A Boy Worth Fighting For

‍We were somewhere over Malaysia, wedged into economy with four kids, when the fighting started.

It was hot. It was cramped. And the chicken satay I’d wolfed down in Singapore was staging a violent protest somewhere south of my belt buckle.

“Just shut up, the lot of you”, I thundered.

My five-year-old burst into tears. “Daddy said the F-word!”

“Shut up is not an F-word”, I protested.

“We don’t speak like that in our house”, he sobbed, like he was reading me my rights.

Liz just glared at me.

We were on our way to Cambodia. I figured the trip would teach my kids a thing or two about how good they’ve got it back home.

Little did I know the biggest lesson was waiting for me.

But it wasn’t some big temple or ancient ruin that did the teaching. It started three months before we even landed in the country.

A mother gave birth to a little baby boy.

She placed him in a plastic bag. Then she tied it shut and, for reasons only she will ever know, tossed him onto a rubbish pile to die.

Yet he wouldn’t die.

This tiny baby, only a few days old, no bigger than a footy, screamed through the plastic and the garbage until a rice farmer walking past heard him.

Now, this farmer had nothing. Dirt floor, hungry kids of his own, crops that barely fed his family. But he still took that baby home, and he and his wife fed him and held him for three weeks, until they simply couldn’t anymore.

So they carried him to a hospital and prayed someone could give him the life they couldn’t.

That someone was Geraldine Cox, an Aussie expat in her eighties who has spent the last 33 years running Sunrise Cambodia, an orphanage for kids nobody else wants. The kids call her Big Mumma.

My wife did a story on the place years ago for the 7pm Project and has sponsored a kid ever since. When we said we were coming, Geraldine invited us out.

As we arrived, my kids bolted off to play soccer with the Sunrise kids. Geraldine showed us around.

Walking into the nursery, I noticed a woman cradling a little baby.

I looked closer. The baby was staring straight at me.

‍It was the little baby in the bag.

His nickname is Sok, which means strong in Khmer. (Sunrise later gave him a proper name, which for his privacy I won’t share.)

And he is strong. He’s a fighter. After all, by rights, he shouldn’t be here. There is no trace of his parents. No birth certificate. No record he was ever born. No past for this boy in a bag.

So what becomes of him? What’s his story going to be?

That his mother wanted him dead?

No.

His story will be that, amid all the cruelty of this world, there are kind, caring people everywhere.

Like that dirt-poor farmer who pulled him out with his bare hands.

Like Big Mumma.

Like me.

And like you.

I’ve made a donation to help cover Sok’s costs, which are around eight grand a year (Sunrise gets no government funding – it all comes from donors).

Look, everyone has a lot of bills, too much work, and not enough time. But if you’ve got a Give Jar, consider sending a few dollars to Sunrise Cambodia. It’s tax deductible, and you can ask them to direct it towards Sok if you like. Every dollar makes a real difference.

You see, one day Sok will learn his story. But it won’t just be about a plastic bag. It will be about thousands of ordinary people on the other side of the world who decided this little fighter was worth fighting for.

Here’s the link: www.sunrisecambodia.org.au/donate

Tread Your Own Path!

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Your Questions & Answers

• Billionaire’s WARNING: I’m SELLING. The Crash Is Already Here! 

• My Heartbroken Son

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‍Billionaire’s WARNING: I’m SELLING. The Crash Is Already Here!

Hi Scott,

I’d love your thoughts on billionaire investor Jeremy Grantham’s interview on Diary of a CEO this week. He reckons you should get out of US stocks and into emerging markets and bonds. He manages $78 billion, so he seems to know a thing or two, and his arguments sound logical. Is it time to move my super and share portfolio out of Aussie and US index funds? I’m 42 and want the best bang for my buck over the next 20 to 30 years.

James

Hey James,

I watched the interview ... and felt kind of dirty by the end of it.

Grantham believes the US market is wildly overvalued, crypto is mostly worthless, and the AI boom smells a lot like the dot-com bubble wearing a chatbot costume. I agree with a fair bit of what he says.

So why did I feel dirty?

Years ago I put a ring on my share portfolio. I made a vow to stick with it through the good times and the bad. History shows shares deliver the best long-term returns of all investments, even though they scare the living daylights out of you sometimes.

Every crash has eventually been followed by new highs. So I keep a few months’ cash in the bank and accept that happily ever after only exists in fairy tales. 

Good investments (like good marriages) go sideways sometimes. Stick around long enough and they compound into something that changes your life.

That podcast felt like the financial version of a married bloke on Tinder. The whole thing is designed to make you restless and think “Maybe I should ditch my boring old index funds for some sexy emerging markets”. Heck, the episode is literally called: “Billionaire’s WARNING: I’m SELLING. The Crash Is Already Here!”

That’s a rubbish way to invest your money.

You don’t throw away a solid relationship because some hot selfie on the internet looks like a better trade. You remember why you committed in the first place.

Now, Grantham might be right. The market could crash next week. But to make money from that, you’ve got to be right twice. First, you’ve got to sell before everyone else. Then you’ve got to decide when the coast is clear and buy back in.

Even Grantham has struggled with this. He’s been calling the US market a bubble since 2021. Meanwhile the market has climbed over 100 percent higher.

James, at 42 you’ve got your greatest advantage: time. Decades of pay packets ahead of you. Every market wobble is a chance for those dollars to buy more shares and compound.

My advice?

Stay married to your diversified share portfolio. Keep some cash aside so a crash never forces you to sell. And stay off the spicy dating apps.

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My Heartbroken Son

Scott,

My 20-year-old son signed a 12-month lease with his high school girlfriend, against my gentle judgment. Four months in, she broke up with him via text as he drove to work at 6am. Now she’s out looking at new rentals, and he’s left with $600-a-week rent he can’t possibly afford on a part-time student’s wage. I’m offering support and advice, but he’s reluctant to act. Short of handing over cash, what’s the best way to help my son through this?

Concerned Mum

Hey Concerned Mum,

Right now your son is heartbroken. Humiliated. And broke.

He’s also 20.

Which makes this the cheapest life lesson he’ll ever buy ... but only if you let him buy it.

So here’s my advice, and you probably won't like it: Don't fix it for him.

Don’t hand over cash. And definitely don’t move him back into his childhood bedroom. That teaches him that whenever adult life kicks him in the guts Mum will always make it better.

The truth is he’s in a stronger spot than he realises. His ex is still legally on that lease, text-message break-up or not. Her name is stuck there, same as his.

That gives him three options: they break the lease together (in this market it might only sting for a few weeks’ rent plus advertising), they find a new tenant to take over, or he gets a mate to move in and cover her share.

Your job isn’t to rescue him. It’s to point him at the tools. Tell him to ring the tenants’ union in your state (it’s free). Warn him not to go quiet and stop paying the rent, or he’ll end up on a tenancy blacklist that follows him for years.

Then step back and let the learning begin.

One day, in 15 years’ time, he’ll be telling this story at a barbecue. You’re deciding right now how that story ends: the time he sorted out his own mess at 20, or the time Mum rode in and saved him.

Thanks for reading,

Scott.

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

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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.