Bartering has improved, mainly because I've realised I don't really need anything. Found a room (thanks to a girl I met on the plane here) for R50000. Bargain! Wandered up and down the main street of the town all afternoon looking for an ATM; when found one (later realised there were many), my card didn't work. Tried another. Same...then the fun of trying to find a place to make an international collect call started. Seems no wartel here (other than perhaps government run ones, which are near the airport) accept calls to the International Operator. Sucky. So, back to the hotel for another bank card (keeping only one on me for safety, other locked in bag in locked room).
All in all the day has been rather fruitless, other than getting here, finding a room and now at the tourist night market (am a bit too wary to venture to the local one alone) where can get R8000 (C$0.80) pork and noodle soup and relatively cheap drinks. Well, I hope it is pork, there are a hell of a lot of stray dogs in Bali.
Kuta is very busy, especially compared to the other places I have been. It's heaving with tourists of many persuasions, but many more younger ones – this is Bali's 'party resort' and also one of the top surf places so features on many a dude's list. Motorbikes and mopeds are omnipresent, ignoring traffic flow/directions and going on the pavement when needed. I get one from where the bus drops you off to my hotel...it's hard with my backpack on, especially over the small speed bump-type things in the narrow alleys we go down. Several times I think a car going the other way will smash into my leg or I'll fall over backwards with the weight of my bag or another bike will crash into us, but having put my life into the hands (and wheels) of several complete motorbike strangers already, I just try to enjoy the ride and not strain my back too much.
As an aside, I noticed in Ubud, where I stayed with a family near Jalan Monkey Forest, that phlegm production here is more than anywhere else I've ever been. Every morning I would get woken up at about 6:30am by the resident cockerels and the sounds of one or more of the family member's hacking, TB-like efforts to procure some mucous, followed by the satisfactory – for them – splat as it hit the ground. This same phenomenon has since been observed (or more aptly heard) in many other places. I am still trying to decide if the majority of the populace suffers from some national respiratory malaise, or if the climate is to blame. Interestingly, I seem to recall that in Penelokan (the one truly elevated spot I went to) the noisy habit was less prevalent. At the same time, I am paying attention to my own sinus operations for any clues as to this rather grotty issue.
Sanur smelled like chickens, Ubud like incense, Penelokan like fresh trees and Candi Dasa like nothing. The night market smells a bit like rotten meat, which makes my soup rather less appetising so I stick to the noodles and vast amounts of cabbage-like greenery instead.
Dinner finished, the question remains as to what I should do with the rest of my night. It's been so long since I've gone out out alone that the prospect of it is rather unappealing. Maybe it's my age, or perhaps it is the solo female traveler thing: it is tiring, I find, to always wonder who you can trust, to keep being asked if you have any friends, if you are married, being told you need a Balinese boyfriend (at least 29 offers so far), numerous questions regarding where you're staying and your room number (lies generally work well) and the constant refusal of invitations to go out for a drink. All these questions are asked by men (locals). I want to meet more women, but so far they're pretty untalkative, partly because they are less likely to have gone to school/had the opportunity to learn English. So the night is still on the cards...I'll just have to see where it leads!
Monday, March 30, 2009
Candi Dasa
There are lizards here. Chee-chucks (because of the sound they make). There are ants of different varieties: the small black ones like those in the England of my childhood, miniature versions of these too, much larger brownish ones with the same form as the huge black ones in Montreal, then these weird orange and brown ones with a dark-brown back end and an orangey-red body/thorax, so much lighter than the rest that they look disembodied. This morning I saw a huge bat, as I walked closer it swiveled its head to keep an eye on me. Who was looking at whom? I guess we both were. Its inquisitive, beady little eyes stare down at me as it hangs upside down. It makes me think of a fox.
The sea is right outside my bedroom. When I close my eyes I can hear it, like a heartbeat keeping time. These bungalows are set amidst a gorgeous garden with different fish ponds and coconut and banana palms, not to mention orchids dotted around the place. The sea is at the end of this garden walk, with brightly coloured banana boats waiting to go out beyond the sea wall... Yesterday evening I sat and watched the lady whose husband owns this place as she and a girl made ceremonial items out of palm leaves. Their precision was amazing as they cut the leaves into different shapes then joined them all together with hard little sticks to create a wonderful three dimensional hanging that is used at the temple. They will make thirty in about an hour or so, taking it slowly. Ahkti is a very modern-minded Balinese woman. Her English is very good, and she has no qualms in telling me what she thinks about the inequality between the sexes here. Women here are not allowed to drink, or smoke, and traditionally were not allowed to work outside the home, thought that is changing. When a woman marries she has to go and live with her husbands family, and she has to cook, clean and do all the household chores, and create all the ceremonial items (other than the huge pajor which tower above the streets at this time of year, which are made by men). Men however, drink, smoke, and gamble. When I praise Ahkti on her English, she tells me that she comes from Denpassar and learned at school; they have special English departments here, Do we have Indonesian departments at universities in England and Canada? She smiles as she asks, already knowing the answer.
Candi Dasa is a pretty little seaside town, and very quiet. I visit a Bali Aga village where the traditional Balinese live. They practice all sorts of crafts and were extremely friendly; however the parts of the village that tourists were allowed to see were like one big market – we are not allowed to observe the various religious and ceremonial practices that take place here on a daily basis. I was offered a trip to the nearby Water Palace by the man who took me up to the village and back. Having bargained down the price I accepted, and it was quite a journey. Riding on the back of his bike at a very sedate speed, we went up hills and through an urban centre with a scary military-looking security force at a roundabout then off past paddy fields and fruit vendors to the Water Palace. Much cooler than in Candi Dasa, this is where the King and his family would go to relax and take a leisurely bath. It is an amazing place, with water water everywhere. Different pools are spread around the area with the precision of a Victorian garden; the first on the right contains many koi carp and has carved stepping stones creating a meandering path through it and the statues within it. There is another huge pool to the left with a bridge over it where famous Indonesian bands come and perform. Then there are the bathing pools... fresh spring water that is meant to have therapeutic benefits awaits, so cool and calm amid the trees. I cannot resist to take a dip... it is glorious – the surroundings, the cool, clean water, the light splish-splash as I dive under, looking out over a tree-clad landscape. I close my eyes, and float.
The sea is right outside my bedroom. When I close my eyes I can hear it, like a heartbeat keeping time. These bungalows are set amidst a gorgeous garden with different fish ponds and coconut and banana palms, not to mention orchids dotted around the place. The sea is at the end of this garden walk, with brightly coloured banana boats waiting to go out beyond the sea wall... Yesterday evening I sat and watched the lady whose husband owns this place as she and a girl made ceremonial items out of palm leaves. Their precision was amazing as they cut the leaves into different shapes then joined them all together with hard little sticks to create a wonderful three dimensional hanging that is used at the temple. They will make thirty in about an hour or so, taking it slowly. Ahkti is a very modern-minded Balinese woman. Her English is very good, and she has no qualms in telling me what she thinks about the inequality between the sexes here. Women here are not allowed to drink, or smoke, and traditionally were not allowed to work outside the home, thought that is changing. When a woman marries she has to go and live with her husbands family, and she has to cook, clean and do all the household chores, and create all the ceremonial items (other than the huge pajor which tower above the streets at this time of year, which are made by men). Men however, drink, smoke, and gamble. When I praise Ahkti on her English, she tells me that she comes from Denpassar and learned at school; they have special English departments here, Do we have Indonesian departments at universities in England and Canada? She smiles as she asks, already knowing the answer.
Candi Dasa is a pretty little seaside town, and very quiet. I visit a Bali Aga village where the traditional Balinese live. They practice all sorts of crafts and were extremely friendly; however the parts of the village that tourists were allowed to see were like one big market – we are not allowed to observe the various religious and ceremonial practices that take place here on a daily basis. I was offered a trip to the nearby Water Palace by the man who took me up to the village and back. Having bargained down the price I accepted, and it was quite a journey. Riding on the back of his bike at a very sedate speed, we went up hills and through an urban centre with a scary military-looking security force at a roundabout then off past paddy fields and fruit vendors to the Water Palace. Much cooler than in Candi Dasa, this is where the King and his family would go to relax and take a leisurely bath. It is an amazing place, with water water everywhere. Different pools are spread around the area with the precision of a Victorian garden; the first on the right contains many koi carp and has carved stepping stones creating a meandering path through it and the statues within it. There is another huge pool to the left with a bridge over it where famous Indonesian bands come and perform. Then there are the bathing pools... fresh spring water that is meant to have therapeutic benefits awaits, so cool and calm amid the trees. I cannot resist to take a dip... it is glorious – the surroundings, the cool, clean water, the light splish-splash as I dive under, looking out over a tree-clad landscape. I close my eyes, and float.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
previously unpublished
Sydney, Feb 12
It's funny. I am free as a bird (well, not really, but I do like the expression) yet sometimes I find myself craving the more everyday existence I used to have: the job (with obvious aspect of salary involved), the apartment, the more set/known social life, that normalcy of the day to day. A time when weekends had meaning.
Is the grass always greener on the other side? I remember all my thoughts of traveling were linked to the explorations of new lands, people, cultures. Not to mention some sort of self-discovery that I hoped would come with it too. Is this discovery just the reinforcement of parts of myself I already knew, but maybe did not really want to admit to? That I would like to be otherwise?
See, it seems to me that the grass IS greener on the other side, even though deep down I know it's just an illusion caused by distance. Not being so involved in that patch of life, you cannot see all the gaps of bare earth. Thinking positively, this means that something else could always grow there.
Interesting thing is, that I've found that being away from your every day, 'routine' existence, not seeing those you love on a pretty regular basis, and having the anchors of work/play/things that niggle/things that excite/things that hurt etc. you can become quite adrift from that reality and you as that person. I have always been rather introspective but this new level of being so is unknown since 2004. It is not that I am unhappy, far from it (although the usual comparison against others is a continual downfall), just I have reached this place inside myself that is quite calm and doesn't feel the need to utter many asides or anecdotes to life. Not out loud at least! You see, it's this long-ingrained belief that I don't have much advice or anything of great interest to add to the clutter that surrounds people. Or...is it that I have got out of the habit of having conversations with anyone but myself and have therefore done away with a lot of the elements needed to verbally engage with others?
I'm sure I used to talk more. I'm sure I used to have things to say. Now however I feel quite silent and even a little nonplussed at all the chatter around me. Why do people feel the need to fill in the gaps so much? I've heard that in Japan, meaning is implied more in what is not said (or shown) than what is. I must admit to wondering, however, if I have fallen too far through those spaces and the words I do gasp out are a cry for help recognition awareness of me through the grate
Friday, March 27, 2009
Penelokan/Kintamani
Imagine a crater surrounded by a volcano, within which lies a beautiful lake and another volcano with three craters rising up out of black larva rocks and lush greenery. Dotted around the first crater rim are many temples; small family ones, more important local ones and one that's more imposing than the others that protects Bali from the North. Such stunning natural beauty, a place of origination and obliteration.
As you walk along the crater rim, you are accosted, surrounded by men, women and children. Do you want a t-shirt? 5 for $10. Do you want some fruit? A bag of oranges for $5. Okay, $2. Alright, $1. Look at my paintings – see, like Romeo and Juliette! Only $5. Or this chess-set, $20. Maybe I can come to your room later? Lady, lady. All these pencils, $10. Please $10. Just $10 these pencils. I have no money. Sell for school. Lady, just $10, I have no money. The little girl (one of about 20 you will pass and have the same experience with,) follows you for perhaps 2-3 minutes, incessantly chanting her talismanic words.
No matter how much you say no thank you, or shake your head, or try to ignore them, the same questions are constantly asked, the same hope that you will buy something from them. You feel harassed, pursued, yet at the same time you feel bad. You have more money than these people could imagine, you are able to leave your country and visit theirs (a lot of Balinese have never gone to their island's capital, let alone left the country). You just want them to stop.
You go to have some food at a small warung (cafe-type place). It costs you $3. You could barter the price down, but why bother? The lady who makes and serves the food comes and sits near you once you've eaten. You wish you spoke more Indonesian than the smattering you've picked up. She tells you that one of her sons works in Kuta at a restaurant, the youngest in Denpassar and the oldest here, at a restaurant but it's very quiet, very few tourists. She tells you that school is too expensive so she could not go, sorry her English is not that good.
You are humbled, this woman with so few resources has learned English through listening to others and copying things down, she ekes out an existence on this volcanic crater rim, she helps you catch a bemo to the temple...her smile and face stay in your mind as you say 'no thank you' to every little girl selling pencils, every man trying to get you to employ them as a driver or buy their chess set or painting, or the women selling t-shirts, saris, fruit. They fall over you for your money, they fight to take your hand or get your custom and at the same time as wishing you could help them all, as wanting to throw hundreds of bank notes into the air like in a film, you just want them to leave you alone so you can stop and look for a minute at the wonderful, breathtaking landscape laid out before you.
As you walk along the crater rim, you are accosted, surrounded by men, women and children. Do you want a t-shirt? 5 for $10. Do you want some fruit? A bag of oranges for $5. Okay, $2. Alright, $1. Look at my paintings – see, like Romeo and Juliette! Only $5. Or this chess-set, $20. Maybe I can come to your room later? Lady, lady. All these pencils, $10. Please $10. Just $10 these pencils. I have no money. Sell for school. Lady, just $10, I have no money. The little girl (one of about 20 you will pass and have the same experience with,) follows you for perhaps 2-3 minutes, incessantly chanting her talismanic words.
No matter how much you say no thank you, or shake your head, or try to ignore them, the same questions are constantly asked, the same hope that you will buy something from them. You feel harassed, pursued, yet at the same time you feel bad. You have more money than these people could imagine, you are able to leave your country and visit theirs (a lot of Balinese have never gone to their island's capital, let alone left the country). You just want them to stop.
You go to have some food at a small warung (cafe-type place). It costs you $3. You could barter the price down, but why bother? The lady who makes and serves the food comes and sits near you once you've eaten. You wish you spoke more Indonesian than the smattering you've picked up. She tells you that one of her sons works in Kuta at a restaurant, the youngest in Denpassar and the oldest here, at a restaurant but it's very quiet, very few tourists. She tells you that school is too expensive so she could not go, sorry her English is not that good.
You are humbled, this woman with so few resources has learned English through listening to others and copying things down, she ekes out an existence on this volcanic crater rim, she helps you catch a bemo to the temple...her smile and face stay in your mind as you say 'no thank you' to every little girl selling pencils, every man trying to get you to employ them as a driver or buy their chess set or painting, or the women selling t-shirts, saris, fruit. They fall over you for your money, they fight to take your hand or get your custom and at the same time as wishing you could help them all, as wanting to throw hundreds of bank notes into the air like in a film, you just want them to leave you alone so you can stop and look for a minute at the wonderful, breathtaking landscape laid out before you.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Ubud
However much I try not to be, I am crap at bartering. There are some things that just seem wrong to barter for - food, drink and accommodation, for example. I seem to also have a problem with bus tickets. In the end I feel slightly ripped off but it is my knowledge that I am a million times better off financially than the locals that makes me feel bad and my bartering never goes as well as I would have hoped. You see, Ubud is a very westernized yet beautiful little town about 1 hr inland from the airport that has become a mecca for those looking for artworks and yoga lessons. The red-tiled roofs of family compounds mingle with small temples and hundreds of shops selling silk scarves, sarongs and variations thereof. Jewellery, painting and ornate flip-flops are also on offer.
The terrible thing is how globalisation has affected my view of things. I have seen all these items at home and even with bartering the prices are not much different. Hence my need to cut to the quick and give a price that's half of what I'm originally quoted and less than I truly am willing to pay. Or just not buy anything - I don't exactly need anything other than a roof over my head and food and drink, and those are incredibly cheap to come by.
No matter how I like to think otherwise, I am unable not to chuckle internally at the many Westerners who have affected the S.E. Asian dress. I don't mean that there's something inherently wrong with wearing the same clothes or headwear etc. (often it makes sense, what with the heat plus if you go to the temple you have to wear certain clothes as a sign of respect)... it is those who seem to supremely...peaceful or collected in this dress, as though they were born in these clothes or have adopted a whole new way of life and will go home to California or London or Berlin or wherever and say, in almost reverently hushed tones, about how spiritual Bali was and how wholesome.
Yes, it is a spiritual place: every Balinese family has their own temple where the spirits of their ancestors are said to dwell, and their religion, Hinduism, is far more a way of life (in that it is part and parcel of who they are, their every day) than for most Westerners. However, I think we often see other cultures as some sort of pick & mix affair, taking the bits we like and leaving the others behind. Women can work here now, but are not at all equal to men. There is a caste system. Healthcare is not free, neither is school; in fact many young schoolchildren (noticeably only boys) are out in the streets of Ubud doing dragon dance parades or selling tickets to dances to get money to pay for books and other supplies.
So, what is it that gets to me the most about the yoga tourists? Maybe it is the snippets of overheard conversation or their smug looks at those who have not yet 'converted'. Inferiority complex? Me?! ;)
Just as with falling in love at first sight or liking someone almost immediately, it seems that you can have an almost instant dislike of some people too, or they somehow make things feel wrong. It is not, of course, all yoga tourists. Many are lovely and I understand what they are doing and why, and applaud it. Maybe I am just wanting to have someone to share this experience with (and deflect the many questions and suggestions of whether and why I am traveling alone).
Sunday, March 22, 2009
12+ hours to Bali: Eighth stop
I am nervous, yet excited. This is where the more unusual part of my trip begins, where the culture changes dramatically...not to mention the language.
Flying in to Bali at night I try to keep my nerves in check - many other people have managed very well here, and so shall I. After passing through the visa process and being told of the Death Penalty for drug trafficking, I am spat outside into the humid air. With no accommodation reserved I wonder if I should veer towards the backpacker/resort mecca of Kuta but instead get a taxi to Sanur - a little further East and reportedly less hectic. It is humid here but less so than Cairns (not sure how it will be in the morning) and there are beautiful, ornate statues by the side of the roads, at intersections, in front of buildings.
There's a constant stream of motorbike traffic and the taxi driver goes into this veritable river. Beeping his horn at one bike I wonder if he wants them to move but no, it's a friend who smiles in at us, a pretty girl perched on the back of his vehicle. Made, the driver, tells me how this guy is a playboy with many girlfriends. I wonder if he's jealous - he earlier confessed that he doesn't have a girlfriend because you only have one here if you have money. He already has 3 jobs, working 9am t0 3am. These girls must be high-maintenance!
Then his phone rings and, without slowing down he answers and starts to talk in an almost drawling voice to whoever is on the other end of the line, just missing a turning lorry and overtaking motorbikes and minivans without a care in the world. We pass a load of people getting a ride in the back of what looks like an animal carrier. Made tells me they have come from a ceremony.
Leading up to Nyepi (Balinese New Year) there are numerous festivities and rituals that take place. On the day itself - this year it will be March 26 - no-one leaves their home: this is to persuade the evil spirits that Bali is deserted. This happens to be the day I am meant to fly out to Kuala Lumpur. I've been told my several locals that not only will the airport be closed, but that there's no way I could get there anyway as no-one will be out. You are not allowed to go outside on 'silent day'. I would love to experience this celebration; usually the day before is a big parade/party with effigies, masks and drums to scare away the bad spirits (may not take place this year for fear of unrest before the upcoming elections). The question remains: how and when will I find my way to Malaysia? The people here are so friendly and the country seems so beautiful that maybe I will end up never wanting to leave.
The next morning:
Leaving my nerves behind, I head off to explore Sanur. Since today is a ceremony day (mainly in the morning people go to the temple) a lot of places are shut. Having been warned by the guidebook no to accept an invitation to drink alone with men - they take it as an invitation apparently - I am trying to decide whether to reply to the friendly-sounding hello's around me or not. Instead, I follow gut instinct and stop at a small, beachfront cafe/bar where I enjoy R10000 fresh juice and R50000 meals.
Yes, here I am a veritable billionaire - just lop off some zeros and you get the price in Canadian. Similarly, my R200000 hotel room (blissfully alone in a double bed, own bathroom and beautiful garden surroundings with pool) is a steal at C$20 a night. Yes, I could stay somewhere even cheaper and am sure that in the near future I shall, but for now I am happy to just relax, let the Malarone/anti-biotic haze of sleep overcome me and try my best to remember to apply DEET cream on a fairly regular basis.
Flying in to Bali at night I try to keep my nerves in check - many other people have managed very well here, and so shall I. After passing through the visa process and being told of the Death Penalty for drug trafficking, I am spat outside into the humid air. With no accommodation reserved I wonder if I should veer towards the backpacker/resort mecca of Kuta but instead get a taxi to Sanur - a little further East and reportedly less hectic. It is humid here but less so than Cairns (not sure how it will be in the morning) and there are beautiful, ornate statues by the side of the roads, at intersections, in front of buildings.
There's a constant stream of motorbike traffic and the taxi driver goes into this veritable river. Beeping his horn at one bike I wonder if he wants them to move but no, it's a friend who smiles in at us, a pretty girl perched on the back of his vehicle. Made, the driver, tells me how this guy is a playboy with many girlfriends. I wonder if he's jealous - he earlier confessed that he doesn't have a girlfriend because you only have one here if you have money. He already has 3 jobs, working 9am t0 3am. These girls must be high-maintenance!
Then his phone rings and, without slowing down he answers and starts to talk in an almost drawling voice to whoever is on the other end of the line, just missing a turning lorry and overtaking motorbikes and minivans without a care in the world. We pass a load of people getting a ride in the back of what looks like an animal carrier. Made tells me they have come from a ceremony.
Leading up to Nyepi (Balinese New Year) there are numerous festivities and rituals that take place. On the day itself - this year it will be March 26 - no-one leaves their home: this is to persuade the evil spirits that Bali is deserted. This happens to be the day I am meant to fly out to Kuala Lumpur. I've been told my several locals that not only will the airport be closed, but that there's no way I could get there anyway as no-one will be out. You are not allowed to go outside on 'silent day'. I would love to experience this celebration; usually the day before is a big parade/party with effigies, masks and drums to scare away the bad spirits (may not take place this year for fear of unrest before the upcoming elections). The question remains: how and when will I find my way to Malaysia? The people here are so friendly and the country seems so beautiful that maybe I will end up never wanting to leave.
The next morning:
Leaving my nerves behind, I head off to explore Sanur. Since today is a ceremony day (mainly in the morning people go to the temple) a lot of places are shut. Having been warned by the guidebook no to accept an invitation to drink alone with men - they take it as an invitation apparently - I am trying to decide whether to reply to the friendly-sounding hello's around me or not. Instead, I follow gut instinct and stop at a small, beachfront cafe/bar where I enjoy R10000 fresh juice and R50000 meals.
Yes, here I am a veritable billionaire - just lop off some zeros and you get the price in Canadian. Similarly, my R200000 hotel room (blissfully alone in a double bed, own bathroom and beautiful garden surroundings with pool) is a steal at C$20 a night. Yes, I could stay somewhere even cheaper and am sure that in the near future I shall, but for now I am happy to just relax, let the Malarone/anti-biotic haze of sleep overcome me and try my best to remember to apply DEET cream on a fairly regular basis.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Seventh stop: Cairns. 3 days, 2 nights, 9 dives....
A 3 hour, vomit-filled ride from Cairns took myself and 30 others to the Great Barrier Reef. 9 dives later, I am Advanced Open Water certified. The reef is vast. Over twice the size of the U.K., it is home to 1500 fish species, numerous coral, sponges, sea cucumbers, nudibranch's and many other aquatic life forms.
Apart from 3 hours of feeling very ill and spewing my guts up while trying to set up my gear and speak with the instructors, during the ride out the skies changed from overcast and rainy to gorgeous sun. There are a range of divers on board, from people doing their Open Water to those who are already Advanced. There are 2 others taking the Advance Course with me, a guy from Indiana and a Korean girl from Hawaii/Vegas.
Surprisingly, there is not much to the Advanced Course (with PADI anyway). Read the manual, copy some headings, do the dives... seems a bit wrong to me but that's the way they operate: like a McDonalds drive-through. It's interesting to see how people react to being underwater. My dive buddy (Korean-American previously mentioned) was a nice enough, friendly person but after a while the realisation dawned upon me that she was also a big know-it-all. Any single question or uncertainty, and she'd be there with an answer, even talking over the instructors at times. So, was she a very experienced diver? No, she'd been certified for about 3 weeks and had done a grand total of 4 dives. Furthermore, she was adamant that she was the 'controller', even underwater. However, it takes all types and she was a friendly soul. One suggestion - any time you dive with a new buddy, especially on an unguided dive, be sure that you both recognise the same signals for things as underwater communication can be really hard otherwise.
Enough complaining. The reef (what we saw of it) was amazing, with so much life - turtles, sharks, giant clams, so many types of coral, sea stars, fish... The water was clear, though the visibility was not as good as Fiji, and although they shouldn't, certified divers and instructors alike were seen to touch, handle and knock marine life with hands, fins and tanks. I must admit to my horror that I am guilty too - I found myself over some very shallow reef and put my hand out in an attempt to stop myself bashing on to it with the surge - cutting my finger in the process but hopefully saving the reef even more damage.
One of the most interesting dives for me was the Deep Dive. Going to 28 metres was surprisingly calming... the fish all looked so happy and made me laugh. My breathing slowed down, I felt very very peaceful and so very happy. Welcome to nitrogen narcosis! The diving instuctor made me do a test (numbers in squares on a board, you have to touch each one in numerical order then touch your nose after...he times you and you do it again at some point on the surface). I found this task amusing. I felt very slow, which was also amusing. My time: 20.3 seconds.
Coming back to the top, that sense of calm stayed with me. Sometimes when I dive I feel the urge to swim around looking for things, not in a frantic manner but, all the same, after going deeper I have slowed down, I don't feel the need to kick so hard, I look for smaller creatures amid the coral and am rewarded with sea stars, nudibranchs, fish that are hiding...
The return to solid ground was celebrated with drinks and interesting conversations. That night I noticed that my right foot was a little bit swollen - nothing to stress about I thought. The next morning, however, it was bigger, and this blister I had got from taking fins on and off and wearing them for so long had turned into a cut (on my last dive I think). I headed out to the chemist for some antispetic. She advised that I go to hospital. Stubborn as I am, it took about 5 hours for me to admit defeat. The hospital was quiet, and all the other patients in emergency seemed to be aboriginals. They walk the streets of Cairns like ghosts... The aboriginal issue here really is an issue, one that no-one seems to want to address.
Anyway, I am luckily seen in about 20 minutes and the young intern is kind enough to give me 2 different antibiotics for free...meaing I only have to pay for the consultation. This experience resonates with another I had in Brazil, where the care and medication provided was, surprisingly, free. So, drugged up on antibiotics I go to the cinema and contemplate my imminent departure of the western world. I am leaving behind comforts - things I recognise, a language I speak, a culture I comprehend. I am also leaving the country where I was lucky enough to spend 3 months with my sister, and however much I try to push to the back of my mind the missing, it is, of course, still there. Yet I know that soon I will be leaving, that time continues and I feel blessed for all I have been able to experience thus far.
Apart from 3 hours of feeling very ill and spewing my guts up while trying to set up my gear and speak with the instructors, during the ride out the skies changed from overcast and rainy to gorgeous sun. There are a range of divers on board, from people doing their Open Water to those who are already Advanced. There are 2 others taking the Advance Course with me, a guy from Indiana and a Korean girl from Hawaii/Vegas.
Surprisingly, there is not much to the Advanced Course (with PADI anyway). Read the manual, copy some headings, do the dives... seems a bit wrong to me but that's the way they operate: like a McDonalds drive-through. It's interesting to see how people react to being underwater. My dive buddy (Korean-American previously mentioned) was a nice enough, friendly person but after a while the realisation dawned upon me that she was also a big know-it-all. Any single question or uncertainty, and she'd be there with an answer, even talking over the instructors at times. So, was she a very experienced diver? No, she'd been certified for about 3 weeks and had done a grand total of 4 dives. Furthermore, she was adamant that she was the 'controller', even underwater. However, it takes all types and she was a friendly soul. One suggestion - any time you dive with a new buddy, especially on an unguided dive, be sure that you both recognise the same signals for things as underwater communication can be really hard otherwise.
Enough complaining. The reef (what we saw of it) was amazing, with so much life - turtles, sharks, giant clams, so many types of coral, sea stars, fish... The water was clear, though the visibility was not as good as Fiji, and although they shouldn't, certified divers and instructors alike were seen to touch, handle and knock marine life with hands, fins and tanks. I must admit to my horror that I am guilty too - I found myself over some very shallow reef and put my hand out in an attempt to stop myself bashing on to it with the surge - cutting my finger in the process but hopefully saving the reef even more damage.
One of the most interesting dives for me was the Deep Dive. Going to 28 metres was surprisingly calming... the fish all looked so happy and made me laugh. My breathing slowed down, I felt very very peaceful and so very happy. Welcome to nitrogen narcosis! The diving instuctor made me do a test (numbers in squares on a board, you have to touch each one in numerical order then touch your nose after...he times you and you do it again at some point on the surface). I found this task amusing. I felt very slow, which was also amusing. My time: 20.3 seconds.
Coming back to the top, that sense of calm stayed with me. Sometimes when I dive I feel the urge to swim around looking for things, not in a frantic manner but, all the same, after going deeper I have slowed down, I don't feel the need to kick so hard, I look for smaller creatures amid the coral and am rewarded with sea stars, nudibranchs, fish that are hiding...
The return to solid ground was celebrated with drinks and interesting conversations. That night I noticed that my right foot was a little bit swollen - nothing to stress about I thought. The next morning, however, it was bigger, and this blister I had got from taking fins on and off and wearing them for so long had turned into a cut (on my last dive I think). I headed out to the chemist for some antispetic. She advised that I go to hospital. Stubborn as I am, it took about 5 hours for me to admit defeat. The hospital was quiet, and all the other patients in emergency seemed to be aboriginals. They walk the streets of Cairns like ghosts... The aboriginal issue here really is an issue, one that no-one seems to want to address.
Anyway, I am luckily seen in about 20 minutes and the young intern is kind enough to give me 2 different antibiotics for free...meaing I only have to pay for the consultation. This experience resonates with another I had in Brazil, where the care and medication provided was, surprisingly, free. So, drugged up on antibiotics I go to the cinema and contemplate my imminent departure of the western world. I am leaving behind comforts - things I recognise, a language I speak, a culture I comprehend. I am also leaving the country where I was lucky enough to spend 3 months with my sister, and however much I try to push to the back of my mind the missing, it is, of course, still there. Yet I know that soon I will be leaving, that time continues and I feel blessed for all I have been able to experience thus far.
Melbourne
Written about a month after my trip, the details are not too fresh. What struck me first about this city was how it felt: good. I could imagine living there from the moment we entered it, and again the thought crossed my mind that it is funny that you can get a fel for a place or person almost at first glance.
With tramlines, buses and many cars, Melbourne is quite a city to drive in . Luckily we didn't have far to go to reach the hotel (Josh might argue otherwise). The boat of a car just fit in the parking space, and before too long we were off to explore Melbourne.
A huge park along the Yarra River was the starting point, and it was impressive. Cricket pitches, observatory, war memorial (with great views) and the botanical gardens. As with Christchurch and Sydney, entry is free and the space it covered was quite large. Lorikeets (small parrots with very bright plumage) cawed and chirped over some prime fruit or nuts of one tree, presenting their beautiful feathers. Just a short distance away were skyscrapers but here we were among the wildlife.
Melbourne stretches out along the Yarra and outward further with various neighbourhoods to explore. It is a gorgeous city, full of little lanes that reveal anything from a dead-end to great grafitti, hole-in-the-wall cafes and eateries or a mass of tables and chairs belonging to numerous establishments serving a wide range of dishes. These laneways lend a magical air to the city - so many possibilities for discovery, like a hundred rabbit holes to fall down or secret gardens to unearth.
The people here seem so much friendlier than Sydneysiders. They smile more and even move slightly out of your way on the pavements. Melbourne is Montreal to Sydney's Toronto. There are so many funky places and independent bars and pubs and shops and artwork and really I would love to have had more time here. Maybe they need creative people in Melbourne...maybe my sister and I can live in the same country again!
One night was spent at the Telstra Dome, enjoying an AFL match. There are many different football games here. Rubgy (union & league), soccer (or football football as I like to call it) and then Aussie Rules. This fast-paced game takes place on an oval shaped pitch and can be rather frenetic, or one-sided depending on the skill of each team. The aim of the game is to kick the ball through the 4 poles at either end (preferably through the middle two for more points). You can run with the ball for a certain distance without bouncing it on the ground and can seemingly be tackled nearly any time. Other than that the rules are a complete mystery to me - all I know is that I like the game.
With Melbourne now holding a place in my heart but departure imminent, it was all too soon off to the airport. This is where one big culture shock occurred. On domestic flights it appears that not only can you bring food/drinks of varying sizes through security, but you could quite easily use someone else's ticket as no ID is asked for at any point along the way (though this may only be if you book online). This freedom seemed so odd and naive after the rigmarole of Canadian and U.S. domestic services, not to mention international ones.
Back to Sydney - and carrying bags once again. This return meant visits to some other regions - the Blue Mountains (which were impressive but it would have been nice to have some time to walk around properly rather than be ferried from photo-stop to photo-stop) and the Hunter Valley. This latter trip was to the verdant wine region, and was well worth it! We visited several vineyards, and tasted a lot of wine - all 100 times better than the wine in Maine. Some real gems were discovered, along with the fact that very few are available outside the country (unless you import them yourself) and the Australian wines generally available abroad - Penfolds, Rosemont, Yellow Tail etc. - are blends from all over Australia and controlled by the Rupert Murdoch of alcohol: Fosters.
So, although the beer here is generally rather lacking in taste and potency, the wine more than makes up for it. Just need to get a grasp on the very weird alcohol laws (no getting drunk, no serving those who are intoxicated, 10 minute periods every hour after something like 11 or 12 pm where you can only buy non-alcoholic beverages etc.) and all will be tickety-boo.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Sydney to Melbourne along the coastal road
A drive that takes you through a city and its suburbs to near-deserted beaches, verdant hills and valleys, dirt-tracks across mountains and across flat plains with grass so dry its turned into hay while still in the earth. We've only seen a small segment of this country but have already experienced a range of vegetation, animals and birds.
The first night was spent at Murramang National Park in a 'cabin' at Depot Beach where
wild yet very friendly Eastern Grey kangaroos let you pet them as they graze. Possums entertained us in the evening and brightly coloured birds wheeled about in the morning light. However idyllic the setting, sleep was hard to come by that night. There was a huge storm that pebble-dashed the roof and it sounded like various animals were sheltering underneath the cabin (I wouldn't blame them). Furthermore I had the weirdest dreams, from which I wake up abruptly, needing to pee and starting to over-analyse: are there spiders on the floor? Should I turn on the light? Why do things seem so different? etc. etc. etc. Back from the bathroom I lie there a long time, fermenting everything in my mind, tossing and turning in the heat, hiding from the lone buzzing mozzie announcing its hunger. Sleep is hard coming, but when it does I have a great dream that settles me nicely.
Being in Sydney (or any urban conurbation) it's easy to forget that wildlife here can kill you. Redbacks...Huntsman...Blue-ringed octopuses...box jellyfish...water snakes...sharks... Nature here really is dangerous. It can also be cute and cuddly. Kangaroo steaks are lean, delicious meat, but seeing a kanga lean in to your hand as you scratch under its neck does bring a nice warm feeling to your heart. And koalas hugging tees while sleeping or munching or sleeping are perhaps the most squidgy, cuddly creatures. With rip-arse claws. Maybe marsupials are the prime cute creatures. Wide-eyed, furry and pouch-endowed, their sweet little features beg you to hug them, stroke them, hold them...or maybe I miss Morpheus.
The drive to what ended up as Mallacoota was long but diverse. We passed vast stretches of beautiful beach with barely a soul on them – one had sand that squeaked! - and there were very few people on the roads. There is a motorway that can get you from Sydney to Melbourne in 12 hours, but the old coastal road is far more appealing if you have the time. Passing through several small towns, you can take 'tourist detours' (signposted with brown markers that show the length of said diversions) that take you through tiny villages or to incredibly scenic spots.
Having been advised to stay in Mallacoota (just across the border in Victoria) we stayed on the road (beleaguered with signs telling us to dump any fruit we had from New South Wales) until we got there, and it was quite a sight. This town has very few inhabitants (in the hundreds) until the tourist season begins around Christmas/New Year when the population swells to thousands. There is one of the largest caravan parks in the country here, and it seems to be inhabited most of the year round. The prime industry probably used to be fishing but in these hard times I'm not sure how much money the people are pulling in. The lakes on one side and the sea on the other make this a pretty little town, although it appeared that dining options were scare that night – only one place other than a small noodle house was open, and that was the restaurant at the motel we were staying at.
It was an interesting night. The whole town and its in-laws flocked to this bar/eatery and we were treated to a slice of life in small-town Australia. Girls wearing their best clothes out on a Monday night, a bunch of student-types, some older men wearing mechanic's overalls and those Aussie hats with the corks... lots of young families and several hardened gamblers.
Many pubs and bars in New South Wales (less so in Victoria I found) have this thing called TAB installed in them. Australia loves to place a bet, and TAB is the easiest way to do so. There are computer screens where you can make a myriad of wagers on anything from horse racing to the NHL, World Cup, boxing, probably even bowls. After a few drinks we got talking to some locals and ended up having a fun night before heading out on the next leg of the trip in the morning.
This is when we encountered the arid fields of Victoria. Hearing about bush fires, you can't help but wonder how anything can be so flammable. Driving across the small part of the state that we saw, it seems almost miraculous that it hadn't all gone up in flames. The grass and trees at the side of the road were so dry they looked close to the point of desiccation. These were no longer living plants – they were tinder. If someone chucked a glass bottle out of their car and the sun hit it the right way it would all go up in smoke. Add to this the eucalyptus trees that release highly flammable vapour up into the air and you can see why a bush fire here can spread in such a devastating, deadly manner. As we drove further into Victoria there were frequent fire warning signs, most of which were on amber or orange, though a few we passed were set to red.
Our destination was Philip Island, south of Melbourne and home to a race track and the Penguin March. Every night, around 8pm, the penguins come up the beach from the sea to socialize. They look hilarious...waddling along at a (generally) slow pace they often stop and just stand, sit or lie there before eventually becoming animated again and waddling off a little bit further. We were told it was their moulting season – it takes a lot of energy to rid themselves of those old feathers which makes them even slower than usual. Although the main attraction was down on the ground, one look up at the night sky was breathtaking. The skies were so clear and lacking in pollution that you could see the Milky Way spread out above you... such an awe-inspiring sight.
Melbourne was the final destination and it was reached the next day, after driving past the magnificently named Giant Worm attraction. I was hoping to see a huge Dune-like worm heaving its way through the ground but it appeared to simply be a man-made creation for children to walk through, so on we drove. As we got closer to Melbourne the roads got busier...and weirder, with tram lines, car parking in the left-hand lane (this was on a major road) and all manner of confusing signs. Eventually, with the help of our none too detailed map and a phone call to the hotel, we arrived. Time to explore Melbourne!
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