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.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
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.
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...
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...
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