I'm writing this from Xi'an, China,
and it's the first day of the annual Chinese labour holiday.
I have gathered that the Chinese are
a hardworking bunch; although they get 11 festival days (like our
bank holidays) they can get as little as 5 days paid annual leave.
This means that everyone travels across the country at the same time.
Being, as I am, in a popular location (Xi'an is the destination of
choice for those wanting to see the famous Terracotta Army of the Qin
Dynasty) every Chinese tourist and their dog is out looking at the
sights. It's also raining. This makes for an unpleasant situation
that has resulted in me losing my last shred of patience and
returning to the hostel, where at least it is dry, and there's a
thermos of tea in my room. So, on with the blog catchup...
Travelling the East Coast of Australia
is something on pretty much any traveller's list. At least, it is if
you are European. I think I can safely say that I met many more
European passport holders than actual bonafide Australians on my way
South from the tropical Queensland city of Cairns down to
metropolitan, urban-chic Melbourne, Victoria. You might argue this is
because I kept myself safely inside the backpacker enclave, only
meeting other travellers and not really mixing with the locals. Well,
this is true to some extent; sometimes you do get lulled into a
routine. Travelling to your destination, dropping off your luggage
and striking up conversations with fellow travellers in the hostel,
hanging out with them and their friends and forming a little group
soon becomes a comfortable way of getting about. However, thanks to
the Australian propensity for travelling the world, I was lucky
enough to meet a lot of kind and generous Australians during the
first half of my tour. A large proportion of our American tour group
were Australian, and Dimi and Laura Papettas, the first friends I
made in New York, had lived in Melbourne all their lives. Not to
mention Kerry Witt, the girl who kept me vaguely sane during those
first wobbly days adjusting to New Zealand life AND introduced me to
the wonder of Milo. All of the above and more had invited me to stay
with them when I reached their parts of the country, so I was lucky
enough to do the local thing as well as meet other backpackers.
Australia has got to be one of the most
convenient setups for backpackers ever. If you're just touring, you
hop into the country, often on a visa-waiver, which is done online
and is free (at least for us Brits). Most backpackers, however, are
there looking for work. The Working Holiday Visa (WHV) allows 18-30
year olds to try their hand at working in Australia for a year. You
cannot work for more than six months in one job. If you want to stay
on for one more year, that's fine, but you've got to be prepared to
do some hard graft, in the form of government approved work on farms
or in rural areas for a period of about three months. During my trip,
I heard many horror stories about the hours and the tough physical
nature of the work, plus the cramped living conditions in multiple
room dorms located in the arse end of nowhere. It seems like if you
have the willingness to do the work, you sure as hell better hope you
have bucketloads of patience and tolerance for your fellow workers,
as well as a never ending supply of high factor sunblock.
On the other hand, I heard from a fair
few people that it was all jolly good fun, a sort of 'we're all in
the same sinking boat' camaraderie that is rarely experienced
anywhere else. Firm friends and lifelong lovers are made and
sometimes even kept. I have a sneaking suspicion I'm too old for all
that caper now, but I bet when I was 18 and fresh out of high school
that kind of boarding house mentality would have actually been quite
good fun.
Anyway, I massively digress. Australia
is easy to get around, despite its vastness. There are two coach
companies that ply the route between Cairns and Melbourne: Premier
Travel and Greyhound. Premier, being the slightly cheaper of the two,
is more popular with backpackers and their buses were always
chock-full. I was quite lucky with Greyhound, and seemed to get two
seats to myself most of the time.
I arrived full of excitement. For one
thing, it would actually be HOT! I could swim in the sea (providing
the stingers didn't get me), lie on the beach (for five minutes
before I had to seek shade) and try my hand at diving the world
famous Great Barrier Reef, the vast section of gorgeous coral reef
that is unfortunately dying out fairly quickly (see previous note re: stingers). Not to mention
exploring the big cities dotted down the coast; Brisbane, Sydney and
Melbourne. Now all I had to do was work out how not to bankrupt
myself and I was away. I should explain here to the uninitiated that
Australia is terribly expensive, even if you're earning Australian
dollars. It's not really their fault as such, they have been lucky
enough to avoid the global recession by maintaining a strong economy
that is, in part, down to extensive mining. But it really stings when
you walk into a supermarket looking for a cheap meal and you end up
spending about half an hour plying the reduced shelves for the cheapest loaf of bread or bag of pasta. Speaking of
which, formerly adored student staples such as pasta and pesto, cheap
white bread, processed cheese sandwiches and the ubiquitous instant
noodle made an unwelcome return into my already terrible diet.
I touched down in Cairns at some point
in the mid afternoon after a very long layover at Sydney Kingsford
Smith airport. I'd been up since 2am NZ time, so was slightly
disorientated when I checked in and crawled onto my bunk at the
Northern Greenhouse in Cairns, a hostel recommended to me by a very
old friend who had travelled there some years previously. It seemed
to be full of people silently working away on their laptops, but I
didn't really care at the time and I hauled myself onto my top bunk
(I am always, without fail, allocated the shittiest top bunk. See
previous post about the hideous room in the Coromandel), which was
located right next to the air conditioning unit. Well, at least I
wouldn't sweat to death. The temperature didn't seem too bad,
actually, and I wondered what everyone was on about when they'd
mentioned how I was going to melt into a puddle of my own goo, like
the Wicked Witch of the West.
I woke up at about 7pm, cotton-mouthed
and completely unaware of where I was. I decided that if I didn't get
up, I would probably dehydrate to the point of losing consciousness
and swung myself down the bunk ladder to grab some money and my room
key. Everyone was still on their laptops. A few banging sounds came
from the kitchen. I decided I couldn't be arsed with fighting people
for pots and pans and washing up, so I walked down the road to the
Woolworths to see what food I could eat without cooking. I located a
reduced salad, still overpriced at something like $5, but tasty and
vaguely nourishing. I sat and ate outside when a giant thing
swooped down from a nearby tree
and nearly gave me a heart attack. What the hell was that? It didn't
look like a bird...
Closer inspection
revealed that it was a bat. A bloody enormous, giant fruit bat. They
were everywhere, congregating in the trees, rustling and squeaking at
each other. Nobody else seemed to notice or care about them, but I
was absorbed. I'd never been anywhere that bats had
lived in such a built up area, and we don't tend to get the giant variety in the UK. Thumping crappy music from a nearby bar soon burst my bubble of
thought, and I suddenly felt exhausted, so took myself back to the
hostel and resolved to wake up early and see what Cairns had going
on.
The next morning, I
popped out of the room to realise why everyone had looked so
sympathetic when I'd told them I was heading to Cairns in January. I
can't describe the sheer oppressiveness of the heat, and this was at
about 6.30am. It smothered everything it touched, and I could feel
little trickles of sweat form on my brow and under my arms within
about two minutes of being outside. Heat hazes rose from the tarmac
outside the hostel, and the sun beamed down with a brightness I have
never seen. Luckily I had prepared for this by spending about half an
hour rubbing every conceivable surface of myself with a liberal
application of factor 30, a routine which was to become second nature
for the next few months.
I had something to
eat and ended up talking to a slightly odd and possibly drunk fellow
named Shaun, who said he was in charge of the horse trekking school
up in Cape Tribulation. We had a long chat about New Zealand, as he
was originally from a Maori family that lived inland from the coast
near Raglan. He was in Cairns 'to pardy' and take a break from the
trekking business, and invited me to take a trek which he said he
would pay for. I politely declined as I felt he might not be so
friendly if I didn't 'pardy' with him in return.
Trying not to sweat
too much with the effort, I took a walk around the city to see what I
could find. I wanted to find the dive shop I had been in touch with
about doing an introductory dive up near Port Douglas, and had heard
that Rusty's, the produce market along the road from where I was
based, was meant to be reasonably priced and full of delicious
tropical fruits. One of the chefs from Heritage had told me about
this particular mango variety that was guaranteed to be unlike any
other I'd tasted. Since I love mangoes and food in general, this was
exciting for me, and I made a stop at the market to purchase a mango
the size of my head.
I was once again
propositioned by a man who was definitely drunk, and staggered
towards me as I had a quick sit down at a bus stop. It was really
entertaining, and would have been much funnier if anyone I'd known
had been around to witness it. He walked past me, did a theatrical
stop in his tracks, and then turned to talk to me. I should mention
here that I looked pretty rough thanks to lack of sleep and air con,
with Ken Dodd-esque flyaway hair, a thrown-on dress and dirty flip
flops with a garnish of chipped nail varnish. I was a regular Lauren
Bacall.
“COR
blimey love.......... you look like a movie star!” Imagine this
said in the broadest outback accent, ever.
“Erm...
well, thanks.” I mumbled, not sure how to handle this awkward
exchange. He came to sit next to me. I groaned inwardly and tried not
to look like I was desperately trying to find an escape route.
“Let
me see yer eyes,” he slurred. I consented, removing my sunglasses
and fixing him with a death stare, otherwise known as The Face. The
Face has got me into a lot of trouble before. I have problems with
masking my true feelings, and any hint of grouchiness or annoyance
has a habit of manifesting itself in a curled lip and furrowed brows.
He didn't seem to notice and pressed on with his compliments,
explaining that he was based in some remote-arse part of Australia
and was here on a stag do or something... the details are a bit hazy
because I wasn't listening.
“We're
here to pAr-dy and meet some girls, drink a lot of beers, you know,
schtag schtuff.” Seems like Cairns is the place to be if you want
to get blind drunk with drunk Aussies. It did remind me a bit of Agia
Napa in Cyprus, the only difference being that garage wasn't a music
scene but was what most of the buildings resembled.
This guy needed to
sober up. He didn't smell great, either. I found my escape route, and
hammily pretended to answer my blatantly not-ringing phone. “Oh
REALLY?!” I squawked “I'd better come right away!”
Unfortunately, he
followed, but must have got bored with that because after a couple of
minutes, he sharply veered off elsewhere and I was left alone. I
decided to head back to the hostel and cool off in the pool, and
heard a baconesque sizzle as my legs hit the cold water.
It must have been a day for weirdos as
I met a girl called Tina (name changed in case she tracks me down and
kills me) who happened to attend the same uni I did, albeit more
recently, and grew up in a town not too far from High Wycombe. We
started chatting and got on well. It turned out she had been
travelling in group tours for a few months, first in NZ and then in
Australia, and had covered a vast section of the East coast as well
as the outback by bus. She was a qualified medical professional and
was looking for work in Australia, leaving her ex-fiancee back in
Britain after a messy split. Her bottom lip seemed a bit wobbly when
she covered that bit so we moved on quickly to her pet cats who were
living under the care of her parents back in Britain. So far, so
normal. But boy, did she love those cats. One of them was ill (she
mentioned, getting a slightly more pronounced wobbly bottom lip) and
probably about to snuff it. Now, don't get me wrong, I love animals,
but a sick cat is a sick cat. She was seriously considering flying
back to Britain to see this cat to the grave, and then flying back to
Australia once the approved grieving period was over to continue her
grand plan. She was torn between staying or leaving for the cat.
Which should she do? She agonised, and looked to me for my opinion. I
can only say I hope I was sensitive when I suggested that spending a
fortune flying for the best part of 24 hours to see a cat off and
then coming back might be a tad overdoing it. It's not as if there'd
be many sandwiches at the wake. But this was just my opinion, and I'm
sure there's thousands of pet lovers out there who would disagree. I
guess she was having a tough time with the ex-fiancee issue, and the
cat getting ill wasn't helping. We spent an evening in each other's
company, then I went off to Port Douglas to dive and didn't hear from
her again, despite her suggestion that we ought to travel down the
coast together. I hope the cat survived.
Well, that brings me nicely onto
diving. I booked a day trip with Silversonic in Port Douglas, about
an hour up the coast from Cairns, thanks to a generous donation from
the Gordon MacLachlan Foundation for Fun and Frolics. The reef is
meant to be a bit nicer and more intact there, so I thought it was
well worth a visit and change of scene, seeing as Cairns didn't
particularly grab me (possibly as I am now a crochety old woman). I
was herded professionally and with minimum fuss onto a large boat
which looked like it ought to have been a cruise liner. We were given
the requisite endless safety chat and a very long list of awful
things that might happen to us diving, which would be all our fault
and not the company's problem etc. etc. please sign here and admit
any minor medical issues, even a cut on the foot, or else.
The dive itself was pleasant, and I saw
a lot of interesting marine life. It was a like being in a tropical
fish tank, playing the part of the plastic diver figurine. That's a
terrible simile but, well, that was what it was like. As it was just
an intro dive, I didn't have to learn much or think for myself, and
was just being lead along by the efficient instructor, Mac, along
with two other women who had never dived before.
After the dive, we got lunch and pulled
up to two more sites to snorkel, or dive more if we were prepared to
part with more cash. I chose the former option, and enjoyed myself
thoroughly. Before, this, however, I was overtaken with a blinding
rage; my Olympus 'Tough' camera, marketed as pretty much
indestructable, wasn't switching on. At the Great Barrier Reef. The
only underwater thing I REALLY wanted to immortalise for future
generations (alright, myself) to enjoy. Back on the boat I tried, in
vain, to get it to work, and then opened the battery compartment to
see if there was anything wrong; it was flooded with salt water.
Great. So the one photo I have of the Great Barrier Reef is of me
making an 'OK' sign in a diver's suit, that I paid $16 for. There
aren't even any bloody fish in the photo. What a world! But in the
interest of getting my money's worth, here's the pic:
Never mind. It was fun, and that's all
that mattered. I can understand the worldwide obsession with the
Reef; it's beautiful, and a real shame that thanks to changing ocean
temperatures, the life-sustaining coral is dying off at a rate of
knots.
While I was diving I met a couple from
Barcelona, Cristina and Santiago, who were on an extended honeymoon
round the world trip. They didn't seem to mind the third wheel, and
invited me to go and see Cape Tribulation with him after the dive. We
only managed to get as far as the edge of Daintree National Park, in
some hick town where we went for a quick walk along the edge of the
jungle. It was getting dark, and I suspected that flip flops were
probably a fairly useless defence against poisonous snakes. Turned
out the only dangerous snakes about were carpet pythons, the only
real danger being if a big one fell out of a tree and onto my head.
They're quite shy apparently, and generally slither off rather than
hang about and argue. Anyway, it was getting dark and dinner
beckoned, so we had that and parted ways.
I stayed in Port Douglas for the night
at Dougie's Backpackers (why do they always have to give backpackers'
hostels twee names?), and had an entire dorm to myself, something
that I don't think has ever happened since. It was wonderful, aside
from the heat searing through the nigh-on useless efforts of the fan,
and the usual round of bloodthirsty mosquitos leaving delightful
raised lumps over my legs.
Port Douglas itself is a play area for
rich Australians on holiday and this was made clear by the abundance
of large houses with pools and luxury hotels. Well, if you can afford
to charter a yacht or dive boat, you have probably got a few bob in
the bank. I had a quick walk into town with a bunch of people I'd met
at Dougie's the night before and wandered the Sunday market, where I
tried sugar cane juice for the first time (and not the last). A
slightly deaf and crazed old man took hold of a bunch of light green
and white sugar canes and pressed them through a machine like a
electronic mangle that took the stalks, crushed and squeezed them and
produced a delicious dark greeny-yellow juice, the colour of one of
those wheatgrass shots that people buy from juice bars when they have
more money and vanity than taste buds left. I'm
pleased to inform you that it didn't taste anything like wheatgrass;
it was sweet (unsurprisingly, as it's sugar in its rawest form) and
natural tasting. I can't really describe it any more accurately than
that, so it's a good job I am not a food critic. It tasted like a
different kind of sweet to the processed, crappy carbonated drinks
we're used to consuming on a daily basis. Apparently, it's not so bad
for you – as the sugars are unrefined, even diabetics can drink it
(though perhaps it's best to check first). Anyway, you can see why
it's so popular in tropical areas – it beats a thirst.
Sugar cane juice
aside, I had to head back to Cairns to make a bus connection to
Mission Beach, a destination selected at random from the available
options on my bus ticket. I met a girl, Leah, at the bus station who
happened to be going to the same hostel I was, and ended up being
picked up in a busted up mini van which contained a few other
friendly girls and a whole lot of beers. I approved of this entirely.
We drove about 15 minutes through the dark and ended up pulling into
a tiny lane that housed the Jackaroo Hostel. The owner had just
bought the hostel off of an old bloke who couldn't cope with it
anymore, and was doing work on it when I was staying there, namely
building a bar area off to the side. It was tropical Queensland's low
season, just before the 'Wet', so there were only a few people
staying there who weren't staff. I'd only booked one night, but ended
up staying for three – it was the kind of place you get sucked
into.
Anyway, that's
probably enough for now... I am trying to think of a snappy ending to
this entry but am miserably failing. That'll do.
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