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...
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