Dear god, it's true. Back in Sydney. Guess what? It rained! Well, blow me down, I'm soggy again.
The trip is nearly at its end. I leave Tuesday the 30th.
Want to put out 1-2 more blogs. Will be a transformative summary of sorts.
Please stay tuned. See you soon.
love susie
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Today someone else
Offered to take my picture
With me and my friends
Susie & Yuko
Susie & Sharuan
Susie, Yuko, & Sharuan
It's a nice way to end the journey.
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So, Michael Jackson has passed away. Dude.
It's odd that Michael Jackson has often found his way into my journey. First as the digeridoo playing eco-tour guide in the Blue Mountains. Then, as a crocodile in the Adelaide River. Next, as his own blog entry for Never Never Land-- Darwin. And now, hmm.
R.I.P.
Simon and Garfunkel are playing in Australia this month, on the "Old Friends" tour. I keep missing them in each city. Tonight they are playing in Melbourne, and the day after I leave Adelaide, they play here. Sigh.
For those who don't know me, S&G are my all time favorite. They border on spiritual for my listening pleasure. I can't tell you how tempted I've been to leap in and go see them. But, it would entail buying a 200.00 concert ticket, 300.00 plane ticket, 50.00 hostel, food, booze, drugs, bail bondsman, etc. I could basically buy another round trip ticket to Australia for the price of one glorious wonderful amazing night with Paul and Art. Siiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.
Old Friends.
Sat on their park bench like bookends.
The newspaper blown through the grass... falls on the round toes.... of the high shoes.... of the old friends.
Can you imagine us years from today.... sharing a park bench quietly.... how terribly strange to be 70.
The drunk night I almost did it, too. I jumped online and searched for tickets. Had some nice ones right up front for 358.00. But, hey-- that's Australian dollars. Nowadays, with our strong economic dollar conversion rate, it'd be only 356.80 American. A steal!
Spent some time in Adelaide today, siteseeing. South Australian Museum, Art Gallery, Central Markets, main squares. Took in a matinee and ate at the Central Markets. They have an Asian Food Court-- food from all over the continent. I ate a Singapore noodle soup with lots of meats, fishes, veggies, and spices. Burp. Now I'm guzzling about a quart of water-- I'm feeling very sloshy.
I'm quite ready to come home. Before I do, there are a few more blogs to accomplish. Tonight's blog is dedicated to the New Friends I've met along the way. A handful of funny, lovely women who deserve mention in this journey.
Sydney-- Marcea Klein. How many people get to meet their pen pals? How many 45 year-olds have pen pals? Shoot, Marcea is 65; how many 65 year-olds have pen pals? Except that we now know each other, so we're friends who will keep in touch.
Thank you Marcea, for, without the slightest hesitation, invited me into your home for 5 nights, picked me up in the city (2 hours from her home), weaned me off of Jet Lag, showed me around Sydney and the Blue Mounatins, took me shopping, fed me yummy healthy meals every day and night, bought me a gift-- a scarf-- just what I needed for the surprisingly cold winter winds, and for helping me navigate my way around a new land with much confusion.
Heron Island-- Wendy. Wendy the chef for the Tropical Marine program. Wendy the big, funny, gregarious "mom" of the trip who kept 18 young adults and 3 professors well-fed on three squares per day. Wendy who treated the kids when they had cuts or hangovers, would quiet a room of late-night shrieking gals with one look (so we could all get some rest, thank god), and who was my life-saver on the return boat ride trip from Heron Island to Gladstone (From Paradise to Vomit...). Her remedy: 2 Qwell motion sickness pills, be first to get on the boat and head straight for the bottom level, under the stairs. Then, lie on the floor with a pillow, eyes closed, and stay there. It worked! Granted, it was a long trip on the hard floor, but I'll take a hard floor to a spinning room and spitting up, any day.
Darwin-- Margaret (of Margaret and Rod). Margaret, you ol pisser. This is a lady of 0% bullshit. She was a Keep It Real kind o' gal. I should be that cool at 70. Here's a lady who raises 5 kids and now enjoys her life traveling with her husband. They ride motorcycles, swim every chance they get, love life, don't sweat the small stuff, large stuff, and the stuff that has to be checked-in, it's so goddamed big. I hope you make it to the US, Margaret. There'll be a car and friend at the airport waiting for ya.
Uluru-- Lorna. I met Lorna Davis on my excursion to Uluru. Lorna's a groovy gal from Scotland who now lives and works in Melbourne. As the excursion lasted 18 hours, we had a nice bit of time to get acquainted. I liked listening to Lorna's voice-- with that thick, curly Scottish accent. Lorna has nice eyes, too. They are brown and well.. glowing. That sounds weird, but "shiny" doesn't quite describe it.
Lorna kept talking about her boyfriend, "Cress." I thought that was a neat name for a guy and asked her if it was short for something. She said, "Christopher." Doh! She and Chris bought a puppy and they were going to name it Haggis, but instead called him Joey.
Lorna, thanks for the fun company and sharing your stories about your store and co-workers. Let me know if Cress pops the question at Christmas (my prediction)! Ta, mate!
Alice Springs-- Tzu Chin
What can I say? I still smile every time I see a young Asian woman and think of wise, warm, witty Tzu Chin. She took a bitter, emotionally stingy social miser and converted her. Tzu Chin came at just about the time in my journey when I needed a good swift quick in the intolerant ass. Imagine my surprise to discover that not everybody who was born in a location is exactly the way I perceive them. Big love, dear. Come visit; and bring your sweet friend, Jessica.
Perth-- Stevie.
The first day of the site visit to the Aboriginal Studies program, I met a lady named Stevie. Stevie was fully decked out in a wild, wonderful purple ensemble-- head to toe-- except for her bright pink lipstick. Stevie has a lusty zest for life, smiling, positive, ready to take on the world. She would burst into gratitude~~ "How lovely it is to be alive!" she would cry out, intermittenly. Stevie grabs your hands when she talks to you. And, she doesn't just talk to you; she talks to your soul. You know that kind, eh? She kind of reminds me of my mommy in twenty years. Bless your heart, Stevie.
Stevie and Susie at the Wanju Broodjah Welcoming Ceremony, Kulbardi Aboriginal Centre, Murdoch University, Perth
Stevie and Susie performing the Emu Dreaming at the Wanju Broodjah Welcoming Ceremony, Kulbardi Aboriginal Centre, Murdoch University, Perth.
By the way, the gentleman in the first picture was a very nice man named Harry who invited me to join him for coffee with his friend, Jenny. They have honored a coffee & bookshop date every Friday night for ten years! Admirable. Now, this is a tribute to the new women friends I've met, but I do think that Harry is... well, he wore a rainbow cap, and I do believe he'll do in this tribute. Thank you, Harry, for inviting me to join you and to befriend me. You went out of your way to make me feel welcome and to see the city through the eyes of someone who has a friend. Cheers!
Enjoying a feast of kangaroo filets, smoked emu and emu meatballs, roast Australian chicken (chock), and crocodile sausage. Along with indigenous fruits. flowers, vegetables, chutneys, and local specialty desserts.
Perth-- Anne Marie Forrest. Anne Marie is an young woman of Aboriginal origins who is enrolled in the Aboriginal Studies program. Her major is in Law, preparing for a future in Australian Legislature.
Anne Marie is a serious, focused young mind. She escorted me back to the train on the first day, helping me out (again-- train-- minor details-- reading maps and timetables-- you got it) and showing me the way. As we rode the bus to the station, I asked her about her studies. Anne Marie is taking 20 units (credits) this semester. Plus she works and spends hours each week in her tutorials, like another course. She does not drink. She is committed to her vision. I commented on her schedule, saying, "Wow. that's a lot on your plate, huh?" Anne Marie replied with a direct gaze, "It's about knowing who you are and maintaining focus."
Anne Marie, you go girl. I haven't got a clue as to what I'm doing (but I do have to say, I'm pretty committed to that).
On the last day of my visit, Anne Marie and I began our goodbye. I asked about her Graduate studies. She had opportunities to study abroad, and they encouraged this. She asked me if I knew about a school she had been accepted to: a small school in America, called Harvard. I told her that, yeh, I had. We checked out a map of New England, and she saw how close I was to Boston. When I mentioned I could pick her up and bring her for a visit to Vermont, that serious, tough girl cracked a bit of a smile. Then, she asked about... moose. She's always wanted to see one. When I told her there were moose around our house, well, that slight grin exploded into a full wide-eyed gape! Ha! I got her! Hopefully I'll have the chance to see this amazing, talented woman again.
Just one thing, Anne Marie-- quit the ciggies. You got too much to do in your life; you don't need to be dying of Lung Cancer in 30 years. Love you.
Adelaide-- Miranda. My friendship with Miranda was typical of most that happened along the way. A simple question turns into a conversation, finding common ground, sharing laughs and stories, and exchanging email addresses. What was nice about Miranda is that our polite conversation turned into a few hours. Time flew as we discussed Australia, New Zealand, and then her boyfriend she met here in Australia (who lives in Switzerland and she in the Netherlands) and my hubby. We shared, compared, and it again illustrated how simply and quickly people can enter our lives, how intense and lively a conversation can be, how real a connection is made, and just as quickly and easily, how these people disappear from our lives. It's kind of like snorkeling: you're just floating along in the water, and every once in a while a beautiful flash of colors, shapes and textures swim along, stunning. You stay there for a while, and then they swim away. But, you'll remember the flash of light and joy.
The final woman I want to include is not who I would consider a friend, but one of the most amazing snorers I have ever experienced in my entire life. Diane, your intensely loud and horrific nasal blarings gave me the courage to confront the hostel and ask for another room and to leave you a note about the situation. This is tough stuff for me, so... um.... thanks for the... gift. But, you know.... you shouldn't have.
So, it's Friday night and I have four nights left, before my return home. I wonder if there is anyone out there who I might meet... someone who will touch my heart and affect me between now and then. hmmm?
Shit. It's 8:25, and Simon and Garfunkel's concert started a half hour ago. Oh well.
Here's to my old friends Paul, Art, and Michael.
Here's to my new friends, Marcea, Wendy, Margaret, Lorna, Tzu Chin, Stevie, Harry, Anne Marie, and Miranda. What the heck-- you too, Diane
Here's to great music and good times that not fade away. Rock on.
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South Australia is the one state in Australia specifically founded as convict-free. Strict enforcement applied; no convicts allowed to settle in this new state. Immigrants from Britian-- especially young couples who could propagate the species-- were encouraged to come. After this wave of Brits came the Lutheran Germans. They came to escape religious persecution. And, they brought their vine cuttings with them.
Welcome to Barrossa Valley. Founded primarily by these hard-working model citizens. Along with wine, they also brought their culinary talents of aging meats, charcuterie (sausages) and cheesemaking. And, despite their reputation for being decent citizens, during the World Wars they received the same discrimination that we offered our Japanese and German citizens in the United States. During the World Wars, towns changed their Germanic names, Germans were locked up, and many people changed their names and culture to avoid persecution. Some did remain in their state and persevered.
South Australia is dry. Summer finds the area gold and dead and thirsty. Rains come in Winter, when the land is green. South Australia is the driest state in the driest continent in the world. In South Australia, the older, traditional European vines grow. Shiraz. Semillon. Reisling and Muscadet. Cabernet. Grenache.
In the land of green and gold, an old vine lives. Over 165 years, this vine faces increasingly hot summers that burn gardens and bake apples still growing on their limbs. It survives through dry winters that suffer increasing drought. This vine is the oldest Shiraz vine in the world, due to three cultural factors:
1. World wars. South Australia avoided direct contact with World Wars, so their oldest vineyards have remained intact since the 1840s.
2. Prohibition. Other than a brief sampling in New South Wales, Australia remained unscathed by that messy little affair. Vineyards intact.
3. Phylloxera . As of today, South Australia has enjoyed a Phylloxera-free harvest and hopes to remain so.
(Pyhlloxera-- a tiny aphidlike insect that attacks the roots of grapevines-- sucks the nutrients from the roots and slowly starves the vine, creating a dramatic decrease in fruit. It doesn't affect the taste of the resulting wine but, eventually, replanting is required. Unfortunately, new vines do not produce the same quality fruit until they mature, which can take 8 to 10 years or more.)
The 165 year-old vine lives out its days in the lovely Barrossa Valley in South Australia. Each year it lives, its wine changes; quantity decreases while the quality improves. So, while better, an old wine is more costly and cumbersome to produce.
It's easy to produce a new vine. Simply stick a (1 metre long) cutting halfway in the ground. Water and wait; it'll grow soon enough.
Vines do love water. The more water you offer them, the more (and larger) fruit you will yield. However, to produce a quality wine, it's recommended to not water vines beyond the first year. That first year, you might water only 3-4 times. And, that is it. Imagine; you need never water vines! When you water, you water only around the base of the vine. The reason is that you want to encourage the tap root to adapt and grow-- to learn what it needs to do, to care for itself. If you water too much and around the plant, the roots will spread out, the tap root will become sedate and sluggish, and the plant will not develop the resiliency it needs. It will not receive the fresh water and minerals from the earth, nor pick up the tastes and scents from the other flora in the soil. It will not come to know its land. When you water a vine, you spoil it; you remove its motivation to thrive.
After 4-5 years, a vine is old enough to produce wine. Young vines can produce gobs of wine. An average young vine can produce up to 20 bottles per season. Compared to the 165 year vine, which, if you're lucky, will yield enough fruit for about 1-2 bottles. The young vines produce great quantity, but their quality is lacking. This is due to many, but mainly two factors:
1. Tap root. The mature vine sends its tap root down-- to 60 feet deep into the soil-- where it extracts pure water and loads of minerals and nutrients from the soil. Compared to the young vine, whose tap root is short and thin-- under 10 feet.
2. Grapes. The size of grapes diminish in older vines, although the quality of the grape improves. Meaning the tannin structure in the skin, the ratio of tannin-to-juice in the grape, and the nutrients from the tap root. These smaller, fewer grapes are condensed jems in nature. Compared to the young vines, who have larger grapes with less character and are more watery, in comparison.
As you might extrapolate, major vineyards bastardize and manipulate the poor vine, which creates a poor wine. First, they water regularly. And, not just at the center of the vine-- encouraging tap root growth-- but generally, so the roots spread out, lazily. The grapes do grow larger, but, they lose their tannin-to-juice ratio. Imagine a balloon: you can blow it up larger, but, in doing so, you will not increase the rubber. You just produce more hot air. So it is with these "pumped up" vines. Think steroids. They produce more liquid that produces more wine that produces more profit.
There are other ways of manipulation. Any real wine worth it's salt is aged in oak barrels. But, barrels are expensive; good ones run 700.00 to thousands of dollars. They can be used about 3 times, then discarded. So, bigger wineries will use humongous stainless steel vats-- some a million litres large-- and toss oak chips into them, for the fermenting process. Or, they'll use "oak enhancement"-- artificial oak flavoring.
Finally, they value youth. Major wine companies will keep vines for maybe 30 years. When the vine yield wanes, it is too costly to keep. They simply remove these vines and replace them with young, vigorous specimens.
The old vine has lived for generations, hundreds of years. It has withstood brutal transformations in climate and landscape. It has changed hands and cultures again and again. Each year, it continues to produce wine-- a bit less each year, but the quality-- the quality! of the sweet fruit-- the jewels of wisdom to be extracted from each tiny grape. In each fragile, diminishing cluster. It is a wine to be savored-- honored even. It is an old wine, in the land of green and gold.
Happy Birthday, Dad. I love you.
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Storm passed.
When I'm sad I'm sad. You know? To deny it only prolongs it, like holding in a piss. Sometimes you just got to Let It Be.
So, I just let it happen, and after the Sleep of The Drunk-- tossing and turning all night (and likely snoring, my poor dorm mate), depositing aspirin every two hours and guzzling water, I awoke.
Today was much better. Walked off my hangover and saw a bunch of the city. Through the CBD (Central Business District), past Museum Road, into North Adelaide, along rivers, parks, and gardens: a long and winding road that circumvents the city. Strolled past what is noted as "the quaintest house in Adelaide." I didn't think is was all that, but what do I know about quaint, anyway?
The quaintest house in Adelaide.
Australians use an interesting material for house walls and gates: twigs and sticks joined together:
Every major city in Australia is positioned by the seacoast, so they are all lovely. Adelaide is no exception. Between winding rivers and staggeringly empty coastlines, one doesn't have to travel alone to feel isolated.
I think two problems this week are 1) this is the first time in the entire trip that I am absolutely alone and 2) this is the last week, and it is difficult being "in the moment," when my mind continues to drift toward home. But, today, I bought a cup of coffee. (Piece of cake: I waltzed in, requested a "regular flat white to take away," and received just what I intended to. I turned around, finding the lids next to the sugar. And, knowing how strong the coffee would be, placed 5 sugars in the cup [barely denting its intensity]. ) And, with my espresso train in tow, began to walk some 10 miles throughout Adelaide, North Adelaide, its many parks and gardens.
My journey ended at the Migration Museum. Man, these people do not sugarcoat. Ouch. The museum explored the "discovery" of Australia, the "acclimation" of colonist and natives, the segregation, discrimination of Immigration, era of Stolen Generations, Destitute Aslyums, etc. Just would not stop. How people can continue being white when they exit this place is beyond me. Kill me now.
I've recreated a display, which indicated who received immigration approval.
Would you have been allowed to emigrate to Australia between 1901 - 1958?
|
If you were: |
Your immigration status: |
|
Black, speaking English fluently |
Given a 50-word Dictation test in Hungarian. Failed. Prohibited immigrant. Go home. |
|
Irish girl named Ellen Fitzgibben |
Immigration officer does not like the look of you. Dictation test administered in Swedish. Failed. Go back to Ireland. |
|
White British Immigrant |
Welcome to Australia! |
|
Asian trade merchant. Trade benefits Australia |
Collect certificate exemption, for 1-year. Renewable. Restricted immigrant. |
|
Political activist from Europe |
Dictation test in Scottish Gaelic. Failed. Go home. |
|
Japanese married to an Australian. |
Minister for Immigration will decide whether you may live here or not. |
|
You are Asian. |
50-word Dictation test in a language you do not understand. Failed. Prohibited immigrant. Do not enter. |
Amen to that, my brother.
Let it Be.
It took an hour to reach the end of the rocks, and by that time I was crying-- full-fledged gulping sobs. This mood had taken over and covered me completely.
Glenelg Beach is a large, wide expanse with a long wooden pier. Main streets with tourist shops line the boardwalk. Along the end of the beach sits a "rock pier," so I made my way towards it.
About halfway through, I realized that I no longer wanted to climb the rocks, but had to. The rocks were huge boulders with deep gullies. Gullies? Gaps? Who give a shit. It was rough climbing over them.
As I reached the end, the sadness took over and I stood hunched over, and sobbed miserably. And, for what? For nothing. For being in a city in the winter, when I could get on a plane and go north, to a warm beach? For wearing shorts when pants would have been more suitable on this cold day? For losing my tan? For ordering a lamb gryo with grizzly dried-up lamb pieces? For the seagulls who screeched and heckled me to give up the grizzle? For the loud hip-hop music that played til 4:00 am last night, with the bass pounding in the hostel walls like Chinese Water Torture? For the cunty travel agent who had nothing but negative comments for every suggestion I wondered about? For traveling in a world where vehicles have the right or way over pedestrians? For being alone and lonely? For quitting my job and spending money and having absolutely no fucking clue as to what I'm going to do with my life? And unfortunately, not giving the slightest shit, at the moment?
For being a privileged white brat who has the luxury to climb on rocks and cry about it?
When I reached the end of the end of the rocks, the entire area was covered in bird shit. So much bird shit you could not sit down on any rock surface, after the long journey.
So, that's the end of it, is it? The great meaning in my quest for conquering the end of this great rock wall?
Bird shit.
There is just in front of me now a seal. A great big seal, all alone, playing slowly in the water. He (he?) is just moving up... and back... and up... and back. And he's staying right here-- right on my side of the wall. I'm trying to be sad and miserable, documenting every tear and complaint, while inquisitively noticing my new friend.
It really is hard to be sad when a 100 kg seal is playing next to you.
The planes are landing in front of me. If I look directly out-- straight ahead-- the next body of land is Antartica. Isn't that amazing? How can one be sad and miserable, touching Antartica's tidal waters? Sharing the horizon with Antartica?
I think I'm going to get a bottle of wine tonight and just get myself a bit drunk. I miss my family, my friends, my home. I miss my dog Libby. I miss Vermont. I'm staring at the horizon of Antartica. And, I'm going to go and get drunk.
No worries, mate.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sCROzdKH_8A
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Happy Winter.
Left Perth. Feeling rather down today. Not too tired, a bit out of sorts. Feeling wrong or off, and there's no evident reason. Maybe it's the transition. Although I'm also feeling ready to come home. This is after a brief surge of temptation to extend my journey, cancel my stay in Adelaide, and instead opt for a week in Western Australia(where I wanted most to go and never went) and rejoin Wanju Broodjah group next week for a Field Trip down the southwest coast, to orginal tribal land of the Nyungar.
Eminem's "Stan" is playing in the background, and I'm thinking of Sammy. He introduced me to this song, with its haunting melodic beat and cryptic message of fan ideology and suicide. I miss my family.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=awKoTDIdKrg
So, it's off to Adelaide. Home of churches, wine & murders. What's that? Adelaide is known as the "City of Churches," but recently has gained notoriety as being the city with more murders than any other in Australia. Now it's called the "City of Murderers."
Churches, Wine, Murderers. Oh, and Germans. Connections? Correlations? You decide.
Supposedly they have a 5-star YHA-- best of the best-- in Adelaide. Will find out soon enough. There is plenty to do and explore in the area, but I'm feeling low on funds and motivation. I think I'm just getting done.
The journey seems to be a metaphor for life. Let's say 100 years are condensed into 6 weeks. I guess by the last week there is a stronger pull to be done than to continue. Death seems to be about the call to cease kicking and stratching and clawing away from it. But, what the hell do I know, at 45.
If 6 weeks is life, then 45 would have put me at Uluru-- and that seems about right. I felt very "me" then, including the rhythm and time into the trip. In Perth, I'd been a bit panicked about the Last Hurrahs-- Western Australia, the Nullarbor Plain (another place I wanted to visit)-- the sweet nothingness of Australia that I haven't seen enough of.
It's a bit hard if you don't drive. And, I don't. You rely on buses, trains, and tours. You're looking at 100.00 a day just to travel somewhere "remote" and sometimes that's one way. So I've balked at the opportunity to jump on a bus and just go somewhere bush. Tours cost about 150.00, but you're so rushed, you don't have the luxury to put in a good hike and look around.
So... next time (next life?) I will plan fewer locations, explore more fully, and bring someone along who will brave driving on the wrong side of the road. People say, "Aawh, just hire a car!" But I still struggle with walking on the wrong side of the street. To put my fellow drivers at risk with me behind the wheel? Ich don't think so.
Speaking of "Ich" I hear Bruno is quite a funny flick. I'll plan to see a few movies in Adelaide. If Samson and Delilah comes to the states or Netflix, watch it. Just watch it. Truly depressing and leaves a horrible stain on your psyche. Nothing but stark reality pertaining to Aboriginal life.
Delilah lives with her grandmother on a reservation (community camp). She takes care of her, gives her medicine, etc. One day grandmother dies and Delilah goes off with Samson. Samson is a young man addicted to huffing-- sniffing gasoline constantly.
What a depressing horrible movie. The scene where Delilah tries to sell her grandmother's paintings in town-- well, just see it.
Later on (now in Adelaide).
I like Adelaide. Small city, about 1 million. Wide streets, plenty of elbow room. It's like someone scanned the entire city into a computer and then zoomed it to 139% and put it back. I've never seen streets so wide in a city-- there are three lanes per street way. Buildings are wider, not taller. It's so expansive.
I imagine Asians from cities might find it odd and disorienting. Even for me-- a country gal-- it has a non-city kind of feel. You might compare it to Brooklyn?
Adelaide is of German orgin, I believe. There are many German settlers and towns with Germanic influence. Some of the first vineyards were German, as well. Perhaps that influences the city planning. What it lacks in campy charm it makes up for in efficiency.
Man, those streets really are wide. Unnerving. Like an optical illusion. Like a city of Houston Streets (in NYC).
Okay, we all get it. They're wide. I'll let it go.
I haven't written about Perth at all, and I just spend a week there. I was back-logged with blogs. The experiences were surpassing the documentation; this is a good problem.
My time in Perth focused on the site visit with a second Study Abroad program-- Wanju Broodjah-- "Welcome Country." This will be a separate blog.
I'm feeling pretty dull and uninspired to write. There are days when I have no enthusiasm to write this blog, whatsoever. Then someone will bump into me or spill some coffee, and I'll scream out ten pages.
I'm feeling tapped, running out of steam. Maybe it's the end of the trip.
Ich bin out of here. Love you.
susie
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"Leader dies in custody".
The West Australian desert town of Warburton was in mourning yesterday over the death in custody of its former Aboriginal community chairman, who was arrested on Australia Day for allegedly drink-driving. Ian Ward, a 46-year-old father of five and one of the last nomads born in the Gibson Desert, died the following day after collapsing in the back of a security van during a 915km journey to jail in the goldfields city of Kalgoorlie-Boulder. Major Crime Squad detectives are investigating.
Mr Ward was being driven by contractors for the Department of Corrective Services, who noticed he had collapsed as they neared their destination. Mr Ward's nephew Andrew Johns said his large family was gathering in Warburton to remember a man who lobbied for his people's native title rights. "We are very sad today," Mr Johns said. The family understands Mr Ward died of a heart attack in hot conditions in the back of the van. "It is a long way to go and very hot," he said.
Police had stopped Mr Ward last Saturday at 9.30pm in his remote home town of Warburton, about 1500km northwest of Perth in the traditional Ngaanyatjarra lands between the Gibson and Victoria deserts. He was charged with one count of drink-driving and taken to the lockup in Warburton. Mr Ward was driven 570km to the courthouse in Laverton, where he appeared on Sunday morning and was remanded in custody. Police say he was being transported to the nearest jail - the Eastern Goldfields Regional Prison 352km away - when he collapsed.
Mr Ward was being transported by Global Solutions Ltd, having been picked up in Laverton at 11.40am, police say. He was being taken in the rear of the GSL security van. As the van neared Kalgoorlie, he was found to have collapsed. He was conveyed to Kalgoorlie Regional Hospital, where he died a short time later.
Outraged human rights groups have demanded a public inquiry.
Marc Newhouse, from The Deaths in Custody Watch Committee in Western Australia, said: "It is obvious that there is systemic discrimination, racism in the administration of justice in WA and we want a public inquiry into that."
The Corrective Services Minister in Western Australia, Margaret Quirk, cried openly during a TV interview about the case.
The security van where Ian Ward died
"I think we are negligent and I regard myself personally responsible, even if I am not legally responsible," she said.
The two security guards have been suspended.
The coroner's report recommended the use of air transport for prisoners from the remote parts of Australia.
The dead man's family is reportedly considering whether to sue the transport company.
Other news sources cite that Mr. Ward was given only a 350 ml bottle of water and a frozen meat pie for the duration of the journey. There were no stops along the way, no bathroom or air breaks. Some cites report that temperatures inside the van reached upwards of 57 degrees Celcius (@ 135 degrees Fahrenheit).
http://news.sky.com/skynews/Home/World-News/Aboriginal-Heatstroke-Security-Van-Death-Prisoner-Dies-In-Western-Australia/Article/200906315305990
*****
The rally is a positive sign, illustrating public outrage. But, it remains symbollic at best, as the hypocritical reparations continue.
While Ian Ward's death is a tragedy-- a man who basically received a dealth penalty for a traffic violation and was treated worse than sheep or terrorists in terms of transport and adequate care during detention-- it is only the tip of the iceberg. The Aboriginal people are in no way better off than during the colonial wars, 200 years ago. If anything, they are worse off, having no country, no culture, and no community. Ian Ward's death is one, compared to the half million Aboriginals who suffer daily.
Take the headlines just released:
The remote Aboriginal community of Kiwirrkurra has not been placed in quarantine and health officials will wait until next week before travelling to the settlement despite the swine-flu related death of a 26 year-old man from the community.
*****
Today's Aboriginals are the Zombie Nation. Dead men walking, they live in camps. They live on welfare. While some find work, most do not pursue trades or careers. Many are addicted to alcohol, huffing, or other drugs.
Aboriginals move slowly through the city, the Black Zombies. There is no other way to describe them. Silent, slow moving. Often just sitting and staring at the ground or walking down the street in the manner of an 90 year-old woman. One methodical step at a time.
They have nowhere to go, so they are in no hurry.
Aboriginals are generally an unattractive breed, and this may be their most fatal flaw. Burdened with oversized facial features-- large cauliflower noses, lips extending into the cheek region, wild curly hair that, left on its own, does not "dred"-- it's more wavy and reminds me of Medusa, with wild snake locks. Most Aboriginals I see are overweight and soft in the mid-region, with thin, spindly legs. Large bellies and saggy breasts, showing through torn shirts. Flat feet with rough bleached callouses, from years of going without shoes. They do not smile, which is probably good, because they have so few teeth. They do they make eye contact and always seem to look down.
Their dress is chronically shabby: baggy clothes, mismatched, strictly Salvation Army brand. Bare feet, unkempt hair, they seem to bathe less, based on the prevailing odor. They speak their language, not ours.
If Aboriginals were more aesthetically pleasing, we might care a bit more. If they were more like the baby seal lion or the sweetly pathetic Christian children from Africa-- they might raise more sympathy and emotional attachment. If they all looked like Brandon Walters ("Nullah" in Australia), people would be more inclined to help and interact.
As it is, most live in a sorry state makes one recoil in disgust, fear, and shame. They remain something that you want to avoid-- objectified and loathed. I don't know. I just don't see Native Americans in the United States (most certainly not in Vermont), so I've never come face to face with our history and its political ramifications.
Do I speak only for myself? Or, am I mirroring a greater perspective? This seems, from what I hear, to be common. Tourists will buy arts and crafts, but do not part with spare change for begging Aboriginals. If they do part with change, it goes to the poor, white musicians and struggling artists. Caring locals will train to be Primary Care Givers or Elementary Educators, but they don't have any Aboriginal friends and certainly not Aboriginal bosses. Those that do work with the Aboriginals are either female or foreigners, like the Pakistani doctor. Tourists self-impose curfews in Alice Springs and rural communities to avoid the unsavory lot.
Aboriginals are trained in professions where they can assist other aboriginals and rarely offered oppotunities to advance in White Collar institutions. Even their art-- which has skyrocked in popularity (and price)-- is so controlled by the white media companies that an artist is lucky to receive $100.00 commission from a picture selling for over $100,000.00.
And, these are the few who rise and persevere. Who realize the power of appearance and lifestyle-- to be aesthetically pleasing. These are the aboriginals who choose not to drink or smoke. They choose to attend college or to learn an artistic trade. They are 2% from their entire Aboriginal population-- which is about 2% of the Australian population. The rest are doomed. In their shabby state, they are unsuitable to find employment-- barefoot and unclean, without the English language and uneducated, they couldn't even enter a building to apply for a job.
But, there they are-- the Dean Men Walking. The Zombie Nation. Stripped of their land, identity, belonging, responsibility, culture, and spirit. Stripped of their way of life, their history, heritage, their ancestry, their knowledge. They don't belong to their land, and they don't belong to our society. They remain strangers in a familiar land.
Basically, most Aboriginals are homeless vagabonds who live in camps-- excuse me-- Communities. Their "Communities" are named for them: insulting, derogatory titles such as "11 mile" and "15 mile" (denoting distance from towns and cities).
At night, when the sun goes down and the tourists scamper back to the safety of their lodging (I sure did), the Black Zombies emerge from behind trees and barren buildings. Slowly-- one methodical bare foot at a time-- in small groups of 3 or 4 or 6-- the Black Zombies take over the streets, the city, the night. Gathering on the hospital lawn or the city's mall. Sitting on the bank of the dried-up river. Staring at the ground, displaying their art on filthy blankets, speaking in their own archaeic language, which dates back 2000 generations (to the seven in Australia colonial heritage). And some-- finally-- break into a giggle or a song--
but for the most, the remaining, they sit. silent. and wait.
for the day that never comes.
Baking to death in the intense heat of the White Man's prison.
They warned me about this. "Don't do it, Suze. That's way too much information."
But, come on. Every traveler does it. It controls our every waking minute, ruling our roost. Affecting our agenda. Subverting our social gatherings.
I'm speaking, of course, about Bowel Movements. BMs are a tricky business for a traveler-- particularly for a woman. Heck, they're hard enough on "dry land," if you forgive a pun (and, trust me, there are plenty of puns in this one). BMs are a risky business in today's society. We like to imagine that they don't exist. Well, they do. And we all bloody well know that.
Problem is, our world hasn't been designed to accept this inconvenient truth. And traveling is even tougher.
Take the Hostel. You share one bathroom between six people. Try to move your bowels in that situation. Six women in one bathroom? Forget excreting-- between showers, blow drying, make up, and eating disorders, you're lucky if you can even get a turn in, and when you do, the walls are so thin, they're going to hear your every sound.
So you begin to scout out locations. Private shitteries. Just like at work; where are the good toilets? The ones that are isolated and distant. Down a lesser-used hall, or in a basement. Handicapped-accessible are nice; they have ample space and just one stall. And, a lock is essential. Moving your bowels with an unlocked door is playing Russian Poolette (forgive me, it's too easy).
At the Hostels, I find toliets near the kitchen and TV room. These are good-- opportunity for anonymity. Even if you're in there a while, most people come and go quickly enough. So, if you wait until they leave, they'll never know your smelly little secret. It's a game of "anal chicken"-- daring the person in the stall next to you to leave-- to see who has the guts to tough it out. I'm dedicated; these young lasses usually give up and flush. The noise of their toliet and hand washing helps. Anything to cover up and distract.
Public toilets can be effective, especially in parks or beachfronts. But, often moms arrive-- just as you're settling in-- with their precious dear young children. Bashing, bumping, smashing around-- and that tightens up the ol' curtains. I always think if I break out a large wind that the kids will start laughing at "funny fart," and the mom will be embarassed, hushing her darlings.
Airplane bathrooms are solitary, but they're so cramped, and besides, there's always someone on the other side, waiting to see the sign move from "engaged" to "vacant." And, as soon as you open the door, They Know. You are the savage who went Number 2 on the airplane.
But airports are great. Large facilities, many stalls, loads of anonymity. People come and go like a ferris wheel, and soon they disappear to a gate, off to another part of the world. So, you can pass gas and grunt and plop, and no one will track you down and point fingers and laugh at you-- the loser going Number 2.
An interesting accommodation at Murdoch University ups the ante. It's hard enough shitting in front of women. How's this?
Bathroom stalls in the GLBT office at Murdoch University. (As if it weren't hard enough.)
Although, transgendered men are likely to be a bit more understanding for poor women and their bowel conundrums.
Men, you may be absolutely clueless about this, but your lovely female companions become totally constipated when they travel. Let's face it; you think nothing ever comes out of your woman's rectal region, right? It's prisine as a mountain spring. Why, you never hear or smell them fart; you think they're going to drop their guard and move their bowels? And, just how do you think women behave, physiologically? Do you think we are born without excretory obligations?
Men, newsflash: women shit. We shit and we fart. We have to fart all the time, all day. If you're reading this at work, there's a woman next to you, holding in a fart. If you share a cubicle with a woman, she spends more time holding in her farts than actually working. Do her a favor and leave the space for a good ten minutes, every hour. Trust me; it will increase productivity around the office. Guaranteed.
You think I'm kidding. Forget not farting. I know women who-- even at home, with routine and bathroom comfort zones-- will only go once a week. A few women I know go once every two weeks. Once every two weeks!
Look. We're intelligently designed with a 24-hour intestinal tract. Meaning our bodies are designed to excrete food within 24 hours of eating. So, if you eat three times a day... well, you do the math. How many people do you know who eat once every two weeks? Uh huh. I thought so.
Maybe Tic and his ten bathroom breaks had it right. People need ample opportunity to let it go. Conditions have to be just right.
Small deviations-- a wall that is too short or too high from the floor creates air flow-- reducing smell, yes. But, it also offers too much auditory information. Translation: my fart and poop smells may dissipate, but you're going to hear it. So, the cheeks tighten. This is right out.
And, how many of you have attempted to move your bowels with someone in the stall right next to you? Can you do it? Bully for you. Maybe-- maybe-- if there are many stalls and people, background noise like hand dryers. And, chances increase if I have something to read (I usually carry a catalog in my purse, for just such an occasion).
But. If it's just me and another person-- in the next stall? Just the two of us? With silence? And, no reading materials-- no props-- for cognitve distraction? Uh uh. Sorry. If you can shit through that, you're a zen master.
Some natural remedies for the constipated traveler? Remember KISS: Keep it simple; shit.
1. Drink water. Lots of it.
2. Exercise. Move your body. Lots of it.
These two alone work like night and day.
Some behavioral/social remedies:
1. Surf. Checking the internet-- especially email-- is a spot-on remedy. The excitement of receiving news from a friend or loved one creates a phenomenon we refer to in our family as "NA"-- Nervous Anus. Why do you think I spend so much time on my blog? Love of the lore and quest for bequeathing jewels of wisdom? Please. It's foreplay for NA and BM. (Picture that from now on, each time you read my entries.)
So, keep those letters coming! Each email brings me one step closer to a lighter, happier day.
2. Shop. My theory about why shopping is so popular is because it is a cure for constipation. It's a sure-fire means to NA. Especially thrift shops, when I find a great bargain or the perfect cardigan. I can sense those internal walls quivering with excitement. Problem is, most shops don't have public facilities, so it's a double-edged sword.
I usually get about two aisles into the store when the craving occurs. Shit. Literally. So, shopping is precarious; one should plot out a location beforehand, or ascertain that facilities are open to the public. Otherwise, you're setting yourself up for the Prairie Dog, and shit is fickle. If you hold it too long, it holds a grudge, and excreting is twice as hard, later. But, if the factors are in place, then shop til you drop!
3. Diet. Ladies, you've got to eat to shit. I know that may come as a shock. But, believe me, the more good, healthy, whole food you consume, the more apt you are to awaken the morning dew. And, for godssake: carve out some time! Honor your colon. It's like shitting is the last item on your To Do list-- if it even makes the list. We'll drive the kids to school, catch a bus, answer the phone, make breakfast, apply make up, serve our husbands a "happy meal" before work (like you don't)-- anything comes before moving the bowels.
Newsflash: BMs are the VIPs. Priority activity that takes precedence over just about anything. Okay, maybe choking to death is more important. But, otherwise, ladies. LADIES. If you need to shit... my advice is to shit. fart. grunt. splat. plop. Do it. Get it out of you. As my father says, there's a reason they call it shit.
Right? Oh, by the way. I've been holding in a fart this whole time.
Come on! There's like eight people in the room. I'm dumb, but I'm not stupid.
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In a sleepy little town called Alice, two main roads stretch one mile, completing the downtown. One casino. One river (dried up). One soccer field. One church and one post office.
I arrived late afternoon and took a stroll into town, as the sun set. At the end of town is Anzac Hill, which overlooks this small community. A bit of a climb, but it was a beautiful, cool night. At the top, you gaze out. Alice resembles Santa Fe or Salt Lake in its layout, protecting the simple rectangle by mountain ranges.
As I reached the summit, the sun had just set, and I looked up to see a wonderful charge of color in the sky. A deep, slow blue like the bottom of a lake, then floating up to a calm, intense red. The picture here does not do it quite justice, but there is the sense:
The air is so clear. Like Vermont air in the winter morning, after a strong storm. That wise desert sky, full and open. The colors are so crisp and soft, it's as if they have sound, they are so clear. Hard to describe. But you know? Then there is pure visibility-- and all you see is what's in front of you.
I began to see clearly up there. My life is changing, and I am changing with it, rather than in spite of it. I never really knew why I had to come here and it doesn't even matter. What matters is that something said "come" and I said, "okay." Let the rest take care of itself.
I remember my brother traveling to Poland, in the land of our ancestors. A normally caustic young fella, he described being there like coming home. It felt familiar to him and when he wrote, it was with a genuine sense of peace and gladness. I like that; I liked reading about my brother feeling at home and following something that felt right, saying yes to that opportunity. My sister Franny's been doing the same types of things-- moving into activities and choices that feel right and saying yes. And, Biz-- my lovely niece-- whose bones were born with some travel in them.... seems to be answering the tingle.
It's not all about travel and adventure. It's just about saying yes to that subtle, nagging voice inside us. Like a tight-rope walker, our lives are the air around us, and we get stuck-- trapped-- up on the wire, afraid of falling. But, our lives are the air all around us. Clear, crisp, positively visible. We only have to open our eyes and look.
The saying-- "A ship in the harbour is safe, but that's not what ships are built for." Yes, some people are ships, but some are the lighthouses. Some are the lighthouse groundskeepers. Sometimes the bigger judgment is to say, "I am a stay at home mother, who does not work." Or, "I am drawn to money, so I am forsaking my family." I guess the point is to know what you need to do, then do it. Either people will judge you as crazy or you'll judge yourself as coward. You decide.
I'm so grateful to have visited Uluru. I can cry just feeling the gratitude. It is more splendid-- different-- magical and magnificent than I'd ever imagined. It's so complex in shape and porportion. So stark in its contrasts and relationship to the environs.
In addition to not taking rock from the land, nor taking pictures of sacred sites, the local people request that you please do not climb Uluru.
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This blog is dedicated to Margaret and Rod. Thank you for your warmth and cheery manner during our excursion to Litchfield National Park. Give us a ring, when you get to America!
The day at Litchfield National Park was fun-filled and action-packed, among the glorious backdrop of beautiful scenery (I'm reading the brochure).
Well, it was pretty fun, and yeh, there was a good deal of adventure. Again-- we live in Vermont, so what I describe won't be like amaaaaaaaaaazing in terms of beautiful scenery. Still, it was quite nice. I'm delighted to report that I have yet to discover a place that exceeds the standard of beautiful landscape we have in Vermont. As pretty? Sure. But, prettier? Not yet.
The day to Litchfield National Park began at 7:00 am. A nice lass named Yvonne (pronounced EE von) drove round Darwin picking us up. About 12 of us in all. When we were all nestled in the van, she had us give a round robin of introductions: who we were, where we were from, and why we're visiting. As I was the only single in the bunch, and therefore sat in the front seat next to EEEvon, I went first.
"Hello everyone, I'm Susie Crowther, I'm from Vermont-- well, America, but from a state called Vermont, which is near the border of Canada, about 4 hours from New Yo-- anyway, from America. I'm here visiting Australia for six weeks, alone. Yeh, left the husband and two great big teen boys (makes "tall" gestures with hands) back home. The three bachelors, hee hee, am I right (makes nudging gesture toward others) ? I don't envy the home, I'll tell you what!
Anyway, I've wanted to come to Australia for all my life it seems. At least since I was 10 and found out there was a town named Darwin! In a "laaahaand" called Australia (makes big, Australia shape with my hands)! I did almost go in 1983, when the America's Cup raced in Perth. I applied for a job as chef for the sailors. I did get an interview, but an Aussie woman beat me in that race. Looks like the Australians won twice that year, am I right (makes winking gesture toward group)?
And, well, 35 years later, and still I never went-- dream left unfulfilled! All my efforts at trying to create a Study Abroad program to Australia through work just couldn't gel, and I had to let that go. And finally, I decided, well there's never going to be the right or wrong time, is there? So, I finally pressed the ol "Send" button, and here I am!"
(a bit of silence encompasses the van.)
"Er, uh.... right then, uh, thank you Susan. Susie. Now, who'd like to go next?"
"I'm Laura, from Melbourne, having a look at Darwin."
"I'm the husband, Tim."
The next five couples answered pretty much the same way. When everyone else was completed (two minutes later), we began our journey.
People suggest that, if you don't have a lot of time in Darwin, to go to Litchfield. It's described as a "microcosm" of Kakadu-- which is a huge park. And, in Litchfield, you can swim year-round, pretty much guaranteed croc-free (give or take). As we headed (pronounce that-- it's awful) out, our first stop was to visit "Snappy the Croc." Actually, we stopped at the office to settle our payments for the tour, but they did have a small saltwater crocodile-- Snappy. Snappy was about one metre in length and had a rubber band wrapped around his teeth, like a lobster claw. EEvon picked him up and we all had a touch. Kinda felt like a snake (really? No kidding?).
After Snappy, we went for a cruise down the Adelaide River. Now, when I say cruise, think Aussie: our guide, Adam, brought us two by two down a thin, shaky plank over the muddy river Adelaide. Then, we boarded the boat: a 16 foot flat bottom fishing boat with wire fencing surrounding the sides.
As we head out, Adam tells us about crocodiles. First thing he tells us is that the Adelaide River is infested with them. As he says this we look about, and notice several logs swimming over to us. Ohhhkaaaay..... swimming logs with eyes. and tails. uh huuuh...
Adam's got a bucket of lamb legs and chunks, which he intends to feed to the crocs. His method is a bamboo stick and string. He ties a piece on and dangles it in the water, lowering and raising it, back and forth. The crocs then jump for it, grab the chow, and give us a show.
So, we're in this small boat, low in the water. The boat is actually shorter than most of the crocodiles that are swimming around us. Adam's stringing up lamb, humming away, happy as hell. You can tell, this is the part of his job he likes. When he was a kid, he probably said, "can we see it again??" to his dad, every time.
Man, that was a show. And, the great part was that since we were in this dinky boat, we were up close and personal. Compared to the big, commercial cruiser next to us, with 300 people on board, no closer than 15 metres to the crocs. I mean, we could have touched em, if we.. you know... were stupid. But, you get my point.
Crocs need very little water to drink and very little food to eat, in order to survive. Only about a bathtub of water per year. And, they only need to eat once a year. Some eat every 2-3 years. Wow! And, contrary to popular belief, they eat only fresh meat. When they "store" dead meat to rot, it's actually used as bait for other fish. When lured in, the crocs have their new meal.
The crocs swim close; they are within 1-2 feet of us. Adam instructs us to be STILL when they're on our side, as Crocs respond to motion. No problem there, bud. And, as crocs respond to motion, the key to surviving a croc encounter is to STAY STILL. A fella fell off the bridge on the river, and his buddies screamed at him to STAY STILL. He did-- and floated about 10 km down the river. He survived.
Some people, alas, are not so lucky. Not only are they not lucky, they're stupid. Remember the stupid people who swim in the ocean at Darwin? Adam showed us tracks in the mud at the bank of the river-- people's shoes and hands crawling up the bank, in mud that is so wet it's ten feet of silt, like quicksand. If the crocs don't get ya, the mud will. But, every year, people come to swim and fish in the river. And every year... a new story to tell.
I mean, they were everywhere. Adam would be feeding one, and three more would swim up. One crock had an albino head and a black body; they called him Michael Jackson. Another croc had no arms and only one leg. They called him Hannibal. Hannibal was a nasty little mother, and would jump over 6 feet out of the water.
Michael Jackson:
After Adelaide River, we begin our way to Litchfield Park. One more stop on the way is to see the termite mounds. Buggar! Tall towers, some over 20 feet high, built with dirt and termite saliva and feces. There is another type of termite mound-- a mediterranean mound. Termites build this facing East and West, to maximize the sun's exposure. They're scatted for hundreds of miles in this area. The place resembes an odd alien cemetary ground.
And, on to Litchfield. The main attractions in Litchfield are the waterfalls. We stopped at several spots to swim and hike. Gorgeous! Crystal clear water, cool but refreshing (when you live in Vermont, you can swim in any water, yes?). It was strange-- that's a mild word. Um.. frightening? Swimming minutes after 20 foot crocodiles were savagely chomping meat inches away from us in a boat in the water. But, what the heck, little kids were splashing along, and if a croc wants fresh meat, they'll go for the kids first, you think? Freehsh.
The problem is that, in the Wet Season, the land floods, carrying crocs in its rivers, and moving them to all parts of the area. So, each year is different than the last, in terms of where crocs will be. A "safe" place last year is in no way an indication of safety the next. Litchfield does tend to be safer as it is comprised of high plateaus and crocs do not like to climb; it expends too much energy. But, when the floods are high, it could carry them up there.
The sign said that the water hole was "100 %" checked through filtering methods, and that it was "safe" to swim. My mind immediately reminded me of our dog Libby, an English Setter, who turns three this year. Two years ago, we hopped in the car, with "0%" chance of getting a dog. We were just going to look.
Anyway, the next place we swam was called Buelly Rockpools, which are ledges with small, clear pools-- about the size of six-man jacuzzis-- that wind down a slope. There is a place in Vermont by Stickney Brook Road that is similar in design, but this place had much more water, so you could actually swim and sit in these natural jacuzzis. We used to call that place the "Slippery Sammy Slides," in honor of our son, Sam. He's 19 now, and likely does not appreciate the 5 year-old reference. (Hi Sam.)
Then, back to Darwin, to the East Point Reserve, for a sunset toast with champagne and prawns. A note about Aussie prawns: the meat is much sweeter than our shrimp, with a smoother texture. Yummy. Champagne went down pretty smoothely. Not many drinkers on the tour, so I helped myself, thanks.
Add a picture perfect sunset to finish off the day. Very pleasant, indeed.
And, as I'm sitting there, sipping champagne and munching on prawns and gazing out at the ocean at the perfect round sun, I'm chatting with Margaret and Rod-- a delightful, cool, spunky couple whose five children are grown and who are enjoying their life traveling around Australia. Rod has about 10 visible tatoos on his arms, alone. They remind me of mom and dad (Marcia and David Fagelson), but with a bit more spit, piss n' vinegar. We talked about Vermont and the lovely foliage. And, hey, they don't have set plans for October, and they just might take me up on my offer to visit.
So. The beer cozy at the souvenier shop reads, "Darwin. If you never never go, you'll never never know."
Sure enough, eh Michael? Beat that.
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Welcome to Darwin. Home to 80,000, at the teeny tiny tip of the Northern Territory. Darwin is a sub-tropical climate, which I have come to understand means that is has two primary seaons: Wet and Dry. (Compared to four seasons in Vermont: Mud, Sun, Color, and Snow.) Just before the Wet Season is the "Build-up," which seems to elicit similar endearment and disdain as our Mud Season. It's the hot, sticky, humid, pressurized steam before the storm-- six months of torrential rain.
Darwin is lovely. Green, lush, surrounded by water, everywhere. Small and spread out. Laid back and relaxed. It's Brattleboro, with crocodiles and black people.
As most of you are Vermonters, I'll explain Black people and Crocodiles to you, since you've never heard of them. They actually do exist, and are quite prevelant in some wilder and remote areas of the world. Black people are mammals that resemble human beings, who have skin that is black instead of white, can grow up to lengths of seven feet, and are quite dangerous to human beings. Crocodiles are reptiles who have skin that is green instead of white, can grow up to lengths of 20 feet, and are just as dangerous as black people, apparently. It seems that crocodiles are less common, and can only be found in water, whereas the black people can propogate on land, and thus are more deadly to human beings.
Darwin is the port of entry to many natural attractions-- national parks, lush gorges and waterfalls, and aboriginal lands (attracting the most common species of black people in Australia, and interestingly, their species migrated in exactly the same pattern as you and your relatives, except a wee bit earlier). Some national parks include Kakadu, Litchfield, and Katherine Gorge. Therefore, it houses more than enough travel booking sites than necessary. There seemed to be more tourist booking sites than bars-- impressive! I didn't see a church in Darwin, although I also didn't see a Post Office, and I imagine people send messages to god, friends and family here, just like everywhere else.
I spent three days in Darwin. After the shaky 3:00 am arrival, I awoke surprisingly refreshed and eager to explore. Wooooooaaaah! Hot! Vermont, this is not. Sydney nor Brisbane, this is not. Imagine the hottest, muggiest August day in Vermont. Do you have it in mind? Now, double it. That's their coldest day in Darwin.
I spent the first day walking all over the city. Parks near the ocean, winding around to wharfs, an outside theater called Deckchair Cinema, where they play movies every night (sounds like a good idea, Brattleboro!). You bring a picnic, hang out and catch a flick. I arrived for the Queen's Birthday, a national holiday (June 8). And, what was playing, in her honor? Australia. siiiigh. :) I imagine it would suck just as much in lovely Darwin as in soggy Sydney. So, instead I spent the night wandering around the shops and mall. They use the term "mall" to indicate a blocked off road-- like the one in Burlington, where folks can walk around and have greater access to the shops and restaurants (sounds like a good idea, Brattleboro!).
The next day I planned to sightsee and to explore the surrounding areas. There is a place called East Point Reserve-- lots of natural landscape, water, gardens, etc. Another area-- Fanny Bay-- hosts the National Territory Art Museum and the Original Gaol (prison). So, I made a plan to head there.
In order to do that, I needed to take the bus. Now, those of you who are following along on my "ordinary details" portion of this journey have ascertained that I tend to be significantly limited when it comes to planning ahead and understanding simple nuances, such as ordering a cup of coffee, asking directions, or riding a bus. So, this time, I was going to be prepared, by golly. I approached the front desk at the hostel and asked for instructions and procedure on which bus to take, in order to arrive at East Point. I'm to take the number 4. And, where is the number 4 bus stop? The nice lady tells me to turn left out the front, go straight on Mitchell Street, cross the street at Daly Street, and then go a way down, on the left. Okay, this sounds simple enough. I have about 30 minutes. Should I check my email or head out? Well, I know myself better than that, now. I decide to head to the bus.
I go out the front door and turn left. I proceed straight, until I come to Daly Street. Nice. I cross the street, turn left, and walk down a ways. I see no bus stop. I proceed a bit more. Nothing. Sigh. Here we fcuking go again. But, I have time today. I have planned ahead for confusion! So, I wander around, seeing no bus sign. I head back toward Daly and Mitchell, and look around. I ask someone where the bus is. They think down the road. Fine, I walk a bit, then ask someone else. They point to the Bus Stop (A.P.S.) I see what looks to be a bus sign down the road, on Mitchell Street. So, I go a way down. On the left, I see a bus sign.
After a bit of disambiguation, I found the bus stop. I was to proceed down the road and then it's on the left, not left and then proceed down the road. This communication stuff is a bitch, I tell you. but, hey-- I asked THREE people and I found my way! Not bad for a confused Scorpio.
Okay, I am at the bus stop, got my money, know where I'm going, this is good. I can do this. The bus arrives, and I board. I tell the nice lady that I'm going to East Point. She explains that the bus does not drop off at East Point, but that she can take me close by, a bit past Fanny Bay. Fair enough.
So, we're diving along, and I'm soaking up all the posh lovely homes, and the blue tranquil coastline, and the drunk impoverished aboriginals dotting the landscape along the parkway, while the privilaged racist tourists walk briskly and nervously past them. It's all quite lovely, really.
We arrive at Fanny Bay, then the Gaol. We continue on. We arrive at Nightcliff, an outlying suburb. Curious, I review my city map. Nightcliff is past the East Park Reserve. Ah, but she must be making a logical loop, where East Point is accessed more strategically for me.
Nope. Bus driver just forgot about me ("Goodness, gracious! I'm dredfully sorry! I forgot all about you!"). But, you know what? It was fine. I ended up an hour away, but I had the opportunity to see the surrounding areas, and I rode around with an aboriginal woman. When I first came on the bus, there were only a few seats available: one with a young man, one with an older man, and one with an aboriginal woman. You think either of the white men blinked an eye or twitched a muscle to make space? Please. But, this smelly, toothless, barefoot old aboriginal woman got right up and offered me a seat. So, she and I road along, through the outlying areas and less affluent neighborhoods (read: camps and ghettos).
As we drove along the outlying townships, we came to the intersection of Phoenix and Progress streets. Fantastic metaphor for Australia. Or, for any colonized/indigenous cultural war zone, for that matter. Such a place are Aussies today. The clash of cultures, the Apology, the official recognition of atrocities, the attempt at legal, political, and literal reparations, the beaurocratic failures and embarassments and indignations. The transforming of colonized land to sacred aboriginal sites. In a fair and just manner, pleasing all people on all sides.
The Corner of Phoenix and Progress. Well, I'm glad I got the hell out of there. I wouldn't want to hanging around that intersection for too long, mate. And, I sure as hell don't want to live there.
So, we head back to town, and this time, I jump off near Fanny Bay. From there, I begin a wonderful walk around the ocean shore and into the East Point Reserve. Awesome! Vast ocean on one side, hundreds of green acres on the other. Plus, in the middle of the reserve is Lake Alexander. A small spot of manmade heaven.
Lake Alexander is a manmade saltwater lake-- pond, really. It's about five acres (like South Pond). Sandy bottom, no icky things in the water, you can see the bottom, not too deep-- just the way I like my swimming! A nice, controlled environment. Yeh, I hate to admit it, but who needs all the excitment of fish and seaweed, dark, deep waters, muddy gooshy groddies at the bottom? This had all the aaaaah and none of the iiiiiiich. I loved it. I couldn't resist it. Without towel (but smartly wore a bathing suit), I spontaneously leapt in and spent a glorious hour swimming about. It was one of the nicest and most enjoyable things I've ever done in my whole life. After getting married a few times and raising children. Of course.
The beach, on the other hand, contains all the horrors and iiiichs. Box jellyfish that have 4 tentacles 4 feet long-- 16 feet of potential death; all they need is about 4 feet of total skin contact to kill you. Plus sharks, crocodiles, and sea snakes. They're all there. I'm sticking with Lake Alexander, thank you very much.
The fantastic part was seeing people swimming out there (in the ocean)! And, jetskiing! And windsurfing and boating! And, walking in the water with their precious children! I mean, there are like 20 huge signs warning people, the beach is closed off by a fence running along the entire coastline, and these people still go in. Just amazing. S.F.G! (Hi family.)
As I walked around East Point Reserve, I saw a lovely restaurant with a silly name-- Pee Wee's On the Beach. I was thinking what a beautiful spot and wouldn't it be great to eat there. I bet it'd cost a pretty penny.
Turns out that I had the opportunity to find out! I had dinner with friends of Jane's (Mark's Aunt)-- Lesley and David Mearns, two anthropologists who worked with Jane, when she taught in Australia. They picked me up and began driving toward their town, Nightcliff. I see that they turn toward East Point, and comment, "oh, is this the way to Nightcliff?" Lesley replies that this is where the restaurant is that we'll be dining at-- yes, it is Pee Wees (On the Beach)!!
Oh my God-- Pee Wees was the Lake Alexander of restaurants. What can I say? It was one of the best meals I've ever had in my life (after Pyrammide and and La Tour d'Argent, dad). It was exquisite. The appetizer (called Entree) was a "combo platter" of petite soft shell crabs, salmon roulades, smoked quails, and a fresh chicken salad timbale-- like, a little tower of FRESH moist chicken with tiny tomato and herb on top.
For the entree (called Mains), I had the Red Emperor-- a type of fish similar to the Sea Bass (without the political judgment) in a subtle curry, with julienne of red pepper, red onion, baby corn, and basil. With jasmine rice and chili cucumbers. TDF (Hi Ted and Freeb). And, the portions! They gave me three-- THREE-- planks of fish. Like three full American servings. I couldn't believe it. I had enough food on my plate for all three of us. But, David and Lesley had their own feasts of Barramundi-- a local fish-- the trout (Hi Mark and Luc) of Australia, and Kangaroo-- healthy and gamey like venison (Hi Nick). We had a bowl of veggies with our meals-- broccolini and bok choy-- so, heaps of veggies along with my plate for three.
As I simply could not finish, I asked for a Take Away. Lesley and David exchanged an odd smirk, which I didn't understand. I found out. After I asked the waiter to please wrap it up, he returns with a disclaimer sheet, signing off liability on the food (good idea, litigious America). I thought it was funny, and I am surprised we don't do that in the US. If any place would do it...
So, I signed my life away, and they wrapped up the goodies, and I had dinner for tomorrow night. Scrummy. But-- still had to have dessert! I had the Creme Brulee, which was a dark grey-- from all the vanilla bean. It was served with the thinnest biscotti and a wedge of white chocolate. Served with FRESH chamomile tea (Hi Samba), sweet and fragrant and even succulent-- if tea can be such a thing. I swear on my life. Pure gastronomic heaven. Food, glorious food.
It's just so great to be treated to such a magnificent meal-- and the Japanese restaurant with Kym in Sydney, too-- in the middle of this hyper-economized vacation. Most days I subsist on bread and cheese, choosing to spend my money on gifts for loved ones at home (siiiiigh.... it's aaaall riiiiiiight.....). ha-- how's that for a false sense of guilt? How could you possibly feel badly for me, when I'm here in Australia for 6 weeks, even with bread and cheese? heck, eating spam and vegemite-- I'm still in Australia, mate!
They have something called Bug, which is a cross between shrimp and lobster, but it was way too expensive to order. As it was, I could have bought a one way ticket from LA to Sydney for the price of our meal, I'm sure. Youch.
Also, a somber note about Nightcliff: there is a disease called Nightcliff's disease-- a melidiosis and psuedomonas "gram negative" bacteria, which causes septisemia. (Hi Mike-- did I get it right?) It enters the body through lesions on the skin. And, in the wet season, people going barefoot are likely to contract it. Backpackers and aboriginals are expecially at risk, as they represent the primary mango picking population. The mango secretes an acidy juice that causes ulcers and lesions, creating the perfect access for the bacteria. Left untreated, people die within hours.
I found this out from a Pakistani doctor who sat next to me on the plane from Darwin to Alice Springs. There were six documented deaths in the area last year, due to Nightcliff's disease. (He didn't eat his ham sandwich, so I got two! Free pork? No problem for a Jew!)
Apparently, crocs and blacks aren't the only dangerous critters out here in the bush, bloke. Cracky.
Okay, I still have Lithchfield National Park, but this blog is already quite long. I think I'll save that for tomorrow night.
Ta, mates.
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Ta!
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