Circumspencing the Globe

It’s New Year’s Eve day here in Oz.  I’m still on the east coast of Queensland, but many kilometers to the south of Cairns.  The rain has been heavy for almost a week, with blue sky making an appearance for only a few hours at a time.  In this entry, I’ll attempt to update you with the latest since Christmas.  If there’s enough time before the New Year’s festivities get underway, I’ll fill in some of the details between Melbourne and Cairns, too. 

After Christmas: 

After three nights in Cairns, I boarded a bus on December 27 heading southbound to a place 11 hours away called Airlie Beach.  The town is mostly just a single street lined with rowdy outdoor bars and has a perpetual “spring break” vibe.  I came because Airlie Beach has a harbor from which sailboats are launched to the Whitsunday Islands.  The Whitsundays are part of the Great Barrier Reef and completely uninhabited. 

I arrived in Airlie at midnight and slept in a hostel dorm room.  The next morning I boarded the Siska, a sailboat operated by Southern Cross Sailing Adventures.  The 80-foot vessel has circumnavigated the world twice and won the Sydney to Hobart Race.  I was assigned one of the 14 bunks.

The skipper didn’t speak much and had the most extreme sunglasses racoon lines I’ve ever seen.  Gemma and Bianca made up his crew.  Gemma, a Scot, was in constant motion, a dynamo, hoisting sails at one moment, dropping the anchor at another, steering the transport dinghy and stirring up the fun among the passengers.  Bianca, an Aussie, prepared all of the meals, somehow managing to chop vegetables when the boat knocked the rest of us around like pinballs.  And because the weather was inclement, there was a lot of rocking and wind and whitecaps.  A few of the passengers were down about this, but the majority considered it all part of the adventure.

The heart of the group consisted of two Aussie passengers straight out of central casting.  One an elevator contractor and the other a four-wheel-drive tour operator in the Australian rainforest, the two good-hearted blokes joked and cussed and laughed almost as much as they drank beer, bringing out all but the most extreme introverts in the group.  These are the sort of incisive, robust, blue-collar fellows you’d want on a jury.

We snorkeled in off-and-on rain on the first day.  There were no crowds and no marketing gimmicks.  Just pure snorkeling and plenty of curious fish who darted right up to your face.  This was the sort of snorkeling I had hoped to experience.  The next day the wind was strong and we mostly just sailed, tipping at severe angles and getting drenched on deck.  On the third day we snorkeled some more.  During a land stop on a sand spit, I waded into the water and encountered a big, caramel-colored turtle swimming among the rocks in search of food.  When he noticed me, he breached the water with his head and eyed me over.  When I moved, he jolted away, but returned a couple more times to check me out.

Above:  View from the boat, Whitehaven Beach, passing one of the Whitsunday Islands, four beached jellyfish.

The turtles pose no threat to human beings.  But it seems wherever you go in Australia, some creature does.  Here it was the box jellyfish.  The sting of the cabbage-sized box jellyfish is not just painful; it’s lethal.  If you’re stung, you’ll need an ambulance, immediate medical attention and maybe artificial respiration.  We passed plenty of these jellyfish as we sailed through the islands and a few while snorkeling.  For protection, virtually every snorkeler and diver wears a “stinger suit,” which is really just a thin wetsuit.  Gemma assured me she’s never had anyone get stung on their exposed hands, feet or neck.  I kept a constant look-out for the creatures when I snorkeled.  Nevertheless, when I was snorkeling on the third day in an opaque area, during a breaststroke my hand brushed against the head of a box jellyfish, thankfully without incident.  Another passenger told me the same thing happened to him in the same area.

After a stop at picturesque Whitehaven Beach, we returned to the Airlie Beach harbor at about 4:00 in the afternoon.  I showered off, packed up and boarded an overnight southbound bus.  Fourteen hours later, this morning, I arrived in Rainbow Beach.  Named for the multi-colored sand hills that surround one of the best surf spots around, Rainbow Beach is the consummate surf community.  I had lunch in a little sandwich shop on the little main street.  Even the old men walk around barefoot and in boardshorts.  There weren’t many people in the ocean today due to storm conditions.  Some locals told me that during “rush hour,” many motorists avoid the traffic by driving in the sand along the shoreline in their four-wheel-drive vehicles.  They pointed out the traffic signs in place on the beach.

I had planned to depart tomorrow on a three-day camping trip on nearby Fraser Island.  A number of tour companies organize groups of strangers and outfit them with a four-wheel-drive vehicle, camping provisions, a map and a suggested itinerary and then send the group off to Fraser Island to make their own way and, hopefully, get along with one another.  I’d talked to a few people who’d done such a trip, and, without exception, they emphasized how much fun it was and how well their group worked together.  Unfortunately, the weather has been so bad the tour was canceled.  In fact, just yesterday, Fraser Island was evacuated.  So I guess I’ll be in Rainbow Beach for a couple days instead.

The girls who work at the hostel I’m writing from have been busying themselves hanging New Year’s Eve decorations in the lounge areas.  Tonight the hostel is hosting a masquerade party.  I had hoped to be among the crowds for Sydney’s spectacular fireworks display.  But instead it looks like I’ll be in tiny Rainbow Beach, population 1,050.

Before Christmas:

I’ll take a stab at filling you in on what took place after I left Melbourne over two weeks ago and headed for Adelaide, capital city of the state of South Australia.  The train journey to Adelaide departed from the beautiful Melbourne train and bus station on Saturday morning, December 14.  I sucked back a “flat white” coffee before boarding the bus that would intercept the train at a later stop due to rail work earlier in the route.  The train staff was a jocular bunch.  Over the loudspeaker the leader described the group as the “B” crew who were, unfortunately for us, filling in for the really good crew.  They weren’t just self-deprecating.  They’d just as quickly “take the piss out of” any passenger who showed an inkling for banter.

That’s one thing I love about the Aussies.  They’re quick to laugh at themselves and won’t stand for people taking themselves too seriously.  They also don’t stand on formalities.  Rather, here everyone is just another “mate.”

My hostel in Adelaide, “Annie’s Place,” was a short shuttle bus ride from the train depot.  It’s in a two-story 19th century house, with big rooms full of bunkbeds and a courtyard in back.  After resolving some glitches with my booking, I staked out an upper bed in the corner.  One tradition at this hostel is nightly group dinners cooked by a staff member.  Six Australian dollars buys you a plate.  It was dinner time when I arrived and I was hungry, so I joined in.  The chicken stir-fry was tasty and hit the spot.  After dinner, I inquired of the courtyard population if anyone wanted to accompany me in trying to find a live band in town.  I had no takers to that specific proposition, but making it did gain me an invitation into the “fun group” who were in the middle of playing a popular backpacker card game called “sh*thead.”  That felt good, especially considering I was the oldest admittee into that particular group.  And I was rarely the sh*thead.  (In terms of the game’s outcome, anyway.)  Later, we went to a saloon.

The next morning, a Sunday, I wanted to find a worship service.  Adelaide is the “city of churches” afterall.  Of course, having a lot of church buildings is not an accurate gauge on the present spiritual “aliveness” of a place.  The Bible says if we pray according to God’s will, He will answer that prayer.  Some requests are clearly NOT according to His will, mind you (e.g., “please grant me a liaison with a hooker”) or are uncertain (e.g., “please give me this specific new job”).  But a prayer like “lead me to a spiritually alive, biblically-grounded worship service” is a pretty safe bet.

I walked outside the hostel and looked to my right.  I saw no traffic or pedestrians there on Franklin Street.  The shuttle driver had mentioned there was a church he thought I might like somewhere nearby the hostel, but I couldn’t remember where.  I turned to my left and saw a couple people walking down the street.  I followed them a few steps until they turned into a big, fancy Greek Orthodox church.  They crossed themselves when they entered, and I knew I’d be distracted by unfamiliar rituals if I ventured inside.  I continued on to the end of the block and happened to turn right.  A little way down this busier street, I saw people streaming into a school auditorium across the street.  A banner read “Paradise Church.”  My congregation at home had met in a school auditorium for several years, so the scenario looked familiar to me.  I saw a few kids and teens outside, a sign of congregational replenishment, the mark of a group that is probably growing and probably not stagnant.  The banner said service began at 10:00.  My watch said 10:20.  But people were still arriving, and some were still mulling about outside, so I continued on toward the entrance.  Greeters at the door welcomed me.  They told me service wouldn’t start for another ten minutes.  I asked if I had missed anything since it was now 20 minutes past the starting time.  They told me it wasn’t 10:00 yet.  I then learned that Adelaide is 30 minutes behind Melbourne.  I hadn’t realized time zones could vary in half-hour increments.  But this is the land of Oz.  And God was answering my prayer.

A gray-haired guy wearing denim jeans and a black tee-shirt told me newcomers were entitled to a cup of coffee after service.  I took a seat near the back.  The stage was empty except for a drum set and some microphone stands.  The auditorium sat about 150 to 200 people and most seats were eventually filled.  The attendees were diverse, representing different ages, races, styles.  Intermingled in that room sat clean-cut looking couples and baggy-clothed adolescents and single moms and bald-headed, big-bearded guys with bouncer-sized forearms.

The worship music was of the contemporary variety and seemed heartfelt, and the congregation participatory.  A set of upbeat praise songs ended with the traditional Christmas classic, “Oh Come Let Us Adore Him.”  This collection of people–some of whom you might expect to worship at the altar of Harley-Davidson or death metal or Consumer Reports–had come together to lift up the name of Jesus.

The pastor began by saying, “Everyone, turn to your neighbor–”  I cringed as soon as he started the sentence.  I hate being forced to interact with a complete stranger and told to say some contrived (though true) statement like, “God loves you today.”  But this pastor had a sense of humor.  “Turn to your neighbor and say, ‘You’re breath smells great.'”  (This required the guy next to me to lie.)  A former Hindu from Malaysia, the pastor delivered a message about hope and suffering and anger at God.  Meaty stuff, not the all-too-common feel-good fare.

Afterwards, an announcement was made concerning that evening’s Christmas carols event.  I moved to the coffee table and had my free visitor’s cup.  One person after another came over to say hello.  The ladies responsible for the coffee gave me a topper and offered me cookies three times.  I asked about the Christmas carols.  It turns out, the event would be held several kilometers out of town.  I showed interest, so one guy tried to find me a ride, but told me that most people going would be going early to help set up.  I didn’t know what kind of set-up caroling required, but I said I’d be happy to pitch in. 

So an older guy named Collin picked me up at the hostel and drove me to a fairgrounds area.  It turns out, this was a big event, with attendance in the tens of thousands. There were rides and game booths and food stands around the perimeter and a huge stage up front.  Ronald McDonald made a personal appearance, as did Shrek.  And what would Christmas be without those two?

 I helped Collin and some of his fellow congregants man one of the entrance gates.  I volunteered to be the official counter, using a clicker to keep tally of the number of entrants at our gate.  My intention was to demonstrate the mathematical acumen of a typical Californian.  Just before we opened the gate, one of the guys in our group approached me and whispered, “If you wanna do it the Aussie way, mate, set the clicker to 2,000 and go take a nap.”

By contributing my labor, I received free entry (a $2 value), two hot dogs and a drink.  Collin’s wife Betty arrived later with two elderly friends and beach chairs and invited me to watch the festivities with them.  The event’s primary sponsor is Paradise Church, which is actually a mega-church.  The one I visited is a smaller satellite church.  Professional singers, including last year’s Australian Idol winner, led the crowd in singing Christmas carols.  The crowd consisted of mostly families, spread out in the summer sunshine over the grass on blankets and folding chairs.  Many dressed in red and green and wore Santa hats. The sight seemed incongruent, like some bizarre mixup in which Christmas and July Fourth were diabolically grafted  together.

A pastor–not the one from that morning–gave a message about the bounds of a father’s love.  Then–get this–Shrek and other Shrek movie characters took the stage and acted out so many scenes it seemed to last as long as the feature-length movie.  By the time they finished it was dark.  The event ended with a fireworks show.  Not quite what I’d envisioned when I heard “carols.”  By no means a silent night.

But the camaraderie of Collin and the others was a treat.  A biblical verse says that God can give to us “exceedingly abundantly” more than we expect in answer to our prayers.  I’d say that happened to me that day.  I’d prayed for a worship service and got an entire day of fellowship.  And Shrek taboot.

Above:  Two shots of Adelaide, fireworks at the “caroling” event, and Glenelg.

I stayed in Adelaide four nights, longer than I stayed in Melbourne.  I would’ve had it otherwise, but the train schedule and an excursion I booked didn’t allow it.  Adelaide itself simply can’t compete with Melbourne.  It’s flat and square and its streets are laid out in an uninspired grid pattern.  There’s a nice shopping area on Rundle Street that looks a lot like the Santa Monica Promenade and lots of office buildings and gray sidewalks and a greenbelt featuring a statue of Queen Victoria.  There aren’t any “must-see” sights.  But this actually made my stay there quite relaxing.  In most other cities I felt time-pressed to make the most of the days.

One day I took a tram to the beach town of Glenelg.  This is where the first settlers of South Australia landed in 1836.  They eventually founded Adelaide, the only major city in Oz not established as a prison colony.  I visited the Rodney Fox Shark Experience museum.  Its namesake was attacked by a great white in the 1950s–display photos show bite marks under his arm and across his abdomen, so deep they expose his vital organs.  Nonetheless, he became a shark expert and advocate.  His chatty wife, who helps run the counter, detained me in conversation about her visits to California and suggestions for the rest of my trip.

My experience of Adelaide revolved around the people I met.  Besides the church folks, I enjoyed the company of my hostel mates.  I slept in a 10-bed room.  Despite the number of roommates, I slept well.  England, Finland, Germany, Holland, Spain and the Czech Republic were all represented in this room.  Israel, Germany, South Africa, Ireland, and surely others were represented in the hostel as a whole.  The bedrooms and bathrooms were coed, as is common in many hostels, so it was like living in a blended fraternity/sorority house for four days, but, mercifully, without the unmitigated partying.  There was no shortage of travel stories, spanning topics from natural wonders to appalling dorm experiences.

On my last evening, when I was in the laundry area alone, a German girl–the loudest and possibly the shrewdest sh*thead player of the bunch–approached me to say goodbye and confided in me about a recent personal tragedy.  I was touched that she singled me out for that.

On Tuesday morning, December 18, my watch and cell phone alarms sounded at 5:55 a.m. and I tiptoed out of the 10-bunk room and out of Annie’s Place to catch an awaiting minibus.  I then began a two-day trip (Groovy Grape’s Boomerang tour) up the Stuart Highway to Alice Springs, located in Australia’s “Red Centre” and part of the Northern Territory.  The nearly empty highway went on forever.  Kangaroo carcasses in varying degrees of decay could be seen on the shoulder where the red dirt met the concrete highway.  Eagles tore at the fresher ones.

Above:  The interminable Stuart Highway, our minibus, the Coober Pedy sign, our dug-out accommodations.

On the way, we spent a night in an other-worldly town called Coober Pedy, which roughly translates to “white man’s burrow.”  Half of the 2,624-person population lives in subterranean dug-outs to escape boiling days and freezing nights.  Daytime temperatures can exceed 50 degrees Celcius (122 degrees farenheit); our driver said they’d lately been around 40 degrees Celsius (104 degrees farenheit).  The town exists because opal was found there in 1915, and it’s still the biggest opal-producing site in Oz, if not the globe.  The minibus-ful of people spent the night in a dug-out.  During the night we were visited by an inquisitive mouse.

Above:  Five shots of the bizarre Coober Pedy environs, a shot of the giant sky from the minibus, crossing out of South Australia and into the Northern Territory, and a surly-looking emu.

After driving for the better part of two days, we arrived in Alice Springs.  I spent that night in another hostel owned by the Annie’s Place people.  The next morning, December 21, I began a three-day camping trip (Mulgas Adventures) further into Oz’s “Red Centre.”  The trip proved to be the highlight of my travels to date.  I’ll tell you about it next time.

Tags: Adelaide, Alice Springs, Australia, Coober Pedy, Queensland, Rainbow Beach, Travel, Whitsunday Islands

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