Monday, November 26, 2007
Friday, November 23, 2007
A Day in the Life
For the last two weeks, Pete and I have been WWOOFing in New Zealand. It’s basically the same thing that we were doing in Hawaii, but we’re working more hours, and getting both food and housing in exchange.
There are over 800 “farms” listed in the WWOOF (willing workers on organic farms) book, but most of them are what are known as “lifestyle blocks,” which is basically an eco-friendly home with a veggie garden, some chickens (“chooks”), and a yard full of recently planted native trees. It’s great that these lifestyle blocks exist, but less great when they’re masquerading as farms and you end up weeding someone’s carrots and beans for a week while they’re at work. This is what happened to us with our first host.
We spent a week in McQueen’s Valley, near Tai Tapu (Little River), confronting the gorse problem. When we arrived on this homestead-in-progress, we quickly learned what gorse was—a native plant with innocent-looking yellow flowers, and thousands of hairlike spikes, just waiting to implant themselves in your unsuspecting fingertips. The plant can grow as large as ten feet tall, from what we encountered, and once it flowers, spreads millions of tiny seeds per square foot of soil.
Chores weren’t limited to gorse-cutting, we also weeded the veggie garden, built a sheep paddock, and watched their three-year-old son, John. It was an interesting introduction to WWOOFing in New Zealand, and we were becoming skeptical, but we’d already made plans to stay at another farm/lifestyle block, called Blue Gums, where we are now.
Blue Gums is another place on the Banks Peninsula, located in the tiny “town” of Purau, a 30-minute hike and ten-minute ferry ride to the nearest proper town, Lyttleton. Here’s what life on the farm is like:
7:30 a.m.: Wake up to the sun as it rises over the mountains that surround us. The sound of sheep, birds, and cows is already peaking. I get up to make tea and get ready for the day. Maika and Gunther, the older German couple who are our hosts, don’t seem to care what time we start working, so we have a leisurely morning, reading, sipping tea, and maybe sitting on our porch enjoying the mountain views. We’re in a beautiful cabin at the top of a small mountain, a half-mile up the steep driveway from our hosts’ house.
9:00 a.m.: We walk down the driveway and have breakfast at our hosts’ house, usually homemade granola or some treat that Maika has baked. Since they work during the week, we help ourselves.
9:30. a.m.: Grab our tools and start working. Most of the work here consists of reforesting steep hills with native trees. New Zealand has been overrun with non-native pine forests, and where there are no pines, you’ll often find eroding hills. The hill above our cabin is one of the areas that we’re working on reforesting. So far we’ve planted over 130 trees on it.
11:00 a.m.: Tea time! New Zealanders love to drink tea, given that most of them are ex-pats from Europe (often from England and Scotland, given that most of New Zealand was “settled” by the British). Usually Peter and I skip this tea time and just have a cuppa after lunch instead.
1:00 p.m.: After a morning of planting in the sun (the temperature is getting well into the 70s during the day), we’ve worked up an appetite. If lunch isn’t leftover dinner, Peter likes to have eggs. With eight hens laying, they are always in abundance and very fresh.
1:45 p.m.: Back to work. Yesterday we put together a bunch of wooden frames that will go into the bee hives that we’d harvested honey from the night before. Four frames produced over 14 pounds of honey—and with all of the tea drinking around here they need it. They chose to harvest the honey since they’d run out, but usually there are 12-15 frames, so you could imagine how much honey they get.
4:00 p.m.: The day is done. This could mean more tea, or just some relaxing on the porch with a book until dinner. I prefer the latter.
7:00 p.m.: Dinner around here, at least on the weekends, is a collective effort. Last Friday night we made a bunch of pizzas in the outdoor clay pizza oven, which was really cool. All of the neighbors (who also have WWOOFers) came and we each designed our own pizza, and then cooked it in the oven, which took less than five minutes per pizza. The food is vegetarian and usually contains something that’s been grown on the property.
9:00 p.m.: If you’re a hardcore tea-lover, you’ll drink more tea after dinner. It’s kind of comical how much tea is consumed in a day. If you’re tired and want to sneak back to your cabin on the hill, then now’s the time.
We’ve just agreed to stay another week. I think we’d be crazy not to.
There are over 800 “farms” listed in the WWOOF (willing workers on organic farms) book, but most of them are what are known as “lifestyle blocks,” which is basically an eco-friendly home with a veggie garden, some chickens (“chooks”), and a yard full of recently planted native trees. It’s great that these lifestyle blocks exist, but less great when they’re masquerading as farms and you end up weeding someone’s carrots and beans for a week while they’re at work. This is what happened to us with our first host.
We spent a week in McQueen’s Valley, near Tai Tapu (Little River), confronting the gorse problem. When we arrived on this homestead-in-progress, we quickly learned what gorse was—a native plant with innocent-looking yellow flowers, and thousands of hairlike spikes, just waiting to implant themselves in your unsuspecting fingertips. The plant can grow as large as ten feet tall, from what we encountered, and once it flowers, spreads millions of tiny seeds per square foot of soil.
Chores weren’t limited to gorse-cutting, we also weeded the veggie garden, built a sheep paddock, and watched their three-year-old son, John. It was an interesting introduction to WWOOFing in New Zealand, and we were becoming skeptical, but we’d already made plans to stay at another farm/lifestyle block, called Blue Gums, where we are now.
Blue Gums is another place on the Banks Peninsula, located in the tiny “town” of Purau, a 30-minute hike and ten-minute ferry ride to the nearest proper town, Lyttleton. Here’s what life on the farm is like:
7:30 a.m.: Wake up to the sun as it rises over the mountains that surround us. The sound of sheep, birds, and cows is already peaking. I get up to make tea and get ready for the day. Maika and Gunther, the older German couple who are our hosts, don’t seem to care what time we start working, so we have a leisurely morning, reading, sipping tea, and maybe sitting on our porch enjoying the mountain views. We’re in a beautiful cabin at the top of a small mountain, a half-mile up the steep driveway from our hosts’ house.
9:00 a.m.: We walk down the driveway and have breakfast at our hosts’ house, usually homemade granola or some treat that Maika has baked. Since they work during the week, we help ourselves.
9:30. a.m.: Grab our tools and start working. Most of the work here consists of reforesting steep hills with native trees. New Zealand has been overrun with non-native pine forests, and where there are no pines, you’ll often find eroding hills. The hill above our cabin is one of the areas that we’re working on reforesting. So far we’ve planted over 130 trees on it.
11:00 a.m.: Tea time! New Zealanders love to drink tea, given that most of them are ex-pats from Europe (often from England and Scotland, given that most of New Zealand was “settled” by the British). Usually Peter and I skip this tea time and just have a cuppa after lunch instead.
1:00 p.m.: After a morning of planting in the sun (the temperature is getting well into the 70s during the day), we’ve worked up an appetite. If lunch isn’t leftover dinner, Peter likes to have eggs. With eight hens laying, they are always in abundance and very fresh.
1:45 p.m.: Back to work. Yesterday we put together a bunch of wooden frames that will go into the bee hives that we’d harvested honey from the night before. Four frames produced over 14 pounds of honey—and with all of the tea drinking around here they need it. They chose to harvest the honey since they’d run out, but usually there are 12-15 frames, so you could imagine how much honey they get.
4:00 p.m.: The day is done. This could mean more tea, or just some relaxing on the porch with a book until dinner. I prefer the latter.
7:00 p.m.: Dinner around here, at least on the weekends, is a collective effort. Last Friday night we made a bunch of pizzas in the outdoor clay pizza oven, which was really cool. All of the neighbors (who also have WWOOFers) came and we each designed our own pizza, and then cooked it in the oven, which took less than five minutes per pizza. The food is vegetarian and usually contains something that’s been grown on the property.
9:00 p.m.: If you’re a hardcore tea-lover, you’ll drink more tea after dinner. It’s kind of comical how much tea is consumed in a day. If you’re tired and want to sneak back to your cabin on the hill, then now’s the time.
We’ve just agreed to stay another week. I think we’d be crazy not to.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
A Promise Fulfilled
We'd been in Australia for a week and the only beast we'd seen was Doo Doo Brown.
We were starting to question our trip. There were supposed to be kangaroos and koalas and whales, but where were they? I didn't know where they were, but I promised Micaela that we would see them. It didn't raise our spirits much, so I made a bigger promise: we'd see a kangaroo with a koala in its pouch...riding a whale.
It wasn't long before we saw kangaroos and whales, and a little while later we saw koalas too. The fulfillment of the last promise took longer. It wasn't until our last week in Australia that we finally saw it, but here it is, a kangaroo with a koala in its pouch riding a whale:
We were starting to question our trip. There were supposed to be kangaroos and koalas and whales, but where were they? I didn't know where they were, but I promised Micaela that we would see them. It didn't raise our spirits much, so I made a bigger promise: we'd see a kangaroo with a koala in its pouch...riding a whale.
It wasn't long before we saw kangaroos and whales, and a little while later we saw koalas too. The fulfillment of the last promise took longer. It wasn't until our last week in Australia that we finally saw it, but here it is, a kangaroo with a koala in its pouch riding a whale:
Big Bats
Sydney's Royal Botanic Gardens is a great place to spend a few hours on a beautiful spring day. It's free and it's full of bats. They're large fruit bats called Grey Headed Flying Foxes and they're supposed to sleep during the day, but when we went by on Tuesday they couldn't sit still. 
I count sixteen flapping around in this picture with Sydney Tower in the background, and a few more hanging in the trees, but there are literally hundreds of them living in a relatively small area of the gardens. A few trees have been destroyed by the bats living in them and the paths around the area where they hang are covered in guano. There's a plaque supposedly describing the bats and their behavior but it's totally illegible because it's coated in their droppings.
I took about a hundred pictures of bats in flight and I'm still trying to sort through them. This one seemed decent and I like it because you can see his mammal parts clearly. You can see his furry little face, mouth, nose, eyes, and ears. You can see his feet and the way his hands are stretched out and webbed to make wings.
Since it's spring, we even saw some mother bats with little babies clinging to them. Unfortunately, I didn't get any good pictures of them, but if I lived here in Sydney, I'd go back to the botanic gardens every clear day until I did.
I count sixteen flapping around in this picture with Sydney Tower in the background, and a few more hanging in the trees, but there are literally hundreds of them living in a relatively small area of the gardens. A few trees have been destroyed by the bats living in them and the paths around the area where they hang are covered in guano. There's a plaque supposedly describing the bats and their behavior but it's totally illegible because it's coated in their droppings.
I took about a hundred pictures of bats in flight and I'm still trying to sort through them. This one seemed decent and I like it because you can see his mammal parts clearly. You can see his furry little face, mouth, nose, eyes, and ears. You can see his feet and the way his hands are stretched out and webbed to make wings.Since it's spring, we even saw some mother bats with little babies clinging to them. Unfortunately, I didn't get any good pictures of them, but if I lived here in Sydney, I'd go back to the botanic gardens every clear day until I did.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
The Other "Grand Canyon"
On Friday, Pete and I took an evening train from Sydney’s Central Station to Katoomba, a small town just a few hours west, nestled on the edge of the “Grand Canyon” among the Blue Mountains. Our hostel had advertised itself as “deluxe,” though what that actually meant we weren’t sure, given that it was one of the cheaper accommodations available. It was spacious and much of the interior had been redone in 2005, so it was quite spiffy-looking, but what the ad hadn’t mentioned was that it was some kind of converted hospital. The high ceilings, industrial kitchen, and roomy dining area were all nice on paper, but the atmosphere, as Pete reluctantly pointed out, was something straight out of The Shining.
Saturday morning we woke up early, packed a lunch and put on our hiking shoes. It was only a 2k walk to Echo Point, the main entrance to the walking tracks leading down into the canyon. We got a map and followed the throng of Japanese tourists down a cement-paved walkway. At first we were worried that we’d fallen for a glossed-over version of the natural world—conveniently wheelchair accessible and kid-tested to be complaint-free. But as we meandered farther along, elbowing our way onto the lookout platform, we realized that we’d be descending into a canyon steep enough to weed out the frail and faint of heart.
Here’s Pete standing in front of the Three Sisters, three rock pillars that form one of the main visual attractions of the Blue Mountains. You can only see them from the other side of the canyon, so I opted for this shot of Pete mocking the stereotypical pose of a Japanese tourist (the peace sign).
A series of ladders and natural stone and wood steps stretched down into the bottom of the canyon for over a kilometer. This required steady legs, and in some cases, holding on to the railing on either side.
After reaching the bottom of the canyon we were surrounded by dense rainforest—and the occasional intrepid tourist. The sound of the cicadas was so freakishly loud that I took a short video to share the noise with you.
We followed the trail for a few kilometers, stopping for a snack and some views of Katoomba Falls. At this point my camera batteries were dead, so you’ll have to wait for Pete’s photos of all the good stuff. Eventually we made our way back up the canyon on the loop trail, facing another set of natural and unnatural stairs, feeling the burn. I guess we’re not quite in the shape we were in while working on the farm in Hawaii. It felt great to take in the fresh mountain air and expansive vistas after having been cooped up in Sydney for two weeks.
Our day ended with a nap, home-cooked bean burritos, and a spectacular pink-and-purple sunset. Exhaustion and satisfaction, while sometimes opposites, are definitely members of the same family.
Saturday morning we woke up early, packed a lunch and put on our hiking shoes. It was only a 2k walk to Echo Point, the main entrance to the walking tracks leading down into the canyon. We got a map and followed the throng of Japanese tourists down a cement-paved walkway. At first we were worried that we’d fallen for a glossed-over version of the natural world—conveniently wheelchair accessible and kid-tested to be complaint-free. But as we meandered farther along, elbowing our way onto the lookout platform, we realized that we’d be descending into a canyon steep enough to weed out the frail and faint of heart.
Here’s Pete standing in front of the Three Sisters, three rock pillars that form one of the main visual attractions of the Blue Mountains. You can only see them from the other side of the canyon, so I opted for this shot of Pete mocking the stereotypical pose of a Japanese tourist (the peace sign).
A series of ladders and natural stone and wood steps stretched down into the bottom of the canyon for over a kilometer. This required steady legs, and in some cases, holding on to the railing on either side.
After reaching the bottom of the canyon we were surrounded by dense rainforest—and the occasional intrepid tourist. The sound of the cicadas was so freakishly loud that I took a short video to share the noise with you.
We followed the trail for a few kilometers, stopping for a snack and some views of Katoomba Falls. At this point my camera batteries were dead, so you’ll have to wait for Pete’s photos of all the good stuff. Eventually we made our way back up the canyon on the loop trail, facing another set of natural and unnatural stairs, feeling the burn. I guess we’re not quite in the shape we were in while working on the farm in Hawaii. It felt great to take in the fresh mountain air and expansive vistas after having been cooped up in Sydney for two weeks.
Our day ended with a nap, home-cooked bean burritos, and a spectacular pink-and-purple sunset. Exhaustion and satisfaction, while sometimes opposites, are definitely members of the same family.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Almost Summer in the Almost City
It's the second rainy day in a row in Sydney, and there's nothing on our agenda today. We've spent nearly two weeks in the Brooklynesque suburb of Glebe, and we're starting to feel like we live here. I have my new passport--in the record time of 4 days--and my New Zealand working holiday visa. Pete got his mandatory chest x-ray for his visa (since he'd "spent more than 3 months in the last 5 years in a country not considered low risk for TB"--that's actually how they worded it), and this weekend we're heading to the Blue Mountains as a reward for all of the hoop-jumping we've done. Good thing we Americans have been trained to deal with bureaucracy; it seems to be a global epidemic.
We've managed to do as many of the low-budget tourist attractions as we can handle: walking across the Harbour Bridge, enjoying the NSW art museum (free!), checking out the fruit bats while strolling through the botanic gardens (also free!), taking a ferry to the beach suburb of Manly, poking through the junk at the Chinatown markets, admiring the sharks in the Sydney Aquarium, and of course, walking all over the city.
We leave for New Zealand on November 2nd, and are staying in Christchurch, on the South Island, until we figure out what we want to do from there. The holidays will be upon us soon, but we're in a seemingly endless summer. Do I dare to dream of a white Christmas?
We've managed to do as many of the low-budget tourist attractions as we can handle: walking across the Harbour Bridge, enjoying the NSW art museum (free!), checking out the fruit bats while strolling through the botanic gardens (also free!), taking a ferry to the beach suburb of Manly, poking through the junk at the Chinatown markets, admiring the sharks in the Sydney Aquarium, and of course, walking all over the city.
We leave for New Zealand on November 2nd, and are staying in Christchurch, on the South Island, until we figure out what we want to do from there. The holidays will be upon us soon, but we're in a seemingly endless summer. Do I dare to dream of a white Christmas?
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Crocodile Cruise
One of our last activities in Far North Queensland was a crocodile cruise on Cooper's Creek. We rode bikes from our hostel, Crocodylus, all the way there. It was hot and humid so the ride seemed much harder than it actually was. Our group assembled on the muddy banks of the creek to wait for the boat to return from the previous cruise. There were little crabs and mud skippers running in the mud which drew us to the waters edge. A khaki-clad tour guide emerged from the bushes and yelled "Oi! Away from the water!" I think it was more a device to get us excited about the possibilty of spotting potentially-man-eating crocodiles than an actual safety precaution.
The boat pulled up and a sad group of tourist got off. They hadn't spotted any crocodiles.
Like yet another clone of Steve Erwin, our boat captain/crocodile tour guide was also wearing all khaki and, incidentally, Crocs®. He told us he was having bad luck that day and maybe we could help him spot some crocodiles. The information he gave as we drifted up the creek had mostly to do with the mangroves. There are something like 150 different kinds of mangrove trees and that provides more than enough factoids to fill an hour long tour. It was begining to look hopeless as more and more various kinds of branches and roots became less and less interesting. Then, very casually, Micaela pointed and said, "There's one." Everyone stood up and got their cameras out and oohed and ahhed at what looked very much like a log. It was actually a crocodile, 2.4 meters long according to the guide. An older woman who seemed slightly confused pointed and said very loudly, "There, there, I see a crocodile!" It was obviously Micaela's sighting.
The boat pulled up and a sad group of tourist got off. They hadn't spotted any crocodiles.
Like yet another clone of Steve Erwin, our boat captain/crocodile tour guide was also wearing all khaki and, incidentally, Crocs®. He told us he was having bad luck that day and maybe we could help him spot some crocodiles. The information he gave as we drifted up the creek had mostly to do with the mangroves. There are something like 150 different kinds of mangrove trees and that provides more than enough factoids to fill an hour long tour. It was begining to look hopeless as more and more various kinds of branches and roots became less and less interesting. Then, very casually, Micaela pointed and said, "There's one." Everyone stood up and got their cameras out and oohed and ahhed at what looked very much like a log. It was actually a crocodile, 2.4 meters long according to the guide. An older woman who seemed slightly confused pointed and said very loudly, "There, there, I see a crocodile!" It was obviously Micaela's sighting.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Scuba Diving
Scuba diving at the Great Barrier Reef was great. My batteries died on the morning we had the best visibility, which was kind of nice because I could just enjoy the reef without fussing with my camera. Here are a couple of pictures from the first day.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Maps!
Here's my first attempt at putting a real map on our blog.
View Larger Map
This shows some of the places we've been in Far North Queensland. Click around and see how it works. I'm still figuring it out for myself, but it looks like it has great potential.
View Larger Map
This shows some of the places we've been in Far North Queensland. Click around and see how it works. I'm still figuring it out for myself, but it looks like it has great potential.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Shipwreck Bay
Even though we were tired, we got up with the sunrise to kayak to a private beach. Micaela and Pete shared a kayak and I was paired with the girl who wouldn't stop asking questions about sharks, stingers and how to paddle a kayak... lucky me. Thankfully we paddled our way without incident to the empty shores of Shipwreck Bay. There were only seven of us in total and we took full advantage of the chance to snorkel on the fringe reef about 80 meters offshore. It wasn't nearly as clear or as awesome as the Great Barrier Reef, but the peace and quiet made it a completely new experience. The snorkeling was peaceful since the water was calm, and I think we all wished we could stay there all day. Before paddling back, we walked the empty beach collecting shells and watching crabs scramble under the sand as we passed. The water was warm, the sun was out, and by the time we got back to our cabin in the rainforest, our day was just beginning.
Birdwing
This is the Cairns Birdwing. In my opinion it's the most beautiful and photogenic of the bunch and is only found in the Daintree Rainforest, which is the oldest rainforest on earth. We saw more rare butterflies on our excursion, but most of them took off before I could snap a picture since birds love to feast on them. This particular butterfly allowed me to take a few pictures and was my favorite.
Air and Water
Last week while we were staying in Cairns, Morgan and I decided to go to the village of Kuranda, originally an Aboriginal village, now a popular tourist destination. We didn’t care much for the gift-shop atmosphere or the trinkets being sold, but we wanted to go anyway since there is a gondola that runs the 8 kms there, with amazing views of both the ocean and rainforest. Here’s a picture of the shire of Cairns from our gondola. 
While in Kuranda we went to the Butterfly Sanctuary, formerly the largest one of its kind in the world, until a larger one was built in England. Since Pete was at his scuba diving refresher class, I decided to take a few butterfly photos in hopes of both impressing and informing him. Here was my favorite picture:
The butterflies are attracted to bright colors, but they particularly like white. Morgan was wearing her Yankees hat in support of her team during the playoffs, and the butterflies seemed to enjoy the white embroidery of the logo.
Our main reason for staying in Cairns was so that we could take an overnight boat trip to the Great Barrier Reef. We booked the trip at our hostel—Morgan decided to go snorkeling, I signed up for introductory scuba diving, and Pete, who is a certified diver, signed up to do some dives as well. The weather was perfect—80s, sunny, calm water, amazing visibility, and not much wind. At our last dive location on the second day, you could clearly see portions of the coral reef from the deck of our ship. These were the actual colors—this photo wasn’t altered.
On my first attempt at diving, I couldn’t seem to equalize the pressure in my ears, and after 20 minutes we all came up for air. After that I stuck to snorkeling with Morgan in hopes that my ear would heal. My ear never equalized, but it wasn’t so bad since snorkeling was better—I could maneuver into smaller spaces and float above coral that was just a few feet below the surface.
I’ll let Pete post his underwater photos, but the highlights included a large turtle, electric-blue coral, white-tipped reef sharks, and giant clams. There were more colors and more species than I’ve ever seen in such a small area. It was definitely one of the coolest things I’ve ever done.
While in Kuranda we went to the Butterfly Sanctuary, formerly the largest one of its kind in the world, until a larger one was built in England. Since Pete was at his scuba diving refresher class, I decided to take a few butterfly photos in hopes of both impressing and informing him. Here was my favorite picture:
The butterflies are attracted to bright colors, but they particularly like white. Morgan was wearing her Yankees hat in support of her team during the playoffs, and the butterflies seemed to enjoy the white embroidery of the logo.
Our main reason for staying in Cairns was so that we could take an overnight boat trip to the Great Barrier Reef. We booked the trip at our hostel—Morgan decided to go snorkeling, I signed up for introductory scuba diving, and Pete, who is a certified diver, signed up to do some dives as well. The weather was perfect—80s, sunny, calm water, amazing visibility, and not much wind. At our last dive location on the second day, you could clearly see portions of the coral reef from the deck of our ship. These were the actual colors—this photo wasn’t altered.
On my first attempt at diving, I couldn’t seem to equalize the pressure in my ears, and after 20 minutes we all came up for air. After that I stuck to snorkeling with Morgan in hopes that my ear would heal. My ear never equalized, but it wasn’t so bad since snorkeling was better—I could maneuver into smaller spaces and float above coral that was just a few feet below the surface.
I’ll let Pete post his underwater photos, but the highlights included a large turtle, electric-blue coral, white-tipped reef sharks, and giant clams. There were more colors and more species than I’ve ever seen in such a small area. It was definitely one of the coolest things I’ve ever done.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Koalas and 'Roos and No Bears--Oh My!
While in Brisbane we visited the Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary--the first and oldest koala sanctuary in the world. I was determined to "cuddle" a koala at the price of $15, timeless photo included in the purchase. We prefer Pete's version of the photo, so that's the one I'm posting here.
There were also a bunch of fenced-in kangaroos that we were allowed to feed. Here's Morgan feeding one:
Not only did I learn that a koala is not a bear (yes, Morgan and Peter, you were right), but it's a pouched marsupial. Their pouches are much less visible than those of the kangaroo, but they're for the same purpose (housing their young, who only gestate for 20-30 days before making their way into the pouch). They weren't the most excitable creatures given that they sleep 18-20 hours a day due to their low-energy diet of eucalyptus leaves, but they became quite animated when fed.
We had a couple of really great days enjoying the Brisbane nightlife, relaxing at our friendly hostel, and cooking delicious meals for ourselves. On Tuesday morning we flew to Cairns where we're staying at one of the nicest hostels that we've been to so far. A swimming pool, hammocks, air-conditioners, free dinners and DVDs, and not a single bunkbed in the place. The weather is humid and almost tropical and there are lots of nearby rainforests, though it's the end of the dry season here in northern Queensland.
Saturday is our last day at the hostel and then we're going to do a two-day, one-night scuba/snorkelling trip out to the reef, which is about 60 km offshore. Until then we might take a daytrip to the Outback, though we haven't decided yet. Lots of options...
There were also a bunch of fenced-in kangaroos that we were allowed to feed. Here's Morgan feeding one:
Not only did I learn that a koala is not a bear (yes, Morgan and Peter, you were right), but it's a pouched marsupial. Their pouches are much less visible than those of the kangaroo, but they're for the same purpose (housing their young, who only gestate for 20-30 days before making their way into the pouch). They weren't the most excitable creatures given that they sleep 18-20 hours a day due to their low-energy diet of eucalyptus leaves, but they became quite animated when fed.
We had a couple of really great days enjoying the Brisbane nightlife, relaxing at our friendly hostel, and cooking delicious meals for ourselves. On Tuesday morning we flew to Cairns where we're staying at one of the nicest hostels that we've been to so far. A swimming pool, hammocks, air-conditioners, free dinners and DVDs, and not a single bunkbed in the place. The weather is humid and almost tropical and there are lots of nearby rainforests, though it's the end of the dry season here in northern Queensland.
Saturday is our last day at the hostel and then we're going to do a two-day, one-night scuba/snorkelling trip out to the reef, which is about 60 km offshore. Until then we might take a daytrip to the Outback, though we haven't decided yet. Lots of options...
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Getting there is half the battle...
So you've probably noticed that Micaela and Pete have been slacking a little on the blog - well, you can blame me for that (at least partially). After some contemplation, though more on a whim than anything, I decided to join them in the "Land Down Under". Since it was cheaper to fly to Honolulu and then to Sydney, I made a 3-day, 2-night pit stop and stayed on Waikiki Beach before continuing on my way. This first leg of my journey involved two, 6-hour flights with a 4-hour layover in Las Vegas. The second leg of the trip was the worst! I endured a roller coaster ride from Honolulu to Sydney. I say "roller coaster ride" because for the first 2 hours of the flight the plan shook violently from side-to-side as we encountered some of the worst turbulence I've ever experienced. Upon our approach to Sydney I was elated to finally spot land, but it wasn't long before my hopes were dashed and replaced by my worst fear... the plane suddenly made a sharp, banking U-turn back out over the ocean and the only thing I could see out my window was the sky. My stomach dropped as the woman next to me shouted, "Jesus Christ!" Thankfully after a few minutes we circled back and landed safely on the ground.
The Australian customs agent confiscated my stash of Slim Jims (brought for emergencies) in the airport as he laughingly informed me, "You can't bring meat products into this country and that includes Slim Jims." I didn't have the energy to argue about the meat content of a Slim Jim, so I sadly handed them over and went to find a taxi. I took a cab to a hostel in Sydney and immediately went to sleep upon arrival. With the 20-hour time difference between Honolulu and Sydney I had lost almost an entire day.
The next morning I boarded a Greyhound bus for Brisbane where I would meet up with Micaela and Pete. The ride was a mere 16 1/2 hours! The bus stopped for 3 "meal breaks" which all consisted of a roadside gas station selling some form of deep fried seafood, meat pies or other deep fried items coated in various coagulated sauces. This was my introduction to the Australian diet.
When I arrived in Brisbane at 11:30 pm, I called my sister and let her know that I had made it. She said to go outside and meet her and Pete by the front steps of the transit station. As soon as I turned to look down the street, I saw a hand wave and immediately recognized Mic and Pete. I ran across the street and into her arms for a long awaited reunion. After travelling alone for almost a week and not having seen her in several months, I began to cry out of happiness. I had almost forgotten that I had a destination and I was finally there!
The Australian customs agent confiscated my stash of Slim Jims (brought for emergencies) in the airport as he laughingly informed me, "You can't bring meat products into this country and that includes Slim Jims." I didn't have the energy to argue about the meat content of a Slim Jim, so I sadly handed them over and went to find a taxi. I took a cab to a hostel in Sydney and immediately went to sleep upon arrival. With the 20-hour time difference between Honolulu and Sydney I had lost almost an entire day.
The next morning I boarded a Greyhound bus for Brisbane where I would meet up with Micaela and Pete. The ride was a mere 16 1/2 hours! The bus stopped for 3 "meal breaks" which all consisted of a roadside gas station selling some form of deep fried seafood, meat pies or other deep fried items coated in various coagulated sauces. This was my introduction to the Australian diet.
When I arrived in Brisbane at 11:30 pm, I called my sister and let her know that I had made it. She said to go outside and meet her and Pete by the front steps of the transit station. As soon as I turned to look down the street, I saw a hand wave and immediately recognized Mic and Pete. I ran across the street and into her arms for a long awaited reunion. After travelling alone for almost a week and not having seen her in several months, I began to cry out of happiness. I had almost forgotten that I had a destination and I was finally there!
Thursday, September 27, 2007
In the Footsteps of Explorers
Last weekend we took a one-night, two-day tour of Fraser Island, also known as “The Great Sandy Island.” It’s the largest sandbar, or sand island, in the world, is an infamous dingo habitat, contains an official highway that is actually just a beach, requires four-wheel drive vehicles to navigate the sand roads, and is home to a large subtropical rainforest as well as over 100 freshwater lakes, if you can believe all of that. It definitely has an otherworldly feel to it, given its isolation (you can only reach it by ferry) and it’s uniqueness.
Inhabited by the Aboriginals around 14,000 years ago, later “discovered” by the Dutch, Portuguese, and of course our good friend Captain Cook, the island has a rich and often mythic history. In most recent years, the dingo population has been slowly waning due to government-supported efforts to eradicate it from Fraser Island. As more and more people visit the island for recreation and tourism, the dingoes are becoming bolder—mating with domestic dogs, and yes, eating babies. According to our tour guide, the dingo isn’t even endemic to Australia, but rather is an Asian wolf that was introduced to Australia around 3,000 years ago. Ironically, the only place it is found today is Australia.
With a slight sense of guilt and hypocrisy, we were led around in a large four-wheel-drive bus that took us through the rainforest on the first day, stopping at Lake Wobby for a nice swim. The weather up here is getting warmer as spring progresses, the temperature being in the 70s most days—so despite the rain shower we got while hiking over the sand dunes toward the lake, it was a most welcome swim.
There were 20 of us young folks on the bus, as our driver zipped along the beach highway, sometimes zigging and zagging to avoid encroaching waves and other vehicles. On the second day we visited a handful of other sites, including the crystal-clear Lake McKenzie, and the tallest point on the island, Indian Head, formed thousands of years ago by underwater volcanoes, and later named by the ubiquitous Captain Cook, who seemed to find savage “Indians” wherever he went.
From this point you can often see sharks and whales lurking about the depths below, though we were only able to spot some far-off trumpeting of whales. Due to the deadly stingers (box jellyfish) found in the coastal waters, and the presence of sharks, swimming is prohibited on all beaches surrounding Fraser Island. We admired the water from the safety of the sand dunes. (Photos to come.)
Yesterday we took the bus to Noosa Heads, a very popular beach town about halfway between Hervey Bay and Brisbane. We made the decision to come back south in order to meet up with my sister, Morgan, who will be in Sydney on Friday. We’re going to meet in Brisbane and then fly to Cairns, given that it was the same price as the bus without having to endure a 20+ hour ride on a Greyhound. The Australian Greyhound isn’t any more exciting as the American version, so you can see why we made the decision.
Unfortunately (though rather fortunately, as it turned out), when we arrived in Noosa we discovered that all of the hotels and hostels were full due to the school holiday. Usually when you arrive at a popular destination, the hostels all have courtesy vans lined up awaiting your business. This time, however, each of the vans were full (phone calls to the hostels confirmed that there was no room at the inn) and zipped out of the parking lot before we could blink—that is, all but one lone van for the Noosa North Shore Resort, where we both eagerly and reluctantly headed to.
We meandered through Noosa proper and eventually crossed a river on a small ferry, until we arrived at the North Shore. For very little money we get to stay in a “backpacker dorm,” which is actually a two-bedroom apartment, with bunks in each room, and two bathrooms. We have a stove, a living room, and even a swimming pool, but the best part is that we’re surrounded by the natural world. There are dozens of kangaroos hopping around, we saw a goanna on our way to the beach, Pete nearly stepped on a stingray while we were canoeing on a nearby lake, and there are more birds than you can shake a stick at. Not to mention that the canoe rental is free, and there aren’t many people here aside from us and the nice British girl who’s sharing our space.
It’s the next best thing to being on an actual farm. We’ve been trying for weeks to contact farms that offer work-exchange stays, but it’s starting to feel like pushing a kangaroo into a rabbit hole. Either the farms get back to us after we’ve already made plans and moved on, or they can’t take us now, “but maybe in a week or two…” With Morgan on the way it’s even trickier, so I think we’re going to hang out here until the last minute, and then swing down to Brisbane (although you can’t really “swing down” anywhere on a Greyhound, but you know what I mean) so that I can be reunited with my sister.
Next adventure: the Great Barrier Reef. Nine out of ten environmental scientists agree, “Get it while it still exists!”
Inhabited by the Aboriginals around 14,000 years ago, later “discovered” by the Dutch, Portuguese, and of course our good friend Captain Cook, the island has a rich and often mythic history. In most recent years, the dingo population has been slowly waning due to government-supported efforts to eradicate it from Fraser Island. As more and more people visit the island for recreation and tourism, the dingoes are becoming bolder—mating with domestic dogs, and yes, eating babies. According to our tour guide, the dingo isn’t even endemic to Australia, but rather is an Asian wolf that was introduced to Australia around 3,000 years ago. Ironically, the only place it is found today is Australia.
With a slight sense of guilt and hypocrisy, we were led around in a large four-wheel-drive bus that took us through the rainforest on the first day, stopping at Lake Wobby for a nice swim. The weather up here is getting warmer as spring progresses, the temperature being in the 70s most days—so despite the rain shower we got while hiking over the sand dunes toward the lake, it was a most welcome swim.
There were 20 of us young folks on the bus, as our driver zipped along the beach highway, sometimes zigging and zagging to avoid encroaching waves and other vehicles. On the second day we visited a handful of other sites, including the crystal-clear Lake McKenzie, and the tallest point on the island, Indian Head, formed thousands of years ago by underwater volcanoes, and later named by the ubiquitous Captain Cook, who seemed to find savage “Indians” wherever he went.
From this point you can often see sharks and whales lurking about the depths below, though we were only able to spot some far-off trumpeting of whales. Due to the deadly stingers (box jellyfish) found in the coastal waters, and the presence of sharks, swimming is prohibited on all beaches surrounding Fraser Island. We admired the water from the safety of the sand dunes. (Photos to come.)
Yesterday we took the bus to Noosa Heads, a very popular beach town about halfway between Hervey Bay and Brisbane. We made the decision to come back south in order to meet up with my sister, Morgan, who will be in Sydney on Friday. We’re going to meet in Brisbane and then fly to Cairns, given that it was the same price as the bus without having to endure a 20+ hour ride on a Greyhound. The Australian Greyhound isn’t any more exciting as the American version, so you can see why we made the decision.
Unfortunately (though rather fortunately, as it turned out), when we arrived in Noosa we discovered that all of the hotels and hostels were full due to the school holiday. Usually when you arrive at a popular destination, the hostels all have courtesy vans lined up awaiting your business. This time, however, each of the vans were full (phone calls to the hostels confirmed that there was no room at the inn) and zipped out of the parking lot before we could blink—that is, all but one lone van for the Noosa North Shore Resort, where we both eagerly and reluctantly headed to.
We meandered through Noosa proper and eventually crossed a river on a small ferry, until we arrived at the North Shore. For very little money we get to stay in a “backpacker dorm,” which is actually a two-bedroom apartment, with bunks in each room, and two bathrooms. We have a stove, a living room, and even a swimming pool, but the best part is that we’re surrounded by the natural world. There are dozens of kangaroos hopping around, we saw a goanna on our way to the beach, Pete nearly stepped on a stingray while we were canoeing on a nearby lake, and there are more birds than you can shake a stick at. Not to mention that the canoe rental is free, and there aren’t many people here aside from us and the nice British girl who’s sharing our space.
It’s the next best thing to being on an actual farm. We’ve been trying for weeks to contact farms that offer work-exchange stays, but it’s starting to feel like pushing a kangaroo into a rabbit hole. Either the farms get back to us after we’ve already made plans and moved on, or they can’t take us now, “but maybe in a week or two…” With Morgan on the way it’s even trickier, so I think we’re going to hang out here until the last minute, and then swing down to Brisbane (although you can’t really “swing down” anywhere on a Greyhound, but you know what I mean) so that I can be reunited with my sister.
Next adventure: the Great Barrier Reef. Nine out of ten environmental scientists agree, “Get it while it still exists!”
Friday, September 21, 2007
Whale Watching in Hervey Bay
Micaela wanted me to call this blog entry "A Whale of a Time" but I refuse.
Whale watching yesterday was awesome. It was windy and rough so moving around the boat was tricky. An old man fell and cut his hand, a few people got seasick, and a little boy screamed every time there was a big swell. The whales were incredible. It was obviously a great day for whale watching since the guides were really excited about all the activity. We saw lots of humpback whales and they jumped out of the water, or breached, a lot.
Whale watching yesterday was awesome. It was windy and rough so moving around the boat was tricky. An old man fell and cut his hand, a few people got seasick, and a little boy screamed every time there was a big swell. The whales were incredible. It was obviously a great day for whale watching since the guides were really excited about all the activity. We saw lots of humpback whales and they jumped out of the water, or breached, a lot.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Common Brushtail Possum
The other night we were sitting on the third floor balcony of our hostel admiring Brisbane's unremarkable skyline when there was a rustling in the nearby palm tree. It was something large. It was too dark to make out what it was until the flash from my camera lit it up. There in the branches of the date palm tree was a furry little possum eating a juicy date. It was totally unafraid and continued eating even when the flash went off five more times a couple feet from it's face.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
"Down by the bay..."
We've found ourselves in Byron Bay again, if only for a brief respite from all of the sleepy little seaside villages. Byron Bay is supposed to be a young person's paradise, and in the summer I'm sure it resembles a city despite it's less than 8,000 residents. It's full of young surfers and surfer wannabes, most of whom are Australian or German. There are very few Americans here, which was a surprise to both of us.
Byron Bay was named by none other than Captain Cook, after Lord Byron's grandfather, John, who was an explorer of the time. Somewhere in history, a confused townsperson, believing the town to be named for Lord Byron himself, decided to name several of the streets after other Romantic poets--Keats, Shelley, Jonson--and the names stuck.
Today we were supposed to go on a whale watching tour, but it was canceled due to high winds. Pete was too bitter to drag around his camera, so I decided to take some pictures while we walked along the bay. Here's a picture of the cape--you might be able to see the lighthouse if you look closely.
We encountered a lot of jellyfish that had washed ashore, and this was the most intact of them all.
It looks small, but it was actually about a foot and a half in diameter.
This blue thing we assumed to be a jellyfish as well, but it turns out that it's a Portuguese Man O' War. There were actually a lot of them dotting the shoreline. This one was twitching. The bubble-like structure is a "sail" full of carbon dioxide that the Man O' War uses to stay afloat.
Tonight we're staying in a hostel along the main beach in Byron Bay, and tomorrow we're heading to Brisbane.
Byron Bay was named by none other than Captain Cook, after Lord Byron's grandfather, John, who was an explorer of the time. Somewhere in history, a confused townsperson, believing the town to be named for Lord Byron himself, decided to name several of the streets after other Romantic poets--Keats, Shelley, Jonson--and the names stuck.
Today we were supposed to go on a whale watching tour, but it was canceled due to high winds. Pete was too bitter to drag around his camera, so I decided to take some pictures while we walked along the bay. Here's a picture of the cape--you might be able to see the lighthouse if you look closely.
We encountered a lot of jellyfish that had washed ashore, and this was the most intact of them all.
It looks small, but it was actually about a foot and a half in diameter.
This blue thing we assumed to be a jellyfish as well, but it turns out that it's a Portuguese Man O' War. There were actually a lot of them dotting the shoreline. This one was twitching. The bubble-like structure is a "sail" full of carbon dioxide that the Man O' War uses to stay afloat.
Tonight we're staying in a hostel along the main beach in Byron Bay, and tomorrow we're heading to Brisbane.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Ballina Sandbar
Today in Ballina we walked down along the shore and out onto a big sandbar where we watched a bird eat crabs.
"Practice" Is Perfect
The majestic Doo Doo Brown, sadly, has passed away. Except it wasn’t too sad to see her go. It was more like a weight off of our shoulders. Now we’re free to travel without fear of breakdowns, we don’t have to worry ourselves with maps and driving directions, and there’s one less car on the road. Literally. The mechanic bought it from us for a small sum since she had some salvageable parts, but the damage was costly and extensive, and a fix isn’t always a permanent fix with such things. As my dad pointed out, Doo Doo Brown truly lived up to her name. Naming something is a powerful act.
The other day I said to Pete, “Well, at least this is good practice.”
“Practice!” he exclaimed, “Practice for what?” And he was right. I think we may never own a car again. Not that we were thrilled about the idea in the first place. It’s funny how we can regard experiences as practice, as if we’re building up to something bigger and scarier. It just made me realize the value of the individual experience—to think of it in terms of practice is to deny it the quality of the experience itself. Sometimes there’s no such thing as “practice.”
Today is probably our final day in Ballina, and we enjoyed ourselves all day. We found new wallets at a nearby thrift store (or “op shop” as they’re known here), we drank a couple of flat whites at a café, and took a long walk along the river until we reached a sandbar just before the river met the ocean. Pete took some pictures of coastal creatures, and we bought a cheap Australian cell phone from a pawnshop down the street. It took me a minute to get over the moral quandary of buying a phone that had probably been stolen from someone’s car, but we really needed one, and it was the best deal in town. The irony is obvious and sad.
Since we have yet to hear back from our farm contact in Mullumbimby, we’re planning to go out on a whale-watching tour tomorrow. Migration occurs from June-November, as the Humpback whales swim down to the Arctic waters for summertime food, and then back to more temperate waters for breeding in the winter. I just hope the bus system isn’t too difficult to navigate. At this point, though, we feel capable of tackling anything.
And in case you were wondering (Morgan), no, Pele will not be getting her rocks back any time soon.
The other day I said to Pete, “Well, at least this is good practice.”
“Practice!” he exclaimed, “Practice for what?” And he was right. I think we may never own a car again. Not that we were thrilled about the idea in the first place. It’s funny how we can regard experiences as practice, as if we’re building up to something bigger and scarier. It just made me realize the value of the individual experience—to think of it in terms of practice is to deny it the quality of the experience itself. Sometimes there’s no such thing as “practice.”
Today is probably our final day in Ballina, and we enjoyed ourselves all day. We found new wallets at a nearby thrift store (or “op shop” as they’re known here), we drank a couple of flat whites at a café, and took a long walk along the river until we reached a sandbar just before the river met the ocean. Pete took some pictures of coastal creatures, and we bought a cheap Australian cell phone from a pawnshop down the street. It took me a minute to get over the moral quandary of buying a phone that had probably been stolen from someone’s car, but we really needed one, and it was the best deal in town. The irony is obvious and sad.
Since we have yet to hear back from our farm contact in Mullumbimby, we’re planning to go out on a whale-watching tour tomorrow. Migration occurs from June-November, as the Humpback whales swim down to the Arctic waters for summertime food, and then back to more temperate waters for breeding in the winter. I just hope the bus system isn’t too difficult to navigate. At this point, though, we feel capable of tackling anything.
And in case you were wondering (Morgan), no, Pele will not be getting her rocks back any time soon.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
A Tragi-Comedy of Errors
The car might be dead. When we tried to start her up yesterday morning, she was unresponsive. We tried every little trick we’d learned in the past two weeks to no avail. At the motel owner’s suggestion, we went next door to the brake/exhaust mechanics’ shop, and asked if anyone would come take a look at our car. I told the owner’s wife our story and her husband agreed to come over in a few minutes, even though he was obviously very busy.
When the mechanic tried to start her, she continued to stubbornly resist. He looked under the hood, unscrewed a few things from the motor and made the observation that I had feared, “It’s a piece of junk.” He told us that the head gasket is broken, which was causing all kinds of problems, including the overheating. It could be very expensive to fix, and as he put it, “It may cost more than the car’s worth.” And even if it’s fixed, that doesn’t mean that it will take us as far as we want to go. This is the part where tears filled my eyes and I excused myself. It felt like everything was unraveling at once.
While I kept myself busy pleading with my bank on the payphone, Pete talked to the owners of the auto shop. They arranged to have our car towed to another mechanic who they highly recommended, using all but our last $5. Not only did they not charge us for looking at the car, but they also gave Pete advice on where to stay in Ballina, gave him a map and marked where the mechanic’s garage was, and a card with their phone numbers on it. Even the tow-truck driver offered advice and was unbelievably kind and friendly. If it’s one thing I’m sure of, despite the asshole who broke into our car, it’s that Australians are friendly, caring people, which is something we suspected before our trip, and have since experienced many times.
We’re awaiting the mechanic’s estimate this morning, and we’ll take it from there. Perhaps a bus trip around Australia will be less of a hassle. After exhausting our calling card and making a few collect calls, I managed to get my bank to wire me money, so that’s one less worry we have for the time being.
I think that trying to make an international collect call was one of the most stressful things I’ve had to do so far. First, I called the American operator, which, of course was a machine. I followed the directions, but when my call went through, it got my bank’s automated answering system, so the robot “operator” says, “You have reached a machine, please hang up and try again,” after which it promptly hangs up on you, even if a person suddenly comes on the other end.
After several more tries, I gave up on America and called the Australian operator (a human!) and asked her to connect me, which she did by staying on the line with me until I was connected. A sigh of relief. Not having a way for the bank to call me back, they asked me to call them collect again in a half hour, as they expected it to take that long to get approval to wire us the money. Great, no problem.
A half hour later I try again, this time going straight to the Australian operator—only this time she says, “Sorry, but this number seems to be blocking all collect calls.” I read her the number again, and again. “Sorry,” she says. I explain how that’s not possible; that I just connected to them. “Try the American operator,” she suggests. I follow her advice, with the same result as before: machine, hang up; machine, hang up. I’m determined to get a human, so I continuously hold down the “0” key until an operator answers. I explain to her that I can’t get through due to the machine hanging up on me. “I’m sorry, but I’m not authorized to connect people, we can only do it through the automated system. Try the Australian operator.”
I slam down the phone, and dial with impatient fingers. The Australian operator gives me the same story again, so I ask to talk to her supervisor. He’s not in a good mood, but neither am I. We argue over the fact that they had previously connected me to the exact same number. “Well, that’s not possible,” he tells me, “because our machines won’t even let us do that.”
“Believe me,” I yelled, “it happened. I’m not crazy. Am I in the ****** Twilight Zone?” I slam the phone into the cradle. Ok, so maybe not every Australian is friendly, but it’s probably because they have to contend with us Americans.
Yes, things can be frustrating, but I think Pete and I are doing an excellent job at keeping each other sane. Somehow we always manage to make each other laugh, even if it’s by poking fun at ourselves…there’s more and more material every day.
When the mechanic tried to start her, she continued to stubbornly resist. He looked under the hood, unscrewed a few things from the motor and made the observation that I had feared, “It’s a piece of junk.” He told us that the head gasket is broken, which was causing all kinds of problems, including the overheating. It could be very expensive to fix, and as he put it, “It may cost more than the car’s worth.” And even if it’s fixed, that doesn’t mean that it will take us as far as we want to go. This is the part where tears filled my eyes and I excused myself. It felt like everything was unraveling at once.
While I kept myself busy pleading with my bank on the payphone, Pete talked to the owners of the auto shop. They arranged to have our car towed to another mechanic who they highly recommended, using all but our last $5. Not only did they not charge us for looking at the car, but they also gave Pete advice on where to stay in Ballina, gave him a map and marked where the mechanic’s garage was, and a card with their phone numbers on it. Even the tow-truck driver offered advice and was unbelievably kind and friendly. If it’s one thing I’m sure of, despite the asshole who broke into our car, it’s that Australians are friendly, caring people, which is something we suspected before our trip, and have since experienced many times.
We’re awaiting the mechanic’s estimate this morning, and we’ll take it from there. Perhaps a bus trip around Australia will be less of a hassle. After exhausting our calling card and making a few collect calls, I managed to get my bank to wire me money, so that’s one less worry we have for the time being.
I think that trying to make an international collect call was one of the most stressful things I’ve had to do so far. First, I called the American operator, which, of course was a machine. I followed the directions, but when my call went through, it got my bank’s automated answering system, so the robot “operator” says, “You have reached a machine, please hang up and try again,” after which it promptly hangs up on you, even if a person suddenly comes on the other end.
After several more tries, I gave up on America and called the Australian operator (a human!) and asked her to connect me, which she did by staying on the line with me until I was connected. A sigh of relief. Not having a way for the bank to call me back, they asked me to call them collect again in a half hour, as they expected it to take that long to get approval to wire us the money. Great, no problem.
A half hour later I try again, this time going straight to the Australian operator—only this time she says, “Sorry, but this number seems to be blocking all collect calls.” I read her the number again, and again. “Sorry,” she says. I explain how that’s not possible; that I just connected to them. “Try the American operator,” she suggests. I follow her advice, with the same result as before: machine, hang up; machine, hang up. I’m determined to get a human, so I continuously hold down the “0” key until an operator answers. I explain to her that I can’t get through due to the machine hanging up on me. “I’m sorry, but I’m not authorized to connect people, we can only do it through the automated system. Try the Australian operator.”
I slam down the phone, and dial with impatient fingers. The Australian operator gives me the same story again, so I ask to talk to her supervisor. He’s not in a good mood, but neither am I. We argue over the fact that they had previously connected me to the exact same number. “Well, that’s not possible,” he tells me, “because our machines won’t even let us do that.”
“Believe me,” I yelled, “it happened. I’m not crazy. Am I in the ****** Twilight Zone?” I slam the phone into the cradle. Ok, so maybe not every Australian is friendly, but it’s probably because they have to contend with us Americans.
Yes, things can be frustrating, but I think Pete and I are doing an excellent job at keeping each other sane. Somehow we always manage to make each other laugh, even if it’s by poking fun at ourselves…there’s more and more material every day.
Dune at Sunset
Our first campsite/parking space, after the rest area, was by white sand dunes and a huge deserted beach. We darted up the walkway (the dunes are off limits for rehabilitation) and just caught the last bit of sunset.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Down But Not Out
We were in a peaceful campground in a remote area of Wian Wian National Reserve. We spent an uneventful night there while the rain fell, and in the morning we stopped at Minyon Falls on our way out of the forest. The falls are a local attraction, located just 50 meters off the narrow dirt road that leads up to the campground. We parked the car and casually jumped out to take a look.
As we were walking to the viewing platform, we noticed another car pull in. Pete was immediately suspicious but only his face showed it. They stopped behind our car and Pete headed back to get his camera. As he approached the parking lot he saw someone jump into the passenger's seat and then they sped off. There on the ground were the fragments of our small, triangular window. Immediately we noticed that Pete's iPod was missing, and then his wallet (with $100 and two bank cards), and then my purse, and later that night, my bag of toiletries. Included (stupidly, I'm ashamed to admit) within my purse were my iPod, $150, a credit card, 2 debit cards, a checkbook, my passport, social security card, insurance card, cell phone, and laptop charger. Included in my toiletries were my favorite necklaces, my migraine medicine, and all the other things you might imagine. Miraculously, our laptops were still there.
The worst part is that it was probably some stupid kid who rifled through everything looking for cash, and then he threw the passport and various other IDs into the bushes somewhere. And now, despite the fact that our doors were unlocked, we have a broken window.
It was a holiday in Sydney on Friday, so I have to wait until Monday to call the consulate and alert them to my stolen passport, but Pete and I went to the nearest town, Mullumbimby, and filed a police report. The police officer wasn't surprised and said that theft is common at Minyon Falls. No consolation to us.
Luckily, after waking my sister up at 3:00 a.m. (using our last dollar in change), one failed attempt at wiring money to us, and a night spent in a rest area off of the highway, my parents were able to wire us enough money so that we could hunker down in a motel for a few days and regroup. And my new bank cards should be here in plenty of time. On Monday we're going to drive to the nearest HSBC (my bank), which is 70 km north, and using my old passport (which I kept) and my birth certificate as identification, they can give me cash in person. Also, in the category of "good news," in case you thought there was none, two farms that we wrote to have asked us to stay with them beginning early next week. I'm leaning toward the one with the private cabin.
And by the way, if any of you feel like calling my phone and seeing if someone answers, feel free to tell them what a piece of shit they are.
As we were walking to the viewing platform, we noticed another car pull in. Pete was immediately suspicious but only his face showed it. They stopped behind our car and Pete headed back to get his camera. As he approached the parking lot he saw someone jump into the passenger's seat and then they sped off. There on the ground were the fragments of our small, triangular window. Immediately we noticed that Pete's iPod was missing, and then his wallet (with $100 and two bank cards), and then my purse, and later that night, my bag of toiletries. Included (stupidly, I'm ashamed to admit) within my purse were my iPod, $150, a credit card, 2 debit cards, a checkbook, my passport, social security card, insurance card, cell phone, and laptop charger. Included in my toiletries were my favorite necklaces, my migraine medicine, and all the other things you might imagine. Miraculously, our laptops were still there.
The worst part is that it was probably some stupid kid who rifled through everything looking for cash, and then he threw the passport and various other IDs into the bushes somewhere. And now, despite the fact that our doors were unlocked, we have a broken window.
It was a holiday in Sydney on Friday, so I have to wait until Monday to call the consulate and alert them to my stolen passport, but Pete and I went to the nearest town, Mullumbimby, and filed a police report. The police officer wasn't surprised and said that theft is common at Minyon Falls. No consolation to us.
Luckily, after waking my sister up at 3:00 a.m. (using our last dollar in change), one failed attempt at wiring money to us, and a night spent in a rest area off of the highway, my parents were able to wire us enough money so that we could hunker down in a motel for a few days and regroup. And my new bank cards should be here in plenty of time. On Monday we're going to drive to the nearest HSBC (my bank), which is 70 km north, and using my old passport (which I kept) and my birth certificate as identification, they can give me cash in person. Also, in the category of "good news," in case you thought there was none, two farms that we wrote to have asked us to stay with them beginning early next week. I'm leaning toward the one with the private cabin.
And by the way, if any of you feel like calling my phone and seeing if someone answers, feel free to tell them what a piece of shit they are.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Kangaroo and Little Joey
One morning we woke up and there were kangaroos.
The whole process of editing, uploading, and blogging photos has gotten a little backed up lately. There will be more from this past week posted shortly.
The whole process of editing, uploading, and blogging photos has gotten a little backed up lately. There will be more from this past week posted shortly.
Under Some Influence
It’s true what you’ve heard, Australia is a country that loves its beer…and liquor. If you need evidence of it, take the fact that we were pulled over by the police yesterday at 11:00 a.m. for a “random breath check.” This is a common occurrence, according to our guidebook, but it still came as a shock.
We were driving to Nimbin, when we came to intersection. Peter was driving and turned left, though we should have been going straight. If we’d driven straight, however, there were two cops on the side of the road pulling everyone over for breath checks. Going left at the last minute, though he was just momentarily confused, made it appear as though we were evading the law. So the cop got into his vehicle and put on his lights, signaling for us to pull to the side.
The breath check just meant that Pete had to count from 1 to 10 with his mouth close to a little machine that read his blood-alcohol content. Obviously we hadn’t been drinking, so this was no problem. The officer ran Pete’s license, asked a few questions about our stay here, and then let us on our way with a genial, “No worries, mate.”
There was surprisingly no police presence in the town of Nimbin, which gained its fame from the marijuana-legalization movement that is concentrated within the town. Nimbin exploits this Amsterdam-like reputation with hippie stores selling hemp products, and even a “hemp bar.” Due to the heavy tourism, the unmistakable Disneyland feel hangs in the air along with pot smoke.
After we had some coffee and used the internet, we started looking for a camping spot for the night. The first campground we came across was far from civilization, but eerily deserted, so we pressed on to the next, driving through our first rain.
Peter, post some pictures, mate!
We were driving to Nimbin, when we came to intersection. Peter was driving and turned left, though we should have been going straight. If we’d driven straight, however, there were two cops on the side of the road pulling everyone over for breath checks. Going left at the last minute, though he was just momentarily confused, made it appear as though we were evading the law. So the cop got into his vehicle and put on his lights, signaling for us to pull to the side.
The breath check just meant that Pete had to count from 1 to 10 with his mouth close to a little machine that read his blood-alcohol content. Obviously we hadn’t been drinking, so this was no problem. The officer ran Pete’s license, asked a few questions about our stay here, and then let us on our way with a genial, “No worries, mate.”
There was surprisingly no police presence in the town of Nimbin, which gained its fame from the marijuana-legalization movement that is concentrated within the town. Nimbin exploits this Amsterdam-like reputation with hippie stores selling hemp products, and even a “hemp bar.” Due to the heavy tourism, the unmistakable Disneyland feel hangs in the air along with pot smoke.
After we had some coffee and used the internet, we started looking for a camping spot for the night. The first campground we came across was far from civilization, but eerily deserted, so we pressed on to the next, driving through our first rain.
Peter, post some pictures, mate!
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
The Month-Long Week
I can hardly remember where we last left off. The past week has been so full of travels that it feels like several weeks have passed. D.D. Brown continues to do well, though she definitely needs to see a mechanic soon regarding her radiator. Luckily we haven’t overheated since the first day. As for us, we’re adjusting quite well to the carpacking (I can’t bring myself to call it “backpacking”) lifestyle. Both Pete and I have minimalist tendencies and enjoy simplifying as much as possible. If we can’t think of a use for carrying around an extra fork, we get rid of it. Much like backpacking, anything in excess of the basics becomes dead weight. It’s surprising what a big difference one little adjustment can make when you’re working with a space as confined as a Falcon.
We’ve given the car a thorough cleaning and made some slight home improvements, the best of which was an upgraded mattress. The previous mattress, if you can call it that, was about two inches of foam that was so thin that I woke up feeling like I’d slept on a board. Our new bed is about 5 inches thick. We purchased it in Kempsey at a discount furniture store. The bored saleswoman who sold it to us was convinced that we were British and kept warning us not to sleep at rest areas because of the young British guy who’d been killed at one several years ago. “Don’t you remember when that happened?” she kept prodding. I didn’t want to correct her as to our origins yet again, and I didn’t have the heart to explain to her that Australian news doesn’t have much of a global impact, so we smiled politely through her warnings and left as swiftly as we could manage.
We haven’t been sleeping in any more rest areas, those are a refuge of the desperate, and we have not been lacking for wonderfully hidden-away national parks with oceanfront vistas populated by kangaroos and a handful of other campers. Because it’s only the first week of spring, it’s still off-peak as far as tourism goes, which has been great for us. In the past few days we’ve stayed at Point Plomer Campground in the Limeburner’s Creek Nature Reserve, where we awoke to three kangaroos feasting on grass, two of which were carrying little joeys (photos to come); Arakoon National Park, in the surf town of South West Rocks, located in Hat Head National Park; Boorkoom Campground in Yuraygir National Park; and for the past two nights at Woody Head Campground in Bundjalung National Park, a destination spot for “oldies” driving caravans.
As you may have noticed, or already known, Australia is full of cookey-sounding names. Australians are also fond of shortening words or adding “ies” to the end of a noun to make it sound cuter. For example, breakfast becomes “brekky,” old people becomes “oldies,” bottles are called “stubbies,” while cans are referred to as “tinnies.” There are all kinds of silly abbreviations for words that make communication difficult.
One of the highlights of our trip so far was our night and day at Point Plomer, which was located on the beach. Other than seeing kangaroos up close (they are surprisingly docile and unafraid of humans), we walked up a short track (Australian for “path”) to a cliff overlooking the Pacific. From here we saw several pods of black dolphins and a whole bunch of whales. At first we could only identify the whales by their trumpeting spouts and the classic curves of their tales sinking between the waves; but after much patience one of them actually breached, and we saw its entire body as it heaved its bulk above the water several times in a row. Other animals of interest were a large rodent-like thing that was hopping around our campsite (the Australian opossum?) and a very large goanna, an intimidating lizard (about three-feet long and nearly half a foot tall) that decided to sun himself in our campsite yesterday.
Next stop, the tiny town of Nimbin.
We’ve given the car a thorough cleaning and made some slight home improvements, the best of which was an upgraded mattress. The previous mattress, if you can call it that, was about two inches of foam that was so thin that I woke up feeling like I’d slept on a board. Our new bed is about 5 inches thick. We purchased it in Kempsey at a discount furniture store. The bored saleswoman who sold it to us was convinced that we were British and kept warning us not to sleep at rest areas because of the young British guy who’d been killed at one several years ago. “Don’t you remember when that happened?” she kept prodding. I didn’t want to correct her as to our origins yet again, and I didn’t have the heart to explain to her that Australian news doesn’t have much of a global impact, so we smiled politely through her warnings and left as swiftly as we could manage.
We haven’t been sleeping in any more rest areas, those are a refuge of the desperate, and we have not been lacking for wonderfully hidden-away national parks with oceanfront vistas populated by kangaroos and a handful of other campers. Because it’s only the first week of spring, it’s still off-peak as far as tourism goes, which has been great for us. In the past few days we’ve stayed at Point Plomer Campground in the Limeburner’s Creek Nature Reserve, where we awoke to three kangaroos feasting on grass, two of which were carrying little joeys (photos to come); Arakoon National Park, in the surf town of South West Rocks, located in Hat Head National Park; Boorkoom Campground in Yuraygir National Park; and for the past two nights at Woody Head Campground in Bundjalung National Park, a destination spot for “oldies” driving caravans.
As you may have noticed, or already known, Australia is full of cookey-sounding names. Australians are also fond of shortening words or adding “ies” to the end of a noun to make it sound cuter. For example, breakfast becomes “brekky,” old people becomes “oldies,” bottles are called “stubbies,” while cans are referred to as “tinnies.” There are all kinds of silly abbreviations for words that make communication difficult.
One of the highlights of our trip so far was our night and day at Point Plomer, which was located on the beach. Other than seeing kangaroos up close (they are surprisingly docile and unafraid of humans), we walked up a short track (Australian for “path”) to a cliff overlooking the Pacific. From here we saw several pods of black dolphins and a whole bunch of whales. At first we could only identify the whales by their trumpeting spouts and the classic curves of their tales sinking between the waves; but after much patience one of them actually breached, and we saw its entire body as it heaved its bulk above the water several times in a row. Other animals of interest were a large rodent-like thing that was hopping around our campsite (the Australian opossum?) and a very large goanna, an intimidating lizard (about three-feet long and nearly half a foot tall) that decided to sun himself in our campsite yesterday.
Next stop, the tiny town of Nimbin.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Our Thirsty Car
Our first day on the road was quite an adventure. It felt like a cross between a cartoon and a bad comedy. We navigated out of Sydney, after more than a few wrong turns, and made it almost 30 miles out (to the start of Highway 1), when Doo Doo Brown decided she’d had enough of the 110 km speed limit. How did we know that she couldn’t take it? Well, the first sign was the white smoke pouring out of the exhaust pipe, the second clue was the temperature indicator as it quickly climbed to the “H” (which it later surpassed). The final clue was the steam coming from under the hood.
Pete calmly pulled over onto the generous shoulder, and we stopped the car. After popping the hood open, reading the manual, and considering calling my dad at 3:00 a.m. Eastern Time, we formed a plan. Once the engine had cooled, we checked the reservoir and the radiator for fluid levels. It turned out that both were nearly empty. Luckily we’d filled our water bottles before leaving Sydney, so we had enough water to cool it down so that we could drive it to the next exit.
Pete drove with the hazard lights on, creeping at 20-30 km up a hill to the exit, which was only 1 km from where we’d pulled over. This caused the whole fanfare to start up again, and we pulled over at the first opportunity, just outside of a row of houses off the main street. When we removed the radiator cap this time, there was a lot of hissing and groaning.
Doo Doo was not happy. But for some reason we didn’t panic, and as Pete pointed out to me, it did indeed feel like we were in some strange cartoon. How absurd to be on the side of some road in the middle of Australia with a broken down ’83 Falcon. Just looking at the car makes me laugh, though it also brings back breakdown nightmares from my teenage years of driving an ’81 Volvo.
Peter has already grown very attached to her, and seems to be living out many a Mad Max fantasy from his childhood. So with a newfound infatuation in his heart, and visions of animated radiator caps blowing sky-high in his cartoon imagination, Pete set out for a store in search of more water to feed our thirsty beast. But it only took a few steps because, as it turned out, someone who lived in one of the houses was pulling into his driveway, and once Pete approached him, he proffered a full watering can.
In yet another strange twist, this man (who never gave his name) turned out to be D. Brown’s guardian angel. Not only had he been an engine mechanic on a ship for 15 years, but he was also the proud owner of a ’93 Ford Falcon and had taken classes in fixing their engines. He took over, pouring water and chemical mixtures into the reservoir and radiator, and offering us advice (and meandering stories) as he did so. We offered him $20, but he told us that it would be better spent getting our rusty radiator drained and cleaned out.
The sun had set (it sets around 5:00 here), so we drove off with a refreshed car into the night, finally pulling over to sleep in a rest area. Not the most glamorous place to be, but when your car has a bed in it, one place is just about as good as the next.
On day 2 the car held up nicely, and continues to do so—though we’re still checking the fluids regularly and are going to take her in for a mechanical check-up sometime in the next week.
Yesterday we finally got out of the suburban landscapes and into the countryside. Heading up Highway 1 we encountered rolling hills, lakes, ocean vistas, and farms. At the suggestion of our guidebook and camping guide, we drove to a remote campground on the coast near an outcropping known as Seal Rocks (known for its seal population and surfing, though we didn’t encounter any seals). There were only two other vehicles at the campground, and despite the fact that it was a fee-site, part of Myall National Park, there was no one to collect our money.
We walked through a thicket and down a few sand dunes, and there, near a sweeping expanse of the finest sand, were the crashing waves of the Pacific. It felt like there was nobody around for millions of miles, and Pete took off in a sprint to capture the setting sun with his camera. The water was cold, the air was fresh and still, and it felt like we couldn’t breathe enough of it in. Later that night, with the guidance of a full moon, we walked out to platform on the sand dunes and admired the chilly scenery.
Since we haven’t figured out the whole cell phone usage thing, both of our phones are dead because we don’t have a car charger, and the internet is pretty scarce, I can’t promise the most consistent communication.
Our short-term plan (for the remainder of the week), is to continue climbing up the coast on Highway 1 toward Byron Bay. The highlight of the coast is sure to be swimming and snorkeling along the Great Barrier Reef, though we will probably do that once we arrive in Cairns, the farthest major city on the east coast, which is a major hub for most boat trips out to the reef.
As you go farther north, the climate here becomes subtropical, and the crops seem similar to those of Hawaii. We have the WWOOF (willing workers on organic farms) book for Australia, with a listing of over 1,600 farms, and we hope to stay on a few for a week here and there. The average farm-stay here is about a week, since it caters to young people who are traveling through, and it could also give us an opportunity to make money off the books.
No worries, mate.
Pete calmly pulled over onto the generous shoulder, and we stopped the car. After popping the hood open, reading the manual, and considering calling my dad at 3:00 a.m. Eastern Time, we formed a plan. Once the engine had cooled, we checked the reservoir and the radiator for fluid levels. It turned out that both were nearly empty. Luckily we’d filled our water bottles before leaving Sydney, so we had enough water to cool it down so that we could drive it to the next exit.
Pete drove with the hazard lights on, creeping at 20-30 km up a hill to the exit, which was only 1 km from where we’d pulled over. This caused the whole fanfare to start up again, and we pulled over at the first opportunity, just outside of a row of houses off the main street. When we removed the radiator cap this time, there was a lot of hissing and groaning.
Doo Doo was not happy. But for some reason we didn’t panic, and as Pete pointed out to me, it did indeed feel like we were in some strange cartoon. How absurd to be on the side of some road in the middle of Australia with a broken down ’83 Falcon. Just looking at the car makes me laugh, though it also brings back breakdown nightmares from my teenage years of driving an ’81 Volvo.
Peter has already grown very attached to her, and seems to be living out many a Mad Max fantasy from his childhood. So with a newfound infatuation in his heart, and visions of animated radiator caps blowing sky-high in his cartoon imagination, Pete set out for a store in search of more water to feed our thirsty beast. But it only took a few steps because, as it turned out, someone who lived in one of the houses was pulling into his driveway, and once Pete approached him, he proffered a full watering can.
In yet another strange twist, this man (who never gave his name) turned out to be D. Brown’s guardian angel. Not only had he been an engine mechanic on a ship for 15 years, but he was also the proud owner of a ’93 Ford Falcon and had taken classes in fixing their engines. He took over, pouring water and chemical mixtures into the reservoir and radiator, and offering us advice (and meandering stories) as he did so. We offered him $20, but he told us that it would be better spent getting our rusty radiator drained and cleaned out.
The sun had set (it sets around 5:00 here), so we drove off with a refreshed car into the night, finally pulling over to sleep in a rest area. Not the most glamorous place to be, but when your car has a bed in it, one place is just about as good as the next.
On day 2 the car held up nicely, and continues to do so—though we’re still checking the fluids regularly and are going to take her in for a mechanical check-up sometime in the next week.
Yesterday we finally got out of the suburban landscapes and into the countryside. Heading up Highway 1 we encountered rolling hills, lakes, ocean vistas, and farms. At the suggestion of our guidebook and camping guide, we drove to a remote campground on the coast near an outcropping known as Seal Rocks (known for its seal population and surfing, though we didn’t encounter any seals). There were only two other vehicles at the campground, and despite the fact that it was a fee-site, part of Myall National Park, there was no one to collect our money.
We walked through a thicket and down a few sand dunes, and there, near a sweeping expanse of the finest sand, were the crashing waves of the Pacific. It felt like there was nobody around for millions of miles, and Pete took off in a sprint to capture the setting sun with his camera. The water was cold, the air was fresh and still, and it felt like we couldn’t breathe enough of it in. Later that night, with the guidance of a full moon, we walked out to platform on the sand dunes and admired the chilly scenery.
Since we haven’t figured out the whole cell phone usage thing, both of our phones are dead because we don’t have a car charger, and the internet is pretty scarce, I can’t promise the most consistent communication.
Our short-term plan (for the remainder of the week), is to continue climbing up the coast on Highway 1 toward Byron Bay. The highlight of the coast is sure to be swimming and snorkeling along the Great Barrier Reef, though we will probably do that once we arrive in Cairns, the farthest major city on the east coast, which is a major hub for most boat trips out to the reef.
As you go farther north, the climate here becomes subtropical, and the crops seem similar to those of Hawaii. We have the WWOOF (willing workers on organic farms) book for Australia, with a listing of over 1,600 farms, and we hope to stay on a few for a week here and there. The average farm-stay here is about a week, since it caters to young people who are traveling through, and it could also give us an opportunity to make money off the books.
No worries, mate.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Vroom Vroom
G’day mates, we’re finally in Sydney, and in case you weren’t sure, we’re 15 hours ahead of Eastern Time. The flight from Honolulu was 10 hours, and went as smoothly as possible. It’s almost spring here, and the weather is absolutely gorgeous. Not Hawaii-gorgeous, but slightly crisp, very sunny, 65-degree-daysgorgeous.
Our hostel, Kanga House, is one of the oldest hostels in Sydney, and is situated in Kings Cross, the self-touted “backpackers” neighborhood. True to its reputation, the streets are filled with young travelers, internet cafes, hostels, and travel agencies—not to mention a handful of cheap bars and restaurants.
The Australian dollar is weaker than the U.S. dollar, with roughly a 1.3% exchange rate. However, after the conversion, the prices here are pretty comparable to New York City prices. In fact, Sydney seems to be a slightly European version of NYC, at least so far.
Yesterday was our first full day here and we’ve already accomplished more than we thought we could. In the morning we managed to order coffee, which you think would be simple, but in fact, it went a little something like this:
Pete (to man behind the cash register at a café): “Two coffees please.”
Man: “Flat white?” (Only imagine that he said it with such a thick Aussie accent that it sounded like he said “what what?”)
Pete: “Ummm…what?”
Man: “Flat white?” (Imagine the same as above, but this time with a slightly peevish attitude.)
Woman (intervening): “A flat white.”
Me: “A flat what?” (I still can’t navigate the accent and continue to interpret “white” as “what.”)
Woman: “No, a flat white. [I understand…finally.] It’s strong coffee with milk. If you want something weaker, we have lattes.”
Me: “Oh, ok. Yeah, something strong, then.”
Woman: “So two flat whites?”
Me and Pete: “Yeah.”
Apparently Aussies don’t drink coffee coffee. Maybe you have to go to Starbucks for that. Now that would be ironic…going to Starbucks for something simple. I guess I’ll stick to the flat whites, which, once demystified, turned out to be cappuccinos. Go figure.
We walked around Kings Cross after that, in search of the Backpackers Car Market, which we’d read about on the internet and also in our Lonely Planet guidebook. Because Australia is so full of young travelers, and it’s such a large country to see efficiently by train or plane, the preferred “backpacker” method is purchasing a car. The car market is located in the basement of a large parking garage, and is run by an extremely helpful and friendly agency that charges buyers nothing, and sellers only $60 per week to park as they attempt to sell their vehicles.
Upon entering we were greeted by lots of depressed-looking young couples who’d been trying to sell their vehicles for at least a few days. It turns out that the average sell takes about a week, which isn’t too bad. But you're still in a basement of a parking garage.
After some looking around, talking to couples, and checking out all of the vehicles, we found our match. She’s a 1983 Ford Falcon, in a lovely shade of poo brown. If you’ve never seen a Falcon, just imagine a hearse that’s gotten a 1970’s makeover. It has less than 150,000 kilometers on it, which was half as many as most of the other cars that were half its age. We purchased it from a young German couple who’d been driving it all around Australia for the past five months. They’d purchased it at the car market as well, and had found it to be an awesome car—so awesome in fact, that they considered taking it back to Germany with them. The only problem they’d had was wit a fuel pump, which they had replaced. They had a clean inspection and an oil change in the last week and the car is registered until next July.
Now we just have to get the registration in our names, which can be done with a quick trip to the Australian DMV (or whatever they call it here), and get property insurance (which is cheap and easy to find). Don’t worry, Mom, personal injury insurance is included in the registration.
I managed to talk them down $500, and they included a bunch of maps, books on free campsites, a tent, a sleeping bag, a camp stove, and various other camping items. The car is much bigger than the modern Falcons, and has a full-size mattress in the back, which is on a raised platform (plenty of pictures to come…this thing is a photogenic beast). Under the platform is lots of room for storage. According to the couples we spoke to, working on farms while traveling around in your car seems to be the main way that people “backpack” around Australia. We were told that at any given free car-camping parks there are dozens of young people all doing the same thing.
Today we're venturing to the DMV and then we’re heading up the east coast (on the left-hand side of the road). I see many great adventures in our future, and the future of our lovely new three-seater beauty.
Our hostel, Kanga House, is one of the oldest hostels in Sydney, and is situated in Kings Cross, the self-touted “backpackers” neighborhood. True to its reputation, the streets are filled with young travelers, internet cafes, hostels, and travel agencies—not to mention a handful of cheap bars and restaurants.
The Australian dollar is weaker than the U.S. dollar, with roughly a 1.3% exchange rate. However, after the conversion, the prices here are pretty comparable to New York City prices. In fact, Sydney seems to be a slightly European version of NYC, at least so far.
Yesterday was our first full day here and we’ve already accomplished more than we thought we could. In the morning we managed to order coffee, which you think would be simple, but in fact, it went a little something like this:
Pete (to man behind the cash register at a café): “Two coffees please.”
Man: “Flat white?” (Only imagine that he said it with such a thick Aussie accent that it sounded like he said “what what?”)
Pete: “Ummm…what?”
Man: “Flat white?” (Imagine the same as above, but this time with a slightly peevish attitude.)
Woman (intervening): “A flat white.”
Me: “A flat what?” (I still can’t navigate the accent and continue to interpret “white” as “what.”)
Woman: “No, a flat white. [I understand…finally.] It’s strong coffee with milk. If you want something weaker, we have lattes.”
Me: “Oh, ok. Yeah, something strong, then.”
Woman: “So two flat whites?”
Me and Pete: “Yeah.”
Apparently Aussies don’t drink coffee coffee. Maybe you have to go to Starbucks for that. Now that would be ironic…going to Starbucks for something simple. I guess I’ll stick to the flat whites, which, once demystified, turned out to be cappuccinos. Go figure.
We walked around Kings Cross after that, in search of the Backpackers Car Market, which we’d read about on the internet and also in our Lonely Planet guidebook. Because Australia is so full of young travelers, and it’s such a large country to see efficiently by train or plane, the preferred “backpacker” method is purchasing a car. The car market is located in the basement of a large parking garage, and is run by an extremely helpful and friendly agency that charges buyers nothing, and sellers only $60 per week to park as they attempt to sell their vehicles.
Upon entering we were greeted by lots of depressed-looking young couples who’d been trying to sell their vehicles for at least a few days. It turns out that the average sell takes about a week, which isn’t too bad. But you're still in a basement of a parking garage.
After some looking around, talking to couples, and checking out all of the vehicles, we found our match. She’s a 1983 Ford Falcon, in a lovely shade of poo brown. If you’ve never seen a Falcon, just imagine a hearse that’s gotten a 1970’s makeover. It has less than 150,000 kilometers on it, which was half as many as most of the other cars that were half its age. We purchased it from a young German couple who’d been driving it all around Australia for the past five months. They’d purchased it at the car market as well, and had found it to be an awesome car—so awesome in fact, that they considered taking it back to Germany with them. The only problem they’d had was wit a fuel pump, which they had replaced. They had a clean inspection and an oil change in the last week and the car is registered until next July.
Now we just have to get the registration in our names, which can be done with a quick trip to the Australian DMV (or whatever they call it here), and get property insurance (which is cheap and easy to find). Don’t worry, Mom, personal injury insurance is included in the registration.
I managed to talk them down $500, and they included a bunch of maps, books on free campsites, a tent, a sleeping bag, a camp stove, and various other camping items. The car is much bigger than the modern Falcons, and has a full-size mattress in the back, which is on a raised platform (plenty of pictures to come…this thing is a photogenic beast). Under the platform is lots of room for storage. According to the couples we spoke to, working on farms while traveling around in your car seems to be the main way that people “backpack” around Australia. We were told that at any given free car-camping parks there are dozens of young people all doing the same thing.
Today we're venturing to the DMV and then we’re heading up the east coast (on the left-hand side of the road). I see many great adventures in our future, and the future of our lovely new three-seater beauty.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Cannonball Tree
The Foster Botanical Garden has some of the weirdest trees I've ever seen. This one, the Cannonball Tree, a native of Guiana, is maybe the weirdest. Micaela described it as "a party in a tree."
A sign at it's base read: "Caution, watch out for falling cannon balls." Maybe the stench of it's rotting fruit was the tree's way of saying the same thing.
A sign at it's base read: "Caution, watch out for falling cannon balls." Maybe the stench of it's rotting fruit was the tree's way of saying the same thing.
Kapu
I wish there were more to say about Honolulu, but so far nothing too noteworthy is going on. Thanks to Iris, I got my passport yesterday, which was pretty big news. I’ll be boxing some kangaroos in just a matter of days.
Oahu has a really great bus service (called “The Bus”) that goes all over the island. We got 4-day unlimited ride tickets, and decided to check out Chinatown and Foster Botanical Garden yesterday. Chinatown was pretty standard as far as Chinatowns go. While walking through the market we saw a severed pig’s head. I had to look, but it made me weak in the knees. We ended up eating Indian food for lunch, and I think the pig face had a hand in that decision.
The garden turned out to be mostly trees, some of which were really unusual, including the Double Coconut tree, which has the largest seeds in the world, some weighing up to 50 pounds. According to the information we read about it, the fruit requires 10 years to ripen, and before the trees were discovered it was believed that the large nuts seen floating in the ocean came from a mysterious underwater tree. Sailors gave the tree the name of “Coco de Mer,” (Coco of the Sea).
The rest of the day was pretty much like the last three: beach reading, swimming, and eating. The biggest thing to happen to us, aside from the passport fiasco, was Pete’s second pair of flip-flops breaking. I think we’re both getting antsy to move on.
One pervasive aspect of Hawaii that we’ve noticed from the beginning, is the conflict between the native islander and the invading outsider. The ubiquitous “kapu,” “no trespassing” and “beware of dog” signs, the large gates that seem to surround every other house, the warnings in guidebooks that certain beaches are “for locals” or that we might feel uncomfortable in certain less-populated areas, they all contribute to a general atmosphere of unwelcome. Sure there’s the “aloha” spirit that everyone talks about, and we certainly encountered that while hitchhiking and in more tourist-heavy areas, but has been spotty, at best.
I can’t blame Hawaiians for these feelings. After being “discovered” by people like Captain Cook, being banned from practicing their own religions, forced into Christianity, then later annexed by the United States in 1959 when a distinct culture had been flourishing for thousands of years, it’s no wonder Hawaiians are suspicious of outsiders. Yet in a state where the economy relies so heavily on tourism, the pride of the natives is a much more complex subject.
On Saturday, I’m sure Pele will be smiling, as two more mainlanders depart from her paradise. But we'll have the last laugh, with two of her shiny rocks safely tucked into our backpacks.
Oahu has a really great bus service (called “The Bus”) that goes all over the island. We got 4-day unlimited ride tickets, and decided to check out Chinatown and Foster Botanical Garden yesterday. Chinatown was pretty standard as far as Chinatowns go. While walking through the market we saw a severed pig’s head. I had to look, but it made me weak in the knees. We ended up eating Indian food for lunch, and I think the pig face had a hand in that decision.
The garden turned out to be mostly trees, some of which were really unusual, including the Double Coconut tree, which has the largest seeds in the world, some weighing up to 50 pounds. According to the information we read about it, the fruit requires 10 years to ripen, and before the trees were discovered it was believed that the large nuts seen floating in the ocean came from a mysterious underwater tree. Sailors gave the tree the name of “Coco de Mer,” (Coco of the Sea).
The rest of the day was pretty much like the last three: beach reading, swimming, and eating. The biggest thing to happen to us, aside from the passport fiasco, was Pete’s second pair of flip-flops breaking. I think we’re both getting antsy to move on.
One pervasive aspect of Hawaii that we’ve noticed from the beginning, is the conflict between the native islander and the invading outsider. The ubiquitous “kapu,” “no trespassing” and “beware of dog” signs, the large gates that seem to surround every other house, the warnings in guidebooks that certain beaches are “for locals” or that we might feel uncomfortable in certain less-populated areas, they all contribute to a general atmosphere of unwelcome. Sure there’s the “aloha” spirit that everyone talks about, and we certainly encountered that while hitchhiking and in more tourist-heavy areas, but has been spotty, at best.
I can’t blame Hawaiians for these feelings. After being “discovered” by people like Captain Cook, being banned from practicing their own religions, forced into Christianity, then later annexed by the United States in 1959 when a distinct culture had been flourishing for thousands of years, it’s no wonder Hawaiians are suspicious of outsiders. Yet in a state where the economy relies so heavily on tourism, the pride of the natives is a much more complex subject.
On Saturday, I’m sure Pele will be smiling, as two more mainlanders depart from her paradise. But we'll have the last laugh, with two of her shiny rocks safely tucked into our backpacks.
Balcony
This is what we see from our "ocean-view" balcony. If you crane your neck out, you can view a little more ocean to the right. The other exciting part of our ocean-view balcony is the view of "Diamond Head". That's the crater (rock-looking thing) on the left. The view the hotel doesn't advertise is the view of our balcony that everyone in the pool area has. ...It's still pretty hard to complain.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Pololu Valley
We learned our lesson at Waipio, so we admired Pololu Valley from the safety of the lookout, a couple feet from where we parked the car.
Waipio Beach
It was relatively easy walking down, but torture walking back up from Waipio Valley. If we'd waited a half-hour longer, there wouldn't have been any shade on the way back and I think we would have died.
Akaka Falls
It was hard to get out of the air-conditioned car, but we managed to tolerate the heat just long enough to see the 800-foot Akaka Falls.
Expect the Unexpected
I guess we’ve been neglecting our blog. It’s a little more difficult to update when you’re traveling and don’t have a reliable internet connection. Peter's going to post some pictures from our trip through the northern valleys of the Big Island, but first things first.
Last Thursday night while sitting in a hostel in Kona, Pete and I debated what to do next. We hadn’t heard back from the three farms we’d e-mailed and called, and we weren't even sure we wanted to pursue staying in Hawaii. After talking in circles for a few hours, everyone’s favorite hypothetical question arose: If you could do whatever you wanted to, what would you do next? We both answered: Go to Australia!
To our surprise, tickets to Sydney for that Saturday were half the price of what we expected to find if we flew out of Honolulu—and tickets to Honolulu were only $25 on Friday. After some clicking around online, we had all of the tickets and two almost-instant visas. The next morning we packed our bags for Australia, getting rid of some of the heavier things we’d acquired.
On Saturday morning we left our hotel near the Honolulu airport and made our way to the gate. There was some confusion with my visa, and one of the airline employees made a required phone call to try and figure out what it might be. But nobody could figure out why my visa had indicated for them to make this phone call, so they let me pass through. Phew. Only ten minutes after I’d arrived at the gate, several employees drove up in a van and told me that I wouldn’t be able to board the plane because my passport was apparently invalid. I had some explaining to do.
Five months ago, back in Brooklyn, I’d applied for a passport, having forgotten that I already had one, since the one I had was quite old and had never been used. Weeks went by, then months, and still no passport. Then in July, while packing up my belongings, I came across my old passport, which was still valid. Great, I thought, I’ll just call and cancel my request for a new one. But it wasn’t that simple. Due to the massive influx of requests created by new passport laws requiring everyone traveling to the Caribbean and Canada to be in possession of a passport, the office was inundated by paperwork and phone calls. The automated passport hotline said to call back another time, and then hung up without apologies. I tried, and tried, and tried. And then I gave up.
The day before I decide to travel to Australia, the passport office, in some sick twist of fate, decides to FINALLY issue me a new passport, per my request FIVE months ago. Mind you, it was supposed to take 8 weeks to process the request. The new passport therefore invalidates the one I’m carrying, and while it’s stuck somewhere in the mail system, I’m stuck in Honolulu, awaiting its arrival, and hoping that it’s sometime before our rescheduled flight on Saturday. Everyone cross your fingers.
After I did some crying and pleading, and loudly cursing our government in front of everyone else who actually was flying to Sydney, Peter helped me to see the light. An unplanned week relaxing on Waikiki Beach isn’t exactly awful, we hadn’t made plans in Australia yet, and the airline didn’t charge us to change our flight. It was my right to fly regardless of the passport mishap, but it almost definitely would have gotten me deported at the Sydney airport (at my own expense), and the airline would have incurred a $10,000 fine. Instead we’re taking the week to catch up on reading, sleeping, and beach-bumming. This is the first time that I feel like I’ve been on vacation in years. And while being a stereotypical tourist in an over-hyped tropical paradise isn’t really how I prefer to do things, I can’t exactly complain either. So it goes.
Last Thursday night while sitting in a hostel in Kona, Pete and I debated what to do next. We hadn’t heard back from the three farms we’d e-mailed and called, and we weren't even sure we wanted to pursue staying in Hawaii. After talking in circles for a few hours, everyone’s favorite hypothetical question arose: If you could do whatever you wanted to, what would you do next? We both answered: Go to Australia!
To our surprise, tickets to Sydney for that Saturday were half the price of what we expected to find if we flew out of Honolulu—and tickets to Honolulu were only $25 on Friday. After some clicking around online, we had all of the tickets and two almost-instant visas. The next morning we packed our bags for Australia, getting rid of some of the heavier things we’d acquired.
On Saturday morning we left our hotel near the Honolulu airport and made our way to the gate. There was some confusion with my visa, and one of the airline employees made a required phone call to try and figure out what it might be. But nobody could figure out why my visa had indicated for them to make this phone call, so they let me pass through. Phew. Only ten minutes after I’d arrived at the gate, several employees drove up in a van and told me that I wouldn’t be able to board the plane because my passport was apparently invalid. I had some explaining to do.
Five months ago, back in Brooklyn, I’d applied for a passport, having forgotten that I already had one, since the one I had was quite old and had never been used. Weeks went by, then months, and still no passport. Then in July, while packing up my belongings, I came across my old passport, which was still valid. Great, I thought, I’ll just call and cancel my request for a new one. But it wasn’t that simple. Due to the massive influx of requests created by new passport laws requiring everyone traveling to the Caribbean and Canada to be in possession of a passport, the office was inundated by paperwork and phone calls. The automated passport hotline said to call back another time, and then hung up without apologies. I tried, and tried, and tried. And then I gave up.
The day before I decide to travel to Australia, the passport office, in some sick twist of fate, decides to FINALLY issue me a new passport, per my request FIVE months ago. Mind you, it was supposed to take 8 weeks to process the request. The new passport therefore invalidates the one I’m carrying, and while it’s stuck somewhere in the mail system, I’m stuck in Honolulu, awaiting its arrival, and hoping that it’s sometime before our rescheduled flight on Saturday. Everyone cross your fingers.
After I did some crying and pleading, and loudly cursing our government in front of everyone else who actually was flying to Sydney, Peter helped me to see the light. An unplanned week relaxing on Waikiki Beach isn’t exactly awful, we hadn’t made plans in Australia yet, and the airline didn’t charge us to change our flight. It was my right to fly regardless of the passport mishap, but it almost definitely would have gotten me deported at the Sydney airport (at my own expense), and the airline would have incurred a $10,000 fine. Instead we’re taking the week to catch up on reading, sleeping, and beach-bumming. This is the first time that I feel like I’ve been on vacation in years. And while being a stereotypical tourist in an over-hyped tropical paradise isn’t really how I prefer to do things, I can’t exactly complain either. So it goes.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Hurricane Flossie Upstaged by Minor Earthquake
Some of you may have been worried about how we weathered Hurricane Flossie, and assuming you’ve heard the news, not much happened. Some rain, some wind, and that’s about it.
On our way to Kona on Tuesday, we stopped at South Point, the southernmost point on the island, where Polynesians landed when they first arrived. The Hawaiians call this place Ka Lae, and it is considered a sacred spot (heiau, in Hawaiian). You can still see holes in the rocks where ancient Hawaiians moored their canoes, allowing them to float out into the ocean and catch fish while still tethered to the land, preventing them from getting swept away in the turbulent water.
We couldn’t believe that they hadn’t blocked access since they’d closed all public beaches and campsites due to the impending doom of Hurricane Flossie. When we got there, we were greeted by huge swells that were crashing against the cliffs. Here’s a video of the drama. You might want to turn off your sound since the wind was really loud.
There was a local CBS affiliate filming in front of the surf so that they could add to the hype being broadcast across the country. You can see a guy holding a microphone and another holding a camera if you look closely at the video.
Later that night, back at our hostel in Volcano Village (which was really just a large home owned by a Japanese family), we awoke to an earthquake around 2:00 a.m. At first I thought it was just Pete shaking the bed, but it only took a moment for me to realize what was happening, and for Pete to get out the word, “earthquake.” It was a magnitude 4.4, and its epicenter was just 7 miles from Volcano. There had been another one the previous night, a 5.3 that was 15 miles from where we were staying, but we didn’t feel it since we were driving at the time. After the adrenaline wore off, we fell back to sleep.
This morning we were hoping to drive along Chain of Craters Road inside Volcanoes National Park, and then hike the Kilauea Iki Trail. We thought that Pele was smiling down on us when we got to the entrance and there was a sign saying to drive through. Great, we thought, we get to go in for free! But in fact, Pele was up to her old tricks again—not only were all of the roads closed within the park, but it was so rainy and foggy that we couldn’t see anything even if we’d hiked around. We added “lava” to the list of things we’re apparently not meant to see alongside “dolphins” and “whales.”
On our way to Kona on Tuesday, we stopped at South Point, the southernmost point on the island, where Polynesians landed when they first arrived. The Hawaiians call this place Ka Lae, and it is considered a sacred spot (heiau, in Hawaiian). You can still see holes in the rocks where ancient Hawaiians moored their canoes, allowing them to float out into the ocean and catch fish while still tethered to the land, preventing them from getting swept away in the turbulent water.
We couldn’t believe that they hadn’t blocked access since they’d closed all public beaches and campsites due to the impending doom of Hurricane Flossie. When we got there, we were greeted by huge swells that were crashing against the cliffs. Here’s a video of the drama. You might want to turn off your sound since the wind was really loud.
There was a local CBS affiliate filming in front of the surf so that they could add to the hype being broadcast across the country. You can see a guy holding a microphone and another holding a camera if you look closely at the video.
Later that night, back at our hostel in Volcano Village (which was really just a large home owned by a Japanese family), we awoke to an earthquake around 2:00 a.m. At first I thought it was just Pete shaking the bed, but it only took a moment for me to realize what was happening, and for Pete to get out the word, “earthquake.” It was a magnitude 4.4, and its epicenter was just 7 miles from Volcano. There had been another one the previous night, a 5.3 that was 15 miles from where we were staying, but we didn’t feel it since we were driving at the time. After the adrenaline wore off, we fell back to sleep.
This morning we were hoping to drive along Chain of Craters Road inside Volcanoes National Park, and then hike the Kilauea Iki Trail. We thought that Pele was smiling down on us when we got to the entrance and there was a sign saying to drive through. Great, we thought, we get to go in for free! But in fact, Pele was up to her old tricks again—not only were all of the roads closed within the park, but it was so rainy and foggy that we couldn’t see anything even if we’d hiked around. We added “lava” to the list of things we’re apparently not meant to see alongside “dolphins” and “whales.”
On Top of the World
We left Konacopia on Friday, hitchhiking our way to the airport so that we could pick up a rental car. I know it sounds rather unadventurous to do something as mundane as rent a car, but if you want to see all of the Big Island, it would take weeks to hitchhike through some of these places given the out-of-the-way nature of it all. It turned out to be a really great decision.
On Friday night we made our way to Waimea, a fairly bustling town a few hours north of Captain Cook. It’s nestled between the hills of the ranchland that comprises much of the interior of north Hawaii. There were rainbows everywhere, cattle grazing in sprawling fields that led down to the cliff-lined coast, and the larger-than-life presence of Mauna Kea.
In just 20 minutes we could drive to the coast, so the next morning we found Hapuna Beach, one of the most popular beaches on the island—and for good reason. It’s long stretch of golden sand continued into the ocean, making it ideal for swimming. Our guide book pointed out that Conde Nast Traveler named Hapuna one of the top ten best beaches in the world. We got there early enough so that we were happy to leave by the time the crowd started to settle in. However, even the most crowded beaches here really aren’t that bad.
From Hapuna we drove north, rounding the tip of the island and continuing over to Hilo, the “big” city on the east side. There’s a road that goes from Hilo to Kailua-Kona that’s known as the Saddle Road. It crosses through the center of the island, where Mauna Kea rises over 14,000 feet, and eventually winds its way to back to Waimea. Taking the Saddle Road, we drove the 30ish miles to the base of Mauna Kea, where we changed into long pants and sweatshirts.
The visitors’ center for the mountain is at 9,000 feet, and when we arrived around 6:00 p.m., it was 56 degrees (it dropped to 42 degrees at the summit). They stop every car at the visitors’ center and require you to acclimatize to the thinner air. They also warn you that they recommend that only four-wheel-drive vehicles drive the eight-mile road to the summit. I was very reluctant given that we are driving a Chevy Cobalt, but Pete convinced me it would be fine.
It turned out that the mostly dirt road was steep and windy, but I’d been on worse roads in Vermont…in the snow. Pete managed the drive easily, and we were at the top just in time to see the sunset. It was indescribably amazing, so I won’t attempt to describe it. As you can see, we were above the clouds.
Once or twice per month, weather permitting, there is a stargazing night where local astronomers and astronomy students bring high-powered telescopes to the visitors’ center and allow people to view the night sky. In fact, Mauna Kea is one of the best stargazing places in the world, and for that reason there is a very large research observatory located on the summit, which is not open to the public. Not only did we happen to stumble onto one of these stargazing nights when the sky was amazingly clear, but it was also a new moon (no light pollution from the moonlight interfered with stargazing), and it was a meteor shower.
I’ve never seen so many stars (with my naked eye) ever before in my life. Not even half as many, even in the fresh air of Vermont on the clearest night. With the telescopes (one of which was so big we had to climb a ladder to look into the eyepiece) we saw galaxies, nebula, and star clusters.
The sting of the cold air, the stars, the clouds, the sunset, the lack of oxygen going to my brain, all contributed to an intense feeling of peace, and a sense that it is the experiences such as this that I’m after—the ones that remind you in the same moment that you’re both very alive and yet just the tiniest fragment of the tiniest fragment of what’s out there. It was an affirmation of all of the reasons that brought me to Hawaii in the first place. It was one of the best Saturday nights of my life.
On Friday night we made our way to Waimea, a fairly bustling town a few hours north of Captain Cook. It’s nestled between the hills of the ranchland that comprises much of the interior of north Hawaii. There were rainbows everywhere, cattle grazing in sprawling fields that led down to the cliff-lined coast, and the larger-than-life presence of Mauna Kea.
In just 20 minutes we could drive to the coast, so the next morning we found Hapuna Beach, one of the most popular beaches on the island—and for good reason. It’s long stretch of golden sand continued into the ocean, making it ideal for swimming. Our guide book pointed out that Conde Nast Traveler named Hapuna one of the top ten best beaches in the world. We got there early enough so that we were happy to leave by the time the crowd started to settle in. However, even the most crowded beaches here really aren’t that bad.
From Hapuna we drove north, rounding the tip of the island and continuing over to Hilo, the “big” city on the east side. There’s a road that goes from Hilo to Kailua-Kona that’s known as the Saddle Road. It crosses through the center of the island, where Mauna Kea rises over 14,000 feet, and eventually winds its way to back to Waimea. Taking the Saddle Road, we drove the 30ish miles to the base of Mauna Kea, where we changed into long pants and sweatshirts.
The visitors’ center for the mountain is at 9,000 feet, and when we arrived around 6:00 p.m., it was 56 degrees (it dropped to 42 degrees at the summit). They stop every car at the visitors’ center and require you to acclimatize to the thinner air. They also warn you that they recommend that only four-wheel-drive vehicles drive the eight-mile road to the summit. I was very reluctant given that we are driving a Chevy Cobalt, but Pete convinced me it would be fine.
It turned out that the mostly dirt road was steep and windy, but I’d been on worse roads in Vermont…in the snow. Pete managed the drive easily, and we were at the top just in time to see the sunset. It was indescribably amazing, so I won’t attempt to describe it. As you can see, we were above the clouds.
Once or twice per month, weather permitting, there is a stargazing night where local astronomers and astronomy students bring high-powered telescopes to the visitors’ center and allow people to view the night sky. In fact, Mauna Kea is one of the best stargazing places in the world, and for that reason there is a very large research observatory located on the summit, which is not open to the public. Not only did we happen to stumble onto one of these stargazing nights when the sky was amazingly clear, but it was also a new moon (no light pollution from the moonlight interfered with stargazing), and it was a meteor shower.
I’ve never seen so many stars (with my naked eye) ever before in my life. Not even half as many, even in the fresh air of Vermont on the clearest night. With the telescopes (one of which was so big we had to climb a ladder to look into the eyepiece) we saw galaxies, nebula, and star clusters.
The sting of the cold air, the stars, the clouds, the sunset, the lack of oxygen going to my brain, all contributed to an intense feeling of peace, and a sense that it is the experiences such as this that I’m after—the ones that remind you in the same moment that you’re both very alive and yet just the tiniest fragment of the tiniest fragment of what’s out there. It was an affirmation of all of the reasons that brought me to Hawaii in the first place. It was one of the best Saturday nights of my life.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
On the Road
I wanted to post a quick update. We're in the parking lot of a shopping center in Waimea using wireless internet--yes, it's a glamorous life. In the last few days we've been to the top of 14,000-foot Mauna Kea (the largest mountain on earth if you include the 15,000 feet of it that's underwater), we've hiked into a valley and gotten tossed by large waves, and today we're exploring the northernmost tip of the island. We'll post pictures and stories as soon as we have more time.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
The Bigger Island
Yesterday was the hitchhike to end all hitchhikes. I hope. We got restless. We hitched out to the airport and rented a car. We're leaving Konacopia today to drive around the Big Island for the next week. Email will be spotty, blog entries and cell reception will be spottier. But don't worry, we'll come out of this alive. I promise.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Fishy Tales
I’m sorry to say that we didn’t see any dolphins on Monday morning. But as a reward for our early walk to the beach, we had the snorkeling nearly all to ourselves. There was one other couple in the water, but we were grateful for them because they pulled over to ask us directions to the beach and then offered us a ride when we told them that’s where we were headed. Again, it was just at the stretch of road that feels endless, when you start wondering to yourself, “Why did I think it would be shorter this time?” And voila—we had a ride.
The ocean was placid and cool, the sun hadn’t broken through the low-lying clouds yet, and it was one of the most peaceful snorkeling experiences I’ve had so far. That is, until a two-foot-long Ulua (Blue Jack fish) started chasing me. At first I thought I was imagining it, but I soon realized that despite my swimming in circles (around Peter), the Ulua continued to chase me. He nearly touched my flipper several times, and after a fewl minutes of paddling and screaming through my snorkel, I’d had enough, and swam to shore. Luckily Peter was there as my witness. Apparently these fish are notorious for following swimmers around…not out of curiosity, but because he was hunting me as prey. Here's Pete's short video of the Ulua:
Yesterday was one of the better days we’ve had here. I worked cutting down bamboo and stripping off the branches and leaves so that we could use it to set up supports for some of the low-hanging coffee trees. When their branches become heavy with coffee berries, they start bowing toward the ground. We also fertilized a large section of the trees, and then Pete raked a bunch of gravelly fill that Steve had dumped onto the driveway. It was a needed improvement.
The afternoon, though rainy, was pleasant. We hung out with Martin and Fran for a while after work, and we reveled in the lack of mosquitoes. Pete knocked down some delicious star fruit and we all shared a papaya. Fran informed us that Blackie, the black kitten, had been taken the previous evening by “a bunch of horrid fat children who were screaming.” The mother cat howled and hissed at the loss, and we were all feeling the absence, but it’s a better form of population control on the farm than drowning them (Steve’s alluded-to previous method). I’m sure the kids renamed him something stupid, like Pele.
Steve and Elizabeth had mentioned last week that they wanted to treat us all to a few hours in the hot tub at a local spa. So yesterday Elizabeth called to arrange for us four volunteers to have an evening in an open-air hot tub. The appointment was at 7:30, but we left a little early (using Steve’s truck) to go have dinner at Teshima, a sushi restaurant in town that’s been run by the same family for generations. In fact, the 100-year-old matriarch of the family can still be spotted around the restaurant. We saw her ourselves, but that was the first night that we arrived, when Steve and Elizabeth took us all out for dinner.
The food and the company were wonderful, and the hot tub was awesome. We were led through a garden pathway lit by torches, up to a secluded redwood tub. The tub itself was set above the ground with stairs leading up to a platform. It was surrounded by a low rock wall and topped with a semi-open hut, and a roof that opened up into the night sky. We saw the stars and felt a light rain while we relaxed and splashed around. You can only spend so much time in 102-degree water, but we wanted to savor the fact that we had a vehicle, so we all loaded into the truck and drove to Keahou, just 15 minutes away. We got food at the grocery store and then went to the Sheraton, where, according to Martin and Fran, there was a hotel bar that overlooked the bay and had bright lights shining into the water to attract the manta rays. We leaned over the railing and watched the giant, floppy creatures as they fed from the plankton that skims the water’s surface. It was well worth the trip, and we managed to get home a little after 10. No one was the wiser.
The ocean was placid and cool, the sun hadn’t broken through the low-lying clouds yet, and it was one of the most peaceful snorkeling experiences I’ve had so far. That is, until a two-foot-long Ulua (Blue Jack fish) started chasing me. At first I thought I was imagining it, but I soon realized that despite my swimming in circles (around Peter), the Ulua continued to chase me. He nearly touched my flipper several times, and after a fewl minutes of paddling and screaming through my snorkel, I’d had enough, and swam to shore. Luckily Peter was there as my witness. Apparently these fish are notorious for following swimmers around…not out of curiosity, but because he was hunting me as prey. Here's Pete's short video of the Ulua:
Yesterday was one of the better days we’ve had here. I worked cutting down bamboo and stripping off the branches and leaves so that we could use it to set up supports for some of the low-hanging coffee trees. When their branches become heavy with coffee berries, they start bowing toward the ground. We also fertilized a large section of the trees, and then Pete raked a bunch of gravelly fill that Steve had dumped onto the driveway. It was a needed improvement.
The afternoon, though rainy, was pleasant. We hung out with Martin and Fran for a while after work, and we reveled in the lack of mosquitoes. Pete knocked down some delicious star fruit and we all shared a papaya. Fran informed us that Blackie, the black kitten, had been taken the previous evening by “a bunch of horrid fat children who were screaming.” The mother cat howled and hissed at the loss, and we were all feeling the absence, but it’s a better form of population control on the farm than drowning them (Steve’s alluded-to previous method). I’m sure the kids renamed him something stupid, like Pele.
Steve and Elizabeth had mentioned last week that they wanted to treat us all to a few hours in the hot tub at a local spa. So yesterday Elizabeth called to arrange for us four volunteers to have an evening in an open-air hot tub. The appointment was at 7:30, but we left a little early (using Steve’s truck) to go have dinner at Teshima, a sushi restaurant in town that’s been run by the same family for generations. In fact, the 100-year-old matriarch of the family can still be spotted around the restaurant. We saw her ourselves, but that was the first night that we arrived, when Steve and Elizabeth took us all out for dinner.
The food and the company were wonderful, and the hot tub was awesome. We were led through a garden pathway lit by torches, up to a secluded redwood tub. The tub itself was set above the ground with stairs leading up to a platform. It was surrounded by a low rock wall and topped with a semi-open hut, and a roof that opened up into the night sky. We saw the stars and felt a light rain while we relaxed and splashed around. You can only spend so much time in 102-degree water, but we wanted to savor the fact that we had a vehicle, so we all loaded into the truck and drove to Keahou, just 15 minutes away. We got food at the grocery store and then went to the Sheraton, where, according to Martin and Fran, there was a hotel bar that overlooked the bay and had bright lights shining into the water to attract the manta rays. We leaned over the railing and watched the giant, floppy creatures as they fed from the plankton that skims the water’s surface. It was well worth the trip, and we managed to get home a little after 10. No one was the wiser.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.
I’m becoming obsessed with the kittens. We bought them treats at the store in order to train them to love us, and so far it seems to be working. Luring them out from under the garage has gotten to be pretty easy, especially when Alani’s not around. Apparently Mama cat got her name because she’s had kittens before, but last time Alani killed them all.
Here’s a short video that Pete took with my camera of two of the kittens playing. I’ve named them Blackie and Junior, Jr. I think you’ll be able to tell which is which:
Tomorrow morning we’re getting up early (5:00) to walk down to Honounou and see the dolphins. Apparently if you go early enough and if you’re near deep water, it’s common to see dolphins. We’d hoped to see them while kayaking Kealakekua Bay, but so far no luck.
In addition to the animals on the farm, the fruit trees are also reproducing. Just the other day we discovered a star fruit tree that we didn’t know existed, and this morning we picked three stalks of bananas (about 12 “bunches,” or hands, as they’re called), and four ripe pineapples (one of which we ate). We also had a delicious mango on our break, which Pete declared, “Possibly the best mango I’ve ever had.” And, true to his word, he has managed to integrate avocados into every meal we’ve had since he began hording them a few days ago. No complaints here.
Abundance takes all forms here; unfortunately they’re not all welcomed. Take the mosquitoes, for example. We’ve been hearing them in our sleep, smacking them on each other’s arms across the table, and scratching like crazed maniacs. Another common nuisance is the weeds. Actually, it’s less the weeds themselves, and more the rate at which they grow. Once an area of grass is weed-whacked, it grows about a foot per week, particularly when it’s rainy. If you think I’m exaggerating, you should try weed-whacking around here. Sometimes it must seem so futile—you go on a three-week vacation and come home to find that your house has been swallowed by a sea of green grass.
Here’s a short video that Pete took with my camera of two of the kittens playing. I’ve named them Blackie and Junior, Jr. I think you’ll be able to tell which is which:
Tomorrow morning we’re getting up early (5:00) to walk down to Honounou and see the dolphins. Apparently if you go early enough and if you’re near deep water, it’s common to see dolphins. We’d hoped to see them while kayaking Kealakekua Bay, but so far no luck.
In addition to the animals on the farm, the fruit trees are also reproducing. Just the other day we discovered a star fruit tree that we didn’t know existed, and this morning we picked three stalks of bananas (about 12 “bunches,” or hands, as they’re called), and four ripe pineapples (one of which we ate). We also had a delicious mango on our break, which Pete declared, “Possibly the best mango I’ve ever had.” And, true to his word, he has managed to integrate avocados into every meal we’ve had since he began hording them a few days ago. No complaints here.
Abundance takes all forms here; unfortunately they’re not all welcomed. Take the mosquitoes, for example. We’ve been hearing them in our sleep, smacking them on each other’s arms across the table, and scratching like crazed maniacs. Another common nuisance is the weeds. Actually, it’s less the weeds themselves, and more the rate at which they grow. Once an area of grass is weed-whacked, it grows about a foot per week, particularly when it’s rainy. If you think I’m exaggerating, you should try weed-whacking around here. Sometimes it must seem so futile—you go on a three-week vacation and come home to find that your house has been swallowed by a sea of green grass.
Learning to Flit
And then one morning there was no more peeping from the coffee tree. The adult male cardinal was hopping around excitedly on coffee branches close by and it soon became obvious what was going on. The young cardinals, or at least one of them, had feathers, and flying lessons had begun. The ugly little guy mostly just hung on to branches while his father squawked and fluttered. I wouldn't call it flying, but he did manage to flit from tree to tree.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Spider
Insects and spiders are not as overwhelming in Hawaii as one might expect. There are a lot of mosquitoes and cockroaches and other run of the mill bugs, but nothing outrageous. These spiders are fairly common in the banana trees. The first time Micaela spotted one she told me it's legs spread as wide as her fingers. When I investigated, it was only three inches at the most. Their shiny gold markings and nifty zig-zag designs in their webs make these spiders attractive and not intimidating. It also helps that they stay put in their webs and don't come into our screen house.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Avocados
Avocado season is almost here. The tree by our screen house is full of huge, nearly ripe avocados. Every time we get a good rain or some decent wind, we wake up to a new pile of freshly-fallen fruit. At first it was just one or two good-looking avocados and a bunch of rotten, cracked, mushed, or gnawed-at ones. Our first week we waited patiently for our two rock-hard avos to ripen but they never did completely. We got a couple of slivers onto our morning bagels with cream cheese but that was it. Now we have seven that are within a day or two of being perfect. Last night I found one that was ready to eat so we saved it for this morning. Our bagels were piled high with creamy green flesh.
Jade
The jade flowers were something I noticed as soon as we got to the farm. I figured I'd have time to get a good picture of them so I never bothered until today when I noticed they were starting to drop off. They're unlike any flower I've seen before.
Don't Ask and Ye Shall Receive
An interesting aspect of life on the Big Island is that the weather is so wonderful that you barely notice it. Aside from the rain, of course. We almost never look at the forecast because we know it’s going to be 83 or 84 degrees during the day, with a chance of rain in the afternoon/evening, and a low between 70 and 75 degrees. The only time it gets unbearably hot is when there are no clouds, which is almost never. Yesterday morning, however, it was nearly cloudless, so we packed up our snorkel gear and headed down to Honounou.
The walk to Honounou is between 4 and 5 miles, and is downhill almost the entire way. We figured it would be an easy walk so we didn’t even hitchhike. We’d both gotten so sick of hitching rides that on Thursday evening (after staying on the farm all week), we walked the 4 miles into Captain Cook for groceries, and dinner at Senior Billy's. It was a pleasant evening and we had such a nice walk there, that we walked back home in the dark with a sense that we’d somehow triumphed over the motor vehicle.
Back to yesterday: Pete’s flip-flops were wearing so thin that he started getting blisters from the heat of the pavement. My temperature was rising quickly. And even though we weren’t on the proper side of the road to be hitchhiking, a nice young woman (a tourist from Florida), stopped and asked if we wanted a ride. She was bored and out for a drive and, “sick of hanging out with old people.” She dropped us off at the beach, where we snorkeled and relaxed in the shade.
Maybe you recall the first time we went to Honounou—you know, the time where we tried to hitchhike home and nobody stopped for us so we walked the whole way back. Well, with Pete’s feet being sore, and us having a few more hitchhiking skills under our belts, we decided to stick out our thumbs at the entrance to the beach. Unfortunately, in 20 minutes we only saw 6 or 7 cars, each one full of Mom, Dad, and the kids. But then, off in the distance, a red pickup truck was puttering down the road. Steve has a red pickup…could it be? Yes, it was! He’d been at the beach, too, and was heading home to cover the coffee beans before the afternoon rain came in.
We’d been having such good luck with cars with so little effort that it couldn’t get much better. Until this morning. Deborah, who rents the other yurt on the farm, was walking by the tent with a (belated) birthday card that came in the mail for me this morning. When she asked what we were doing today, I said we weren’t doing much since Pete’s blisters were healing. Being the kind soul that she is, she offered her car and the suggestion of a destination: Ho’okena Beach, less than 10 miles away. The price: “Please pick me up a dozen eggs at the grocery store.” An hour later we were on the road.
Ho’okena is a really small town on the South Kona coast. Deborah warned us that it is somewhat of a locals’ beach, so to leave as soon as anyone gave us any crap. After following a long, winding road (that phrase seems to come up a lot around here…), we realized that we’d driven right up to the shoreline. The beach was alive with families and young vacationers, but far from crowded, and not nearly as "local" as some of the other beaches we've been to (Ke'ei and Manini). The best part was the sand—real, actual sand all along the shore, even on the ocean floor. For the first time since the waves of Waikiki, we were able to just swim without the fear of jagged lava rocks or coral. And because we had the car for another couple of hours, we went and had lunch in Kainaliu, just one town north of Kealakekua. The car and the eggs were delivered without incident, and we returned sated by the sun and the sand.
The walk to Honounou is between 4 and 5 miles, and is downhill almost the entire way. We figured it would be an easy walk so we didn’t even hitchhike. We’d both gotten so sick of hitching rides that on Thursday evening (after staying on the farm all week), we walked the 4 miles into Captain Cook for groceries, and dinner at Senior Billy's. It was a pleasant evening and we had such a nice walk there, that we walked back home in the dark with a sense that we’d somehow triumphed over the motor vehicle.
Back to yesterday: Pete’s flip-flops were wearing so thin that he started getting blisters from the heat of the pavement. My temperature was rising quickly. And even though we weren’t on the proper side of the road to be hitchhiking, a nice young woman (a tourist from Florida), stopped and asked if we wanted a ride. She was bored and out for a drive and, “sick of hanging out with old people.” She dropped us off at the beach, where we snorkeled and relaxed in the shade.
Maybe you recall the first time we went to Honounou—you know, the time where we tried to hitchhike home and nobody stopped for us so we walked the whole way back. Well, with Pete’s feet being sore, and us having a few more hitchhiking skills under our belts, we decided to stick out our thumbs at the entrance to the beach. Unfortunately, in 20 minutes we only saw 6 or 7 cars, each one full of Mom, Dad, and the kids. But then, off in the distance, a red pickup truck was puttering down the road. Steve has a red pickup…could it be? Yes, it was! He’d been at the beach, too, and was heading home to cover the coffee beans before the afternoon rain came in.
We’d been having such good luck with cars with so little effort that it couldn’t get much better. Until this morning. Deborah, who rents the other yurt on the farm, was walking by the tent with a (belated) birthday card that came in the mail for me this morning. When she asked what we were doing today, I said we weren’t doing much since Pete’s blisters were healing. Being the kind soul that she is, she offered her car and the suggestion of a destination: Ho’okena Beach, less than 10 miles away. The price: “Please pick me up a dozen eggs at the grocery store.” An hour later we were on the road.
Ho’okena is a really small town on the South Kona coast. Deborah warned us that it is somewhat of a locals’ beach, so to leave as soon as anyone gave us any crap. After following a long, winding road (that phrase seems to come up a lot around here…), we realized that we’d driven right up to the shoreline. The beach was alive with families and young vacationers, but far from crowded, and not nearly as "local" as some of the other beaches we've been to (Ke'ei and Manini). The best part was the sand—real, actual sand all along the shore, even on the ocean floor. For the first time since the waves of Waikiki, we were able to just swim without the fear of jagged lava rocks or coral. And because we had the car for another couple of hours, we went and had lunch in Kainaliu, just one town north of Kealakekua. The car and the eggs were delivered without incident, and we returned sated by the sun and the sand.
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