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!”
Thursday, September 27, 2007
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.
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