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The Examiner's travel writer David Scott relates his Tasmanian holiday experiences.
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AN attendant is quietly letting a few visitors to MONA know that he's about to feed Cloaca.
This is no ordinary situation. Take the place, David Walsh's $150 million Museum of Old and New Art, burrowed into a cliff beside the Derwent River.
Take the admission fee: nothing.
Take this particular installation: Cloaca Professional, created by Belgian artist Wim Delvoye. It poos. Cloaca takes food and turns it into faeces via a series of transparent intestines suspended from the ceiling.
The gallery stinks and, like most of the art that forms the Monanism exhibition, challenges the visitor.
A personal iPod with GPS tells each visitor what they are looking at and gives the option of voting: there's no middle ground, of course, you vote for either love or hate.
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 TABULA rasa is a lovely snip of Latin. It translates to blank slate and is often used to describe a state of mind.
"An absence of preconceived or predetermined goals,'' the Australian Oxford reckons.
Tabula rasa can be one of the best things to pack on a leisure trip. So it was last week that a drive from Launceston to Hobart included a detour to the historic Southern Midlands town of Oatlands.
A tourist doing the same might arrive tabula rasa, pull over at Lake Dulverton and not think anything of the large body of water proudly guarded by a big, black swanduckgoose.
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 WE emerge from Golden Valley for some perspective on the misty conditions we've been driving through.
Here, at a lookout on the Highland Lakes Road, south of Deloraine, we can see cloud sitting atop much of Northern Tasmania like a plump continental quilt.
Soon after, at another side-of-the-road vantage point facing south, we look over the Great Lake in all its grandeur.
This is June in Tasmania. The week's snow is still scattered around but the road is clear and the driving is easy, beside this massive body of fresh water.
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 ONE thing I don't like about travelling is finding myself in a busy market and needing the toilet.
In England, there's often no loo roll; in France there is, but you have to pay.
In this busy fruit and vegetable market in Vanuatu, however, I get a pleasant surprise.
When I ask a woman where the toilets are, half the market has suddenly clubbed together to ensure my journey is as informative and direct as possible.
At a little counter I give 20 Vatu (21) to a smiley man who gives me four sheets of loo roll, then another happy man escorts me to the cubicles.
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