Haters gonna hate

God Dang!
 
Last week I wrote about my road trip through the most dangerous city in America. While I came out of it whistling Dixie, I didn’t realise the violence that would be waiting in my inbox this week:
 
“You know what I really hate? When Australians try to make themselves feel better about their boring, rotten country that is too scared to leave the monarchy, by insulting the US.” 
 
“I’d rather drive a Mustang than a Holden. Do they even make any cars in Australia anymore?”
 
“I can only hope this crap you’ve written was in fact deep-fake Scott Pape.”
 
“No one gives a rodent’s rectum about your political views. They are an abuse of the platform you have developed.”

“Is your goal to get a safe Labor Party seat?”
 
(I’ve been labelled a radical lefty, a right-wing nut, and a gun-toting country hick – which is probably the closest.)
 
And these were the slightly nicer ‘PG’ responses I could publish. The worst emails I got this week were actually threats designed to make me ‘rethink’ my political views.
 
But don’t cry for me, Arkansas.
 
I’ve been writing this column for 21 years, and I’ve copped more curry than an Indian chef:
 
Industry super funds hate it when I question them about their expensive fees, their empire-building, and their aggressive valuations on unlisted investments.
 
Insurance companies don’t like what I’ve written about their rubbish policies and their price-gouging.
 
And the banks … well, let’s just say to this day I still have nightmares about the Dollarmites mascots murdering me in my sleep!
 
Anyway, my mother always says “You can’t please everyone”.
 
That’s true but, in the classic mum sense, it’s a way of sugarcoating the truth:
 
The fact is, if you’re out there trying to make a difference, you’re going to piss a lot of people off (especially rich people and companies who have an army of lawyers who threaten to sue … which happens more than you think).
 
Yet my job isn’t to kowtow to yanks (or cranks), to fluff up my social media (don’t use it), or build my brand (whatever that means). Truth be told, I never got into this game to be popular … which turned out to be a very wise decision!
 
Tread Your Own Path!

My walk through the most dangerous city in America

“I’m goin’ to Jackson, I’m gonna mess around, Yeah, I’m goin’ to Jackson, Look out Jackson town”
 
The top is down on our convertible, it’s 100 degrees (fahrenheit), and the stereo is blasting Johnny Cash’s Jackson as we drive into Jackson, Mississippi.
 
My mate Pete and I have been driving through the deep South … otherwise known as Trump country – Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, (Sweet Home) Alabama, and finally Nashville, Tennessee – for a work conference (well, that’s the excuse we gave our wives anyway).
 
We hired a Mustang, of course. It may be billed as the quintessential American muscle car, but in reality it has about as much grunt as Joe Biden before his morning nap.
 
We’ve also been adhering to a strict American roadside-diner diet of approximately 11,000 calories a day. After a week of bacon-on-bacon, my pre-diabetes has made my hands swell up so bad that I can’t remove my wedding ring.
 
Yee-haw!
 
We parked the Pony out the front of the Mississippi Capitol building – one of the grandest and most beautiful political buildings I’ve seen in my life – and took a walk downtown to stretch our legs.

Though looking back on it now, that turned out to be a big mistake …
 
Welcome to the Trump road trip.
 
Right now it feels like America is in the grips of a binge-worthy Netflix show:  
 
I’m calling it, ‘The final season of the United States’.
 
This show has it all … an assassination attempt. Pornstars. A coup against a (sleeping) President. And the star of the show is an overweight, 78-year-old white man with a spray-on tan.
 
Everywhere I went I asked people about the election.
 
And everywhere I went I got the same response:
 
A big ole cup of nutt’in.
 
Asking Americans about the election seemed to generate the same visceral response as that creepy in-law you’ve only met a handful of times, who stretches out their arms and says “where’s my hug”?
 
No-one wanted to touch it.
 
They may be the United States, but they are a deeply divided people. Nearly every person I spoke to admitted they’d lost friends based on the tribe they supported.
 
“It’s just so scary and … exhausting”, sighed Tyrone, my Uber driver.
 
Now I’ll tell you what’s scary – the streets of Jackson.
 
We didn’t know it, but it turns out that Jackson is actually a very dangerous city.  
 
In fact, it’s the most dangerous place in America, based on the number of homicides, which seems like a very appropriate yardstick for danger.
 
“Something about this place doesn’t feel good,” I said to Pete.
 
Pete pointed to a car that drove by us: “Maybe it’s the bullet holes in the doors?”
 
“Let’s get outta here now!” we both said in unison.
 
Snap!
 
Jackson has been called a ‘failed state’ …   a place where the government no longer functions.
 
Again, that’s not hyperbole.
 
After decades of mismanagement, and years of warnings about the city’s crumbling infrastructure, it all came to a head in 2022.
 
The city's water supply was badly contaminated and shut off, leaving its residents without drinking water (or flushing toilets) through the heat of the Summer. Even today, many residents live with brown water that smells of sewage and they refuse to drink it.
 
There are similarities to what’s going on on the national stage. Throughout this election the Democrats have read passionately from teleprompters at Hollywood-style rallies about the pressing problems the country faces … which they haven’t addressed in the last three-and-a-half years. While Trump has spent a lot of time arguing about the size of his … crowds. Neither has given much time to discussing the actual policies that would benefit the American people.
 
How does the show end?
 
Well, no-one knows, of course.
 
The only thing we do know is that Trump is incapable of losing (even if he loses, again) … and that is the ultimate cliffhanger that keeps us all watching.
 
Tread Your Own Path!

P.S. The night before we flew out, we went to a bar in Hollywood and met a young rooster who was crowing about the fact that he’d marched on Capitol Hill. He swore that Biden was already dead – “Weekend at Bernie’s style, man”.  Though I think he’d had one too many Harvey wallbangers.

Another barfly piped up and said that Kamala has it in the bag. He reckoned that in the next few weeks Joe Biden will have a medical ‘turn’ and announce that he has to stand down as the sitting President, which will officially make Kamala Harris the first black woman President – and she’ll ride that honeymoon period all the way to election day.
 
To add to the weirdness, TV star Sofia Vergara was standing right behind us, patiently waiting for a drink.
 
God Bless America!

The new (better) Bali

“Don’t lick the tray table!” I warned my three-year-old as we boarded the plane to Tokyo.
 
His bottom lip dropped and he whined, “Are we there yet, Dad?”
 
“No, we’re still on the runway, mate”, I sighed.
 
Still, I knew that wedging myself into an economy seat next to germ-boy for the next 10 hours would be well worth it. After all, Japan is the thinking man’s Bali. (In fact, Bali was dethroned as Aussies’ favourite spot for international travel on last year’s Expedia ranking.)
 
So it’s official: Kuta is cringe … Kyoto is cool.
 
And the figures back this up: the number of Aussies visiting Japan in May this year is up a staggering 63% on last year, according to the Japan National Tourism Organization (JNTO).

Why?

Well, because for many Aussies Japan is a parallel world:
 
Everyone is impeccably polite and respectful.
 
Their subway system is cheap, clean, safe and on time (as in, to the second).
 
Their public toilets are cleaner than mine at home … and they sing when you flush them.
 
Yet the biggest thing you notice is that food is really cheap. Unlike in Australia, where you have to Afterpay a banana, in Japan we would load up on good-quality gyoza, sandwiches and bao buns from the 7-Eleven for A$3 a pop … or we’d grab a bowl of ramen at a restaurant for less than A$10.
 
This is a far cry from the go-go 80s when Tokyo was one of the most expensive cities in the world.
 
Yet with their economy a chopstick away from a recession, and the yen plummeting – it’s now 25% cheaper to visit than since before the bat-flu – Tokyo has actually become a shopper’s paradise (especially given that in most department stores you can shop tax-free simply by showing your passport).
 
Ring those bloody registers!
 
This explains why ‘G’day’ to a Japanese shop owner translates to ‘kerching’: Aussie tourists are (per capita) the biggest spenders in Japan, according to the JNTO.
 
Not that I got to do much shopping.
 
A few days into our trip, germ-boy predictably came down with a fever … and promptly gave influenza to his mother, sister and two brothers. They couldn’t lift their heads from their futons. So I spent the last week in a hotel room roughly the size of a Kia Carnival – with no windows or natural air – playing doctor Scott.
 
Sayonara, Tokyo!
 
Tread Your Own Path!

Rethink the six-berth motorhome!

Dear Barefoot,

I’ve loved your advice and guidance over the years. You’ve gotten me from knowing nothing about money management, and having a crappy Westpac account charging $5 monthly account fees, all the way to having $30,000 in index-based ETFs. Normally, you’re the one giving advice, but now those tables are turnin’. I heard about you planning an epic road trip with your fam, and that sounds AMAZING. But I also heard about how you’re going to do it. Barefoot, I love you, and don’t want you to die. That’s why you should definitely rethink driving a six-berth motorhome around Europe! The roads are chaotic, and I struggled driving in a little hatchback, so I can’t imagine doing it in a huge motorhome. If you insist, though, I hope you have Vin Diesel’s driving skills. Just don’t drive in and around the major cities – only use the motorhome to travel city to city. Anyway, stay safe and enjoy your trip – I can’t wait to hear all about it. Hopefully you’ll be back in one piece to tell the tale.
 
Christian

---

Hi Christian,
 
This would have been handy to know before I left.
 
It was everything you described and more. So. Much. More.
 
Sicily was like Grand Theft Auto. Rome was hot, as in literally – we didn’t have airconditioning and it hit 50 degrees inside the motorhome, with the six of us.
 
I’ve actually been back for a while now (my editor was going to send out a search party). However, I’ve spent the last month or so down in the back paddock in front of a fire, in a foetal position, rocking back and forth.

Scott.

Eat, pray, panic

Late last year we got back from our latest family adventure.
 
We spent three-and-a-half months travelling through Europe in a motorhome.
 
Just writing that last line makes it sound very … Instagram influencer … #bestlife!
 
So let’s rip off the filter, starting on day three of the trip in the Swiss Alps.
 
Like all good horror movies, this one began innocently enough:
 
Liz jumped into the motorhome and sang:
 
“We’re heading to Italy today … who’s ready to have some gel-a-t-oooo!?”
 
(I personally think she came out a little early with this carrot … after all, we had a boring six-hour drive ahead of us, mainly in dark tunnels through the Swiss Alps.)
 
After about half an hour driving up what seemed to be a gigantic mountain, I nervously turned to Liz and said, “The tunnels … they’ll come soon … right?”
 
“Ummm”, she said, starting to bite her lower lip.
 
Uh-oh.
 
Our kids picked up on the tension in the cabin, and dutifully pressed ‘go’.
 
My two-year-old began totally teeing off, thrashing about in his car seat trying to escape like a drunk bogan being kicked out of the cricket, screaming “I want to go back to the farm NOW!”
 
My five-year-old, who’d been quiet for the entire morning, suddenly announced she was feeling dizzy (altitude sickness) and began chundering into a chip packet.
 
My seven-year-old started screaming at her, “Do you know how DISGUSTING you are?!”
 
While my 10-year-old sat reading Harry Potter, oblivious to the carnage surrounding him.
 
And then as we approached the top of the highest mountain peak … it happened.
 
“There’s a tunnel up ahead”, I cried to Liz.
 
A bright red road sign above the tunnel read:
 
“WARNING: LOW TUNNEL 3.2 METRES.”
 
And that was a problem, because the sticker on my windscreen read:
 
“WARNING: MOTORHOME HEIGHT 3.5 METRES.”
 
And so there we were, on the top of the Swiss Alps, literally on a cliff face, on a road so narrow you couldn’t turn a Vespa, let alone a 3.5-metre-high FIAT motorhome.
 
Calming myself, I hit the hazard lights, came to a gentle stop, turned to the kids, and started screaming at the top of my lungs, “STOP SCREAMING!”
 
Then I looked in my side mirror. There were now at least 25 cars banked up behind me, tooting and repeatedly yelling “FICK DICH!” at me.
 
It’s in pressure cooker moments like these that you work out the sort of husband, father and leader you really are. So I took a deep breath, turned to Liz and said:
 
“Get out.”

She nodded, and dutifully walked through the dark tunnel into oncoming traffic … flagging down cars, trucks and buses with nothing more than mum energy.
 
A few moments later she emerged back through the tunnel and gave me the thumbs up.
 
So hot.  
 
And so, with the cabin now dead silent, we crept through the centre of the tunnel – missing the top of the roof by no more than Peter Dutton’s fringe.
 
We made it!

Did things get better?

You bet they did: this was after all a trip of a lifetime.
 
What made the biggest impact on us?
 
Well, it wasn’t the major must-sees:
 
The Mona Lisa: “It’s pretty small, Dad.”
 
The Eiffel Tower: “It’s too big, there’s no way I’m going up that many stairs.”
 
The Trevi Fountain: “It’s kinda like the one in Bendigo.”
 
Rather, it was the tiny towns and villages we visited:
 
You see, Italy is very rancho relaxo.
 
They work to live, not the other way around (like we do).
 
All the shops close down at lunchtime and everyone goes home for a few hours to relax and spend time with their family. And then in the evenings the old people gather in the town square and play cards, talk, and enjoy a vino while all around them their kids, grandkids and great-grandkids play.
 
We quickly became part of the community. The little Italian nonnas at our local espresso bar would whisk my blond two-year-old away and play with him. After a few espressos, and some Nutella-filled pastries, I’d go and find him. “Is he being annoying?” I’d ask.
 
They’d smile and say …
 
“Scialla.” (Don’t stress.)
 
Tread Your Own Path!

Editor’s note: I haven’t checked my inbox in six months. There are a *lot* of emails. The one that follows was sent back in June …

Getting Out of Here

Hi Scott,

With borders now open and people enjoying the luxury of travel again, what do you think is the best option for money access overseas? Should I get a prepaid foreign currency card, and if so is there one you recommend? Or should I just use my Australian account and take the fees and exchange rate as they come?

Thanks, Sandiego

Hi Sandiego,

This is the first travel money question I’ve received in years!

Personally, I think travel money cards that the banks and currency operators offer are as dated as travellers’ cheques and thumbing through a four-inch-thick Lonely Planet guide to Bali.

These days most decent transaction accounts offer free international transactions, and they don’t mark up the wholesale interest rates offered by Visa or Mastercard. So that means you can use your own account without getting legged.

The only thing to watch out for is when you’re overseas and the machine gives you the option of paying in AUD. Always click “NO” and pay in the local currency, or you’ll be ripped off with a higher currency conversion than the rate your bank will charge you.

Scott.

We’re Hitting The Open Road

Scott,

We want to leave our comfortable life and travel for the next four years. My hubby wants to sell the house and invest that money into an index fund. He says it will be safer than leaving our property with tenants and will be one less worry and cost while we are gone. Also, it’s likely we won’t end up coming back to this part of the country anyways. I am terrified we won’t be able to get back on the property ladder when we settle down again. Is an index fund good enough to keep our money growing for four years, compared to our home?

Laney

Hi Laney,

You should book in and see a financial advisor and ask them your question.

Their answer should be: “I have absolutely no idea where stocks will be trading in four years’ time.”

Laney, the question you’re asking depends on factors outside of your control. Instead, a good financial advisor should look at things you can control – like your goals, and your fears.

And if you’re “terrified” that you won’t be able to get back on the property ladder then you might at least consider renting out your home while you’re away.

Reason being, the Tax Office allows you to rent out your home for up to six years without subjecting it to capital gains tax (CGT), meaning you could get the income while you’re away travelling and sell it tax free when you return.

Scott.