No, no, don't start sending me copious pictures of cats wearing shoes and/or other clothing or speculating on the cost of mailing Prozac cross-continentally, its not that bad. However, I seem to have come down with a mild case of Seasonal Affective Disorder. But Ellen, you say, Seasonal Affective Disorder is for people who live in cabins in Alaska where the lack of sunlight for six months of the year turns them into depressed alcoholics, and/or vampires depending on your level of interest in the movie "30 Days of Night," not young students studying abroad in sunny Australia. Well, Australia it may be, but sunny it is not at the moment (forgive my syntax, I am depressed you see). At the moment, changes are occurring in Melbourne. Leaves are turning colors and, more distressingly, falling. Days are cooler, nights are frigid, and I am suddenly overcome by urges to wear wool sweaters and to buy a beanie. This can only mean one thing: I am experiencing Fall. For the second time this year. Alarming, to say the least. Watching the days get shorter and colder is bad enough once a year, let alone twice, and the feeling is leaving me slightly well...off-kilter. This is not to say that this is all bad; generally speaking, I very much enjoy Fall. There is something to be said for curling up in bed with a good movie and a mug of tea on a rainy day, and I do love sweaters. Just not in May.
Fortunately, there is light at the end of the tunnel. At the end of June, once my exams are finally over, I'll be moving up to sunny Queensland, the Australian equivalent of Florida, where the sun is warm and the people are tacky. Sigh. Can't wait. Jamie and I will be playing house for a little over month, wherein I will perfect my 1950's housewife impression, and he will choke down cooking experiment after cooking experiment. Fortunately, I have chocolate chip cookies down pat (baking is an excellent activity when one is suffering from cabin fever) so if worse comes to worst, he can survive off of them.
So unfortunately, this means I won't be returning home to California until early August. I miss my family and friends with an emotional depth I wasn't sure I was capable of, but I'm very excited for what the near future has to bring me in Australia. And, gentle readers, this means the blogging will continue as Jamie and I settle into domestic bliss...or some vague approximation of it.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
In which geology finally pays off and Team America emerge victorious from Bus Trivia
Certain things come to mind when one thinks of Australia: kangaroos, koalas, that horrible Men at Work song, Vegemite, and the Outback. Upon my arrival in Australia, I vowed that, come hell or high water, I would make it into this vast expanse of desert, and last weekend I fulfilled my promise to myself.
In all of my previous travels around Australia, the plane has swung wide out over the ocean, only returning to land just before landing. This time, flying into Alice Springs, we had no choice but to fly over Australia's vast interior, an experience that gave me yet another reminder of how immensely vast this country is. As we touched down, I stared out across a vast plane of tiny tufted trees, looking like something out of a Dr Seuss novel, each spaced just far enough apart to cast its own individual shadow, giving the land a mottled look.
We checked into our hostel and spent the afternoon wandering around the bustling metropolis that is Alice Springs. PSYCH. "The Alice," as it is called by the locals is, generously, a sleepy town. We enjoyed a nice omelet brunch, accompanied by an old man sitting on the bench across the way playing a variety of popular tunes, ranging from "On the Road Again" to "Roxane." In the immortal words of Notting Hill, "surreal, but nice." There wasn't much to see in the Alice so after a little souvenir shopping we headed back to the room to prepare for our 6 am wakeup the next day.
We met up with our guide, a diminutive Kiwi named Sam, before the sun came up Friday morning, and as we drove out to Uluri-Kata Tjuta National Park the sun rose to the strains of AC/DC's "Highway to Hell." To say the sunrise was spectacular would be an enormous understatement. It began as a single red ember just above the horizon, glowing hotly. Then, slowly, it began to send out tendrils, like ink dispersing in water, until soon the entire sky was bloodred. This only lasted for a few moments before the sky reverted to its normal electric blue, but its a mental snapshot that will stay with me forever.
We played a couple getting to know you games on the bus, and the group of 4 other Americans I was traveling with was quickly nicknamed "Team America," setting the stage for the intense inter-country rivalries that were to characterize the trip. Before long, we arrived at our first stop, King's Canyon, and the dreaded Heart Attack Hill. The journey from the ground to the top of the canyon is undertaken in one fell swoop during which you scrabble as quickly as your lungs will allow up steep "stairs" aka rocks. Fortunately the view on top was incredible. Sheer nothingness goes on forever in any direction, the only break in the monotony was a tin-roofed Aboriginal settlement glinting in the distance. As we began to navigate the perimeter of the canyon, Sam began to explain to us the geological processes that occurred to shape features such a King's Canyon, and how those intersect with the Aboriginal creation philosohpies, known collectively as Dreamtime stories. According to Aboriginal Dreamtime legends, the geological formations were created by giant humans, animals, and human-animal hybrids who wandered the landscape long before any of us arrived. It was simply fascinating to hear about the Aboriginal lore, as well as the ways in which these people learned to survive off this seemingly barren landscape. Fun fact: Having no written language, Aborignal people passed down incredibly vast amounts of information on survival techniques orally. However, this knowledge had to come from some trial and error. In order to figure out which varieties of seemingly inedible plants were edible and which were poisonous (hint: everything in Australia is poisonous), early Aboriginal peoples needed guinea pigs. They couldn't use the children, because even before "The Greatest Love of All" was released, they knew the children were the future. They couldn't use young or young-ish people because they were the hunters and gatherers, and the tribe depended on them for survival. And the old men were out of the question because they were tjilpi, or elders. They couldn't even test them on animals, because animals are scarce in the death, and why would you poison a perfectly good kangaroo/lizard when you could eat it. So, you guessed it. Sorry Grandma. At least as they died, presumably horrible, painful deaths writhing in agony, the old women knew they were providing useful knowledge to future generations.
After King's Canyon, we headed to our first campsite, where we were introduced to swags. A swag is simply a large sack that you put your sleeping bag into and zip up around yourself. Basically a glorified body bag, but surprisingly comfortable. And one advatnage of sleeping in a giant sack is that you are free to roll over and stare up at the MULTITUDE of stars.
The next day we headed to Kata Tjuta, which means "Many Heads" in the native Aboriginal language. Nearly everything in Aboriginal culture is divided into Women's Business or Men's Business. Men hunted while women gathered. No women's lib here ladies, sorry. Due to the incredibly difficulties of day to day survival, this division of labor was integral to the survival of the tribe. Everything was separated, including sacred sites. Kata Tjuta is a men's sacred site, and to this day, it would be incredibly poor form for an Aboriginal woman to visit. Much of the lore surrounding exactly why this site is a "men's" site or even why it is so holy is highly privileged information, and as none of us had completed our six months in the desert living off the land, it was unfortunately off limits for us. Regardless, it was completely awe inspiring and we again found ourselves scrabbling around on steep rock faces (Sam's helpful advice being to "run," because running up sheer rock is so simple). The views, again, were spectacular, and the climbs were, as always, completely worth it.
After roaming around Kata Tjuta for a bit longer we headed back to camp, after a stop off at a cattle farm the size of Denmark...or Belgium. I can't quite recall...Regardless, I think Team America made great strides in inter-country relations by NOT purchasing any alcohol, obviously because we prefer to sip a nice cold glass of lemonade and discuss relevant current events. Actually, we were just broke and the store didn't sell goon. Oh well, we did introduce everyone to s'mores around the campfire, so if that's not extending the cultural olive branch than I don't know what else.
The next morning (after being woken up by dingos) we headed for Uluru, the largest single rock in the entire world. Now rocks can get pretty big. We've all seen boulders, after all. Safe to say, Uluru puts them all to shame. Its 9.4 kilometers around and 348 meters high...above ground. It is estimated that Uluru extends at least 2.5 kilometers into the ground. All one solid, unbroken piece of rock. As you might imagine, its pretty awe-inspiring to stand at its base. We watched the sun rise and set over Uluru, changing colors on the rock face, and walked around the base of it, really gaining an appreciation for how huge and variegated this enormous rock is. One thing that attracts many people to this site is the opportunity to climb Uluru. Over 40,000 people climbed Uluru last year, out of nearly 400,000 visitors. If this doesn't seem like a lot, that's a good thing. Traditionally, Uluru is where boys who have just finished their Walkabout (6 months or more wandering in the desert living off the land)go to become initiated men. They climb Uluru to receive sacred knowledge, and it is very disrespectful for anyone else to make the climb. Unfortunately, respecting indigenous cultures has never been incredibly high on the importance list of most western cultures, and many people climb regardless, fueled by that desperate need to summit tall things (see Everest, Kilimanjaro, et al). If disrespecting one of the oldest cultures in existence isn't enough to deter you, consider the danger. The climb is incredibly steep and difficult, and the last person to die attempting the climb occurred just a week before we got there. If extreme danger isn't enough, consider the environment. Thousands of people climbing the rock every year adds up to a lot of human waste. Yup, human waste. As in poop and worse. And when it rains, all that poop etc washes off the top of the rock and into the waterholes located on either side of Uluru. One has become so pulluted that animals won't drink from it anymore. And when animals turn down water in a DESERT, its a problem. Side note: yeah, that's also the equivalent of walking into a cathedral, mosque, or synagogue and taking a nice dump on the floor. Real classy. But if extreme danger, disastrous environmental impact and intense cultural disrespect are your cup of tea, giddy up. Adding insult to injury, its incredibly important to Aboriginal people to protect visitors to their land. If someone dies on your land, its a huge problem for you, because it means you didn't do everything within your power to keep them alive ie show them your water sources, make sure they have food, keep them from climbing an incredibly dangerous, incredibly sacred rock. So for all of these people who don't heed the numerous warnings, both about the dangers of the climb and the incredible cultural significance of the rock, and die in the process, the Aboriginals must perform a sorrow ceremony because they consider it THEIR FAULT that you were a disrespectful idiot. Yikes.
Fortunately, no one from our group decided to do the climb and we appreciated Uluru from the safe, respectful ground. On the five hour bus ride back to Alice Springs, we were all starting to go a little stir crazy so we decided to have a "friendly" little game of trivia. Some of you may know my affinity for, and bizarre skills in the realm of obscure knowledge. I am happy to say, despite some stiff competition from "Cup o' Tea" aka the Brit, "Oh my God" Team America emerged victorious, no small thanks to the hours I have spent this semester wishing I were dead in Geology class. So thank you, crazy Dr. White, and also thank you to my incredibly obscure memory which allows me to remember not only who broke the sound barrier but also what an alluvial fan is.
All in all the Outback was amazing. The rocks were red, the sky was blue, the flies were abundant and aggressive, (at one point we had a contest to see who could accumulate the most flies on them without moving. I won, with eight on my shin alone, thank you, thank you) and frankly, that's good enough for me.
In all of my previous travels around Australia, the plane has swung wide out over the ocean, only returning to land just before landing. This time, flying into Alice Springs, we had no choice but to fly over Australia's vast interior, an experience that gave me yet another reminder of how immensely vast this country is. As we touched down, I stared out across a vast plane of tiny tufted trees, looking like something out of a Dr Seuss novel, each spaced just far enough apart to cast its own individual shadow, giving the land a mottled look.
We checked into our hostel and spent the afternoon wandering around the bustling metropolis that is Alice Springs. PSYCH. "The Alice," as it is called by the locals is, generously, a sleepy town. We enjoyed a nice omelet brunch, accompanied by an old man sitting on the bench across the way playing a variety of popular tunes, ranging from "On the Road Again" to "Roxane." In the immortal words of Notting Hill, "surreal, but nice." There wasn't much to see in the Alice so after a little souvenir shopping we headed back to the room to prepare for our 6 am wakeup the next day.
We met up with our guide, a diminutive Kiwi named Sam, before the sun came up Friday morning, and as we drove out to Uluri-Kata Tjuta National Park the sun rose to the strains of AC/DC's "Highway to Hell." To say the sunrise was spectacular would be an enormous understatement. It began as a single red ember just above the horizon, glowing hotly. Then, slowly, it began to send out tendrils, like ink dispersing in water, until soon the entire sky was bloodred. This only lasted for a few moments before the sky reverted to its normal electric blue, but its a mental snapshot that will stay with me forever.
We played a couple getting to know you games on the bus, and the group of 4 other Americans I was traveling with was quickly nicknamed "Team America," setting the stage for the intense inter-country rivalries that were to characterize the trip. Before long, we arrived at our first stop, King's Canyon, and the dreaded Heart Attack Hill. The journey from the ground to the top of the canyon is undertaken in one fell swoop during which you scrabble as quickly as your lungs will allow up steep "stairs" aka rocks. Fortunately the view on top was incredible. Sheer nothingness goes on forever in any direction, the only break in the monotony was a tin-roofed Aboriginal settlement glinting in the distance. As we began to navigate the perimeter of the canyon, Sam began to explain to us the geological processes that occurred to shape features such a King's Canyon, and how those intersect with the Aboriginal creation philosohpies, known collectively as Dreamtime stories. According to Aboriginal Dreamtime legends, the geological formations were created by giant humans, animals, and human-animal hybrids who wandered the landscape long before any of us arrived. It was simply fascinating to hear about the Aboriginal lore, as well as the ways in which these people learned to survive off this seemingly barren landscape. Fun fact: Having no written language, Aborignal people passed down incredibly vast amounts of information on survival techniques orally. However, this knowledge had to come from some trial and error. In order to figure out which varieties of seemingly inedible plants were edible and which were poisonous (hint: everything in Australia is poisonous), early Aboriginal peoples needed guinea pigs. They couldn't use the children, because even before "The Greatest Love of All" was released, they knew the children were the future. They couldn't use young or young-ish people because they were the hunters and gatherers, and the tribe depended on them for survival. And the old men were out of the question because they were tjilpi, or elders. They couldn't even test them on animals, because animals are scarce in the death, and why would you poison a perfectly good kangaroo/lizard when you could eat it. So, you guessed it. Sorry Grandma. At least as they died, presumably horrible, painful deaths writhing in agony, the old women knew they were providing useful knowledge to future generations.
After King's Canyon, we headed to our first campsite, where we were introduced to swags. A swag is simply a large sack that you put your sleeping bag into and zip up around yourself. Basically a glorified body bag, but surprisingly comfortable. And one advatnage of sleeping in a giant sack is that you are free to roll over and stare up at the MULTITUDE of stars.
The next day we headed to Kata Tjuta, which means "Many Heads" in the native Aboriginal language. Nearly everything in Aboriginal culture is divided into Women's Business or Men's Business. Men hunted while women gathered. No women's lib here ladies, sorry. Due to the incredibly difficulties of day to day survival, this division of labor was integral to the survival of the tribe. Everything was separated, including sacred sites. Kata Tjuta is a men's sacred site, and to this day, it would be incredibly poor form for an Aboriginal woman to visit. Much of the lore surrounding exactly why this site is a "men's" site or even why it is so holy is highly privileged information, and as none of us had completed our six months in the desert living off the land, it was unfortunately off limits for us. Regardless, it was completely awe inspiring and we again found ourselves scrabbling around on steep rock faces (Sam's helpful advice being to "run," because running up sheer rock is so simple). The views, again, were spectacular, and the climbs were, as always, completely worth it.
After roaming around Kata Tjuta for a bit longer we headed back to camp, after a stop off at a cattle farm the size of Denmark...or Belgium. I can't quite recall...Regardless, I think Team America made great strides in inter-country relations by NOT purchasing any alcohol, obviously because we prefer to sip a nice cold glass of lemonade and discuss relevant current events. Actually, we were just broke and the store didn't sell goon. Oh well, we did introduce everyone to s'mores around the campfire, so if that's not extending the cultural olive branch than I don't know what else.
The next morning (after being woken up by dingos) we headed for Uluru, the largest single rock in the entire world. Now rocks can get pretty big. We've all seen boulders, after all. Safe to say, Uluru puts them all to shame. Its 9.4 kilometers around and 348 meters high...above ground. It is estimated that Uluru extends at least 2.5 kilometers into the ground. All one solid, unbroken piece of rock. As you might imagine, its pretty awe-inspiring to stand at its base. We watched the sun rise and set over Uluru, changing colors on the rock face, and walked around the base of it, really gaining an appreciation for how huge and variegated this enormous rock is. One thing that attracts many people to this site is the opportunity to climb Uluru. Over 40,000 people climbed Uluru last year, out of nearly 400,000 visitors. If this doesn't seem like a lot, that's a good thing. Traditionally, Uluru is where boys who have just finished their Walkabout (6 months or more wandering in the desert living off the land)go to become initiated men. They climb Uluru to receive sacred knowledge, and it is very disrespectful for anyone else to make the climb. Unfortunately, respecting indigenous cultures has never been incredibly high on the importance list of most western cultures, and many people climb regardless, fueled by that desperate need to summit tall things (see Everest, Kilimanjaro, et al). If disrespecting one of the oldest cultures in existence isn't enough to deter you, consider the danger. The climb is incredibly steep and difficult, and the last person to die attempting the climb occurred just a week before we got there. If extreme danger isn't enough, consider the environment. Thousands of people climbing the rock every year adds up to a lot of human waste. Yup, human waste. As in poop and worse. And when it rains, all that poop etc washes off the top of the rock and into the waterholes located on either side of Uluru. One has become so pulluted that animals won't drink from it anymore. And when animals turn down water in a DESERT, its a problem. Side note: yeah, that's also the equivalent of walking into a cathedral, mosque, or synagogue and taking a nice dump on the floor. Real classy. But if extreme danger, disastrous environmental impact and intense cultural disrespect are your cup of tea, giddy up. Adding insult to injury, its incredibly important to Aboriginal people to protect visitors to their land. If someone dies on your land, its a huge problem for you, because it means you didn't do everything within your power to keep them alive ie show them your water sources, make sure they have food, keep them from climbing an incredibly dangerous, incredibly sacred rock. So for all of these people who don't heed the numerous warnings, both about the dangers of the climb and the incredible cultural significance of the rock, and die in the process, the Aboriginals must perform a sorrow ceremony because they consider it THEIR FAULT that you were a disrespectful idiot. Yikes.
Fortunately, no one from our group decided to do the climb and we appreciated Uluru from the safe, respectful ground. On the five hour bus ride back to Alice Springs, we were all starting to go a little stir crazy so we decided to have a "friendly" little game of trivia. Some of you may know my affinity for, and bizarre skills in the realm of obscure knowledge. I am happy to say, despite some stiff competition from "Cup o' Tea" aka the Brit, "Oh my God" Team America emerged victorious, no small thanks to the hours I have spent this semester wishing I were dead in Geology class. So thank you, crazy Dr. White, and also thank you to my incredibly obscure memory which allows me to remember not only who broke the sound barrier but also what an alluvial fan is.
All in all the Outback was amazing. The rocks were red, the sky was blue, the flies were abundant and aggressive, (at one point we had a contest to see who could accumulate the most flies on them without moving. I won, with eight on my shin alone, thank you, thank you) and frankly, that's good enough for me.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
I which I give all the gnus that's fit to sprint
Sundays have always been my favorite day of the week. Ever since I was little, Sundays have been special. We would wake up early in the morning and head to church. My Dad would leave early to sing in the choir, meaning that whoever strategically placed themselves in his car on the way home often could persuade him to stop for donuts. After changing out of church clothes, we would head up to my grandparent's house in the foothills of San Jose, listening to Garrison Keillor on the radio on the way there. I always used to love going to Grandma and Grandpa's because I was allowed to feast on all kinds of junk food, Pringles and sour cream and onion dip, and (my favorite) Stouffer's microwaved macaroni and cheese, which in my organic household of origin, was manna from heaven. Grandma, Mom, Laurel and I would sit around the kitchen table and play round after round of cards, laughing, joking, and eating, while my father and grandfather barbequed on the back patio, and (I'm assuming) talked of manly things. When they deemed the meat cooked, we all gathered around their table and ate together. We would drive home when it was dark, and sometimes I would pretend to be asleep in the back seat just so that my Dad would carry me inside to bed.
That ritual has long since ended. My sister and I have moved away, and my grandparents now live in a retirement community only about a ten minute drive from my house, and my parents see them often. Now, they accompany my parents to church, and my grandfather dutifully pulls the car around front while my mother waits with my grandmother and her walker. There is no place for weekly donuts in my father's new healthy diet.
But the idea that Sunday is a day that is different from the rest has remained with me, long since those pilgrimages to visit my grandparents have ended. I still treat Sundays as special, a time for a reflection on the week that has just ended or on the one that is about to begin. So after that, the longest lead-in ever, I have realized through this Sunday-time reflection that I have not spoken at all about my trip to Tasmania, one of the coolest places I have ever been. So, here I go, and if you haven't guessed yet, I'm feeling a bit long-winded today, so pull up a chair and get comfortable.
DAY 1: Flight, Launceston, Cataract Gorge
Kara and I flew in from Brisbane along with two other IES-ers, Holly and Eileen at 1 am. By the time Holly, Eileen and I got home to Bundoora, it was almost two in the morning. Oh did I mention we had to be back at the airport at 6 am? I didn't, did I? Yes, we did. We had barely enough time to unpack, repack, think to ourselves "Sweet Jesus, I'm tired" and get back in a cab. Fortunately, the flight was short and everyone's excitement at going to Tasmania was enough to create a false sense of alertness, at least for the time being. We hit the ground running when we arrived in Launceston and headed for Cataract Gorge, a truly gorgeous canyon-like rock formation. We were gruffly prodded into a chairlift over the gorge by a crotchety old man with a cast on his leg that I tried to convince myself couldn't have possibly been from a chairlift-related injury. Before I knew it, Kara and I were swinging 50 feet above the ground, clinging to the flimsy safety bar and hoping no strong winds would arise. The chairlift deposited us at the "top" of the gorge and we wandered around amongst the spectacular views for a time before returning to our bus and our gloomy old bus driver, Glen.
DAY 2: Wineglass Bay and the Sexually Ambiguous Berry Farmer
The next day we went to Freycinet National Park to hike to Wineglass Bay, one of the Top Ten Most Beautiful Beaches (according to who, I don't know, but still impressive). When we arrived, we pulled up essentially at the foot of a mountain and were informed the beach was "over there." As in over the mountain. Did I mention one of the reasons this beach has stayed so pristine is because its only accessible by foot or boat? And I'm guessing another reason is because only a select few hikers actually make it to the bay because so many of them DIE in the attempt. We gamely started upwards, occasionally judging our progress by the mountain face looming above us. When we finally reached the summit, sweating and winded, we finally understood the warning our guide gave us before setting out: "the downhill is worse than the uphill." We stared down below us at literally just a field of boulders paving an incredibly steep incline which we quickly nicknamed "the stairway to hell." Fortunately it was all worth it when gorgeous Wineglass Bay stretched out beneath us. Pure white sand, beautiful turquoise water, and even a couple friendly wallabies combined to make this one of the coolest picnics I've ever had. After a treacherous climb back over the mountain, we met up with Glen, who had opted out of the climb, and headed off to Kate's Berry Farm for some fresh scones and jam. The scones were hot from the oven, the jam was the best I've tasted, and came from the berry fields that stretched out in front of us as we ate, and "Kate" may at one point have been Kevin. Regardless, he/she can make a damn fine jam and it was a welcome treat after conquering that mountain.
That night we went to Port Arther for a ghost tour. As most of you know, Australia began as a penal colony where English criminals would be sent, occasionally for such menial crimes as stealing a loaf of bread. Over time, the convicts essentially mingled with the free Australians, often being hired out as labor for farmers and for the most part became just part of the scenery(fun fact: Kevin Rudd,Australia's current Prime Minister, is descended from a convict). Except when they didn't. Apparently being sent thousands of miles from home for minor crimes was not enough to reform some criminal, who continued to break rules whilst incarcerated. These lovely fellows were then sent to Port Arthur, where presumably many of them continue to hang around as ghosts today. Our guide, Todd, was a lovely chap who was particularly fond of acting out some of the various ghostly encounters he's had over the years, complete with gender-specific screaming. He told us repeatedly that he was magnet for these spirits, particularly the bad ones, but not to worry, because he had a magic amulet (I'm not kidding) that would protect him. Unfortunately, the rest of us were amulet-less, and therefore apparently out of luck. He described one particularly unpleasant ghostly encounter experienced, called, reassuringly a "death echo." The story goes that a female prisoner had committed suicide by throwing herself off the roof of the hospital building. Occasionally, when people walked under it, they experienced the echo of her death, which allegedly feels like your entire body is being submerged in freezing goo, and, if Todd's impression is to be believed, involves lots of shuddering. Fortunately, our group was death echo-less, and the scariest moment for us occurred in the Separate Prison. The "Separate Prison" is a polite name for "the prison that will without a doubt render you completely insane, if you weren't when you got here." It was essentially a huge solitary confinement wing, where you were sent if you were bad. So let's review: you were sent to Australia because you were bad in England, you were sent to Port Arthur because you were bad in Australia, and now you're being sent to the Separate Prison because you were bad in Port Arthur?? We are dealing with some seriously sick puppies in the Separate Prison. Right as Todd finished telling a story about the ghost of a convicted rapist who occasionally shows up behind tour groups and attempts to drag women back into the dark passages behind us, we heard footsteps. As I did not want to be ghost-raped, I quickly burrowed into the center of our tour group attempting to create a buffer zone of more desirable targets between me and the ghost. Todd thought it was just the wind, but we still beat a hasty retreat from the Separate Prison.
DAY 3 Port Arthur in the Daytime and an Encounter with THE DEVIL
The next morning we headed back to Port Arthur, for the non-ghostly aspect. It was actually quite a pretty place and we happily enjoyed a quick tour and did some wandering. One of the sadder chapters in Australia's history occurred at Port Arthur in 1996, when a lone gunman opened fire in the cafe, and over the course of a day, killed 35 people both at the historic site and in the surrounding area. Several Port Arthur employees were killed that day, and though pamphlets are provided, visitors are asked not to ask their guides about the events, as it remains an incredibly difficult topic for most employees. The Port Arthur Massacre is the reason why Australia's gun control laws are now some of the toughest in the world.
After leaving Port Arthur (and listening to Glen's gruesome monologue about the massacre, thanks for that) we headed to the Tasmanian Devil Conservation Park to see some of the famous animals. One word: YIKES. They are truly alarming animals. We happened upon their enclosure right about feeding time, and let me tell you, if you have never heard the sound of bone being crunched, its horrifying. Apparently his meal of AN ENTIRE RABBIT left this particular devil in an amorous mood, as he then tackled a nearby female, bit her on the back, and dragged her with his teeth back to his den, where he began the not-so-elaborate Tassie devil courting ritual, aka gnawing on her stomach. As we watched in horror, the keeper (whose job I do not envy) chuckled and made a comment about romance being dead. Indeed, sir. We quickly moved away, not wanting to see what was going to happen next, and moved past several pairs of fighting devils (apparently, that's all they do) and into the enclosure where you could pet kangaroos, who fortunately did not at any time do anything terrifying, a nice change.
DAY 4 Mt Wellington Descent of Death, and then a near death experience at the world's most low budget ghost tour
Mt Wellington is a 1200 metre mountain in Tasmania that we were informed we would be mountain-biking down. It was a completely beautiful view at the top, but very cold so we quickly snapped pictures and then resumed huddling together for warmth, before hopping on our bikes for the white-knuckle trip down the mountain. A truly amazing, albeit terrifying experience.
That night, Kara, Randy, Asha and I decided that we would forgo the drag show (apparently that is considered normal nightlife in Hobart) in favor of another ghost tour. We figured, hey, we enjoyed the last one (near-ghost-rape aside) why not try another one?? So we headed off to the Hobart Prison where we met our tour guide/ticket taker/director of the whole enterprise/maybe just a bored night security man, Brendan. Brendan directed us up the hall to wait "with the others," a phrase that caused us to think perhaps we were being led to our doom, which would turn out to be a pretty fair assumption. We wandered down the hall to a small room with folding chairs placed at random through it, and a bulletin board with the words "ghost experiences" hand-written on the top. No one ever accused Brendan of having extravagant taste. We waited "with the others" until Brendan showed up and began the tour. To say that his delivery was 'deadpan" would be an exxageration. We began to suspect that Brendan was himself a ghost, a suspicion that was confirmed when he pointed to a picture of a prisoner named Isaac who died in a fire who looked EXACTLY LIKE HIM. This was the point in the tour when we began giving Brendan/Isaac a wide(r) berth and noting our exits. This was also approximately the time that Brendan/Isaac started "jokingly" trying to lock us in cells. Several times. Not at all funny. After this harrowing experience, we decided we had had quite enough of Hobart, but it was just in time, because we were leaving the next day for Melbourne.
Altogether the trip was amazing. Australians love to hate on Tassie for being "bogan" aka hick, but I loved every second of my time there.
So there you have it: My trip to Tasmania. I leave on Thursday for a trip to the Outback, so maybe you'll hear about that one some time in June...
That ritual has long since ended. My sister and I have moved away, and my grandparents now live in a retirement community only about a ten minute drive from my house, and my parents see them often. Now, they accompany my parents to church, and my grandfather dutifully pulls the car around front while my mother waits with my grandmother and her walker. There is no place for weekly donuts in my father's new healthy diet.
But the idea that Sunday is a day that is different from the rest has remained with me, long since those pilgrimages to visit my grandparents have ended. I still treat Sundays as special, a time for a reflection on the week that has just ended or on the one that is about to begin. So after that, the longest lead-in ever, I have realized through this Sunday-time reflection that I have not spoken at all about my trip to Tasmania, one of the coolest places I have ever been. So, here I go, and if you haven't guessed yet, I'm feeling a bit long-winded today, so pull up a chair and get comfortable.
DAY 1: Flight, Launceston, Cataract Gorge
Kara and I flew in from Brisbane along with two other IES-ers, Holly and Eileen at 1 am. By the time Holly, Eileen and I got home to Bundoora, it was almost two in the morning. Oh did I mention we had to be back at the airport at 6 am? I didn't, did I? Yes, we did. We had barely enough time to unpack, repack, think to ourselves "Sweet Jesus, I'm tired" and get back in a cab. Fortunately, the flight was short and everyone's excitement at going to Tasmania was enough to create a false sense of alertness, at least for the time being. We hit the ground running when we arrived in Launceston and headed for Cataract Gorge, a truly gorgeous canyon-like rock formation. We were gruffly prodded into a chairlift over the gorge by a crotchety old man with a cast on his leg that I tried to convince myself couldn't have possibly been from a chairlift-related injury. Before I knew it, Kara and I were swinging 50 feet above the ground, clinging to the flimsy safety bar and hoping no strong winds would arise. The chairlift deposited us at the "top" of the gorge and we wandered around amongst the spectacular views for a time before returning to our bus and our gloomy old bus driver, Glen.
DAY 2: Wineglass Bay and the Sexually Ambiguous Berry Farmer
The next day we went to Freycinet National Park to hike to Wineglass Bay, one of the Top Ten Most Beautiful Beaches (according to who, I don't know, but still impressive). When we arrived, we pulled up essentially at the foot of a mountain and were informed the beach was "over there." As in over the mountain. Did I mention one of the reasons this beach has stayed so pristine is because its only accessible by foot or boat? And I'm guessing another reason is because only a select few hikers actually make it to the bay because so many of them DIE in the attempt. We gamely started upwards, occasionally judging our progress by the mountain face looming above us. When we finally reached the summit, sweating and winded, we finally understood the warning our guide gave us before setting out: "the downhill is worse than the uphill." We stared down below us at literally just a field of boulders paving an incredibly steep incline which we quickly nicknamed "the stairway to hell." Fortunately it was all worth it when gorgeous Wineglass Bay stretched out beneath us. Pure white sand, beautiful turquoise water, and even a couple friendly wallabies combined to make this one of the coolest picnics I've ever had. After a treacherous climb back over the mountain, we met up with Glen, who had opted out of the climb, and headed off to Kate's Berry Farm for some fresh scones and jam. The scones were hot from the oven, the jam was the best I've tasted, and came from the berry fields that stretched out in front of us as we ate, and "Kate" may at one point have been Kevin. Regardless, he/she can make a damn fine jam and it was a welcome treat after conquering that mountain.
That night we went to Port Arther for a ghost tour. As most of you know, Australia began as a penal colony where English criminals would be sent, occasionally for such menial crimes as stealing a loaf of bread. Over time, the convicts essentially mingled with the free Australians, often being hired out as labor for farmers and for the most part became just part of the scenery(fun fact: Kevin Rudd,Australia's current Prime Minister, is descended from a convict). Except when they didn't. Apparently being sent thousands of miles from home for minor crimes was not enough to reform some criminal, who continued to break rules whilst incarcerated. These lovely fellows were then sent to Port Arthur, where presumably many of them continue to hang around as ghosts today. Our guide, Todd, was a lovely chap who was particularly fond of acting out some of the various ghostly encounters he's had over the years, complete with gender-specific screaming. He told us repeatedly that he was magnet for these spirits, particularly the bad ones, but not to worry, because he had a magic amulet (I'm not kidding) that would protect him. Unfortunately, the rest of us were amulet-less, and therefore apparently out of luck. He described one particularly unpleasant ghostly encounter experienced, called, reassuringly a "death echo." The story goes that a female prisoner had committed suicide by throwing herself off the roof of the hospital building. Occasionally, when people walked under it, they experienced the echo of her death, which allegedly feels like your entire body is being submerged in freezing goo, and, if Todd's impression is to be believed, involves lots of shuddering. Fortunately, our group was death echo-less, and the scariest moment for us occurred in the Separate Prison. The "Separate Prison" is a polite name for "the prison that will without a doubt render you completely insane, if you weren't when you got here." It was essentially a huge solitary confinement wing, where you were sent if you were bad. So let's review: you were sent to Australia because you were bad in England, you were sent to Port Arthur because you were bad in Australia, and now you're being sent to the Separate Prison because you were bad in Port Arthur?? We are dealing with some seriously sick puppies in the Separate Prison. Right as Todd finished telling a story about the ghost of a convicted rapist who occasionally shows up behind tour groups and attempts to drag women back into the dark passages behind us, we heard footsteps. As I did not want to be ghost-raped, I quickly burrowed into the center of our tour group attempting to create a buffer zone of more desirable targets between me and the ghost. Todd thought it was just the wind, but we still beat a hasty retreat from the Separate Prison.
DAY 3 Port Arthur in the Daytime and an Encounter with THE DEVIL
The next morning we headed back to Port Arthur, for the non-ghostly aspect. It was actually quite a pretty place and we happily enjoyed a quick tour and did some wandering. One of the sadder chapters in Australia's history occurred at Port Arthur in 1996, when a lone gunman opened fire in the cafe, and over the course of a day, killed 35 people both at the historic site and in the surrounding area. Several Port Arthur employees were killed that day, and though pamphlets are provided, visitors are asked not to ask their guides about the events, as it remains an incredibly difficult topic for most employees. The Port Arthur Massacre is the reason why Australia's gun control laws are now some of the toughest in the world.
After leaving Port Arthur (and listening to Glen's gruesome monologue about the massacre, thanks for that) we headed to the Tasmanian Devil Conservation Park to see some of the famous animals. One word: YIKES. They are truly alarming animals. We happened upon their enclosure right about feeding time, and let me tell you, if you have never heard the sound of bone being crunched, its horrifying. Apparently his meal of AN ENTIRE RABBIT left this particular devil in an amorous mood, as he then tackled a nearby female, bit her on the back, and dragged her with his teeth back to his den, where he began the not-so-elaborate Tassie devil courting ritual, aka gnawing on her stomach. As we watched in horror, the keeper (whose job I do not envy) chuckled and made a comment about romance being dead. Indeed, sir. We quickly moved away, not wanting to see what was going to happen next, and moved past several pairs of fighting devils (apparently, that's all they do) and into the enclosure where you could pet kangaroos, who fortunately did not at any time do anything terrifying, a nice change.
DAY 4 Mt Wellington Descent of Death, and then a near death experience at the world's most low budget ghost tour
Mt Wellington is a 1200 metre mountain in Tasmania that we were informed we would be mountain-biking down. It was a completely beautiful view at the top, but very cold so we quickly snapped pictures and then resumed huddling together for warmth, before hopping on our bikes for the white-knuckle trip down the mountain. A truly amazing, albeit terrifying experience.
That night, Kara, Randy, Asha and I decided that we would forgo the drag show (apparently that is considered normal nightlife in Hobart) in favor of another ghost tour. We figured, hey, we enjoyed the last one (near-ghost-rape aside) why not try another one?? So we headed off to the Hobart Prison where we met our tour guide/ticket taker/director of the whole enterprise/maybe just a bored night security man, Brendan. Brendan directed us up the hall to wait "with the others," a phrase that caused us to think perhaps we were being led to our doom, which would turn out to be a pretty fair assumption. We wandered down the hall to a small room with folding chairs placed at random through it, and a bulletin board with the words "ghost experiences" hand-written on the top. No one ever accused Brendan of having extravagant taste. We waited "with the others" until Brendan showed up and began the tour. To say that his delivery was 'deadpan" would be an exxageration. We began to suspect that Brendan was himself a ghost, a suspicion that was confirmed when he pointed to a picture of a prisoner named Isaac who died in a fire who looked EXACTLY LIKE HIM. This was the point in the tour when we began giving Brendan/Isaac a wide(r) berth and noting our exits. This was also approximately the time that Brendan/Isaac started "jokingly" trying to lock us in cells. Several times. Not at all funny. After this harrowing experience, we decided we had had quite enough of Hobart, but it was just in time, because we were leaving the next day for Melbourne.
Altogether the trip was amazing. Australians love to hate on Tassie for being "bogan" aka hick, but I loved every second of my time there.
So there you have it: My trip to Tasmania. I leave on Thursday for a trip to the Outback, so maybe you'll hear about that one some time in June...
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