. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. I can’t remember anything from there onwards until my colleague says to me later,
“Alicia, youuuu IDIOT!”

Apparently I was on fire! I served Mr Black with the highest level of customer service. We were laughing and on first name basis and seemingly even knew what each other was doing on the weekend!

From what I hear, it all went really well until I took him to the till. I rung up his track pants and frizbee, put them in a bag and told him the price. Mr Black paid with his credit card and signed, but quickly put the card away after he had swiped it. (This is where common sense didn’t kick in.) I had always been a stickler for the rules. I was brazen enough and on such good form that I asked Jack Black to pull out his credit card again, so I could make sure the signatures matched.

You IDIOT Alicia!

I don’t remember, and I refuse to pull the memory from the depths of my mind, but Jack Black apparently told me I was the only person to have ever asked to see if the signatures matched between him and his card. I apparently looked so embarrassed, (noted by my glowing face) where he must have felt sorry for me, and made a joke about how I was doing such a good job, “Just in case there was someone else out there pretending to be me and not going to decent job at it!”

I’m the girl that will forever be known as the fool who asked Jack Black to produce his card to check that the signatures matched. Well, at least I gave a memorable experience, it is definitely not one I am going to live down.