Off The Beaten Track: Karsten Horne and the Emerald Nuts at Midnight

Karsten and Chelsea

Our guest this week is Karsten Horne, king of adventure. Traveling has been in Karsten’s veins from a young age. He followed the overland trail to Europe with his parents then backpacked solo through South America as a teenager. Karsten runs the highly successful Reho Travel in Melbourne and Sydney, Australia, catering to a mostly corporate clientele. He is currently working on expanding the company’s retail offerings with a new brand and through rehope sponsors those less fortunate. He manages to combine his love of writing and photography with his travel enterprises, having visited 75 countries and finding inspiration on every journey.

We start sprinting down the hill toward the noise and the lights, as we get closer chanting starts. 30, 29, 28. We push our way through the crowd and as we leap the fence, it gets down to 3, 2, 1. We cross the start line amidst the deafening roar of fireworks, people screaming and hugging, and get pushed in a sea of runners that are all heading into the darkness. I look across at Chelsea and yell out, “Wow, imagine a night Australian Rules Football Grand Final” just as a massive round of fireworks illuminates the sky.

The pace is fast, I mean, seriously fast. Last time I ran like this I was being chased by a security guard at Western Oval (the home of my beloved football team, the Bulldogs). I still feel bad about that as I think he tore a hamstring. It was worth it though, especially when you look closely at the pictures of Doug Hawkins* being carried off on his last game and you see my hand on his arse. 

For the first mile I stay with the group and am really proud of myself. Given it comprises of Chelsea (who has been secretly training for this with daily crossings of Brooklyn Bridge), her marathon running, wholefood eating friends and me, the old man. Central Park at this time of the year is so beautiful, the air is clear and crisp and the path is lined ten deep with well-wishers. Every chance I get I divert off my line and put up a high five. I feel like king of the world, dressed in several layers of fancy running gear proudly topped off by my Bulldog’s jumper, which always keeps me one step ahead of the fashion police. Several times my mind drifts off and I imagine what would happen if I accidently turned off the path and in the morning the team from CSI New York discover yet another frozen bundle in Central Park. Or have visions of Hugh Jackman on a horse leaping across the path in front of me.

As I reach the half way mark I start to question what I am doing here. Three hours ago I was comfortably locked away in a pen at Broadway and 51^st St with a million of my closest friends ready to welcome in the New Year by watching the ball drop in the traditional style. It was quite simple really; you stop drinking liquid around midday, stock your pockets with energy snacks and wait and wait in the sub zero temperatures. A few hours in we discovered that although we could see Times Square way off in the distance, there was no sound. That is correct—over 1,000,000 people are prepared to stand around for nine hours with no entertainment. What? I decided to take on the role of entertainment coordinator by playing and singing along to We Will Never Get Back Together on the iPhone, which amused the crowd for about 30 seconds. Especially the way I sang “I hate you, we break up, you call me, I love you” with such conviction. Some Kiwi’s then donated Better Be Home Soon which got us all huggy but I knew it was over when a bunch of Koreans started playing Psy’s lesser-known works. After climbing the world’s largest sand dune and completing the Inca Trail for recent New Year’s Eve celebrations, New York was threatening to become a real flop.

Times Square way off in the distance

Then I remembered Chelsea’s invitation to join her on the Emerald Nuts Midnight Run in Central Park. “It’s a really easy run just for fun, not competitive at all” were her exact words. I looked at my watch and had just enough time to get across town register and line up at Strawberry Fields for the start. I managed to register as runner number 5281 only minutes before closing but almost didn’t make it to the start when I got caught on a downtown train and emerged in the middle of a pen at 48^th St, 20 blocks in the wrong direction. One of New York’s finest took one look at my outfit, wished me luck and waved me through the barriers and I ran the 20 blocks, dodging strange looks and weaving between drunk partygoers in 2013 glasses and giant Nivea Uncle Sam hats. Hardly the right preparation for a run with my mind racing—torn between finding my way and wondering what giant furry hats have to do with skin care.

Approaching the half way mark of the run, I’m really starting to struggle. In the first mile I feel like I’m passing people but the trend is reversing and I know I’m in trouble when I get passed by a smurf who looks to be doing it easy. It was hard to tell though as his expression never changed. He ignored me as I yelled out at him to slow down, as it was only a fun run! Clearly nobody told the smurf! I pull over for a breather at the drink station, plug some music in and resolve to catch the smurf. Ahead I see him pause at the cider stand and disappear around the next bend.

In plugging in the music I’ve somehow selected my daughter’s trash metal mix and some idiots screaming at me. Determined not to stop again I remember back to the time I wandered into the Panamanian President’s compound and was chased by his machine gun toting bodyguard down a jungle path, the same screaming only in Spanish. No Karsten, you need to relax, get in the moment. Think of something positive, like Katie Holmes smiling at you yesterday, now that was a New York moment.

The clock says 00:30, that means I’ve been running for nearly half an hour. Can’t be far now. I remember reading the course notes and noticed that most of the last mile is downhill so I pick up the pace and ahead of me notice that the smurf has stopped for a rest. I attempt to high five him but clip the back of his head by mistake. Poor thing, he looks stuffed. The last few hundred yards seem to go on forever, my music’s gone instrumental, spectators are yelling some thing out that sounds like a marketing slogan. I think it was “Every person counts” and I try to high five anything that is not moving but don’t connect once. In the final straight I look for someone holding a flag, anyone would do just like in the movies—so I can cross the line holding it above my head but to no avail, instead I raise my arms which won’t go above my shoulders and end up looking like a goose.

I look up my time is 39:40 and look behind me to see the smurf shuffling down the hill with Santa Claus, Superman, and Catwoman. At least he is amongst friends.

Karsten with Seth Godin

Somebody thrusts a bagel, an apple, and a bag of nuts in my direction and that’s it. All over, no fanfare. Yeah…um…that was fun!

24 Hours later, I sat in front of a Seth Godin lecture and this is what he said:

“Your art is vitally important, and what makes it art is that it is personal, important and fraught with the whiff of failure. This is precisely why it's scarce and thus valuable—it's difficult to stand up and own it and say, "Here, I made this.”

This is my art.

4 Miles

40 Minutes

48 Years of preparation

* Doug Hawkins is a famous Australian Rules Football player

Off the Beaten Track: What Price Freedom

Our guest this week is Karsten Horne. Traveling has been in Karsten’s veins from a young age. He followed the overland trail to Europe with his parents then backpacked solo through South America as a teenager. Karsten runs the highly successful Reho Travel in Melbourne and Sydney, Australia, catering to a mostly corporate clientele. He is currently working on expanding the company’s retail offerings with a new brand and through rehope sponsors those less fortunate. He manages to combine his love of writing and photography with his travel enterprises, having visited 75 countries and finding inspiration on every journey.

Like any travel writer, you return from holiday and suddenly the work begins. How do I write a story about Berlin that hasn’t already been written? There is always the fear, too, that someone knows more than you and will rip your work apart. A defence of, “Hey, I only had 1,500 words” just doesn’t cut it. Then I remember that it was my late mother that inspired me to visit Berlin in the first place. So I wandered out to the garage and looked through the few belongings she’d left behind. I discovered an essay she wrote back in her university days. I was half-way through it and, bang, there was my inspiration. The rest is history. I hope you enjoy!

The sight of so many Russian uniforms did not surprise us anymore. We did not get excited either. We kept away from the noisy street and quietly played by ourselves in the corner of the living room, the only warm room of the house. Papa was getting restless, staying indoors for days on end. His office in town was closed, and there was chaos on the streets. The shops did not sell much, because the shelves were empty. One day, Papa decided to go to town to try and find some food.

Looking at my watch, I suddenly realised that we were going to be late for our tour. Before rushing out the door I quickly scoffed the rest of my New York cheesecake and sculled the remains of my coffee. It was bitterly cold outside, the ground was covered in deep snow but I had a warm scarf, a thick Burton jacket, and snowboard gloves on so I really didn’t notice.

The “Wall Ride” is designed as a mission through the heart of East Berlin. They kit you out in Russian hats, serve you tea from a samovar, and welcome you with bread and salt. During the drive, you are regaled with stories of escape. “Pull over here, see that house number 60 with the blue door..., well from that house, they dug a tunnel under where we are standing. Imagine the wall ran along this street. They came up over by the traffic lights. Now let me tell you how they hid the dirt...”

In 1989, as the wind of change swept through Berlin there was a strong movement that wanted to eradicate all memories of the once divided city. You have to look closely to find the former border; the snow-covered roads hide a twin row of stones embedded in the street as a memorial. The drab architecture should be a clue but, very quickly, whole districts are being rebuilt or at the very least getting a touch of color.

Papa looked up at us but quickly averted his eyes, we hardly recognised him. He looked such a mess, clothes torn, gold-rimmed glasses gone. How can he see without them? He tried to smile but only managed a lopsided grin. A Russian soldier noticed it and hit him hard across the face. Poor Papa nearly collapsed but was helped up by my brothers. Mutti screamed. I held tightly on to her apron and, through the tears, we watched the pathetic group of prisoners disappear out of view.

Karsten and his family in Europe

Several years ago, I took my mother to the premiere of Goodbye, Lenin, a comedy about a son who tries to hide the collapse of the wall from his bedridden mother who is a strong party activist. My mum had a pretty good sense of humor for a German but just didn’t get the joke in the movie. To her, it was a stark reminder of her childhood. Last year, when my mother passed away, I promised myself that one day I would visit the city that played an important role in her upbringing.

Settling into a first-class compartment as the DB ICE train smoothly pulled out of Berlin’s sparkling new ultra-modern Hauptbahnof, I took one last look at the snow-covered glass dome of the Reichstag and imagined what life in Germany must have been like for her generation. I continued reading the short story, The Russians Are Coming, that I’d recently discovered among my mother’s belongings. Her childhood memories were penned in 1989, only weeks before the wall came down.

Forty-two years later the Red Cross informed us that Papa was suspected of being a Nazi criminal, put on a train to Siberia but never made it. His frail delicate body could not stand the cold and disease; he died of starvation and typhus fever. He suffered the same fate as thousands of Germans before him; his frozen body was thrown out of a moving wagon to litter the silent frozen Russian countryside. A soft deep carpet made up his grave.

The link to the extended story is http://www.rehotravel.com/templates/listDetail.jsp?id=327&code=europe-reports