Circumspencing the Globe

It was Christmas Eve.  Gloria asked, “What are you wearing?”

“A green shirt,” I said.

“And pants?” she asked.

“Um, no, just the shirt,” I said.

“What kind of hair do you have?” she asked.

“Hat hair,” I said.

This was my telephone conversation from the Cairns airport with the hostel lady.  She sent a car to pick me up.  The driver was able to find me, even though I was wearing pants.  He must have recognized my hat hair, which was bell-shaped.  Christmas bell-shaped.

I shared the ride with a Norwegian family heading for the same hostel.  The radio played, “The weather outside is frightful,” which was a complete lie.  Unless you’re afraid of humidity.  The Norwegians sang, “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.”  I didn’t know what Christmas would bring, but it definitely would not be bringing snow to the northeast corner of Australia.

Gloria checked me in and handed me a dinner coupon.  She encouraged me to join a snorkeling tour the next day, showed me brochures for a few companies and warned me there were almost no spots left.  I had no plans and thought snorkeling on Christmas day sounded cool.  In the past when I’d snorkeled, I felt I was peering in on one of God’s secrets, an underwater world brimming with activity and beauty.  Nature has a way of bringing one close to the Creator like nothing else.  So I skimmed the brochures hastily and signed up and paid the steep fee.  Then I found my room, dumped my bags and took a shower and dried off.  By the time I got dressed I was wet again from the humidity.  But my hair looked less like a bell.  It was about 8:00 p.m.  I began to roam down Esplanade, which runs along the ocean.  (The Pacific to be specific.)  The moonlight made visible the muddy marshland to my left.  The beaches are not sandy and not the least bit inviting.  That is a good thing, because salt water crocodiles inhabit these coastal waters up here in Queensland.

This particular hostel provides a free dinner instead of a free breakfast.  The dinner was served at a pub in town.  A knock-out blonde in a Santa hat and not much else greeted me at the pub and explained the procedure.  I chose chili con carne and ate at a table occupied by a young couple.  While I ate, the loud bass-beat thumped from the disco upstairs.  Finished, I left to find live music instead.

The only place in town with live music was the Bull Bar, a good-sized bar with an outdoor patio, perfect for a big party.  But the only people there were four guys sitting at one table and a couple sitting at another.  The small corner stage was empty.  I asked the bartender about the live music and he said the band’s on a break.  He clarified that “the band” is really just a father on guitar and his 10-year-old son on bongos.  This would be my Christmas Eve, 2007. 

I ordered a beer.  While I was talking with the bartender, a pretty girl appeared out of nowhere and ordered a drink.  Overcome with a spirit of giving, I paid for it.  She was profusely thankful.  And then disappeared.

I sat down at an empty table–they were almost all empty.  I had nothing to do but read beer coasters.  After a while, the father-and-son band took the stage.  They performed classic rock.  The dad played a mean guitar and had a booming voice.  The kid had some talent but lacked his dad’s confidence.  Soon, the four men and the couple left.  That left only me in the audience–as the audience.  I clapped extra loud and nodded a lot during the songs.  Another guy, who I later learned is from Wales, entered the room.  On the way to the bathroom, I said “merry Christmas” to him and on the way back sat at his table.  The guitarist invited our suggestions, so the Welchman and I fed them classic rock artists to play.  I noticed that the dad often tried to turn the songs into lessons for his son.  For example, when I asked for Lynyrd Skynyrd, he chose an anti-drugs song.  “Don’t mess with the needle; don’t mess with the spoon,” he sang and simultaneously warned his son.

The Welchman left before I did.  The duo played Bob Dylan.  “How does it feel….To be on your own?”  I was on my own for Christmas this year.  But it didn’t feel too bad because I knew I’m not really alone.  God has surrounded me with family and friends and colleagues and a congregation that would never let me slip too far into obscurity.  That is not being alone.  That’s just exercising independence.  Whenever I do feel something like a drifter, I feel like a fake drifter.  Someone who’s drifting by choice.

The band concluded and with my applause I tried to match the enthusiasm of a full house.  Still feeling a spirit of giving, I handed the guitarist a good tip.  (And you thought I paid for that girl’s drink just because she was pretty!)  It seemed to me that father and son could have enjoyed their Christmas Eve a lot more somewhere other than in a bar, and a near-empty one at that.  But at least they were together.  The father with his son; the son with his father.  When I handed him the money, the dad asked, “What’re you doin’ for Christmas, mate?”  “I don’t know exactly,” I answered.  He promptly took out a pen and paper and wrote down his phone number.  “Come on over.  You can join us.”

THAT was Christmas.  Right there.  That selfless gesture.  He didn’t know me at all, didn’t know what I’d “bring to the table” (figuratively and literally).  But he was prepared to take a risk and invite a complete stranger into his home for a Christmas meal.  I thanked him from the bottom of my heart.  I explained that I had booked a snorkeling tour and didn’t know when I’d return.  He said, “no worries, mate,” and invited me to give him a call if I felt like coming by later.

Above:  The sea’s edge beside Esplanade, from the cruise boat, a glimpse of the reef, and a shot of Cairns.

On Christmas morn, I awoke in my single room.  My head felt funny and I didn’t want to get up.  But I had to be at the harbor in time to catch the boat.  In the middle of the night, I heard a group tiptoeing along the hallway outside my door, giggling and shushing each other.  I had trouble sleeping after that.  Also, I hadn’t slept much in the past few nights.  I thought the giggling, shushing group might have been planning some sort of Christmas surprise for the guests.  But when I opened the door, there was no stocking hanging on my door.  Just a wave of humidity to greet me.

I shuffled my way down Esplanade to board the boat.  I walked across the marina and sat on a wall beside the boat and ate a muffin.  In front of me, the droves of passengers lined up to have their pictures taken in front of a propped-up life preserver and wearing a Santa hat.  An old guy on an old bike rode up and watched the photographing with me.  The old man’s old bike had an old basket attached to the front.  Inside sat a middle-aged dog.  I finished my breakfast just as the line finished, so the photographer beckoned me to pose for my own cheesey picture.  Reluctantly, I walked toward the life preserver prop, but before I put on the Santa hat I asked the old guy to be in my picture.  At first he didn’t understand what I wanted, then he kicked his kickstand and began to leave his bike, basket and dog.  I told him to bring everything, so he wheeled his bike over.  I put on my hat and wondered if the guy with the camera would go along.  Not only did he go along, he transformed into a fashion photograher, snapping shots from all angles with zeal, egging us on, handing me the dog, taking the dog away, crouching, standing, leaning, snapping, snapping, snapping.  I guess he didn’t get into photography just to film tourists posing in front of props.

The boat was very crowded.  Passengers had boarded by the busloads.  Jockeying for a seat was a challenge.  My inner grinch began to surge.  I was surrounded by families.  I realized then that the price had problably been too high for the backpacker demographic, which is the most fun demographic.  There were numerous schmarmy announcements, and all of them were in both English and Japanese.  Once the passengers had boarded, they baraged us with add-on offers for more money:  snorkeling on a “guided tour” (having someone point out the things in front of your mask) for $30 more, taking a 10-minute helicopter ride from a floating launch pad for $125 more, walking on an underwater platform wearing a sea helmet for $135 more, crawling into a whale’s mouth and being spewed out his blowhole for $230 more, etc.  (I’m kidding about that last one.  It was $210.)  Video footage of happy people (mostly Japanese) who had opted for these extras streamed from monitors continuously.  I felt like the target of a slick marketing campaign, like the squeeze was on.  I didn’t like it and felt more grinchlike.  I was really tired and just out of it.  “Bah, humbug!” I wanted to yell.

I found a seat behind three full-figured women, practically the only passengers who weren’t part of a nuclear family.  Next to the one on the end was a rack full of seasickness bags.  I leaned over and said, “Excuse me, are you gonna be using all those barf bags?”  It turns out they were American, two from Wisconsin and one from Illinois (Chicago), which was obvious from their accents.  I got a little mileage out of my dumb joke, but the conversation soon petered out.  That was okay, because I wanted to sleep anyway.

The boat traveled out to the Great Barrier Reef, which serves as a barricade from ocean waves for the northern part of Australia’s east coast.  (Consequently, the good surf is on the southern part of the east coast and on the south and west coasts.)  One of the seven natural wonders of the world, the Great Barrier Reef is the planet’s biggest reef system, so large it is the only living thing visible from space.  The boat anchored next to a floating pontoon beside the Moore Reef.  On the pontoon were crates overflowing with countless snorkels and masks and fins.  I tried to beat the crowd and get into the water as soon as possible.  A specific area was roped off for us and we were not to swim outside that area.  This was snorkeling for dummies.  But it felt good to get wet and paddle around.  On the reef’s floor I spotted a sea turtle almost immediately.  When he spotted me, he darted away, more quickly than I expected he could.  I saw all sorts of coral, but not as spectacular in appearance as you might expect–that would take a scuba diving trip I reckoned.  I wasn’t feeling well, so it was hard to become too excited.  In fact, I became asthmatic–something that happens to me on occasion, but usually in conjunction with allergies–and had to stop a few times at the floating rest areas. 

Back on board, a crew member gave an optional presentation on the reef.  One interesting thing I remember is that it takes four factors for a tropical reef to grow:  shallow water, warm water, clear water and lots of sunlight.  Anyhow, I was happy when it was time to leave the pontoon and begin the boat ride back to shore.  I couldn’t find an available seat, so I sat on a metal bench on the aft deck and leaned against the metal railing, drifting in and out of sleep.

Back on land, all I could think about was crawling into bed.  I never did check to see how my photos with the old man and dog came out.  I passed a mall and stopped for Chinese food.  Then I returned to the hostel and did crawl into bed and fell right to sleep.  I didn’t get up until the next morning and I didn’t make it to Christmas dinner at the guitarist’s.

Today is December 26 here but Christmas day where most of you are.  Merry Christmas!

By the way, a lot transpired between leaving Melbourne and arriving in Cairns.  I’ll fill you in next time.

Tags: Australia, Cairns, Great Barrier Reef, Travel

This entry was posted on Tuesday, December 25th, 2007 at 11:42 pm and is filed under Travel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.