Australia(I)

Richard W. Frank

Australia (I)

On Saturday I hopped a plan over to the mainland. Flying over Melbourne was like looking at the intricate web of circuits on a compute chip. Flew over Waverley Park and saw the stage set for the night's U2 concert. I dropped my stuff at a Chinatown hostel and met two Danish girls also going to the concert. Miraculously, here were still tickets and we were taken to Pop's seventh heaven.

The next day was a tornado of activity. Two friends I traveled Greece and Turkey with picked me up and whisked me around town. Enjoyed the glitz of South Yarra, the Sunday craft market of St Kilda Beach, and lying on a park lawn listening to a percussion band and trying not to laugh at the white crusties in mismatched flowing clothes trying to dance-some things are indeed universal. Had my first slurpee in about a decade and ate an awesome homemade meal while watching a video---ahhh the good life!!

Looking forward to going diving out at Sorrento tomorrow with my first try at using Nitrox air mixture. Maximum bottom time, dude! Last night as the bats flew in the twilight sky I caught a lighthearted production of ""The Taming of the Shrew."" I really like this town. There is an endless array of sidewalk cafes, arts, music and gardens. See how long I stay.

Man, this did turn out to be a dissertation. For all of you that stuck with it, thanks. All this may sound tedious and repetitious, but I am having a darn good time doing it. Thanks for all the letters and forwarded jokes (I really do not have time to read all the jokes though). Must go and throw myself back into the maelstrom.

Fair Dinkum!

Onwards to Australia (II)

Back to World Trip #1

Back to New Zealand (IV)

Watching the Super Bowl at 10am

Continental Drifter

I finally lost touch with reality on the seventh day of my backpacking trip in Tasmania. I cannot say exactly when, but, in retrospect, the feeling was unmistakable. The fragile house of cards of civilization laboriously built up over the last fifty centuries or so collapsed with a sigh as I trudged through the mud regressing to a state of reaction instead of interaction. Thought ceased. All was instinct. I was Mud Man nomadic hunter-gatherer. I grunted at the buzzing flies, the rolling hills cast around me, the plants that reached out to shred my shins like a kind of natural purgative, lashing me for my sins.

I know that I am over dramatizing things, but it serves to display the contrasts I have so far witnessed in Australia. My introduction to he land of Oz was akin to returning home. I felt myself easing into the swing of things in Bondi Beach like putting on an old corduroy jacket. It's an Antipodean version of Manhattan beach (but with better surf and the lifeguards have to wear red and yellow beanies). I set myself to explore Sydney and spent the next several weeks trying to accustom myself to the humidity and a never-ending blur of sites and sounds. The bay city had more consistently excellent views than Seattle along with better beaches. The definite highlight was going out on our first Saturday night in the big city. Had a sublime dinner at the revolving restaurant at the top of the 300m high Sydney Tower and then raced to see ""Cosi fan Tutte"" at the often photographed Sydney Opera House. The city lights and the distant stars seemed to have been polished especially for us that evening.

I ended up spending almost two weeks over in the North Sydney suburb of Kirribilli where the Prime Minister John Howard lives right on the other side of the harbor bridge looking over across the bay to the city with an impromptu clan of Canadians at a nice private hotel. We spent days eating out and frequenting cafes drinking mediocre coffee. What I would give for a SBC from Pike Place!

The summer was definitely in full swing with special programs and exhibits of the Sydney Festival all over town. I was able to catch everything from an excellent exhibit of Yves Klien's paintings at the MOCA to a surreal performance art piece at the Rocks with a fighting dragon and bug and a bald guy shooting 3m flames over the crowd while the audience threw confetti to a Cuban dance festival at Darling Harbor. Everything culminated on January 26th-Australia Day. Us blokes made a early morning pilgrimage to the Sky Casino to catch the best Super Bowl in years, saw the Tall Ships race to Hobart begin with hundreds of pleasure craft seeing them off. The day was capped by a most excellent fireworks show in Darling Harbor and from the tops of the highest skyscrapers. The city is definitely gearing up for the 2000 Olympics.

As the city-life began to become repetitious, we had a last guys night out going to see a $5 show of "Spice World." What can I say....We have no shame.

The bridge and Opera House from the Royal Botanical Gardens

The moment I stepped off the plane in Hobart I knew I was going to like Tasmania. It was green, rainy, and in the 70s. I first headed down to the Tasman Peninsula for a spell of relaxed exploration. Port Arthur is one of the most important links to Australia's convict past. Port Arthur was where the repeat offenders were sent-the worst of the worst- to the backend of the world. Situated on a peninsula that could be guarded by a chain of 11 dogs at its narrowest point. The area is a beautiful collage of rock formations, seaside cliffs, and rolling hills. I naively set out to explore the area with a Japanese girl I met at the hostel that knew as much English as I knew Japanese. Neither one of us knew much about bicycles, especially the pre-Spanish Civil War specimens held together by a web of rust and whatever the resident goat, chickens, and cats could not eat. With our Canary yellow helmets and erratic steering, we made an interesting site for passing motorists who seems to find it good sport to see how close they could whiz by us. Made it to the Wildlife Rescue Centre complete with lethargic Tassie Devils, a thousand tiger snakes, and some friendly roos. Going up the hills was exquisite pain, but the downhill were terrifying. I have a deep-seated distrust of anything on two wheels, and know I remember why. All told, it was a good time with the exception of my sudden meeting a blackberry bush....The scars have just about healed.

Port Arthur has one of the most depressing pasts of anyplace I have ever visited, but the setting was beautiful: picturesque ruins amidst rolling lawns on the edge of a bay surrounded by imported British trees. Unfortunately the tragedy of Port Arthur did not end with the closing of the prison in 1855. On a sunny day in April 1996, a madman went on a rampage at the site killing 35 people before being captured. It was a delicate subject to bring up with locals as the are still crushed by the lost of friends and loved ones. A Tassie bike race passed by and all the contestants stopped by the memorial in tribute.

I spent several days back in Hobart watching the tall ships arrive from Sydney into the small harbor. The Russian, Mexican, and Indonesian crews rested in town as we explored to 350 ft relics of the past. Missing life on the trail, I headed in to Tasmanian World Heritage Area for a ten-day tramp along the wild beaches of the South West Coast.

Along the South Coast Trail

It rained every day for the first week as I and my gear experienced new levels of slime. I also expanded my horizons with immediate encounters with leeches, tiger snakes (2nd deadliest in the world), wallabies (mini-roos), quolls (mini feral spotted cats), and the rare orange-bellied parrot. Spent hours trudging on cinematic beaches and wallowing in waist-deep mud. The Tassies seem to be unaware of switchbacks as a way of climbing hills.

Took a needed break at Melaleuca--a gravel airstrip supporting a family mining operation, a WWF study to save the parrots (40 breeding pairs in the world), and the occasional tramper. I dried out my stuff over a roaring fire and drank tea with some WWF volunteers. The next three days I spent without meeting a human. I started singing Buffett songs to the clouds but was caught up in the realm of the senses-smelling the trees, feeling the sun on skin, and the efficient use of my legs that moved me over hill and dale like a pair of tireless steel springs. My pack grew into an extension of me as I moved. It was an entire experience that was suitably celebrated with a Dominos Pizza upon returning to the world.

The next tramp was different and a vacation. The Overland Track is the most famous in Australia and justifiably so. It is an easy 100km stroll from hut to hut with novice and experienced walkers. This time we celebrated with a Mexican fiesta.

The only way to get to the other side is to row across three times

Cradle Mountain along the Overland Track