The Torch Extinguished

So much has happened since the flood at Harry’s Hut; alas, I have neglected to write it all. After the flood, the Independent Study Project (ISP) part of the program began. We were unceremoniously cut loose from the group of people with whom we had spent every minute of the past two months. I cannot say that it was not liberating; seemingly we had emerged from the larger end of the Funnel of Freedom.

Things picked up from there. Starting from the day we parted ways, I…

• Spent a day at the 25th Byron Bay Blues Festival where I saw Blind Boys from Alabama, That One Guy, and Michael Franti (I also met Paddy from England)
• Took the 25-hour train ride down to Melbourne
• Stayed with the amazing Lubitz family and met their many guests (shout out to Lionel, Rita, Lara, Ari, Adam, Jess, Emily, Harry, Ali Akbar, Howard, Flor, and Indi)
• Began working at the Torch Project with Nick Cowan as my advisor (where I did my ISP)
• Finally had Shabbos!
• Went to Ceres for a sustainability festival thing where I learned about Melbourne’s bicycle politics and saw a gypsy/klezmer orchestra (how’s it going, Paz?)
• Attended a Kabala meditation at Spiritgrow with Rabbi Lebel Wolf
• Watched lots of Entourage
• Period of depression and loneliness
  

• Attended RICignition in Seymour with representatives of 14 communities in Victoria and lots of Indigenous and non-Indigenous artists (shout out to Luke, Billum, Uncle Lloyd, Nola, and Uncle Bruce)
• Highlight of RICignition: drag show featuring Constantina Bush, a six-and-a-half-foot-tall Aboriginal man singing “Heat Wave” and “Material Girl”
• Was propositioned by a female (I think) prostitute in broad daylight in St. Kilda
• Took a tour of Melbourne’s amazing graffiti art
• Went to a footy (Australian Football League) match (Geelong v. Melbourne, Geelong won)
• Saw Kenneth Liew from Bronx Science – random
• Ran with Lionel
• Did an extremely fulfilling and educational ISP with the Torch Project (thanks Nick, Michelle, Rose, Kelly, Angie, Lisa, Richie, Kamahi, and Tony)
  

My super-cool ISP is entitled “The Torch Project’s Re-Igniting Community (RIC) Model & The Effectiveness of Teaching the RIC Model at RICignition.” I just had it printed and bound today. Ask me for details if you are interested in learning more. I’ve been staying with Meg in Sydney for the past two days. Tonight after hitting up Office Works (amazing service there) we went to look at the Sydney Opera House. Honestly, I assumed it would be overrated, but I was thoroughly impressed.

Tomorrow Meg and I are meeting Jenni at Central Station, and we are all heading back to Byron by the sea on the train. Saturday, I present my ISP, and then the work is officially over. Upcoming plans include driving around New Zealand for three weeks in camper vans with Mia, Michelle, and Kendall.

Hopefully I will write more about the ISP period soon. If not, stay tuned for New Zealand updates. Thanks for reading.

GO BUSH III

The Morning After

I watched the sun rise behind the dense forest that surrounded me. The frogs stopped croaking, but the cane toads continued their rhythmic chirping. I had slept for about three hours. I could finally see the water level clearly; I had spent the night squinting through the dark in vain, straining to tell if the water level was rising or falling. I was overjoyed to discover that the water level had fallen and the rain had stopped. I knew we had a good change of leaving. Peter expressed his hesitation about driving out, knowing there must be some areas of the road still deep in water. However, John expressed his undying faith in “Supe,” his 1985 four-wheel-drive.

We decided to try it. We left the big, green GO BUSH trailer behind, loading all of the still-soaking bags, clothes, books, and other soggy belongings into the back of Supe, and John, Peter, and I climbed into the front seat. The front is meant to seat three, but Peter and John are not small men; I sat bitch. As we began to drive away from Harry’s Hut, I imagined that we were in the Amazon on some kind of safari. The sunlight that made it past the canopy caused the beige floodwater to sparkle. The first deep patch of water we hit, John drove SUpe right through, without getting out to check how deep it was. I held my breath as we slowed crawled through the water, its level rising higher and higher as we drove on. All my muscles were tensed as I watched the water come up to the car’s front grill, then inch up the hood as it reached the passenger and driver windows. If one of the doors was opened, we’d be swimming. But miraculously, we emerged on the other side of the pool un-drenched, with Supe’s motor still humming. I let out an audible sigh of relief; John chucked to himself.

For the next large pool we came to, Peter decided to get out of the car and check how deep it was. Peter waded through the football-field length expanse of floodwater around a bend in the road. I walked out halfway so that Peter could tell him if it was OK, and I could tell John, who was still in the driver’s seat of the Supe. Peter waited at the other end of the pool for John. I yelled to John, asking if I should walk back and get in the car before he drove off, but he yelled back, “Just jump on to the back of the car when I drive by!” Umm, OK…

I prepared myself, physically and mentally. I crouched, put both my hands up, and watched as Supe rolled towards me through the water, making waves in its wake. Right as the car passed me, I sprang for the cage on the roof of the car, misjudged how much the thigh-deep water would hold me back, and splashed face-first into the drink. Sputtering, I picked myself up in time to watch John drive slowly away from where I stood. I laughed aloud at the silliness of it all, and began trudging to where the car had stopped at the other end of the pool. “I missed,” I said. “Be more agile next time,” said John, as I sat in the front seat with a squelch.

The next time came shortly, and I leapt onto the back successfully. As I stood on the back bumper of the Supe, I smiled proudly to myself. Looking around at the trees and water, I felt as if I were in a boat, skimming along in the swamps of the Everglades.

The rest of our journey continued similarly. When we reached the road that had been overflowing with brackish water a day earlier, we found that it was completely dry. Sandwiched between Peter and John in the small front seat of Supe, my legs cramped us as we drove to Gympie to meet the rest of the group. At a gas station in Gympie, I shared brunch with my fellow shipmates and devoured a massive sandwich and order of chips in a matter of minutes; Peter treated. Dan and the rest of the crew arrived, and we went to meet them in the parking lot. I was so happy to see the smiling faces, and I gratefully received their warm hugs. When I sat down on the bus (everyone else had moved the wet gear from Supe to our bus), I sighed deeply and realized I had just spent the night in a public toilet, and that I had slept for about three hours after about five hours of hard, manual labor. I think I passed for most of the ride to Byron Bay.

I vaguely remember hearing “Byron by the Sea,” a recurring song in the trip. “Going back to Byron by the sea, by the sea…”


Reflections in the Water

I will always remember the flood incident as it was narrated by John Sinclair. Indeed, he did narrate events as they occurred in preparation for writing his grandchildren a story about it. John writes his grandchildren a short story after every adventure he has. I am proud to say that I appear in his latest story, “Flooded In and Washed Out,” forever immortalized in the realm of bedtime stories someone once told some grandkids of theirs. When I write my memoirs, this chapter will be called “He-Man and the Master of the Universe”; I am He-Man.

In the days following the flood, I thought about the events often, and they stressed me out. Peter had a psychologist come speak with the group about the incident, and I stayed after the session to ask him a couple of things. Turns out I didn’t have acute stress response, and I wouldn’t get post traumatic stress disorder; I just had a lot of thoughts. He said it would take a bit longer for me to sort out than the rest of the group. He was right. Eventually, I stopped reliving the scary moments. Now it remains a strong, vivid memory, but a memory nonetheless.

GO BUSH II

It Was a Dark and Smelly Night…

At some point during the experience, now a rainy haze, I began to sing aloud to keep myself preoccupied. I know that I went through Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore and Vertigo, but the others I cannot remember. I was exhausted after cleaning out only two tents, and the work became harder as the water level increased and dusk turned to night. Every headlamp I found, I put around my neck, and I wandered through the water with most of them turned on; I must have looked like a UFO to the creatures seeking shelter in the trees.

After two hours of grueling labor, I had moved everyone’s belongings into the road or onto a picnic table, and Peter and John had moved them into the green GO BUSH trailer. Confident is a funny thing; it can get you through the toughest of times, even though it may be based on nothing at all. I had worked through the rain with the hope that, when we had finished loading up the belongings, we would harness the power of the four-wheel-drive and high-tail it out of the horrible Harry’s Hut. I approached Peter with renewed vigor at the completion of my task, my grinning face dripping with water and sweat. “So…” I began, not wanting to actually ask if we could leave. “There’s been a change of plans,” he said.

It turns out that our companion, John, had forgotten the keys to the four-wheel-drive in the bus, which was then being driven by Dave towards Gympie. We could not leave Harry’s Hut that night, and would have to make camp somewhere and weather the storm. Yes, I had volunteered, but not for this. I was VERY unhappy to hear this news. Turns out the adventure would be longer than I expected.

It was getting darker, and the water was rising. We dismantled John’s kitchen tent, an effort that was hampered by renegade boxes of plates and condiments that took it upon themselves to float off towards the banks of the now-raging Noosa River.

The only light left was cast by the two glaring bulbs attached to the hissing propane tanks. They cast yellow shadows on the treeline. All of a sudden, in what I had thought was a desolate campground, the entire regiment of shivering 14-year-olds filed numbly into our campsite. We had overtaken them on the walk to Harry’s Hut (I forgot to mention that earlier). I felt sorry for the poor kids, who had been brought out into the gale to “separate the lambs from the sheep,” in the words of one of their idiotic teachers. Their apparently inept guide told Peter that they were headed to a dock on the Noosa one campsite up so they could be picked up by a coastguard boat. They left, and I urged Peter to go and find out if we could be evacuated as well. Peter seemed keen with staying the night, but I could barely suppress the desperation in my voice as I suggested that he find out about evacuation. He set off about ten minutes behind the 14-year-olds into the bush.

John and I worked to dismantle the broken dining tent, all the while keeping track of the aluminum chairs and plastic cups that John cherished. After an hour of lashing John’s kitchen paraphernalia to a picnic table, Peter emerged from the forest; he clearly had not been evacuated and did not seem in a rush to bring us back to the dock. He related the story of the three boats that had shown up, two from the coast guard and one from the parks department. The coast guard boats, manned by inept volunteers, were dead set on not evacuating anyone, claiming that the river was too dangerous in its overflowing state. The park ranger calmly asserted that he would evacuate the 14-year-olds. Women and children first; Peter, John, and I were apparently not priorities. I had always agreed with the “women and children first” philosophy, but I started to question my own morality. The park ranger had promised to return later that night to get us three musketeers. Peter said that this was doubtful.

Peter learned from the ranger that the toilets were the highest point, and that is where we would be spending the night. In the previous large flood, the water level had reached the floor of the toilet structure, a good ten feet above the ground. I began bringing boxes of food to the toilet structure, decked out in my head-lamp headdress. Our gourmet provisions consisted of several loaves of bread, spicy beer chips, bananas, chocolate and nut muesli bars, juice boxes. With every trip to the toilet I made John reminded me to bring the boxes of wine, as if we were on am outdoor jaunt, and it wouldn’t be as fun without alcohol. Looking back, I can’t argue.

Several trips to the toilets and several boxes of food later, the water level was rising at its fastest rate, and Peter told me to stay at the toilets. John was insisting that he keep track of all of his belongings, not believing that the flood was as bad as the news told. Peter insisted it was, and had to almost command John to think of his own safety. As I waited on the wooden deck of the toilet block, John arrived, but without Peter, who was doing some last-minute lashing. Our toilet base camp consisted of the aforementioned boxes of food, three aluminum chairs, two propane lamps, John’s and Peter’s bags of clothes and sleeping bags, and my sleeping bag.

While we waited for Peter to return from the dark, John took of his raincoat and explored his many pockets. I was turned away from him when I heard the clink-clink of metal on metal. “Oh my,” said John’s deep voice. I turned around to see John holding up a ring of keys, which I quickly surmised belonged to the four-wheel-drive. “They were in my pocket all along.” I could only laugh at this, for the time we could have left Harry’s Hut had long passed, and it was dark as pitch in the rainy night. I assured him that it was lucky he had not found his keys, because we may have become stuck in the water far from the camp. When Peter finally arrived at our urinal stronghold, John said. “Peter, you’ll never guess what I found. It turns out I had the keys in my pocket all along!” Peter glared, then turned and paced up and down the deck. John seemed as amused as ever.

Peter and John changed out of their wet clothing into clean, dry clothing; I had none, and I was chafing something awful on my inner-right thigh. I ended up with one of Peter’s huge hemp T-shirts and John’s pair of shorts. They were old-man-style shorts, coming down to mid thigh, the same material as dress pants. I was going commando. John was significantly larger than I, so I used an elastic laundry-line as a belt. I was clothed in ill-fitting odds and ends, but I was pleasantly dry. We ate banana sandwiches for dinner, and after finishing our juice boxes, John cut off the tops and made wine goblets, from which we enjoyed many cups of boxed wine. John slept outside on the deck, and Peter and I laid our sleeping bags out in the handicapped bathroom stall, Peter next to the toilet, and me with my had at the wall and the toilet at me feet. Strangely enough, it was not smelly, but slightly uncomfortable nonetheless.

I could not sleep, so I sat awake outside for many hours, thinking and staring anxiously at the water level. I could not tell if it was rising or falling, but I stared just the same. At some point, Peter came out and gave me one of his jumpers (sweaters). The night continued. Until day broke.

­Stay tuned for the REAL conclusion. I promise, the next installation is the last. Still to come, “The Morning After.”

GO BUSH

This has been written at different periods of time, from Friday, April 3 until now. This is a long post, but the most epic one yet. You have to read it.


World Hold On

From Byron Bay, we travelled north to Cooloola, a section of Great Sandy National Park. “Cooloola” is the Aboriginal, onomatopoeic word for the sound made by the wind rustling though the Cyprus pines. Our guide was John Sinclair, known as “Mr. Fraser Island” for his 30 years of campaigning to protect Fraser Island. He knows the island better than anyone else; John Sinclair is to Fraser Island and Cooloola as Geoff Mosley is to Tasmania. Since 1988, John has been running his own tourism company called GO BUSH Safaris, focusing on Australia’s World Heritage Areas. He also runs trips to other places, and this year alone has run trips in Thailand, Laos, and Cambodia.


I’m Fingering the Goanna…

Well maybe that’s why it’s so upset. Our campsite at Cooloola was called Harry’s Hut, because of some guy named Harry who builed a hut there once; the hut is still there. Our campsite bordered the pristine Noosa River, which I went swimming in daily despite warning of fallen trees, sharp rocks, and bull sharks beneath its cool waters. Our common camping area consisted of a large tent under which we hung out, ate meals, and fended off mosquitoes. John Sinclair, better known as F.L. (fearless leader), loves the rugged, bush lifestyle, but refuses to sacrifice the comforts of the conventional kitchen. Thus, he organizes full-course meals in the bush, and he’s even written a cookbook on cooking in the bush. John’s campsite culinary plans produced the likes of a sweet pumpkin soup, buffet-style spring rolls, and ginger melon fruit salad.

Another occupant of the banks of the Noosa River is the goanna, a large lizard about two to three feet long, with scaly grey-black skin and bands of dark yellow. Their claws are long and their many-toothed bite is deadly; they are scavengers, so the bacteria in their mouths can cause deadly infections in their bite victims. One night, some food was left out in the kitchen tent, and it was eaten by the goannas by morning. Peter asked who had put away the food the night before, but when no one confessed, he said, “Right now, I’m fingering the goanna.”

As the Great Sandy National Park’s name suggests, much of the area, including Cooloola, is on large sand dunes. Sand of a variety of colors makes up the soil for all of the vegetation. Our big day was spent canoeing down the Noosa River to Camping Site 3, where we hiked to the impressive Sandpatch. After two hours of canoeing, we arrived to the site and went on a long hike. At the end we reached the Sandpatch, a huge area full of sand dunes. The vegetation ceased, and there was nothing but sand all the way to the sea, a desert amidst a lush forest. The whole group ran to the top of the tallest dune and looked out to sea, the town of Noosa, and the mountains beyond. On our canoe back to camp, Sarah Peters and I earned the title of Buccaneers from John Sinclair when I got bored and started splashing other boats. John and Dave, the self-proclaimed Queen’s Navy, decided it was their duty to stop us. Overall, a fun and exhausting day.


The Great Flood

Our last full day in Cooloola started like any other. We got on the bus, left Harry’s Hut, and headed toward Rainbow Beach, about an hour away from Cooloola. While we enjoyed morning tea at the beach, it began to rain. Peter spoke to Laura about the incoming inclement weather, and made the call that we would go back to Harry’s Hut, collect our gear, and head to Brisbane and stay in a hostel for the night. Group morale was up! The unexpected end to the merciless barrage of mozzies each night was a welcome decision. By this point it had started to rain harder, and we boarded the bus back to Harry’s Hut.

The nearest civilization to Cooloola are the small towns of Kin Kin and Gympie (yes, Gympie). About a half and hour from these towns, there exists a sign for Harry’s Hut, from which it is about 13 kilometers of winding, dirt road to the actual Harry’s Hut. We drove through the rain, with Dave at the wheel of the bus and trailer, until we came to a tree plantation, several kilometers away from the Harry’s Hut sign. The road was masked by a large expanse of running water, running through the trees from one side of our path to the other. The water’s depth was imperceptible to the eye, so Peter got out and waded in, quickly walking up to his thighs in the brown water. There was no way that our bus and trailer would make it through the depth and current, so a few of stepped out in the pouring rain and turned the trailer around, our feet sinking into the sticky mud. A rain-drenched Peter boarded the steps of the bus when we were all back on and explained the situation. The group, with Dave at the wheel, would drive to Kin Kin and get rooms for the night. Peter and John would go back to our campsite at Harry’s Hut and collect everyone’s belongings, load up the green GO BUSH Safari trailer, and high-tail it out of there in John’s four-wheel-drive. “We can take only one volunteer,” rasped Peter.

At the time I was standing up, dripping with rainwater from turning the trailer around. Immediately I felt a knot of excitement in my chest. There was a pause; no one spoke and people stared at each other. Perhaps only in an effort to break the silence, I said, “I’ll do it.” Before I knew it, Peter, John, and I were walking away from the familiar bus I the pouring rain. I saw Dave and the group drive away out of the corner of my eye, and turned to see my companions wading into the river that had blocked the bus’s passage. Clad in boxers, bathing suit, shirt, North Face jacket, and my decaying LL Bean sandals, I headed off after them.

I was high off of adrenaline for the first half hour of the journey, as we walking through the rest of the tree plantation, then an open field, beneath more and more rainfall. Our trio had frequent laughs, with stories from Peter and ecology lessons from John. It was only when I asked how far it was to Harry’s Hut that I began to regret my decision to volunteer. “It’s about 14 kilometers from here,” said John matter-of-factly. “With an average walking pace of 3.5 kilometers per hour, and a quick march at 6 kilometers per hour, I believe we could go at 5 kilometers an hour. It should only take us three hours to get to Harry’s Hut.” And so it did. During portions of the trek, I felt as though I were in a dream, and no actions I made would result in real-life consequences. The constant, repetitive rain produced a numbing, meditative effect in me, and the three hours blurred together into one long, wet memory.

Some highlights of the trek include uncomfortable chafing on my right, inner-thigh, various water-levels and terrain, rocks, mud, sticks, branches, gray sky. At one point, Peter pointed out a poisonous whip snake sliding through a nearby puddle, saying we should keep our distance. John, ever the naturalist, promptly wandered over to where the whip snake had been, quite eager to inspect it. I was happy to stay behind Peter.

As we approached Harry’s Hut, nearing the end of our trek, the water covering the ground became deeper and deeper. A sense of foreboding filled us all as we entered the campsite and surveyed the damage already done by the wind and rain. Our big common tent had collapsed under the weight of the water that had collected in its tarp, the metal support beam at its center bent under the pressure. John’s previously-tidy kitchen tent was in disarray, with boxes carrying different things sitting in five inches of water.

I began the arduous task of removing everyone’s belongings from their tents, while Peter and John managed the kitchen tent and campsite. My upbeat mood quickly decayed as I realized how heavy the water-logged backpacks had become. The sun was falling quickly, and it became extremely difficult to see inside the tents, most of which had collapsed in the gale. With each of the eight tents that I approached, I was greeted by many little crawling insects that had taken refuge from the rising waters on the dry sides of the tents. I began working methodically, and quickly my repetitive tasks put me into a trance; I concentrated not on the details of what I was doing, but only the ultimate goal of removing all of the belongings from the tents. I would grab whatever bag I could and stuff clothing, toiletries, and whatever else I could find into it, all the while looking out for any item that could be irreparably damaged by the water; laptops, notebooks, and journals became my priorities.

Will Alex survive the rising waters and extremely dark night to come? Will the trio be washed away by the raging Noosa River? Will they have enough food to survive until rescued by helicopter? Tune in next time, for the exciting conclusion of “The Great Flood!”

Aboriginal Camping Trip

I gained more from the past four days than I have in many… previous groups of four days. I learned about an ancient culture, connected with the land, built something with my own hands, slept beneath the stars, and made new friends that I will remember for a long time to come. But most importantly, I regained my


Manhood

Before we departed Lismore and our homestay families for the Aboriginal camping trip, we had been aboard the SIT train for a month and a half. I like the group, but sometimes the fact that there are 14 girls and only 3 guys wears on me. Despite the robust manliness of Brian, Yoshi, and myself, even we do not have enough testosterone to overpower the lovely ladies in our group. I have been severely lacking in my daily recommended doses of crude humor, chauvinism, and roughhousing.

Driving north from Lismore, we met up with Russell, an Aborigine from northern Queensland, who explained us the history and importance of the Bora Circle that we stopped at. But more on Uncle Russ later. We drove to Minyumai, a piece of forested land owned by Doug Wilson; his family received the land as part of the native title and reconciliation programs set up to return land to Aborigines. We were in Bundjalung country. The Bundjalung nation is a language group of New South Wales, and is comprised of many different clans; Doug’s is one of those clans. Upon out arrival at Minyumai, we also met Pete, a stout, thick, powerful, white man with a fiery red beard, sparkling eyes, and a quick wit. After we set up our tents, Russ pulled out the boomerang he had cut for us, and proposed that we paint and sand our boomerangs; arts and crafts. As soon as I began to numbly walk toward the tarp where the painting was beginning, I was surprised by Doug’s silent approach from behind me, when he thrust a rusty, metal object into my view. I did not immediately hear what he asked, and only understood what I was gazing upon, which turned out to be a wide machete with a worn, wooden handle and sharp, rusted blade with a hook on the dull side. I realized he had asked me, “Want to go use the machete?” I looked from the gift that Doug offered me to his smiling face; there was a mischievous glint in his eye. In realizing I had received freedom from arts and crafts and just been given a sharp object that I was going to be encouraged to swing at things, my balls dropped for the second time in my life. Doug had given me my manhood back.


More

That was a silly story. The experience I had with the Aborigines was invaluable, and I am lucky to have met the likes of Russell, Doug, Pete, Keith, Uncle Tim, and Poppi Harry. This experience deserves a better retelling, as do the many thing I learned about Aboriginal culture. I will write these up soon, and post them when I can.

Lazo

Australians shorten many words. I believe this stems from their admitted laziness. However, even in an effort to save… effort, they have stopped paying attention to what words they shorten and how they shorten them, and often the shortened words are longer or equal to the originals.

Some examples of shortened words include what you call someone from a particular place. For instance, someone from Bisbane is known as a Brizzo. Here is a short list:

Oz = Australia (not Kansas anymore)
Sunnies = sunglasses
Swimmers = swimsuit
Dubbo = the actual name of a city; someone who comes from the city of Dubbo; stupid; backwater, Podunk (“You’re in Dubbo Australia now, mate!” – What Rob said to me when he capsized our boat over by accident)
Undies = underwater
Woolies = short for a main supermarket, Woolworth’s
Air con = air conditioner
Avo = afternoon
Op shop = opportunity shop; second-hand shop

Cheers

I wrote this on Saturday, March 7, 2009. I am posting it now, because I did not post it during my homestay.

Our free day in Melbourne was uneventful. The weather was not nearly as exciting as predicted, though we did find free internet at the Melbourne City Library, making things a bit more exciting. I saw He’s Just Not That Into You, which, needless to say, was a mistake. The only upside was that the ticket cost ten Australian dollars, which pails in comparison to the $12.50 price in US dollars in New York City. Melbourne was followed by a grueling 25-hour train ride that stopped in Sydney and ended in Casino (the beef capital), and finally a one-hour bus ride back to Byron Bay. Upon arrival, Brian and I ate a late dinner at Ozymex, whose slightly expensive Mexican fare was greatly appreciated.

On Friday, our last/second day in Byron, we took a tour of the Djanbung Permaculture Gardens, owned and operated by Robyn Francis, a long-time permaculture educator.


No Place Like Homestay

My homestay family consists of Sara, the mom, Jack, the 14-year-old son, and Mariah (or just Ria), the dog.

Sara appears to be a strong, outspoken woman. I discovered this when we first met, in discussing Lismore city council politics. She dropped out of high school and left home at the age of sixteen,

I feel rather self-conscious in the fact that Jack, aged 14, is already far more awesome than I plan on being any time soon. At a staggering six-foot-two, he is a half a head above me, and probably has better social skills than I. Today he returned from his most recent endeavor, a stand-up comedy workshop for kids. In addition to being a budding stand-up comedian, Jack is also an actor, soccer player, stilt-walker, fire-twirler, and soon-to-be juggler. Not only can he put on the World’s Greatest Show on Earth by himself, but he is also an artist, working recently with clay and pencil and paper, as well as an avid Warhammer player. I know that I have many things to learn from Jack in the next two weeks, but I have already learned that frozen peas are a good snack, right from the bag, still held together in clumps of ice.

Ria is half dingo, half some other breed, gold and white, sweet-tempered dog. She greeted me happily, and appears to appreciate any and all attention I show her. I have yet to hear her bark.


Lismore Than I Expected

After one day, I feel that I now know most things about Sara’s habits, health, and history; it is amazing how well I feel I have gotten to know Sara and Jack on my first day in their home. After spending several hours talking to Sara, we walked the dog and met one of her neighbors, Gwenn. Then we picked Jack up from the stand-up comedy workshop, went back to the house, had a snack, talked some more, and went to drop Jack off at Fire in the Belly, the upscale pizza restaurant where he works as the youngest waiter. Sara then took me to see koalas as the local koala rehabilitation center on the Southern Cross University campus. Although all of the koalas seemed to be hiding, we then went to a protected nature area where thousands of megabats were stretching their wings, yammering and chirping, preparing for their nightly hunt. We walked among the trees where guano rains down on unsuspecting passers-by, discussing the beauty of the flying foxes. Their wings are paper-thin, with a bone structure very similar to the human hand. Sara insisted that the megabats are closely related to humans; they are “monkeys with wings,” as she described them.

Back at the house, we looked at old pictures of her and Jack, extended family, friends from the past, and family gatherings. I learned that Sara’s father was a rower for the Australian Olympic crew team back in his heyday. When he got older, he got diabetes and hardening of the arteries in his legs; unfortunately, this led to several leg amputations. As a double-amputee, Sara’s father had two prosthetic legs, and he remained mostly in a wheelchair. An orthopedic surgeon for most of his life, he remained in practice after his amputations as a consulting doctor. One day in 2000, he received a request asking him to carry the Olympic torch in the relay preceding the opening ceremonies of the summer Olympic games in Sydney. He apparently was keeping the fact that he was a nearly-wheelchair-bound double-amputee a secret from the Olympics. Not only that, but he was also keeping the fact that he had been practicing running from his wife of 49 years a secret as well. So, at 5:30 AM on a September morning, the whole family drove down to Sydney to watch Sara’s father, a double-amputee and former Olympic rower, run 400 meters in the Olympic torch relay.


Where Everybody Knows Your Name

A bit before nine in the evening, we drove to pick Jack up from his shift at Fire in the Belly. The three of us also picked up a roasted pumpkin pizza, which was delicious, and ate it in the car by the river. Jack then remembered that his coworkers were having a baby shower for one of their own which was due in three weeks. We went back to the restaurant so that Jack could giver her congratulations, and Sara and I ended up heading to the back of the restaurant, joining the entire staff in conversation, pizza, and drinks. I was even coaxed into having a hot chocolate that Jack made with his recent mastery of the coffee machine.

Everyone who worked at the restaurant was exceedingly nice. They pulled up a chair for me, forced food on me, and included my in conversation. The latter must have been a bit difficult for them, as I had nothing to say. I sat there beaming, laughing at the jokes being told, awed by the happy presence of total strangers. I was shocked into silence because of a completely positive atmosphere. I slightly envied Jack for what seemed an ideal workplace, where all coworkers were positive personalities, incorporating humor into whatever they did. When the time came to leave all of the smiling faces, they thanked us for stopping by. I replied with the Australian equivalent for “you’re welcome,” among other meanings. “Cheers.”


I wrote this on Sunday, March 08, 2009.

Smoke Two Joints

By this time, day two, I have already spoken to Sara several times about drugs and alcohol. She has spoken nonchalantly about her cigarette and marijuana habits, and I am content that she feels comfortable speaking to me about her used of illicit substances. Alcohol, she says, is not her thing. She herself does not imbibe due to her sensitive liver, both from three separate bouts with malaria, and from hepatitis C. Sara is also uncomfortable around people who are drunk, so she does not go to pubs often. She is more used to people on dope, the “everything is alright, man” attitude, as she says. I have yet to witness Sara smoke, and I have not been offered any pot.

Today Sara, Jack, and I went canoeing on the nearby river. We were joined by the neighbors, parents Rob and Christin, and children Max, nine, and Zoey, six. We were also joined by friends Dave and Heidi, who are the vegan and veggo (vegetarian). On the first half of our journey, I was in the inflatable canoe with Jack. The river and forested banks were very pretty, though at one point we did pass a dead cow decomposing in the water, and I smelled the most horrible smell I have ever smelled. On the return journey, after eating the season’s last mangoes among the prickly burrs on a bank of the river, I was in the canoe with Rob, the father of Max and Zoey, and Zoey. I was sitting in back, the only one paddling, Rob was sitting in front of me, nursing his third (fourth?) vodka spritzer, and Zoey was sitting at the head of the canoe, chattering nonstop. Rob seems a bit backwater himself, but speaks of hillbillies that he does not approve of. The stereotype of rednecks in Australia seems identical to that in the US; they follow sports and drink a lot of alcohol. Although here the distinguishing traits of a redneck do not seem as far from non-rednecks, because everyone drinks a lot of alcohol.

The issue of Rob getting kicked out college came up, and when his nine-year-old son, Max, asked why, Rob replied that he didn’t fit in, everyone else was a redneck, and he smoked dope, which was not in line with university policies at the time. Rob and I spoke about sustainability as I rowed us down the river. He reckons that the world needs a spiritual revolution to change its environmentally-unfriendly ways. At some point, Max and Zoey moved things around so that I was in the back, and Max was in the middle behind his father. Max kept bothering his dad, so that Rob threatened to throw is son in the water. Eventually, as the annoying continued, Rob twisted halfway around, grabbed Max’s arms, and tried to pull him into the drink. However, Max hung on, so that Rob lost is already boozed-up sense of balance, and fell hard to the left. I was left to throw myself to the right side of the canoe, but Rob’s momentum was too great, and the whole canoe flipped over. It was filled with the family’s belongings. Rob surfaced, sputtering for air, shocked and embarrassed in front of me. Noticing I had gotten a handle on the canoe and started moving it to the bank in the swift current, he said, “I guess you can swim.”

As we drifted nearer to shore, I caught a glimpse of a plastic bag floating towards me in the river. I picked up the only item that had actually fallen out of the canoe, looked at it, and tossed it to a sheepish-looking Rob. It was his bag of pot. Prior to this incident, I had felt a certain contempt from Rob, possibly due to the fact that I was an American, a New Yorker, a metropolitan, elitist, New York Times reader. However, after this, I believe I had gained his respect. There is nothing like saving another man’s stash from floating away down the river.

Dave II

WILD TASMANIA with Mozzy Tinybritches

Note: All of these entries were written at different times, as I could not often record my thoughts as I had them. I have attempted to structure the events in chronological order. I am also missing many parts of the journey, which I will hopefully add later. Thank you.


Our guide to the wilds of Tasmania is Geoff Mosely, who was known to his elementary school peers as Mozzy Tinybritches. ‘Mozzy’ is a slang word for mosquito, and ‘Tinybritches,’ as Geoff explains, “When I was a boy, I was quite tall, so my legs were quite long. My shorts, in comparison, were quite short!”

Geoff is the most energetic, spry 78-year-old that I have ever met. He travels to bush walk in Tasmania several times a year even at his age. His most recent setback was a calf muscle that he strained during a hike, after which he was airlifted off the mountain. But that was a few months ago, and after a knee operation, Geoff is back and ready to ramble. If Tasmania were a museum, Geoff Mosely would be its most avid visitor. He returns often to view every new exhibition, but is well acquainted with every piece in Tasmania’s (what he hopes is) permanent collection. We are lucky to have Geoff as our guide.

In terms of both personal experience and personal investment regarding Tasmania, Geoff has no equal. He served as the executive director of the Australian Conservation Fund (ACF) for many years, and continues to sit on its board. He is also a director of the Coalition for the Advancement of a Steady State Economy (CASSE), which is based in Washington, D.C. Geoff encompasses CASSE’s entire Australian arm.


Walkies

Upon our arrival in Tasmania and after meeting Geoff, we embarked on our first journey of discovery, a “short walk” through the Pencil Pines at XXXX. As it turns out, there is an effective system that allows (eco)tourists to navigate and observe Tasmania’s natural attractions. Popular nature spots are divided into “walks,” some being “short walks” and some being “long walks.” Short walks exist just as they are advertised; they last for about ten to twenty minutes at a generous, leisurely pace, and the walkers often are walking on a boardwalk-type path, supporting the walkers about five inches above nature. I believe short walks would take the eco-tourism world by storm if they were built and maintained in other areas of natural beauty. Short walks offer all the benefits of nature, without the negatives. For example, you can observe nature’s beauty, but not touch its cold sliminess. Long walks offer less of a defined path, and can often entail three hours of moderate to strenuous hiking.


Waldheim

We arrive at Waldheim’s estate, which rests peacefully in the shadow of Cradle Mountain. XXXX Waldheim was an early conservationist, and the cabin, pine forest, and valley that encompass his estate remain a testament to his care for the environment. A sign outside his former home reads: “Welcome to Waldheim, where there is no time, and nothing to be done.”

It is at Waldheim that we witness our first substantial sightings of Tasmanian wildlife. In the fields around the cabins, many forest wallabies graze nonchalantly, occasionally glancing at the nearby human, eagerly snapping away photographs. Wallabies look like small kangaroos, covered in brown fur, they hop around, close to the ground, using their tails as support. Wombats are even less concerned with human affairs. Imagine a pill sitting in your palm, then multiply its size twenty times, and add a think coat of brown fur and some apathy. Wombats waddle through the valley, munching on low-lying vegetation, miraculously crapping out cube-shaped shits.

That night, in the allotted half an hour we had to explore before it became dark, Yoshi and I ventured on the Waldheim Pine Forest trail (15 minute return). By this point in my Australian experience, I had gone on numerous hikes, short walks, and long walks, but I had never seen a forest such as this. It was dusk when we both stepped onto the gravel path, and immediately, the haunted forests of every fable and fairy tale of my childhood leapt to life. Never before had I seen trees so ready to snatch at me, moss so ready to smother me. The shadows crept around your field of vision, reaching out as if to tap you on the shoulder from behind. I half expected to see a crumbling castle or a not-so-innocent cottage emerge from the thicket. The twisted, clawing tree braches were so tightly wound around one another that running, even walking off the path would be impossible; escape from any danger would be futile. All the while, Saint-Saens’ Danse Macabre played in my head. As the sun sunk lower in the sky, Waldheim’s pine forest had already declared it night.

Thankfully, Yoshi and I survived with a newfound respect for nature’s terrifying beauty.


There’s Cold In Them Thar Hills

Today, I began the morning by checking out of the Waldheim cabins, eating breakfast, volunteering to clean the eskies, and then doing breakfast clean up. With my sanity bolstered by a cup of coffee, I scrubbed off large quantities of mold and old food that clung to our coolers. Then, I went on a hike.

Some of the group went on a hike around Dove Lake, resting at the foot of Cradle Mountain, along with an energetic Geoff. The rest of the group braved the “more altitude” hike, walking along the beginning of the Overland Track, the most travelled trail in all of Australia. In an effort to control the wilderness “feeling” of the Overland Track, there was a movement to issue a certain number of permits per year to hikers. This would effectively limit the number of hikers on a trail at a time, decreasing the chance that you would run into other hikers, therefore heightening your wilderness experience. However, Tasmanians fought this, threatening to oust their local politicians if they did not fight this movement. Tasmanian politicians listened, and in the end they prevented the permit system from passing. Today, hikers are only allowed to hike the Overland Track in one direction, depending on the season; this way, hikers will ideally not meet other hikers as they travel along the trail.

It was cold and cloudy on the day of the hike. Passing the icy waters of Crater Lake, we hiked up to a plateau, and then on up to Marion’s Lookout, hoping to be rewarded with a view of the adjacent Cradle Mountain. However, the farthest we saw was to the inside of the cloud that covered Marion’s Lookout, but we did take another jumping picture.

I had decided I was going to go for a swim in cold waters. This was a few days prior to our arrival at Cradle Mountain, and I had thus far avoided a swim at some previous hikes and at Lake St. Clair. By Cradle Mountain, I realized how much of a hypocrite I would be if I did not go swimming in the frigid waters of Tasmania. So, upon our return hike, I met the brick-cold waters and icy winds of Crater Lake in only my boxers. It was a rather brief swim, and after a few minutes of treading water, I began to lose feeling in my limbs and breathing became very hard. I scrambled out of the water, teetering on my useless legs, in which I had no feeling. It is hard to put on dry undies when you feel like you are walking on two peg legs.


Spirit of Tassie, Take Two

On our last day in Tassie, as we all have come to call the most southern Australian state, we rode in our faithful bus from Waldheim’s cottage to Devonport to catch the Spirit of Tasmania back to Melbourne. In reviewing the day’s plans, Peter had mentioned that we would get several hours in Devonport to relax before boarding the ship. However, upon our arrival at the port city, Peter revealed that we were, in fact, in East Devonport, which is separated by a river. There are hardly any stores or shops in East Devonport, primarily the industrial and commercial port sections of the city. The ferry to West Devonport costs two dollars each way, and seems like a huge hassle to all of the group members. We all give up our hopes of internet and pay phone usage in Devonport and head to the 24-hour bakery.

Aboard the faithful SOT (Spirit of Tasmania), I am rooming with Brian, Bowman, and Kendall. Three of us have gone swimming in the frigid waters of Crater Lake today; Brian has not.

Our evening activities find us on one of the decks of the ship, listening to the multi-talented Brian, who whips out any and all songs that can be played on an acoustic guitar. He is phenomenal, and the fraternity of bikers aboard the SOT are enjoying every minute of it. Their biker gang is visible indeed. Every member sports a yellow T-shirt bearing a symbol with the letters M,C,? on it, some piece of apparel made of leather, and numerous tattoos. Each biker adorns himself in a different manner, but each possesses these key elements. One biker in particular has distinguished himself from the crowd.

This large man is sporting a leather vest with bare, tattooed arms. His bulging biceps seem to accompany his bulging beer belly. He made a display of himself by singing along with Brian, having a public conversation with him and the audience, and being visibly drunk. After spending some time flirting with the girls I was sitting with, who were by then dancing to Brian’s music, the large biker turned his attention on me. During one of the songs. To which he was singing. I could now see the biker’s bloodshot eyes, trimmed goatee, and hair chest; he was standing in front of me, with one hand on his beer and the other on my shoulder. After I laughed aloud in an effort to hide my obvious discomfort, the biker talked to me a bit about how he was young once, like me, but that it was thirty years ago. He promised he was nice and that he knew how to have a good time. His name was Tony, and he seemed genuinely nice. After the song ended, we chatted a bit about Sydney, his hometown, the States, and how he didn’t trust Tasmanians, and nor should I. When the SIT group left Brian’s performance, I said goodbye to Tony with parting pleasantries.

Now I sit in the cabin, with Brian and Bowman asleep, writing about my Tasmanian experiences, soon to be memories. One liquored-up, touchy-feely, warm-hearted biker = my new friend, Tony.


Next Time On Eppstralia…

We will disembark the SOT at Station Pier in Melbourne. Forecast for our free day in the city: sweltering heat, followed by 100-kilomteter winds and a huge drop in temperature in the course of twenty minutes, making it threateningly cold. I think I’ll see a movie.

Departure

“You are not the first to pass this way, nor shall you be the last.”

From Station Pier in Melbourne, we took the seaworthy Spirit of Tasmania on an overnight trip across Bass Strait to the port of Devonport, Tasmania. The Spirit is a slightly modified cruise ship, with all the standard amenities, including comfortable cabins and the obligatory casino (a small room with a mirrored ceiling, cramped with video slot machines, eager to take you Australian dollars). The Bass Strait waters are apparently some of the roughest in the world, and they certainly made it known to the travellers on the Spirit. That night I saw the milky way for the second time in my life, as I lay on my back on the deck of the top floor of the ship alongside Yoshi, Brian, and Bowman. We saw what we think was the famed Southern Cross constellation, which adorns the flag of Australia. Soon after getting into bed, I was rather ungently rocked to sleep by the waves.

We will travel in Tasmania for the next week with Geoff Mosely, an expert on the island. More on the wilds of Tasmania to come...

Melbourne

We arrived in Melbourne after 24 hours of train travel. What a bitch. Sleeping in a chair sucks.

Melbourne is a beautiful city. The group is staying at a hostel called the Nunnery, apparently an old convent converted into a haven for backpackers. On the scale of hostels, the Nunnery seems to be on the cool end; with a spunky cartoon nun as its mascot, the hostel boasts free breakfast every morning, pancakes on Sundays, and barbeque on Wednesdays. It is a beautiful old building harkening back to the large church presence in Melbourne several decades ago.

Melbourne’s tram system is excellent, with trams running on cables down the middle of the street at very regular intervals. However, public transportation seems unnecessary, as most things in the downtown area are within walking distance. Melbourne reminds me of a more spread out version of New York City. The first night we arrived, groups of us walked around on Brunswick Street amidst the trendy cafés, hip stores, and bar scene of the Fitzroy neighborhood.


Sustainabuddies

The next day, the Sustainable Living Festival began. It was Melbourne’s tenth hosting of the event, held at Federation Center, a large cluster of showrooms, open plazas, and park along the river. The three-day, environmental festival was packed with booths and tents, housing environmental companies, activist groups, organic food retailers, and green media outlets.

If the talks and information at the festival had been a total loss, I still would have had the best veggie burger I have ever eaten. One of Freddie’s Veggieburgers, with light mayo, satay, and sweet chilli, grilled before my eyes. The organic white-chocolate-raspberry ice cream wasn’t bad either.

Some of the talks were interesting and some were not. Some of the speakers were dynamic and some were less so. Many different perspectives on sustainability and the climate crisis were presented, but the messages were noticeably conflicting. That is not to say that the Sustainable Living Festival did not do its job; indeed it did succeed in educating the general public and raising some media attention. However, most who attended the festival were already “green-minded,” ready to reach into their pockets to afford the latest greywater treatment systems and solar water heaters for their homes.


The Three ‘Ates’

One of my favorite speakers was the last. Prof. Frank Fisher is an elderly man, who described himself as a blind, gutless, numbskull. He is in fact blind in one eye, has had twenty-eight operations for Crohn’s Disease, which have removed seventy percent of his intestine, and was recently in a bicycle accident in which he fractured his skull and broke his neck. However, Frank stood, unaided, for the entire hour of his talk. When certain people speak, wisdom seem to emanate from them. I cannot claim to know such wisdom when I hear it, but I was certainly riveted during Frank’s talk, and every sentiment about life that he related seemed like sage advice. As one of the last talks of the Sustainable Living Festival, he did not speak of environmentalism, peak oil, or eco-communities of any kind. He spoke instead of the social psychology of people. How do we change the habits which are engrained in society so that people wake up to what is actually going on?

One of Frank’s suggestions referred to a paradigm shift necessary in the elementary school system. He takes issue with the Three R’s, Reading, wRiting, and aRthinmetic, saying that they are outdated. We seem to be interested in teaching robotic, emotionless skills and not critical thinking and reasoning. He proposes a teaching philosophy to make our children Literate, Numerate, and Considerate, which I can only label the ‘Three Ates.’ Frank closed his talk by stating that as a psychologist, he often finds human behaviour predictable. He left us with these parting words: “If I have made you any less predictable, any more wild, then I have achieved my goal.”


Melbourne To Be Wild

On Friday night, our second night in Melbourne, three of my friends and I went to the Congregation of East Melbourne Synagogue (or something like that) for Kabbalat Shabbat services. In total, there were eight people present, not including Dovid, the Rabbi. He is a Chabad rabbi, but the shul is not a Chabad shul. Dovid was very accommodating, surprised at the turnout, admitting that he is used to never having a minyan for Friday night services. Also, Dovid knows Peretz Chein, the Chabad rabbi at Brandeis. Dovid invited all of us to dinner, but the group and I politely declined.

During some free time, Mia, Michelle, and I went to a trendy, yuppie, outdoor arts and crafts market. Some of the stuff was nice, and some was ridiculous. Too trendy for me. During another stint of free time, the three of us travelled by tram to St. Kilda, the boardwalk area, where we caught our first glimpse of the Spirit of Tasmania, the ship we would soon board. We also saw the exceedingly creepy Luna Park, reminiscent of a Coney Island by-gone era, haunted by some evil spirits. My first thought upon witnessing its harlequin gates was that its devilish architects made no effort to make the clown appear jolly. As parents and children lined up outside the gaping maw before the amusement park opened, I shuddered at the roller coaster, already operating within the park’s walls. Though this left me a little unsettled, I was calmed by the delicious pastries we then had at a European bakery on Ackland Street. A successful journey.

On to Tasmania. I am still planning on seeing a Tasmanian tiger (thylacine), even though the last known living one died in captivity in 1936.

Stranger in the Night

This is a story. There might not be a point. Proceed no further if you have something important/more interesting to do. You have been warned.

Earlier today (what is now two days ago), my journey from Byron Bay to Melbourne began. After an hour bus ride from Byron to Casino (the beef capital), the whole SIT gang boarded the train down the east coast of Australia, bound for Sydney. The overnight route down the coast makes many stops, finally arriving in Sydney tomorrow morning, about twelve hours after it begins. I am currently sitting in my seat next to Megan, who is sound asleep to the sounds of John Mayer. I have also just had quite an interesting meeting.

Although it happened but an hour ago, Michelle and I began speaking with a woman who is sitting several rows of seats behind our group. She introduced herself as Beck, though not until we had been speaking for over three quarters of an hour. At the end of our conversation, when Michelle asked for her email address, Beck happily obliged, and below her email, she scribbled “the women you met on the train.”

Our conversation began with Michelle and I speaking about our group and the kinds of environmental classes we are taking. As it turns out, Beck knows Eshana, the leader of our recent eco-philosophy workshop. Having last spoken to Eshana three years ago, Beck lived with her in a rented flat in Lismore. The living spaces were cheap apartments for environmental activists who were essentially volunteering their time. Eshana was then the girlfriend of one John Seed, who was the man sponsoring the activists, and who is the head of the Rainforest Information Service.

Beck appears to be in her mid to late forties. She is travelling from Lismore, where she has spent the past few months, to her home in Canberra. She is an environmental activists, and has made a point since university not to work for a living. She dropped out of medical school at Melbourne University after her third year, and went on to get a degree in philosophy of science, having majored in philosophy as an undergraduate. Michelle, Beck, and I spent much of the conversation talking about contemporary environmental issues such as the recently approved 5% carbon emission cut by 2020 under the Rudd administration. However the most intriguing parts of the conversation for me were those about Beck’s chosen lifestyle and her worldviews.

Since Beck’s realization of herself as an environmental activist after dropping out of medical school, she had travelled all over the world, wherever her volunteer work takes her. She has since spent time living in Oxford, England, has gotten a degree in environmental resource management, and has travelled around the United States. I was surprised to hear that she makes it a point not to work for her living, and I was intrigued by the idea. As she said, her parents were always well off, so she never felt the need to work. She also has never wanted to take a paid position in environmental work, because she has always feared that someone else could do the work better than her.

Beck is a soft-spoken, intelligent woman with quite different life experiences than I have heard before. She laughs often, and happy wrinkles appear at the corners of her eyes when she smiles. She wears an orange and red, patterned hair band, a bright orange fleece, and old, worn-in jeans. She is only carrying a small, green pack with her; she left her belongings in a train station locker in Lismore by accident. “Someone will have to rescue my luggage for me,” she says with an unconcerned air.

Beck lives in an area of Canberra called Billings Cliffs. Originally founded as a commune, a utopia of people living with the land, twenty five years ago, it has stayed from the principles on which it was founded, laments Beck. The countryside is beautiful, and dwellers form relationships with each tree on their two acres due to the relationship that its inhabitants have with the land. However, Billings Cliff has suffered from some interpersonal issues, at least in the six years that Beck has been living there. Every attempt at a communal garden has failed, and the majority of the denizens of the 150-unit community are on welfare. For these environmentalists, once on welfare, it is tempting and easy to stay on it; you can live on government money if you cut some corners. Some grow their own fruits and vegetables, but many of these environmentalists have switched their two acres to cannabis, a more lucrative and indulgent cash crop. Though they must not make much money from it, given how much Beck says they smoke.

Over the years, the inhabitants of Billings Cliffs have become lazy from weed and government handouts. Beck believes that she is ready to leave. She loves living in nature, but she thinks that is almost a fool’s paradise, removed from the real world. How can you affect change when you live apart from the rest of society? I believe one of the tasks of environmental activists is to find a balance between spending time with the nature they wish to protect, and reaching out to those they wish to educate, often not willing to meet them in the wilderness. Beck will continue to travel, perhaps when she moves out of the doldrums of Billings Cliffs. She has not been to New Zealand yet; she’s saving the beauty of Australia’s neighbour for her old age.

One fellow passenger on the train = one new friend, Beck.

(the women you met on the train)

Dave

Peter Brennan is the program director; more on him later. Peter’s partner in crime, the Sustainability & Environment program’s second in command, is Dave. He drives us around in the bus, handles logistics, and serves as Peter’s buddy. They hang out and chat when Peter isn’t teaching or supervising us in some way. Dave is a songwriter, cook, gardener, father, and all around interesting guy. He is friendly and soft-spoken, and his Australian drawl makes him even more approachable than his easy-going demeanor. Dave is a simple man; he is content with a red Gatorade, newspaper containing a crossword and sudoku, and a pack of cigarettes. Smokes and number games seem to be his vices of choice. Dave used to surf, as most Australians have at one point or another in their lives, but stopped about a year ago when he hurt his back. Wading into the waves, you can almost see a wistful look in his eyes as he regards the ocean with a reverent smile. Always aware of the nearest bottle shop and ready to recommend a full-bodied, Australian brew, Dave is my new friend. Dave is now what I think of when I think of an Australian.

UNMOUNTABLE_BOOT_VOLUME

I cannot recall how many times I viewed this error message when the blue screen of death appeared on my Dell doorstop of a laptop. Weighing in at just over seven pounds, my Inspiron E1505 crapped out on me in Terminal 4 of LAX, right before my flight to Brisbane. Since then, I have been sans-computer, haunting every backpacker "free internet"-advertising dive on the main strip of Byron Bay. I have mastered the "first fifteen minutes free" policy by hopping around with my trusty USB drive, named Kingston. Moral of the story: Windows and Dell have been frustrating me to no end. But the turmoil is over now.

Here are some overdue pictures. Today I just got my computer back from the fix-my-computer shop; it was fixed by an Israeli dude.

This is the EASTERN MOST POINT OF AUSTRALIA. I am as close to the United States as I can get on the continent of Australia. Also, I am as close to my buddies studying abroad in South America (you know who you are, even if you're not reading the blog, Anya). While camping at Linnaeus, we awoke one morning at 5:30 AM to go see the sunrise at the Byron Bay lighthouse. This is the view of the Pacific, post-sunrise. And now, for the sunrise.

Yea, it's pretty sweet. The light house was atop a huge hill, and the path up to it was covered in coastal rainforest-type vegetation. Something I did notice in the long trek down the hill was all the the peopl passing me; they were old. I don't mean one-foot-in-the-grave old, but they were in their late-60s to early 80s. And they looked great. And they were power-walking up this enormous hill at six in the morning. It dawned on me then that Australians are more health conscious than Americans. They also seem to enjoy a more active elderly life than most of us in the US.

To the right is Linnaeus, as seen from the infinity pool. Since we have left orientation at Linnaeus, we have returned, and each time, our taxi drivers ask what the expansive property is for. At one point in time, it was zoned for education use after a huge resort deal fell through with some Japanese investors. Phil, the millionaire architect/owner, ingeniously fudged the zoning laws to create a posh vacation home settlement for Australia's rich environmentalist. The one catch: they have to donate large sums of money to education and environmental groups. It works out for our group, though, because we get to use Linnaeus occasionally.

On an unrelated note, completely unlike in the Unites States, egalitarianism is of great importance in Australian society. The taxi driver is equal to the head of state, and they can have a conversation as equals, and they treat each other as equals. Peter, our program director, made the group aware of this by explaining how taxis work. Unlike in the United States, a passenger sits next to the taxi driver, even if all the passengers can fit in the back. That is to say that the driver is not a chauffeur, but another guy who really wants to have a conversation with you. I have had the pleasure of sitting next to the driver during three of the four taxis we have been on; all of the drivers were interesting and had jobs other than taxi driving. Three taxi conversations = three new, Australian friends.

Speaking of new friends, my trip buddy Michelle introduced me to the two Italian twenty-somethings living next door to her at the Byron Bay Holiday Apartments, where we are staying. Simon and Giovanni are taking a break from their post-undergraduate jobs near Bologna to travel around Australia. Simon was the talkative one, probably because Giovanni does not speak English. Apparently taking an immediate liking to me, Simon gave me his cell number so that I could call him to go out to eat (and then to party) the next night. Not trusting that I would make good on this deal we had made, he made me give him my phone number. The next night, Simon did not call me, and I did not call him. But I am assuming I have a place to stay if I ever visit Bologna.

I have added a couple of pictures to the previous post, so feel free to check them out. Today is a free day in Byron Bay, and this evening we get on a bus to Casino, and then a train to Sydney, and then a train to Melbourne. I will be on a train for 23 hours, chugging away into the areas ravaged by the fires in Victoria.

Funnel of Freedom

Peter says it means that we have lots of chaperoned, intense programming at the start, and as we get farther into the program, we get more freedom. It's a funnel of freedom, narrow at one end and... OK, you get it.

Linnaeus

Our four-day orientation was held at an estate on Seven-Mile Beach near Byron Bay. The estate is run by Phil, a millionaire architect and entrepreneur, and he runs an estate the likes of which I have never seen. The estate consist of a huge open field, a pool house with an infinity pool and grass tennis court, a gorgeous community house that houses a kitchen and offices, and several posh beach homes, not to mention miles of pristine, private beach.

Linnaeus, as the estate is called, functions as a vacation home site for the extremely affluent, a $3-4 million price tag to own a home there. The laws governing the property dictate that it must be used for environmental education. This translates into the fact that Linnaeus runs with a miniscule carbon footprint, from the re-used materials that make up the architecture to the comprehensive recycling and composting practices that take place. We were lucky to have use of its five-star facilities.

On one of the days, a black and white magpie flew into our classroom. This might not be so strange, given that the room is completely open on two sides to the elements. However, Maggie, as she will henceforth be called, remained in the room, squawking at us, as if she had something important to say. This was comical the first couple of times, and ended when she was shooed out of the room. She returned shortly, though, much to Peter’s and the group’s surprise. We continued the lesson as planned, ignoring the intermittent, squawking comments from the polly-want-a-cracker gallery. After a few minutes of distraction, Peter attempted to scare is away, making noises, waving his arms, and stomping on the ground, anything short of kicking Maggie. His actions were futile. At the end, he gave up and shrugged, to which Maggie replied, “Squawk!” Maggie hung around for a while, and even followed us to the beach the next day, where she proceeded to swoop at the group and land momentarily on Mia’s head. Had the Aborigines seen this, they would have believed Maggie to be someone’s spirit in Magpie form, trying to relay us a message. I wonder what Maggie was trying to say.

At Linnaeus we explored the private beach and pool, and slept outside in tents. I slept in a tent with Yoshi and Brian, the two other guys on the program. The first night we face sweltering heat, the second, heat and a broken tent pole, the third, heat and another broken tent pole. On the third day our tent collapsed. We took another unused tent only to face heat, wind, rain, and about a hundred ants on the last night. Given that we had not had air conditioning in our room on the first night in Brisbane, this luck came as no surprise. There was a big push from the group to sleep on the beach, but Peter insisted that we should not. Apparently, people get drunk at night and drive around on the beaches, running over unsuspecting beach-nappers.

We woke up at 5:30 AM one day to go see sunrise at the Byron Bay lighthouse, which is attached to the Eastern-most point in Australia. Stepping outside our tent into the dark morning, I saw the milky way in the sky for the first time; it was spectacular. Following the celestial heavens up was a stunning sunrise atop the Byron Bay lighthouse hill. It made for an energizing morning.


Fire & Water

The Australian state of Victoria was hit two massive bush fires that have already claimed 181 lives and thousands of homes. The north of Australia is plagued by rampant flooding. There have been two recent shark attacks, occurrences that occur very infrequently. In the wake of mother nature’s wrath, the fires being the largest natural disaster in Australian history, my Sustainability and Environment program seems all the more pertinent. Is this how the environment is responding to ours unhealthy habits?


Knee-Deep Ecology

From the low-lying beach town that is Byron Bay, we travelled about an hour in our faithful blue and white bus, with a stand-in for Dave at the wheel. We went up into the rolling hills of the lush Australian coast, passing green fields growing various agricultural products. We finally arrived at a eucalypt forest with a rainforest growing up under it. The eucalypt trees come in several varieties, with the moist distinct being very tall, sturdy, smooth white trunks, with branches only sprouting above the rainforest canopy. The eucalypt trees cannot compete for sun with the rainforest cover, so as rainforest growth comes in, the eucalypt branches fall off. If the forest continues to grow uninterrupted, the area will become a true rainforest, and the eucalypts will die off; the eucalypts will only survive if a fire comes through the area to burn away the rainforest vegetation.

The eco-philosophy workshop was held at a rainforest meditation center and Buddhist retreat, where alcohol, drugs, and killing are prohibited, and honesty in any sexual encounters is a must. Eshana, formerly Elizabeth, was the charming and intelligent workshop leader, who is herself a deep ecologist. Our actual class was held in a large room in the middle of the forest; a vast hardwood floor was covered by an aluminium roof supported by wood beams cut from forest trees. As the name of the location suggests, it poured torrential rain for the duration of our two-day stay. The pounding downpour created a large din as it beat on the metal roof, making it impossible to hear Eshana at times. The whole group participated in a mix of discussion, role-playing, yoga, meditation, massage circles, games, and readings to internalize the broad spectrum of ecological philosophies.

Leeches. They are scary looking, and they suck your blood. They stick to everything. They are a single, black, blind tentacle, probing the air for your skin, ready to clamp onto your soft flesh and not let go; they are the vampire-pitbulls of the underworld. Realistically, they don’t hurt, are easy to take off, and are pretty harmless. Leeches. Meh.

Our night in the rainforest was spent in the attic of the kitchen building, the most substantial of the few structures at the retreat. About ten people lay their sleeping bags down on the attic floor, covered overhead by a tin roof. One side of the attic, the one I was facing, was protected from the forest by a large wire mesh. When we went to sleep, we were kept company by two large, black moths whose eyes glowed orange when reflecting the light of our headlamps. I awoke about two hours after I fell asleep so the sound of flapping. “Flith flith flith flith.” In my groggy, half-awakened state, I thought, “Those moths are loud.” It slowly dawned on me that there were many more than two of whatever was flapping their wings, and they were larger than moths. As my friend Brian turned on his headlamp, I witness about a dozen bats, flying not two feet above our heads, zigzagging around the attic, squeaking their sonar voices, bumping into the tin roofing. My initial fear turned into awe, and the bats left twenty minutes later. The moths were gone, too.

The next day resumed with more rain and leeches, more thought and discussion. I was unsure where I stood with eco-philosophy at the beginning of the workshop, and now I am even more unsure, but at least I have more to think about.


By-Rain Bay

Just after the eco-philosophy workshop, we have a free, unfortunately dreary day in Byron Bay. It is still raining, and I thought we had left the rain when we left the rainforest. It is frustrating that we cannot get rain down in Victoria, where it is dearly needed. Today consisted of food shopping, trying to find Brian underwear (“undies” in Australian), and homework. Also, I found a place to fix my computer! It should be ready by Monday night, at which point I will be able to upload photos (it is now Saturday). I am off to Melbourne midweek for a sustainability fair next weekend. We begin the day-train ride on Wednesday, amidst the fires to hazy, smoky Melbourne.

Success/Messages

After my six-hour flight to LAX from New York, I used my computer in the airport to check email. I then turned my computer off. I then turned it back on again, and to my dismay, was met with the blue screen of death. Over and over. Instead of carrying around a means of communicating with all of those I love, I am carrying around an expensive doorstop.

I am writing this from a hostel in Brisbane; it's big and orange. More on Brisbane the city when I have more time on a computer.

One of my first Australian experiences: I am carrying with me a lot of medication for Crohn's Disease, and it was a big hassle to get enough medication from my insurance company for the duration of the trip. I also stressed about getting documentation from my doctor, and I agonized over what a field day Australian customs would have. I was sure I'd be placed in a sweltering, dimly-lit room in the bowels of the airport upon arrival in Brisbane. They would not give me any water, and there would be a menacing dingo in a cage in the opposite corner of the room.

Hauling my backpack of the baggage claim carousel, I hobbled over to the last customs check. I handed them the customs card on which I filled out "No" for "Are you carrying anything that may be subject to restrictions, such as medication?" because I assumed that having proper documentation, they would not be restricted. My bag passed through the scanner, and I was asked what all the bottles were. I recited, as if from a script rehearsed for fear of this situation, "They are non-steroid pills for treating Crohn's Disease. I have documentation for them."

To my surprise, the baggage lady nodded, and my bag slid gracefully down the metal baggage slide. I turned away from the claims desk and heaved a sigh of relief, only to hear "Wait a minute, mate," spoken from behind me. I froze. How could I have gotten so close to freedom only to have my meds take it away? "Come over here! I'll help you put your bag on."

I am in Australia.

I pack 'til 6 in the AM

No one else is awake because it is already 2:30 in the morning. I am sitting in my living room, wondering how I am going to fit four and a half months worth of clothes into my Kelty Coyote backpack, finally realizing that I can only carry one week's worth of clothes with me. That means I'll have to do laundry at least a few times.

I leave on Wednesday, three days from now. 6-hour flight to LA, 6-hour nap in LAX, 15-hour flight to Brisbane. I arrive in Brisbane on Friday morning.

At this point I am wondering how many times the Cash4Gold infomercial can air in a single commercial period. So far it is three times.

Sitting amidst my raincoat, camping towel, first aid kit, and bathing suits, I am starting Bill Bryson's In a Sunburned Country (at the suggestion of my future, fellow travelers) to prepare me for my journey. I am both excited and nervous. I catch myself daydreaming about what my experiences will be like, only to realize that I cannot anticipate what is in store. Next time I write, I'll be in Australia.

My program is Australia: Sustainability and Environment. Details are here.