Australian Arenas
Australian Arenas
As a journey ends, they flicker past, the remembered scenes, scents and feelings, that surrounded you while it lasted. So those from Australia now, the ”Ghastly blank” or “Terra Australis Incognito” as it was once called.
Incognito no more, vigilance now being necessary as to what riff-raff they are willing to let through the customs; one by one each traveller stands on a yellow spot and a friendly dog sniffs you and your bags. A sign reads; “Do not kick the dog!” Or something like it, maybe; it is an offence to interfere with the dog as it works.” It was all very business like with no smiles or banter. Different to the more relaxed welcome and joking 14 years ago when we first came. It is still as exciting as then though.
Firstly the feel of the almost toy-like plastic money with bright pictures, ready to be dunked in water or crunched in a sweaty palm with no ill effects. Then the sounds that hit you already at the airport; birds that whistle, laugh and sing tunes, along with that first perfumed whiff of eucalyptus oil. As if the whole country had been thoroughly cleaned. And then the smiles. Everywhere, on all faces. No wind seems to change them, they are perpetually plastered on people, and genuine. This only is reason enough to come. But there is so much more unfolding on the Australian Arena, though this time we would not travel so much. Maybe a pocket sized garden instead of New-York Central Park? A relief from the sand-pit of dusty Doha, anyway.
We thought to see Dhow boats cruise the blue, blue Gulf, explore the Camel and fish markets, saunter along the Corniche under Palm trees, but all we saw from the 14th floor of our hotel and below on ground was a murky mist of billowing dust coating everything in sight and finding a way into all the crevices in my camera and body, until after a while we gave up, finding shelter in a Souq. It was of the less romantic kind with bedecked women in black sniffing perfumes, flapping amidst the glittering fabric draped over headless models and when not finding anything to their liking, sailing back into waiting cars in the gusty wind. It was strange to see no ready made dresses, only black gowns and frilly nighties in windows, men running the whole show. Empty benches with “Woman” written on them dotted the echoing marble corridors.
At the Gloria Hotel breakfast was served in a huge dining room, the main ingredient being bread. I thought a young sheik was brining a plateful of rolls to his mates at the table, but it was only for him. Found real porridge though, and yoghurt, and the staff were polite and attentive to all your needs, gently propelling mint tea in your direction the moment you sat down.
Doha looked like a never ending building site, but we were told with great pride and enthusiasm what a paradise this place would be, modeled after “TheWorld” in Dubai, in just a very short while.
Ahead lay a 13,5 hour flight to Melbourne at 1.am (it turned out to be nearly 15 hours) so it would have been nice to see a bit more. Never mind. But we saw something of the mundane life; men in white robes driving huge cars while chewing cigars and fiddling with their iPhones, with a bundle of black elegance in the back seat. A life measured by golden trinkets, silk-gowns, endless shopping. One cant see what lies hidden in the eyes seeing the world through a slit. Heard the call for prayer reverberate in the warm air, shoes piled outside the mosque, lumpy with cement: immigrant workers pray as well as sit along the dusty roads, hoping for work.
No wine for love or money, but the Hommos was as good as mine.
And its nice when every request you make is treated as a command!
«Complimentary taxi for 10pm, please». «But of course, sir»
One gets through a long flight best one can. Qatar Airways had perfect service, but its no comfort when your body is crying out to lie down. Anywhere! Envious looks were passed into the first class when the curtains parted, and a fleeting glimpse of people lying down sipping champagne did not help, as you tried to re-arrange your legs and yet again wake the Turkish man sitting beside you so you could jump about a bit. In front of me sat a very redolent man, emitting aromas so stringent I had to keep shoving Japanese Mint Oil, like the Victorian ladies their posies, up my nose to bear it. And just for a moment my tortured position in the seat gave me a nasty moment when my blood pressure dropped and I nearly fainted. Small matter really.
It was night when we left Doha, dawn came just after India, many hours later and we flew in daylight for a little while before the sun swallowed itself again over the Pacific. Nearing the Australian coast, the short day was over. Dark evening welcomed us to Melbourne, with midnight nearing. Time was lost in a void, it vanished without trace: a strange feeling.
Each day brought a new Australian Arena, and some I have here tried to tidy up for you, to enter and hopefully enjoy. Note; All offensive language is truly authentic and Australian.
At home with friends.
I woke to the sounds of parrots in the trees through the windows that surrounded our bedroom from three sides, and the soft green leafy light that enveloped us. Ahead lay perfection after a long journey: a day by the pool with friends. Gum trees gently shed leaves in the breeze into the blue pool, and a lazy warm feeling of utter contentment crept into your soul. We met again people we had not seen for years, making food and eating it together along with cool drinks, laughing and swimming. Knowing Melbourne weather, this was a lucky stroke, the humid heat and sun that enticed Anneli to wear her flimsiest summer dress from her actress wardrobe. Just what we needed.
Crickets chirped in the late afternoons as the orange clouds sailed by, and the night cooled, mellow dusk of evening softening the harsh brightness of day.
This was not the first time I made merry on my birthday is Australia. Excited I opened my real, authentic Aussie present from Irene and Johnas, suitably serenaded with song in sunshine. Just to wake to a day with no ice or snow, is quite enough without wandering to far-flung places. You walk along a perfectly ordinary and mundane municipal residential area, and see things that excite you! Rainbow Parrots peering at you in trees, houses hiding in frangipani bushes and a local market with both a muffin-man and sausage- man as well as the butcher and baker and body-lotion maker. And how delightful to be met with hearty welcomes from strangers when they hear you are from really far away. “You must taste my muffin then, best in Australia!”
Heathmont is a really a village, although part of Melbourne, and one can get the necessary life supporting foods there, as well as urgent help: yesterday I was bitten by something, and being aware of the long list of lethal spider bites Australia can produce, I went to the nearest pharmacy and a nice lady checked the swollen bite: «You just relax dear, don`t think about it, and it will go away» was her advice. So I did. But when strange things attack you while in the pool you panic. The lady asked what kind of a spider she thought had bitten me. Don’t know. Could have been a mouse or wolf- or white tailed or red-back spider, you don’t see a spider when it bites!
The rest of my birthday was spent at Cloudehill Gardens where the bush, with lyrebirds and wombats, mingled with roses and azaleas. One could learn about the Australian names of gum trees, so much more down to earth than Latin: Kakadu woollybutt, Bastard tally-weed, ghost-gum and more mundane River Gum, but all beautiful, the one tree one can photograph perpetually.
I was sung to, loudly and in harmony, again while 5 muffins were decorated with two sparkles in the restaurant, along with champagne and a lunch of flat-tail fish. Later, after our exhausting walk and running from the torrential rain and hail, it was time for a cream-tea. The weather was typical. From 30+ and sunny to a sudden 14+ with rain.
Hanging rocks
“Miranda, she called again, Miranda! In the breathless silence her voice seemed to belong to somebody else, a long way off, a harsh little croak fading out among the rocky walls. «Come back all of you! Don`t go up there...come back!»
So we went up, naturally. We had to find out about this 112 year old mystery, even though the warning rang in our ears. I had seen the film when young, and have long wanted to go up amongst those vertical lava cliffs that rise up above the planes of Mt.Macedon. Here lies, still unsolved, as no bodies were ever found, the story that happened on Valentines day 112 years ago when school girls went missing as they climbed into the heat, up and up, into the labyrinth of the rocks.
It was beautiful. We understood how easily one could get lost in the maze of narrow cracks and steep crevices, we nearly did. Between the rocks the dead silence of noon crept over the land, heat suffocating all sounds, and thoughts of snakes lingering on stones came to mind. Would an eastern groin groper, tiger snake or taipan ( really, 50 times more poisonous than a cobra) lurk there? A sign read; ”Snakes naturally occur here, if you see one, remain calm. Stay on marked paths”. Stamping our feet we found our way out of the central stones with no marked paths and ascended from the warren of rocks on the marked ones, as told. Gum trees, ghostly white in the shadows, whispered around. A magical place.
An old, slightly moth-eaten Rosella parrot came and kept us company as we pick-nicked afterwards. The wind changed. I was so cold by this time that Johnas lent me his trousers! Bertil needed his.
Mornington Peninsula
Mornington, a place by the sea, has views to die for, we were told. So the car was packed and with great Aussie optimism we set out for it; mists as thick as pea-soup greeted us, but as Irene says, “Melbourne has four seasons in a day, and it will change. “ It did.
Wonderful skies of purple clouds, as intense as the lavender in the gardens along with the scented roses and a tall maze we got lost in, opened over Philips Bay and gave us a gift only those can see who bother to wait in the rain for better times.
Wind whipped and vast, the ocean dissolved in blue and turquoise into the far distance of the South Pole, dark blue clouds heavy with rain letting a few sunrays penetrate the surface, and the Bay curled, elegantly like a cat, round below us.
Johnas and Bertil went on walking, while me and Irene listened to opera in the car. With a smug, victorious smile Johnas came back, pointing to his camera, and said he had got the perfect shot of a kangaroo. “You should have come! They just hopped out of the bush, the baby and all, the smallest in the pouch.” Ok, now I have to chase a kangaroo shot all over Australia. Cant be worse than Johnas, must get one, and not in a zoo.
By the beach, from the sea, beside the colourful bathing huts, rose a man. «Dont take fotos of me, I am too old and ugly» he says. I read the message and answered, “Oh, you are not! Besides, you are rather handsome, I MUST take a foto!» Freddy, aged 90, had just helped his wife up from the sea where they snorkel every day, and now posed happily for me. Wiry and wet, the true mermaid of the seas.
A lone bride stood, as if abandoned, on the beach against the stormy clouds, to be photographed. We never saw the groom.
Mornington Peninsula had more than views to offer.
Walhalla
We followed the gold rush to Walhalla, «the valley where treasure is found» and as they found over 75 tons, it holds water. But like all things, it did not last, and now it is a ghost town with 8 enthusiastic people living there and » four of us in the bush» to boot. There is still the railway running along the river gorge, and we took that, loving every shaking moment of it though the air was cool up there in the mountains and I had to wear woolly socks with my sandals. Tea was served at the end station after 4 km by a very happy bunny of a man who said we were the first ones to want it in 4 months, with biscuits to dunk as well. He looked like a white-haired gnome. A happy one.
The cemetery, wild and forgotten, hugging the steep hillside with its quiet graves, was worth the climb. Only the sound of birds to disturb their sleep. A sepia foto showed children in white frilly dresses on a Sunday outing by the graves.
Walhalla was a charming, soporific town, with flowering gardens and the few inhabitants all eager to tell us about it. A slanting evening sun shone on a stone wall, and there a little «miracle» happened. A Kookaburra sat with its eyes peeled on the river for fish, and let me approach it so close with my camera I was totally thrilled. A lot scruffier than the ones in the zoo, but wild. Got one on Johnas!
Cranbourne
Trying to find the fastest way into the Australian Garden, Irene map-read with her golden hair getting in the way, and led us onto closed bush paths with locked gates. “Oh, Johnas, why did you drive here!” This place is a great work of art where they have crammed Australia into 9 hectares, from the arid areas of Uluru where heat hangs like a religious conviction, to cold arse numbing snowy mountains, the apple orchards of the South West to humid hot jungle of the York peninsula, with air as oppressive as bad breath down your neck.
It is autumn and few flowers are out, but the eucalyptus with their bewitching names; Bloodwood, Stringybark, Peppermint, scented the air along with Wallum banksia flowers and Wedding bush, still in bloom. At the cafeteria we discovered a possum curled up into a ball between two window panes, where it had obviously made its nest and now rested in full view of fascinated families having lunch, its eyes closed tight.
The gates “close at 5 pm exactly, then we lock your car in” we were told, but had to see the look-out point where the Melbourne skyscrapers rose in the far remoteness beyond the bush-fire like salvaged, upright drift wood. Panting from running we came to the car just after 5pm with Irene perched on the bumper, she having been too wise not to make the mad dash.
Melbourne
Built with Ballarat gold, Melbourne is the “snob” of Australian cities: Sydney is new money, Brisbane backward and what can one say about Canberra! Perth is on another planet, what other choice is there?
Pushing the “+60” button at the station gave us a whole day to travel freely around, so this had to be taken advantage of. Irene and Johnas not having reached maturity, drove there with us when they came along, it being cheaper! But we loved the slow rambling hour it took to get to Flinders station, and chatted to people, the view changing from gardens to rough back-yards with graffiti, as “the loop” got into the city. Red-coated guides stood at corners ready to dive into their info-bags with 462 reasons to visit and welcome you, telling in great detail to us silly beings, how to orientate ourselves. “Now you see those stairs there, don’t go down there, take the next ones, otherwise you will end up in the river!”
High above Melbourne, 88 floors up the new Eureka building, we survived the «On the Edge Experience» being shot out into the void on a glass platform. We were befittingly scared only for the photographer, and actually loved it. It was like living in the clouds!
Busy bustling everywhere. A group of haphazardly painted aboriginals gave a tourist show of dancing: its still to come, for me to see these amazing people in their natural habitat. Music played with varying talent in the streets all through the day, floated among the footfalls and clacking heels, shuffling teenagers and skyscrapers.
We had coffee and remembered the terms that applied: long black, flat white, short black ect. as we ordered, and mingled well with the crowds lunching in little black dresses and high heels, or “thank god its Friday” assembly along the Yarra river, the gravitational point for people to come and chill out. Knitted socks protected trees, dignified and somewhat deflated old buildings squatted at ankle level of the newer ones, and charming as all this might be, it was still to the sparse lands we longed to go. So we left Melbourne behind, like a starched fart, and moved on.
On the Road to Brisbane
Autumn was cooling Victoria, and we longed for sunshine. I read somewhere the definition of contentment; “the secret of contentment is never to allow yourself to want anything which reason tells you haven’t a chance of getting.” I have never listened to this pointer before, hope springs eternal whatever, but this seemed perfectly sane, wanting warmth and sunshine up along the Gold Coast. Cheery Johnas told us we would soon hit the heat, as he guided us away from Melbourne centre and onto the Freeway up the Eastern Coast, and waived goodbye. All by ourselves now!
Hills and valleys, dotted with either cows intent on feeding on the yellow grass, or sheep that looked like boulders of gray rock, sped past. Fast. Eagles scouted for road kill and kangaroo carcasses dotted the road. After 650km the shadows lengthened, and as we don’t want to drive in the dark, our car lacking in a kangaroo-grid, evening time brought a guessing game: which little town had vacancies for us in their cabins on Caravan Sites? Pointing at a place on the map I read Yass. Just off hand. And we got the last cabin.
Construction workers next door hogged the whole table beside our cabins, with outdoor barbies and beer. “How are ya, mate? We´ll party all night, want to join?” Actually not a sound escapes an Australian camping site after 10pm. Dire warning signs point out the consequences of defiance.
It was COLD. I was too chilled to bother to get up and get another blanket, so I lay and listened to possums fighting on the roof, but the morning was glorious, and me and Bert felt this was it, the great sunshine-day, and hummed along happily.
We hit the wet and +15 outside Sydney, with long threads of rain linking the sky to the surface of the road. We saw nothing, but nothing of the Sydney area. Huge truck- tires sprayed us with water, the window wipers doing a fast rumba, and the leaden sky above remained just that. Later glimpses of the blue sea appeared and after another 650km as the sun was firing the horizon golden again, we got off the beaten track, and drove towards the sea. Harrington.
An estuary opened, with pelicans flying and skimming the water, people looking for bait in the mudflats and the surf a distant pounding sound. Not much moved otherwise and many of the houses were for sale: not due to floods that yesterday had covered much of the present campsite we were on, but greed for money as the prices rocket due to newly established “Waterside Paradise Living”. This important info was imparted to us to by our neighbour on the campsite, who had lived here for 12 years and noticed us puzzling over the Latin sign outside his caravan/ built shelter. “ Tempus embriates nunc est” (Freely translated into Australian; ”Time to get drunk”) He turns out to be a Latin scholar, telling us he is 62 with a proud voice, as if he was really old. Well!! And as we left him, he shouted to the next door neighbour who was out hanging her washing, ”Don’t talk to these, Barbara, they re tourists!”
A lovely place with gum trees. I love Gum trees. As afore mentioned. Blackened by fire; white trunked and nimble; or flaking like sun-burnt skin. Gum trees with posies of bridal white flowers and Gum trees with silvery grey leaves dancing in the wind. Gum trees against a new moon and gum trees in shuddering heat. I love them all.
Cicadas send us to sleep while Rosella parrots gathered in the nearby trees.
A humid sheath of heat started at last to envelope us. We have arrived in the sub-tropics where foliage bursts uncontrolled from every crevice and trees are laden with orchids and birds and flowers, and along the coast, glimpses of the sea, blue and warm, invitingly flicker past. Surfers Paradise was bypassed, as it had even more high-rise hotels popping up like fungi after rain, than last time, along the beaches in the hazy salt spray. Stopped at a petrol station asking how many hours it still was to Brisbane, and got the answer: «About four hours, mate, but you will know when nearing it, because they drive like herrings up your bum on the Highway.»
Brisbane and the Sunshine Coast
Friends made us welcome, actually our friends are called Mr. and Mrs. Friend, at their little house with the jungle garden and tree-top balcony where kingfishers swing and kookaburras laugh. Doug had sent me a meticulous map how to get to their house, but it was in an email on the computer, so we had to trust to distant memory 7 years ago, and actually got quite close before we had to ask a nice guy to draw directions on a bit of loo-paper.
A sheen of sweat clothes you all the time now, and every cell in my body relaxed! The ceiling fan fought to chop through the moist air in the house, as no air-condition was installed, the blades just stirring the heavy air like a spoon in hot tea, but the nights cooled. One evening Ruth took us up Mt.Cootah to see the sunset, the pastel colours deepening in the sky and the lights popping on in the skyscrapers of Brisbane, and it took very little time for the wind to cool after sunset: one even wanted a little cardigan in the delicious dusk.
We have been whisked from crack of dawn to late at night from place to place, introduced to new tastes and people, in a tempo that belies our accumulated ages, always with enticements that this will be a super day. Friends never grow old, do they? We pressed the +60 button again, and got to town in style after walking down the hill stepping on fallen mangoes, and eating the plump ones for breakfast. The joy of that golden fruit! It was late in the season, but we still found them around, though whispers of them coming all the way from Carnavron were heard. Brisbane is a foot-friendly city, bridges and leafy parks take you from one place to the next, you linger and meander and in no other town is it quite so refreshing to stop for a beer in the midst of business and play, mingling and doing its bits and pieces around you, than here. Nobody hurries. A cool wrought iron chair in a shady cafe is not be passed lightly, and there are plenty of them along the main streets. Like with anything Australian the names of beer are in a league all their own. How to choose, to name but a few, between Murrays Angry Man Pale Ale, Holgate chocolate temptress, Pure Blond and the usual Gold XXXX?
I looked across the street into a doorway, and there sat Marilyn Monroe; tight fitting light blue dress, every curl set to perfection of her platinum blonde hair, applying lip-stick, a tiny high-heal shoe dangling from her foot. I just had to go over and she welcomed me like a film-producer, posing away. “Guess how I keep my skin so milky white in this terrible sun? It’s a pure miracle, almost impossible. Guess? Do I look good…my, I am gorgeous!!” she chirped as I showed the picture I had taken.
Later the girl serving us told me I had met “Our Marilyn, she comes out every day, poor soul, and lives this alter-ego thing.” Why not!
River –Cats, the Brisbane water-gondolas are a brilliant and cool way to see the city. They criss-cross at many points and you hop on and off with your +60 card, letting the wind rip your hair, walk among mangroves on shady paths, stretch to see sky-scrapers and then resume to be assaulted by the wind again as you go on. Ruth had forgotten her sunhat, so she protected herself under my umbrella in the sun, whereas Doug pulled his blue hat right over his ears. He is the type to wear shoes and socks on the beach.
We were invited by the Gintrac family and friends for a week end at a beach resort along the Sunshine Coast at Alexandra Head, and as this was quite a new thing for us, we set off clutching one of Dougs meticulous maps, excited as two blow-flies in a pickle bottle. This was what we had dreamed about in snowy Norway, golden beaches curving along the coast, flowering bushes blushing with blooms, people in swimsuits and sandals! And at the reception we were met with hugs and kisses from boys taller than trees, their tiny wives and princess like children, with Nikki at the head, leading her brood to roost. We shared a flat with her and Ruth (the Other Ruth as she is called) with two bedrooms and bathrooms and a huge balcony and living area where we could all gather to plan the stay, spreading cups of tea and beer cans, crisps and coke in our wake. We set off in crocodile formation for the shops, heard loud opinions as to bathing suits and dresses, tried to get into a Club to have a beer but Bert not being dress-coded, had to wait for him to get a red nylon shirt to wear. Lucky they never noticed my new black flip-flops. We laughed our heads off at all the work we had put into dressing up for the evening only to end up buying fish and chips across the road since the lionized Lifesaving Club had an hour long queue and the two little princesses, Brianna and Chelsey would not find this amusing.
Actually it was just as nice to do all the cooking in the evening, or rather just help a bit, as Jess had it all under control, and then eat together on the balcony. A bit crowded, but so much easier to talk while sitting on the floor or sofas, and hear all the news from 7 years back. Poor Chelsey (4) had pneumonia, but you would never have known, except for the “I am very fed-up now” face that burgeoned on her little face now and again, in spite of the tiara.
We lounged and lunged by and in the pool, swam early in the morning along the channels that went past all the ground floor rooms, and then when the worst heat was over, ran to the beach just below. No nut-brown people about; “there is no such thing as a healthy tan” is the slogan these days, but I don’t quite agree, a bit of colour never hurt anybody and I wanted it. I loved the surf, but to see clearly I had to wear glasses, not a good idea. I managed fine for quite a while to jump in the surf with them on, but then a huge waive hit from behind and wham, ripped off they were and lost in the sandy surf. And of course they were prescription. So from there on it was a slightly blind bat that played in the surf, or battled at times, as there was a strong wind and after a while the guards called everybody out of the water. But what joy it had been. And was the next day as well, in spite of lack of glasses. As long as I stayed between the flags I was safe, a helicopter patrolled for sharks above and the brilliant Life Guards kept a keen watch.
The Glass House Mountains were quite close, and Montville in the hinterland had true village charm. Christian and Aliesha had got married nearby and wanted to show us this lovely spot. Old Europe meets colonial Queenslanders as houses went and of course it had one of the most spectacular and panoramic views over a coastal plain one could find in Australia, if it had been seen. Heavy heat hazed the horizon, a bit like like being under a vast glass dome, all near noises swallowed up in the heat. Nice, but we had to be refreshed and had long icy drinks in the “Poets Café”, the nicest of all the numerous restaurants and cafes up along the hill.
I had a funny episode in the loo; as is my wont I was taking a picture of myself in the loo mirror, clicking away, when suddenly this beautiful woman appears right in front of me (I was hidden from view in the cubicle) and yells “Oh, my god, the paparazzi!” I wondered where they could be, until it dawned on me that she meant me. Poor thing, she was quite shaken and I had to calm her down telling her I was a silly tourist from Norway. Was she a celebrity?
So from now on the boys made comments every time I took the camera out.
Monday morning we piled into the cars and drove towards Burrum Coast National Park for which you have to have permits to enter. This was all organized by Nikkis boys, and after letting air out of the tires and re-arranging ourselves into 3 4WD, we started the adventure. Now the two blow-flies were really buzzing!
You got a sense of flying as the car went onto the sandy beach, 50km long, dissolving into the salt spray far away, the sand empty, smooth and golden, reflecting the azure blue sky and red rocks climbing from the shore. It was one of those moments life gives as a special gift, of utter astonishment and wonder. The boys ignored quite a few of the rules, having done this before; Never drive across sand dunes, go slowly, avoid wash-outs, avoid sharp turns. It was so exhilarating, mishaps a far thought only. Mind you, with all the gear Yannick had in his car from his last off-road rally, we were well prepared. Shooting along powdery paths into the bush, with Christian yelling “hole ahead” most of the time, so we could hang on from the straps, it was a lovely, sweaty and dusty drive, and ended by a pick-nick in the shadows where all flopped down. After reviving we ran into the clear water, jumping the waives or just lying in the shallows as the ocean washed over you. The two princesses fell asleep with Nish shooing away flies.
The only fly in the ointment was the March fly that bit bits off you in the shadows. Yes, little chunks, the nasty buggers, but they were not yet out in full force, luckily.
Shadows started to appear, but I had to have a go at driving in the sand. I thought it would be like driving in snow, but it was like ice! Lucky I did not trash the car, great faith in me they must have had, but then this was something to tuck under my belt for stories to be told to patient nurses at the Old Peoples Home one day. This old biddy actually had a life once.
A little ferry took us back to reality from the National Park, the river gums gleaming white in the shadows. Car Spas were necessary after that, a car wash that used really forceful jets to get the sand out of every nook and cranny. Happy but tired we drove back to Brisbane, and fell asleep to the sound of crickets in the dark softness again.
Gentle rain fell at the Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary, with Ruth and the Other Ruth lugging the pick-nick basket along, trying to find shelter. Nikki sat under a small waterfall from the roof, but it did not matter as the rain was warm and splashed like a bath overflowing, onto the ground. We saw koalas close (never, never call them bears) with Trendy Theresa, Marvelous Marcoola and Lovely Lisa falling asleep in the branches like hung out furry bundles of wash. Now and again they would wake up and chew a leaf, after which gigantic effort they fell asleep again. Fascinating animals, and awful to think that 4000 of them are killed every year on the roads. I sat for a long time looking and listening to them, and could stroke their rather special fur. The males “fight” by making booming noises; the deepest sound that is produced is the alpha male. A war-fare I would approve of.
Checked out the other Aussie animals too, the platypus that ate wriggling worms, the elegant designer dingoes, Tasmanian devils, barking owls and golden possums, wombats and kangaroos of course. Birds. Crocks. One day was not enough to see all the diversity of these wonderful specimens.
It had been a truly wonderful stay in Brisbane, our «Aussie family» making us so welcome, and every day had brought new delights, both with people and new places. But tomorrow «we hit the road, Jack,» again.
Woodgate
We were 5 hours north of Brisbane, in the banana and sugar-cane lands, a quiet place minding its own business. Lagoons, calm as ponds lay in the marshes by the sea, and the road was lined by a charming assortment of post-boxes worth collecting fotos of. Hilly in places, many signs warned of flooding at the bottom, and ditches ran deep along the road. In one of them I saw something that would beat that wild kangaroo picture Johnas took; a huge macho Red Kangaroo with muscles and balls to match. I was expecting it to hop off as we approached, but it let me quite close with the camera. Johnas, eat your heart out.
Woodgate: A sleepy little sea-side town with a fantastic beach on the Fraser Coast, where nothing happens, said the guide book. Just our cup of tea. The winding road cut through sugar cane plantations and marsh land before suddenly opening up to a glorious beach, quite empty for miles. One reason being that it was drizzling and only +23. Which did not put us off the sea-shell strewn sands and gum-willows trailing thin, pale, boughs over the beach. Got a wonderful cabin where we both saw and heard waives whoosh along a beach skirted with gum-trees and pine. We ran along it, wetting our feet in deliciously warm water and seeing shells smooth as silk in rainbow colours. The sky was a tumult of scudding grey clouds, a couple wandered past with fishing gear hopefully erect, but it was just as nice to settle down into our very luxurious cabin and sit down with a glass of red western Aussie wine and hear the sea, its faint rhythmic rumble nearby. It gives comfort, that sound, as if a primeval pulse beat deep inside you.
The dark came like it does in the tropics, suddenly and without warning, demolishing the day and at the same time creating night. We were the only ones eating outside in the mild breeze, though no stars twinkled through the blanket of cloud. By Easter you have to fight to find a cabin.
Childers was the nearest little town, so laid back it stumbled over its own feet, but very charming, with its now familiar butchers and bakers all stringed along the one main street. Full of historical pride to the extent it was almost impossible to enter a shop and not be told who established it and when and what they were renown for. Chemist, butcher, post-office, baker, pub, all with their stories. We sat drinking our flat whites watching town life unfold, did a bit of shopping, were given advice by the locals what to do with the proudly local meat, and went back to Woodgate and the sea.
Loved the swimming most of all, which we did several times until a man caught a Stingray on his hook: I could have stepped on it! Always in paradise a snake or stingray lurks, but the fruit is so delicious. As the last fire of the setting sun died, it airbrushed the surroundings a rosy pink. A lone fisherman sat on the beach and lit a light. Perfect picture.
Some evenings it was calm and tranquil, others a strong wind had branches grabbing at the air already early in the evening, and it later rained in the night with a force we had never experienced here before; it felt as if one was in the middle of a waterfall. I woke to a wet pillow, thunder and lightning and had to close the windows. In the morning we were told the Bruce Highway was closed due to 400mm of rain. THAT is something! The sun tried to peek through the angry clouds, and we managed a nice little beach walk early in the morning before packing the car. Our friend from last night came back with fish already at 7am. “Been there all night?” we asked? “Yeah, away from the wife…” and he laughed heartily. “Now I am so hungry I could eat the arse off a low flying duck!” Or that is what he should have said, but it came out a bit tamer.
Floods were on their way, we had to be off.
Sapphire
With mild trepidation we set off towards Childers, expecting the road to have flooded, but no, it was ok, and though it was heavy going along the “Bruce», what with bucketing rain and road works towards Rockhampton, we made the over 600km to Sapphire just before dark. Followed the railway with its hundreds of wagons full of coal from Blackwater, the capital of coal, and met with outback loos we had forgotten about. One warned about frogs leaping and biting in the loo, the other to please close the lid. So I went in, looking carefully at the floor, seeing only loo-paper scattered on the cement and opened the lid. Yeap, there was a frog, as big as your hand, staring right up at you. No way was I going to pee on top of it!! The next loo, 50km away, had ants crawling all around it, and a sweet little frog perched on the loo-paper roll. Did not mind that, can deal with small specimens, and just squatted over the bowl. Not until we came to Isisford could we hear why this was normal: they like the water, the toads, and all you do is pick them out or pee on them. “Nothing to it, though ladies dont like them. I pick about 15 every morning, but they don’t mind a pee on their heads either.” Now you have been forewarned.
It was so strange, so incongruous, to drive this time into the Outback. Instead of the red/brown dry earth, with rocks the colour of bad teeth bare in the sun, cracked and gasping, we find “green, green grass of home!” Black burned stems of gum-trees rose from the emerald fields, and made you wonder where on earth you were. Tiny flowers and waiving grass covered a landscape so vast it had to be studied like a mural by a child, and we just stood there on the empty road and let the colossal scenery slowly sink in.
Blue-black thunder clouds followed us all of the way, and broke like a bag with a hole in the bottom, emptying themselves right over us when finding the campsite. It was a white deluge, it hammered the red earth and green fronds along with the roof, so we could not hear what was being said about a cabin.
The first campsite at Sapphire, with its one and only cabin was a bit off, a smelly steaming hot abode, stuffy and with 5 beds, which we turned down in spite of the very nice ladies who ran it. The second, now that was something, with stone built houses in a gum-tree forest with open French windows and fans in the ceiling. Felt like Heaven, with rain and +27 as we sat and ate supper and drank wine on the terrace, while the gentle cooling wind touched our skins. Darkness surrounded us, but earlier we had seen wallabies jumping about, peering at us before bounding off into the bush, now quiet and silent and only filled with the patter and thunder of rain. I liked the names here; next stop would be Rubyvale, but first came Emerald. Gem country this, with fossicking going on, boots and pots and pans at the ready outside the houses. We were lucky again, just one cabin free, or not really as the keeper said, one has to pay!
But the Big Wet being in full swing, there was a slight worry: how will we go on? Nobody knew, each day is a new challenge with these rains, filling the floodplains and blocking off roads. The Bruce Highway was still shut this morning, so no turning back yet, not that we wanted to either.
I like camping sites where parents are duly cautioned: “Unruly children will be given double-expressos and a puppy at departure.” And signs say: “OLDFARTSISCARAVANPARKS”. Makes you feel welcome.
We woke however, after loud rainfalls in the night, to the call of birds. It was as if one woke in an aviary! And the sounds so different from ours, from the wistful whistling to frantic chirrups and guttural croaks, all blending into a perfect bush-like chorus. No other sounds emerged before the blokes woke up in the next house and loaded their truck to go fossicking for sapphires. Would have loved that.
The sky was grey, a warm damp wind rustled and a chap walked past with thin legs and oversize boots. But he had a bush-hat that took my fancy. Out with the camera, a few words and he smiled sweetly. We visited the only decent building in Sapphire, (according to a local) run by a big-eared earnest looking man, who sat in his kingdom of glittering sapphires like a gem among rusty nails. But hard work was behind it, as his life-story unfolded, from Kenya to this forgotten town of mostly wooden shacks and lone crumbling caravans. Broken dreams drowning in the rivers, or being shattered by collapsing claims. The Japs came and bought jewels by the sack-full from more established places, but this was small-fry country. The little man had a sadness in him, as he yet again polished a sapphire. “I do love them.”
Got a pair of ear-pendants. Sapphire of course. Bertie is a sweetie, and so with them in my handbag we set off towards the central table-lands and Blackall.
Blackall/Isisford
We passed little Outback towns, really only hamlets with a shack or two, or self-important towns like Jericho who boasted of extraordinary biblical knowledge. And had a Drive In Theater. Or “Barkie”, where the only thing open for a 150 miles on a Sunday was a bakery where world-famous pies were made, and where we learned all about them and sat on a bench along the street eating them for lunch. We were given a bag with “Barcaldine Bakery” stamped on it, that the baker dug out from under some bags of flour when he heard we were all the way from far, far Norway. I have never tasted anything better as meat-pies go!
The road was so empty of traffic, gumtrees and green grass passing as the only sights, interspersed with “floodways” and suspicious public toilets we never went near again. I am not a brave soul.
Huge dark-blue thunderclouds built up along the plains, and when bursting over us, cooled the air in minutes from 34 to 22. Still cant get over this strange “Big Wet” that we are now part of.
In Blackall the campsite was much the same as 7 years ago, as was the town, this special place with Australia`s finest water rising from hidden depths of artesian wells, so hot, no water is heated, just cooled, and totally untreated. It stinks when hot, but sweetens to perfection when cooled. Worthy of Evian. And this they both drink, swim and water their gardens with.
The pool was a cool +30, and for the first time I got hot and sweaty swimming, and we sat under the sails to “chill out”. Lovely! Its 50m long, the pool, so plenty of space for all, though only a few were there under the sky that threatened with a thunderstorm. The guard kept eyeing the sky, listening to the nearing thunder, and when it split the air, ordered everybody out. I was the only female in the showers, with a hot sulfuric shower cascading over me. I reveled and wished time would stand still. This is what I was evolved for, all those millions of years ago.
Road-Trains rumble past, its night in Blackall, and there is, what sounds like a little lion, some animal under our window foliage.
The nights were “chilly”,+18, but it soon warmed up after an early morning swim and “Spa” as the little pool with mineral water, gushing hot and bubbly, at the pool-area is called, apart from the pool itself. Hot, but like tea, refreshing.
An elderly man floated about, but then it was just us, the mad and only tourists in Blackall to get up and get voluntarily wet! It is lovely, the only place in Aussie land where you can swim in pristine water with no chlorine or fear of sharks or stingers or sting-rays.
At the tourist “i” the lady welcomed us with an enthusiasm saved for the low-season traveler, and told us of all the places that were closed and roads blocked. “the wet is still around,…so sorry, but you can always try!” Cheerful as always. Re-arranging the pamphlets in the hope of other visitors. We noticed we were the only foreigners for months. “They don’t come anymore, I don’t know why, Melbourne is so cold, whats wrong with us?” I wondered too.
As the sky was blue and the wind made the gum-trees silver, we headed for Isisford along a straight, 120km road with only 3 stations along it, besides cattle and emus and wallabies and eagles. Carrion gathered around road-kill, scattering as we drove past, and we nearly ran over a couple of cute wallabies contemplating the car approaching them, managing only just to brake before their bums hit the bumper, when they finally bounded off into the bush.
The surroundings were green and lush, where as last time we drove here, the earth was pounded by intense heat.
Driving over the rivers we came after 2 hours to Isisford; population 263, more men that women, and never willing to forgive the Labour government for taking away their status of Shire. There in the heat along the one and only street we met Edith who runs the Fossil-crock centre and was now entertaining a truck-driver. He was about to burst like a pink balloon of bonhomie! Edith phoned the Stancy Overflow Hotel owner without us asking or anything; ”Two tourists from Norway here, they have come all this way and you closed! Mate, what are you up to? Right…he is opening it NOW!” And added “Talk to him, he is Dutch, darlings”. And so we were welcomed by Hans, a little wiry man full of energy, but also a sadness. He loved it here, away from drugs and drunks and crowds, working 24/7 doing the cooking, (up to 40 guests a night at times) cleaning, washing, reparations, paperwork, hosting, you name it, but not wanting anything else more than this. Sadness because he was alone. He kindly looked after us, told us his life-story, joined us in a beer or two or three, told us of his plans and showed us around. Upstairs in the rooms overlooking a shady balcony, he told us the story of the Battle of the Three Pubs, when an aboriginal girl was killed as the hotel was set fire to, and escaped into the “Clancy Overflow” to punish the deed-doer, now haunting one of the rooms. “Slept there one night to try this out, but she never came.” Downstairs were the original drovers rooms, cept for beds. “Nobody been here for months, but sometimes its full” he said hopefully. He pays for the only wireless internet connection in town in his beer-garden and lets the locals use it for free. “They have given me much, I can do this for them.”
Got a free entry too, to the museum of the Crock from Edith “since you have been here before”, and had a hamburger afterwards with a knife stuck in it, elegant Aussie style, and talked to Beth, the daughter of the only two existing inhabitants of Emmet: A tiny hamlet in the bush, where once “lots of things went on”. Now Beth has moved to Isisford, where it is so much more social.
Back in Blackall we sat in the evening breeze and then drove out at night just a few minutes outside the little main street and met utter blackness and a starry sky out of this world, literally. Night was so very big here, spread like a huge canvas on the taut horizon. And there, suspended by someone we could not see, hung the Southern Cross. You felt you were in the middle if the milky way. Lay on the warm tarmac on the road, gazing upwards into space, moved to tears contemplating the wonder of being alive just now, when this planet has life on it. A moment of soul possessing joy. Only the cicadas heard our soft exclamations of wonder.
One more glorious swim, cups of tea on the little balcony with bougainvillae dripping down beside it, and off we set towards Tomba and Charleville, south into the heartland of the Queensland Outback.
Heartland
We had been told rains had hit the area, but nothing worse, so like Major Mitchell who wandered around here on horseback in 1886, we took a highway named after him. Empty roads, heading straight ahead, with skies as vast as the heavens, green wavy grass undulating as far as the eye could see. No wonder, when Mitchell saw this land in the wet, it looked like the Norfolk broads, and he thought it a great place for farming. Little did he know then.
A lizard, beautiful and graceful lay as road-kill, fresh as from the butchers on the hot tarmac. The roos along the road you could smell quite a distance away, rotting in the heat, nothing to linger by and take artistic photos of!
Augathella, the place where we last time landed in the middle of a sandstorm and asked the way to Blackall, was as forlorn and quaint as I remembered. Bottle-trees, Boabs, grew in a few gardens, but a lady leathered by the harsh sun, told me there had been masses of them in her youth. “All gone now. But better get to my hair-dresser.” No time for standing and staring here.
Tomba was a delightful town, with its typical wooden granny–like Post-office and library, butcher and baker and rose gardens, all flourishing in this big wet.
Time somehow flies even if the landscape is quite monotonous, but this time we noted with some awe all the recently flooded plains and rivers and bridges, that had been inundated only days before us.
At Charleville, the Cosmos Centre was wonderful, but due to only us two wanting the experience to gaze at the stars on the night-star tour, famous for its observatory we missed last time, it was not on. “Sorry, it’s the low season…”
Yeah, the museum closed too, but we got a lovely cabin and watched the night sky from there, deepening from oranges into blood red and darkness with a toe-nail sliver of a new moon in the sky. The sunset was beautiful, the silence and scent of the bush present even in the middle of this little town. And the next pharmacy was only a 1000km away. This was the Outback.
A cat came to visit. The rosella parrots circled around the trees and the town with its wide streets and old Queenslanders went to sleep. Utter silence after 9pm. These outback places are all for morning people! So we got up before dawn, as we had asked for help at the office from a nice young man about traveling to Bourke last night, flood warnings being in the area. He phoned the police station and let us know that it seemed ok, as the closed road had been opened today. “But don’t linger, the floods are building right up after you, drive before them. Sunday its peaking at 13,8 m.” Such a calming thought.
Just as well we had got up early, as we had to drive 750km avoiding closed roads due to floods, and ending up at Moree where we had no plans of going.
It was lovely being on the road with the early eagles perched on branches in the first rays of the sun, in a very pleasant +22, see the grass glimmer and emus drinking by overflow waters under gum trees as wallabies jumped perkily in the high yellow flowered fields. Missed the offered breakfast menu though.
“Budgie on a diet”= Continental breakfast
“She `ll be eggs” =Fried eggs
“Outback Eggs Benedict”=poached eggs on steak.
Pushed into the hinterlands already from Cunnamulla where two nice people directed us to the police station, with the ready attitude of traders with no customers (which they were, their shops being devoid of people) and time on their hands and bums, with great detail. There we were told in no uncertain terms that yes, the road to Bourke was just about open, but would trap us in Bourke indefinitely as all roads from thereforth were now clammed shut. So no exploring the Darling and Murray rivers, but instead being caught in the cotton-country by and by, after hundreds of miles of grassland and bush and flooded roads with floodways and horrid, worrying signs of “road under water” with no other cars in sight! Or humans, just little tracks leading off to a station far inland. Water, like a liquid menace invaded our thoughts. It was exciting though, and we loved the animals we saw.
After 13 crossings of flood-ways, as fords are called, we stopped counting. If we get stuck, we get stuck. And instead admired all the colours reflecting the sky and bush in the overflow. Very lovely really, with ducks, but ducks, swimming in the desert!
At one place we actually met a couple driving a dusty Toyota, and they were as if ordered for that photo I was taking. Nice people, as all here, friendly and open, broadly smiling with or without teeth. Note me taking the picture in her sunglasses and the hole in her hat, when looking at the photographs.
Some small places were weirdly special. Wyandra had bras festooned all over the “town”, in all colours, along fences and gardens and above pubs and post offices? And a sign read “don’t be a Galah, if you got this far, get out of the car.” People lived in what goes for shacks elsewhere, but seemed perfectly happy. In another world from the coastal cities.
We got tired as the road stretched on, but after asking for road advice at St.George, and having to drive 100km to Mungindi along a road with bad flood damage, we had to continue looking for a place to stay, as it turned out to be the worst yet. The Caravan Park had a few dilapidated, dusty caravans and ancient cabins with dirty windows. Some Aboriginals wandered around aimlessly, as they sadly do, the sad effluence of their history around them. The heat hung heavy on our shoulders, as their past hung around theirs.
The next place had a jolly lady in the pub with new false teeth and a spotty t-shirt, running around with beer for the dozen sweat-stained, muscled and tank-topped
men, who sat like a jolly bunch of hippos at a water hole. She was so nice though, as nice as can be, and told us her cabins had not been used for ages and were really not for habitation except for road-men. So on we go again. The last we heard her say was “…wonder how many of you are friends at the end of the night, mates, with all this beer!”
In spite of Lonely Planets rather dismissive account of Moree as a noisy cotton-picking backward town, it turned out to be rather nice, and certainly the Motel we spotted and occupied with its natural artesian pools and spa, was.
One pool with +40 water, the next 37 and the cold one +24. I swam in the last, as it was still +33 in the evening outside. “Silver fish” emerge from drains here, one cant be the only living thing even in a motel in the tropics, and Dettol was liberally used again. But the bed was good! No hidden bed-springs like at Blackall that bit you in the night. I missed Blackall though, this was getting to be too near civilization.
Escaping floods
We thought we had made it to a small reprise of a paradise for a few days before going to pester our long-suffering friends in Melbourne again, when we arrived at Forbes. A less than thrilling drive had taken us here, skirted by endless fallow wheat fields and silos through places that only the names could thrill you; Narrabri, Coonabranabran, Dubbo. All found along the Newell Highway that the nice police officer, guns abrizzle, at the last station had told us to follow to avoid flooding. What were all those guns for?
A few wonderful, very Aussie objects materialized along the road, a house, a pick-up truck, of the austere and utilitarian kind, like lino floors and laminated surfaces in cafes. Worn, used and still found not wanting! The very soul of the country. And more clouds, more rain, more flooded waterways.
Road-Trains thundered past you, pushing you to the very verge, the driving culture a bit like Iceland; if you don’t like it, we`re not bothered. Mind you, they were good to follow through flood ways as they shifted the water in great sprays before you. The town of Forbes is an utterly charming place and we got a cabin overlooking the Belubula River. The place landed right into our hearts. River gums on green grassy slopes crept towards the water, and birds flew all around. Our neighours were a charming couple, the husband just having had a nose amputation for cancer, standing with a beer in his hand and a huge bandage on his face, poor man (he was a farmer the wife told us, after she knew I was a nurse, and that none of the nurses knew how to do a dressing on his nose) and she worked for the evaquation unit for flood victims, of which a lot was amassing now. She predicted worse, and told us not to dwell here, roads were being closed as we spoke.
All night it bucketed down, but for a few hours we forgot it and enjoyed the peace of the river, its sound and the bush singing in the night. The camp manager had come down the stairs from his bedroom early in the morning, and we listened to “severe flood warnings”, and “be prepared to drive across water”, “don’t drive unless you have to” on the radio with him. We had so wanted to stay here a few days and see this old, charming town where gold had been found, but we could not afford being stranded for days on end.
We were hounded south with rising water levels in the fields along the road towards NSW, told not to tarry, but had to rest for the night at Albury, directed to two rather run down and worn campsites by a very kind and perky i-girl (info-centre staff). Must admit this was a real low in the whole of our stay, and I should really not even mention it, but after driving through floodways countless times, never knowing if we would make it through the next one, then coming to a cabin by the noisy Hume Highway in a “basic” standard cabin in chilling rain, and having to shop in a cold, horrid Aldi, eating chicken soup from a tin, I have to admit I was not in a sunny mood! I was cold, and I longed for the simple, hot Outback with its flies and sunsets and starry skies like a ranger for his fartsack after a day of roving.
The cheery info-girls told us the next morning that 75% of NSW was to be flooded in a few hours, so better move on towards Victoria and try to get past Warrangata before settling down. Hurry, hurry.
In Benalla it looked cosy, even if a steady rain was falling and every single room was occupied due to baseball-camp in situ and all the flood victims being re-housed here, but the coffee was wonderful and a sweet-potato and onion muffin likewise. This was Ned Kelly country, his image behind the iron mask proudly presented as often as possible. His museum was here, even along with the door that kept him locked in. Gave money to a handicapped girl who sang her heart out in the rain outside the shops, and then had to leave to try and find a place for the night. “Don’t go east or west or north, all roads blocked…” said the kind i-lady who had bravely tried to find us bed in the near vicinity.
So south to Seymour. Where a rather confused camp-site manager could not find a key to our cabin because it was broken in half, then moved us to another, told us it was “de-luxe” (maybe in the 80`s, not now) and ducked down back into his lair with spider webs hanging from the roof.
Tired but happy, helped with champagne and a cheery Johnas welcoming us back tomorrow to Melobourne on the phone, we had a nice, cosy evening as the rain pattered less and we put on heating for the first time on this trip.
Our neighbour was a cattle farmer a few hundred k`s east, who longed for Bourke where he was born and where his granny collected and pressed wild flowers, sending them to botanical institutions. “Oh, I hate the bloody cold, but the wife and kids love it here, so I have to settle for longing for the Outback. “ My very sentiments! “Best send my boys to McDonalds, or there will be a Cabin Fever outbreak… he said, and re-directed the two teen-agers as they rounded the corner on fast motor-bikes.
Winding down in Melbourne, the days have been filled with both lazy moments in the sun and rushing around trying to imbibe the last scents, the last strains of bird song, the last hugs from friends, and each evening so late one has just stooped into bed, getting the hours of sleep one needs to go on with. But one more surprise awaited us as after breakfast as one morning Johnas said:” We have taken you to Ballarat, haven’t we?” They had not, so they had to.
Ballarat
Even though it’s a tourist trap, now in off-season, the outdoor museum at Sovereign Hill has such charm it takes you back to the gold-rush days with no great effort. Towards the afternoon when all the busses had taken most day-trippers away, we had the place almost to ourselves. The dusty and hot main street cuts through the town. Carriages drawn by black with horses rumble along it, there were fights and verbal interchanges with police men, doctors and brothel girls involved, and they did not mind a bit if you joined them. Only they will talk to you as if it still is the 1800 hundreds. No point asking “how much do you get paid for working here?” the answer will be “ I am starving. Have not eaten for days, no gold, no food. Only the fat banker up the hill does not care. But one day, yes, one day I shall strike lucky!” and “gerroff me, you, I am no street girl!”
I asked at the post-office if it was open, and the girl just laughed. Then she touched my ear and said “Oh, my lady, you have lost your ear-ring!” Bother. I must have lost it down the mines, no point looking for it now. I was really annoyed, as I loved those silver-rings. Then the police officer near-by clears his throat; ”Alice, are you up to your tricks again! Give the ear-ring back!” And she meekly produces it from her pocket. “Honest, lady, a passer by left it for me to give…” I could not find out if she had taken it or if somebody actually had found it! “Oh, madam, you must believe me!” I had lost it once already that day.
Below the soldiers in red jackets marched and shot volley after volley with their muskets. In the shops candy was made and sold, a real candle-maker was busy, coffins were put together, the baker turned out round loaves of bread, and hats and dresses were sold at the “ Dress and Hat” shop. Gold was melted, formed into ingots, the oven a hot burning furnace as we watched. Miners cottages lined the upper road, minute dwellings with the tin-bath always visible, but such luxury compared with the tents of the gold-diggers by the river.
Going down the mines was on the agenda too, and a train took us far down where the temp was cool, but otherwise the 12 hour shifts and constant noise of drills must have been hell. Gold was found though, in great quantities, the biggest the “Welcome nugget” weighing 71,3 kg. Neither Bertil or Johnas managed this, though they washed and washed with the gold pans, but a beer helped, drank sitting on the bench along the dusty High street as some men in tatty and worn shirts played banjos and sang.
Evening light drew long shadows as we left, and just before it set, we found a delightful restaurant by the lake with black swans, where we had a wonderful meal before the drive home. An orange full moon rose above the gum trees and lingered in the tree tops like a lantern to guide us. Even the moon looked different from home, as most things do in Australia.
There was so much we had wanted to see that the floods put a stop to, but looking at this bulletin, we saw quite a lot anyway! And as always, made new mates. That’s the most important thing when you come here, meeting new mates.
They claim strangers don’t exist in Australia.
Back to Travel Doors
As a journey ends, they flicker past, the remembered scenes, scents and feelings, that surrounded you while it lasted. So those from Australia now, the ”Ghastly blank” or “Terra Australis Incognito” as it was once called.
Incognito no more, vigilance now being necessary as to what riff-raff they are willing to let through the customs; one by one each traveller stands on a yellow spot and a friendly dog sniffs you and your bags. A sign reads; “Do not kick the dog!” Or something like it, maybe; it is an offence to interfere with the dog as it works.” It was all very business like with no smiles or banter. Different to the more relaxed welcome and joking 14 years ago when we first came. It is still as exciting as then though.
Firstly the feel of the almost toy-like plastic money with bright pictures, ready to be dunked in water or crunched in a sweaty palm with no ill effects. Then the sounds that hit you already at the airport; birds that whistle, laugh and sing tunes, along with that first perfumed whiff of eucalyptus oil. As if the whole country had been thoroughly cleaned. And then the smiles. Everywhere, on all faces. No wind seems to change them, they are perpetually plastered on people, and genuine. This only is reason enough to come. But there is so much more unfolding on the Australian Arena, though this time we would not travel so much. Maybe a pocket sized garden instead of New-York Central Park? A relief from the sand-pit of dusty Doha, anyway.
We thought to see Dhow boats cruise the blue, blue Gulf, explore the Camel and fish markets, saunter along the Corniche under Palm trees, but all we saw from the 14th floor of our hotel and below on ground was a murky mist of billowing dust coating everything in sight and finding a way into all the crevices in my camera and body, until after a while we gave up, finding shelter in a Souq. It was of the less romantic kind with bedecked women in black sniffing perfumes, flapping amidst the glittering fabric draped over headless models and when not finding anything to their liking, sailing back into waiting cars in the gusty wind. It was strange to see no ready made dresses, only black gowns and frilly nighties in windows, men running the whole show. Empty benches with “Woman” written on them dotted the echoing marble corridors.
At the Gloria Hotel breakfast was served in a huge dining room, the main ingredient being bread. I thought a young sheik was brining a plateful of rolls to his mates at the table, but it was only for him. Found real porridge though, and yoghurt, and the staff were polite and attentive to all your needs, gently propelling mint tea in your direction the moment you sat down.
Doha looked like a never ending building site, but we were told with great pride and enthusiasm what a paradise this place would be, modeled after “TheWorld” in Dubai, in just a very short while.
Ahead lay a 13,5 hour flight to Melbourne at 1.am (it turned out to be nearly 15 hours) so it would have been nice to see a bit more. Never mind. But we saw something of the mundane life; men in white robes driving huge cars while chewing cigars and fiddling with their iPhones, with a bundle of black elegance in the back seat. A life measured by golden trinkets, silk-gowns, endless shopping. One cant see what lies hidden in the eyes seeing the world through a slit. Heard the call for prayer reverberate in the warm air, shoes piled outside the mosque, lumpy with cement: immigrant workers pray as well as sit along the dusty roads, hoping for work.
No wine for love or money, but the Hommos was as good as mine.
And its nice when every request you make is treated as a command!
«Complimentary taxi for 10pm, please». «But of course, sir»
One gets through a long flight best one can. Qatar Airways had perfect service, but its no comfort when your body is crying out to lie down. Anywhere! Envious looks were passed into the first class when the curtains parted, and a fleeting glimpse of people lying down sipping champagne did not help, as you tried to re-arrange your legs and yet again wake the Turkish man sitting beside you so you could jump about a bit. In front of me sat a very redolent man, emitting aromas so stringent I had to keep shoving Japanese Mint Oil, like the Victorian ladies their posies, up my nose to bear it. And just for a moment my tortured position in the seat gave me a nasty moment when my blood pressure dropped and I nearly fainted. Small matter really.
It was night when we left Doha, dawn came just after India, many hours later and we flew in daylight for a little while before the sun swallowed itself again over the Pacific. Nearing the Australian coast, the short day was over. Dark evening welcomed us to Melbourne, with midnight nearing. Time was lost in a void, it vanished without trace: a strange feeling.
Each day brought a new Australian Arena, and some I have here tried to tidy up for you, to enter and hopefully enjoy. Note; All offensive language is truly authentic and Australian.
At home with friends.
I woke to the sounds of parrots in the trees through the windows that surrounded our bedroom from three sides, and the soft green leafy light that enveloped us. Ahead lay perfection after a long journey: a day by the pool with friends. Gum trees gently shed leaves in the breeze into the blue pool, and a lazy warm feeling of utter contentment crept into your soul. We met again people we had not seen for years, making food and eating it together along with cool drinks, laughing and swimming. Knowing Melbourne weather, this was a lucky stroke, the humid heat and sun that enticed Anneli to wear her flimsiest summer dress from her actress wardrobe. Just what we needed.
Crickets chirped in the late afternoons as the orange clouds sailed by, and the night cooled, mellow dusk of evening softening the harsh brightness of day.
This was not the first time I made merry on my birthday is Australia. Excited I opened my real, authentic Aussie present from Irene and Johnas, suitably serenaded with song in sunshine. Just to wake to a day with no ice or snow, is quite enough without wandering to far-flung places. You walk along a perfectly ordinary and mundane municipal residential area, and see things that excite you! Rainbow Parrots peering at you in trees, houses hiding in frangipani bushes and a local market with both a muffin-man and sausage- man as well as the butcher and baker and body-lotion maker. And how delightful to be met with hearty welcomes from strangers when they hear you are from really far away. “You must taste my muffin then, best in Australia!”
Heathmont is a really a village, although part of Melbourne, and one can get the necessary life supporting foods there, as well as urgent help: yesterday I was bitten by something, and being aware of the long list of lethal spider bites Australia can produce, I went to the nearest pharmacy and a nice lady checked the swollen bite: «You just relax dear, don`t think about it, and it will go away» was her advice. So I did. But when strange things attack you while in the pool you panic. The lady asked what kind of a spider she thought had bitten me. Don’t know. Could have been a mouse or wolf- or white tailed or red-back spider, you don’t see a spider when it bites!
The rest of my birthday was spent at Cloudehill Gardens where the bush, with lyrebirds and wombats, mingled with roses and azaleas. One could learn about the Australian names of gum trees, so much more down to earth than Latin: Kakadu woollybutt, Bastard tally-weed, ghost-gum and more mundane River Gum, but all beautiful, the one tree one can photograph perpetually.
I was sung to, loudly and in harmony, again while 5 muffins were decorated with two sparkles in the restaurant, along with champagne and a lunch of flat-tail fish. Later, after our exhausting walk and running from the torrential rain and hail, it was time for a cream-tea. The weather was typical. From 30+ and sunny to a sudden 14+ with rain.
Hanging rocks
“Miranda, she called again, Miranda! In the breathless silence her voice seemed to belong to somebody else, a long way off, a harsh little croak fading out among the rocky walls. «Come back all of you! Don`t go up there...come back!»
So we went up, naturally. We had to find out about this 112 year old mystery, even though the warning rang in our ears. I had seen the film when young, and have long wanted to go up amongst those vertical lava cliffs that rise up above the planes of Mt.Macedon. Here lies, still unsolved, as no bodies were ever found, the story that happened on Valentines day 112 years ago when school girls went missing as they climbed into the heat, up and up, into the labyrinth of the rocks.
It was beautiful. We understood how easily one could get lost in the maze of narrow cracks and steep crevices, we nearly did. Between the rocks the dead silence of noon crept over the land, heat suffocating all sounds, and thoughts of snakes lingering on stones came to mind. Would an eastern groin groper, tiger snake or taipan ( really, 50 times more poisonous than a cobra) lurk there? A sign read; ”Snakes naturally occur here, if you see one, remain calm. Stay on marked paths”. Stamping our feet we found our way out of the central stones with no marked paths and ascended from the warren of rocks on the marked ones, as told. Gum trees, ghostly white in the shadows, whispered around. A magical place.
An old, slightly moth-eaten Rosella parrot came and kept us company as we pick-nicked afterwards. The wind changed. I was so cold by this time that Johnas lent me his trousers! Bertil needed his.
Mornington Peninsula
Mornington, a place by the sea, has views to die for, we were told. So the car was packed and with great Aussie optimism we set out for it; mists as thick as pea-soup greeted us, but as Irene says, “Melbourne has four seasons in a day, and it will change. “ It did.
Wonderful skies of purple clouds, as intense as the lavender in the gardens along with the scented roses and a tall maze we got lost in, opened over Philips Bay and gave us a gift only those can see who bother to wait in the rain for better times.
Wind whipped and vast, the ocean dissolved in blue and turquoise into the far distance of the South Pole, dark blue clouds heavy with rain letting a few sunrays penetrate the surface, and the Bay curled, elegantly like a cat, round below us.
Johnas and Bertil went on walking, while me and Irene listened to opera in the car. With a smug, victorious smile Johnas came back, pointing to his camera, and said he had got the perfect shot of a kangaroo. “You should have come! They just hopped out of the bush, the baby and all, the smallest in the pouch.” Ok, now I have to chase a kangaroo shot all over Australia. Cant be worse than Johnas, must get one, and not in a zoo.
By the beach, from the sea, beside the colourful bathing huts, rose a man. «Dont take fotos of me, I am too old and ugly» he says. I read the message and answered, “Oh, you are not! Besides, you are rather handsome, I MUST take a foto!» Freddy, aged 90, had just helped his wife up from the sea where they snorkel every day, and now posed happily for me. Wiry and wet, the true mermaid of the seas.
A lone bride stood, as if abandoned, on the beach against the stormy clouds, to be photographed. We never saw the groom.
Mornington Peninsula had more than views to offer.
Walhalla
We followed the gold rush to Walhalla, «the valley where treasure is found» and as they found over 75 tons, it holds water. But like all things, it did not last, and now it is a ghost town with 8 enthusiastic people living there and » four of us in the bush» to boot. There is still the railway running along the river gorge, and we took that, loving every shaking moment of it though the air was cool up there in the mountains and I had to wear woolly socks with my sandals. Tea was served at the end station after 4 km by a very happy bunny of a man who said we were the first ones to want it in 4 months, with biscuits to dunk as well. He looked like a white-haired gnome. A happy one.
The cemetery, wild and forgotten, hugging the steep hillside with its quiet graves, was worth the climb. Only the sound of birds to disturb their sleep. A sepia foto showed children in white frilly dresses on a Sunday outing by the graves.
Walhalla was a charming, soporific town, with flowering gardens and the few inhabitants all eager to tell us about it. A slanting evening sun shone on a stone wall, and there a little «miracle» happened. A Kookaburra sat with its eyes peeled on the river for fish, and let me approach it so close with my camera I was totally thrilled. A lot scruffier than the ones in the zoo, but wild. Got one on Johnas!
Cranbourne
Trying to find the fastest way into the Australian Garden, Irene map-read with her golden hair getting in the way, and led us onto closed bush paths with locked gates. “Oh, Johnas, why did you drive here!” This place is a great work of art where they have crammed Australia into 9 hectares, from the arid areas of Uluru where heat hangs like a religious conviction, to cold arse numbing snowy mountains, the apple orchards of the South West to humid hot jungle of the York peninsula, with air as oppressive as bad breath down your neck.
It is autumn and few flowers are out, but the eucalyptus with their bewitching names; Bloodwood, Stringybark, Peppermint, scented the air along with Wallum banksia flowers and Wedding bush, still in bloom. At the cafeteria we discovered a possum curled up into a ball between two window panes, where it had obviously made its nest and now rested in full view of fascinated families having lunch, its eyes closed tight.
The gates “close at 5 pm exactly, then we lock your car in” we were told, but had to see the look-out point where the Melbourne skyscrapers rose in the far remoteness beyond the bush-fire like salvaged, upright drift wood. Panting from running we came to the car just after 5pm with Irene perched on the bumper, she having been too wise not to make the mad dash.
Melbourne
Built with Ballarat gold, Melbourne is the “snob” of Australian cities: Sydney is new money, Brisbane backward and what can one say about Canberra! Perth is on another planet, what other choice is there?
Pushing the “+60” button at the station gave us a whole day to travel freely around, so this had to be taken advantage of. Irene and Johnas not having reached maturity, drove there with us when they came along, it being cheaper! But we loved the slow rambling hour it took to get to Flinders station, and chatted to people, the view changing from gardens to rough back-yards with graffiti, as “the loop” got into the city. Red-coated guides stood at corners ready to dive into their info-bags with 462 reasons to visit and welcome you, telling in great detail to us silly beings, how to orientate ourselves. “Now you see those stairs there, don’t go down there, take the next ones, otherwise you will end up in the river!”
High above Melbourne, 88 floors up the new Eureka building, we survived the «On the Edge Experience» being shot out into the void on a glass platform. We were befittingly scared only for the photographer, and actually loved it. It was like living in the clouds!
Busy bustling everywhere. A group of haphazardly painted aboriginals gave a tourist show of dancing: its still to come, for me to see these amazing people in their natural habitat. Music played with varying talent in the streets all through the day, floated among the footfalls and clacking heels, shuffling teenagers and skyscrapers.
We had coffee and remembered the terms that applied: long black, flat white, short black ect. as we ordered, and mingled well with the crowds lunching in little black dresses and high heels, or “thank god its Friday” assembly along the Yarra river, the gravitational point for people to come and chill out. Knitted socks protected trees, dignified and somewhat deflated old buildings squatted at ankle level of the newer ones, and charming as all this might be, it was still to the sparse lands we longed to go. So we left Melbourne behind, like a starched fart, and moved on.
On the Road to Brisbane
Autumn was cooling Victoria, and we longed for sunshine. I read somewhere the definition of contentment; “the secret of contentment is never to allow yourself to want anything which reason tells you haven’t a chance of getting.” I have never listened to this pointer before, hope springs eternal whatever, but this seemed perfectly sane, wanting warmth and sunshine up along the Gold Coast. Cheery Johnas told us we would soon hit the heat, as he guided us away from Melbourne centre and onto the Freeway up the Eastern Coast, and waived goodbye. All by ourselves now!
Hills and valleys, dotted with either cows intent on feeding on the yellow grass, or sheep that looked like boulders of gray rock, sped past. Fast. Eagles scouted for road kill and kangaroo carcasses dotted the road. After 650km the shadows lengthened, and as we don’t want to drive in the dark, our car lacking in a kangaroo-grid, evening time brought a guessing game: which little town had vacancies for us in their cabins on Caravan Sites? Pointing at a place on the map I read Yass. Just off hand. And we got the last cabin.
Construction workers next door hogged the whole table beside our cabins, with outdoor barbies and beer. “How are ya, mate? We´ll party all night, want to join?” Actually not a sound escapes an Australian camping site after 10pm. Dire warning signs point out the consequences of defiance.
It was COLD. I was too chilled to bother to get up and get another blanket, so I lay and listened to possums fighting on the roof, but the morning was glorious, and me and Bert felt this was it, the great sunshine-day, and hummed along happily.
We hit the wet and +15 outside Sydney, with long threads of rain linking the sky to the surface of the road. We saw nothing, but nothing of the Sydney area. Huge truck- tires sprayed us with water, the window wipers doing a fast rumba, and the leaden sky above remained just that. Later glimpses of the blue sea appeared and after another 650km as the sun was firing the horizon golden again, we got off the beaten track, and drove towards the sea. Harrington.
An estuary opened, with pelicans flying and skimming the water, people looking for bait in the mudflats and the surf a distant pounding sound. Not much moved otherwise and many of the houses were for sale: not due to floods that yesterday had covered much of the present campsite we were on, but greed for money as the prices rocket due to newly established “Waterside Paradise Living”. This important info was imparted to us to by our neighbour on the campsite, who had lived here for 12 years and noticed us puzzling over the Latin sign outside his caravan/ built shelter. “ Tempus embriates nunc est” (Freely translated into Australian; ”Time to get drunk”) He turns out to be a Latin scholar, telling us he is 62 with a proud voice, as if he was really old. Well!! And as we left him, he shouted to the next door neighbour who was out hanging her washing, ”Don’t talk to these, Barbara, they re tourists!”
A lovely place with gum trees. I love Gum trees. As afore mentioned. Blackened by fire; white trunked and nimble; or flaking like sun-burnt skin. Gum trees with posies of bridal white flowers and Gum trees with silvery grey leaves dancing in the wind. Gum trees against a new moon and gum trees in shuddering heat. I love them all.
Cicadas send us to sleep while Rosella parrots gathered in the nearby trees.
A humid sheath of heat started at last to envelope us. We have arrived in the sub-tropics where foliage bursts uncontrolled from every crevice and trees are laden with orchids and birds and flowers, and along the coast, glimpses of the sea, blue and warm, invitingly flicker past. Surfers Paradise was bypassed, as it had even more high-rise hotels popping up like fungi after rain, than last time, along the beaches in the hazy salt spray. Stopped at a petrol station asking how many hours it still was to Brisbane, and got the answer: «About four hours, mate, but you will know when nearing it, because they drive like herrings up your bum on the Highway.»
Brisbane and the Sunshine Coast
Friends made us welcome, actually our friends are called Mr. and Mrs. Friend, at their little house with the jungle garden and tree-top balcony where kingfishers swing and kookaburras laugh. Doug had sent me a meticulous map how to get to their house, but it was in an email on the computer, so we had to trust to distant memory 7 years ago, and actually got quite close before we had to ask a nice guy to draw directions on a bit of loo-paper.
A sheen of sweat clothes you all the time now, and every cell in my body relaxed! The ceiling fan fought to chop through the moist air in the house, as no air-condition was installed, the blades just stirring the heavy air like a spoon in hot tea, but the nights cooled. One evening Ruth took us up Mt.Cootah to see the sunset, the pastel colours deepening in the sky and the lights popping on in the skyscrapers of Brisbane, and it took very little time for the wind to cool after sunset: one even wanted a little cardigan in the delicious dusk.
We have been whisked from crack of dawn to late at night from place to place, introduced to new tastes and people, in a tempo that belies our accumulated ages, always with enticements that this will be a super day. Friends never grow old, do they? We pressed the +60 button again, and got to town in style after walking down the hill stepping on fallen mangoes, and eating the plump ones for breakfast. The joy of that golden fruit! It was late in the season, but we still found them around, though whispers of them coming all the way from Carnavron were heard. Brisbane is a foot-friendly city, bridges and leafy parks take you from one place to the next, you linger and meander and in no other town is it quite so refreshing to stop for a beer in the midst of business and play, mingling and doing its bits and pieces around you, than here. Nobody hurries. A cool wrought iron chair in a shady cafe is not be passed lightly, and there are plenty of them along the main streets. Like with anything Australian the names of beer are in a league all their own. How to choose, to name but a few, between Murrays Angry Man Pale Ale, Holgate chocolate temptress, Pure Blond and the usual Gold XXXX?
I looked across the street into a doorway, and there sat Marilyn Monroe; tight fitting light blue dress, every curl set to perfection of her platinum blonde hair, applying lip-stick, a tiny high-heal shoe dangling from her foot. I just had to go over and she welcomed me like a film-producer, posing away. “Guess how I keep my skin so milky white in this terrible sun? It’s a pure miracle, almost impossible. Guess? Do I look good…my, I am gorgeous!!” she chirped as I showed the picture I had taken.
Later the girl serving us told me I had met “Our Marilyn, she comes out every day, poor soul, and lives this alter-ego thing.” Why not!
River –Cats, the Brisbane water-gondolas are a brilliant and cool way to see the city. They criss-cross at many points and you hop on and off with your +60 card, letting the wind rip your hair, walk among mangroves on shady paths, stretch to see sky-scrapers and then resume to be assaulted by the wind again as you go on. Ruth had forgotten her sunhat, so she protected herself under my umbrella in the sun, whereas Doug pulled his blue hat right over his ears. He is the type to wear shoes and socks on the beach.
We were invited by the Gintrac family and friends for a week end at a beach resort along the Sunshine Coast at Alexandra Head, and as this was quite a new thing for us, we set off clutching one of Dougs meticulous maps, excited as two blow-flies in a pickle bottle. This was what we had dreamed about in snowy Norway, golden beaches curving along the coast, flowering bushes blushing with blooms, people in swimsuits and sandals! And at the reception we were met with hugs and kisses from boys taller than trees, their tiny wives and princess like children, with Nikki at the head, leading her brood to roost. We shared a flat with her and Ruth (the Other Ruth as she is called) with two bedrooms and bathrooms and a huge balcony and living area where we could all gather to plan the stay, spreading cups of tea and beer cans, crisps and coke in our wake. We set off in crocodile formation for the shops, heard loud opinions as to bathing suits and dresses, tried to get into a Club to have a beer but Bert not being dress-coded, had to wait for him to get a red nylon shirt to wear. Lucky they never noticed my new black flip-flops. We laughed our heads off at all the work we had put into dressing up for the evening only to end up buying fish and chips across the road since the lionized Lifesaving Club had an hour long queue and the two little princesses, Brianna and Chelsey would not find this amusing.
Actually it was just as nice to do all the cooking in the evening, or rather just help a bit, as Jess had it all under control, and then eat together on the balcony. A bit crowded, but so much easier to talk while sitting on the floor or sofas, and hear all the news from 7 years back. Poor Chelsey (4) had pneumonia, but you would never have known, except for the “I am very fed-up now” face that burgeoned on her little face now and again, in spite of the tiara.
We lounged and lunged by and in the pool, swam early in the morning along the channels that went past all the ground floor rooms, and then when the worst heat was over, ran to the beach just below. No nut-brown people about; “there is no such thing as a healthy tan” is the slogan these days, but I don’t quite agree, a bit of colour never hurt anybody and I wanted it. I loved the surf, but to see clearly I had to wear glasses, not a good idea. I managed fine for quite a while to jump in the surf with them on, but then a huge waive hit from behind and wham, ripped off they were and lost in the sandy surf. And of course they were prescription. So from there on it was a slightly blind bat that played in the surf, or battled at times, as there was a strong wind and after a while the guards called everybody out of the water. But what joy it had been. And was the next day as well, in spite of lack of glasses. As long as I stayed between the flags I was safe, a helicopter patrolled for sharks above and the brilliant Life Guards kept a keen watch.
The Glass House Mountains were quite close, and Montville in the hinterland had true village charm. Christian and Aliesha had got married nearby and wanted to show us this lovely spot. Old Europe meets colonial Queenslanders as houses went and of course it had one of the most spectacular and panoramic views over a coastal plain one could find in Australia, if it had been seen. Heavy heat hazed the horizon, a bit like like being under a vast glass dome, all near noises swallowed up in the heat. Nice, but we had to be refreshed and had long icy drinks in the “Poets Café”, the nicest of all the numerous restaurants and cafes up along the hill.
I had a funny episode in the loo; as is my wont I was taking a picture of myself in the loo mirror, clicking away, when suddenly this beautiful woman appears right in front of me (I was hidden from view in the cubicle) and yells “Oh, my god, the paparazzi!” I wondered where they could be, until it dawned on me that she meant me. Poor thing, she was quite shaken and I had to calm her down telling her I was a silly tourist from Norway. Was she a celebrity?
So from now on the boys made comments every time I took the camera out.
Monday morning we piled into the cars and drove towards Burrum Coast National Park for which you have to have permits to enter. This was all organized by Nikkis boys, and after letting air out of the tires and re-arranging ourselves into 3 4WD, we started the adventure. Now the two blow-flies were really buzzing!
You got a sense of flying as the car went onto the sandy beach, 50km long, dissolving into the salt spray far away, the sand empty, smooth and golden, reflecting the azure blue sky and red rocks climbing from the shore. It was one of those moments life gives as a special gift, of utter astonishment and wonder. The boys ignored quite a few of the rules, having done this before; Never drive across sand dunes, go slowly, avoid wash-outs, avoid sharp turns. It was so exhilarating, mishaps a far thought only. Mind you, with all the gear Yannick had in his car from his last off-road rally, we were well prepared. Shooting along powdery paths into the bush, with Christian yelling “hole ahead” most of the time, so we could hang on from the straps, it was a lovely, sweaty and dusty drive, and ended by a pick-nick in the shadows where all flopped down. After reviving we ran into the clear water, jumping the waives or just lying in the shallows as the ocean washed over you. The two princesses fell asleep with Nish shooing away flies.
The only fly in the ointment was the March fly that bit bits off you in the shadows. Yes, little chunks, the nasty buggers, but they were not yet out in full force, luckily.
Shadows started to appear, but I had to have a go at driving in the sand. I thought it would be like driving in snow, but it was like ice! Lucky I did not trash the car, great faith in me they must have had, but then this was something to tuck under my belt for stories to be told to patient nurses at the Old Peoples Home one day. This old biddy actually had a life once.
A little ferry took us back to reality from the National Park, the river gums gleaming white in the shadows. Car Spas were necessary after that, a car wash that used really forceful jets to get the sand out of every nook and cranny. Happy but tired we drove back to Brisbane, and fell asleep to the sound of crickets in the dark softness again.
Gentle rain fell at the Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary, with Ruth and the Other Ruth lugging the pick-nick basket along, trying to find shelter. Nikki sat under a small waterfall from the roof, but it did not matter as the rain was warm and splashed like a bath overflowing, onto the ground. We saw koalas close (never, never call them bears) with Trendy Theresa, Marvelous Marcoola and Lovely Lisa falling asleep in the branches like hung out furry bundles of wash. Now and again they would wake up and chew a leaf, after which gigantic effort they fell asleep again. Fascinating animals, and awful to think that 4000 of them are killed every year on the roads. I sat for a long time looking and listening to them, and could stroke their rather special fur. The males “fight” by making booming noises; the deepest sound that is produced is the alpha male. A war-fare I would approve of.
Checked out the other Aussie animals too, the platypus that ate wriggling worms, the elegant designer dingoes, Tasmanian devils, barking owls and golden possums, wombats and kangaroos of course. Birds. Crocks. One day was not enough to see all the diversity of these wonderful specimens.
It had been a truly wonderful stay in Brisbane, our «Aussie family» making us so welcome, and every day had brought new delights, both with people and new places. But tomorrow «we hit the road, Jack,» again.
Woodgate
We were 5 hours north of Brisbane, in the banana and sugar-cane lands, a quiet place minding its own business. Lagoons, calm as ponds lay in the marshes by the sea, and the road was lined by a charming assortment of post-boxes worth collecting fotos of. Hilly in places, many signs warned of flooding at the bottom, and ditches ran deep along the road. In one of them I saw something that would beat that wild kangaroo picture Johnas took; a huge macho Red Kangaroo with muscles and balls to match. I was expecting it to hop off as we approached, but it let me quite close with the camera. Johnas, eat your heart out.
Woodgate: A sleepy little sea-side town with a fantastic beach on the Fraser Coast, where nothing happens, said the guide book. Just our cup of tea. The winding road cut through sugar cane plantations and marsh land before suddenly opening up to a glorious beach, quite empty for miles. One reason being that it was drizzling and only +23. Which did not put us off the sea-shell strewn sands and gum-willows trailing thin, pale, boughs over the beach. Got a wonderful cabin where we both saw and heard waives whoosh along a beach skirted with gum-trees and pine. We ran along it, wetting our feet in deliciously warm water and seeing shells smooth as silk in rainbow colours. The sky was a tumult of scudding grey clouds, a couple wandered past with fishing gear hopefully erect, but it was just as nice to settle down into our very luxurious cabin and sit down with a glass of red western Aussie wine and hear the sea, its faint rhythmic rumble nearby. It gives comfort, that sound, as if a primeval pulse beat deep inside you.
The dark came like it does in the tropics, suddenly and without warning, demolishing the day and at the same time creating night. We were the only ones eating outside in the mild breeze, though no stars twinkled through the blanket of cloud. By Easter you have to fight to find a cabin.
Childers was the nearest little town, so laid back it stumbled over its own feet, but very charming, with its now familiar butchers and bakers all stringed along the one main street. Full of historical pride to the extent it was almost impossible to enter a shop and not be told who established it and when and what they were renown for. Chemist, butcher, post-office, baker, pub, all with their stories. We sat drinking our flat whites watching town life unfold, did a bit of shopping, were given advice by the locals what to do with the proudly local meat, and went back to Woodgate and the sea.
Loved the swimming most of all, which we did several times until a man caught a Stingray on his hook: I could have stepped on it! Always in paradise a snake or stingray lurks, but the fruit is so delicious. As the last fire of the setting sun died, it airbrushed the surroundings a rosy pink. A lone fisherman sat on the beach and lit a light. Perfect picture.
Some evenings it was calm and tranquil, others a strong wind had branches grabbing at the air already early in the evening, and it later rained in the night with a force we had never experienced here before; it felt as if one was in the middle of a waterfall. I woke to a wet pillow, thunder and lightning and had to close the windows. In the morning we were told the Bruce Highway was closed due to 400mm of rain. THAT is something! The sun tried to peek through the angry clouds, and we managed a nice little beach walk early in the morning before packing the car. Our friend from last night came back with fish already at 7am. “Been there all night?” we asked? “Yeah, away from the wife…” and he laughed heartily. “Now I am so hungry I could eat the arse off a low flying duck!” Or that is what he should have said, but it came out a bit tamer.
Floods were on their way, we had to be off.
Sapphire
With mild trepidation we set off towards Childers, expecting the road to have flooded, but no, it was ok, and though it was heavy going along the “Bruce», what with bucketing rain and road works towards Rockhampton, we made the over 600km to Sapphire just before dark. Followed the railway with its hundreds of wagons full of coal from Blackwater, the capital of coal, and met with outback loos we had forgotten about. One warned about frogs leaping and biting in the loo, the other to please close the lid. So I went in, looking carefully at the floor, seeing only loo-paper scattered on the cement and opened the lid. Yeap, there was a frog, as big as your hand, staring right up at you. No way was I going to pee on top of it!! The next loo, 50km away, had ants crawling all around it, and a sweet little frog perched on the loo-paper roll. Did not mind that, can deal with small specimens, and just squatted over the bowl. Not until we came to Isisford could we hear why this was normal: they like the water, the toads, and all you do is pick them out or pee on them. “Nothing to it, though ladies dont like them. I pick about 15 every morning, but they don’t mind a pee on their heads either.” Now you have been forewarned.
It was so strange, so incongruous, to drive this time into the Outback. Instead of the red/brown dry earth, with rocks the colour of bad teeth bare in the sun, cracked and gasping, we find “green, green grass of home!” Black burned stems of gum-trees rose from the emerald fields, and made you wonder where on earth you were. Tiny flowers and waiving grass covered a landscape so vast it had to be studied like a mural by a child, and we just stood there on the empty road and let the colossal scenery slowly sink in.
Blue-black thunder clouds followed us all of the way, and broke like a bag with a hole in the bottom, emptying themselves right over us when finding the campsite. It was a white deluge, it hammered the red earth and green fronds along with the roof, so we could not hear what was being said about a cabin.
The first campsite at Sapphire, with its one and only cabin was a bit off, a smelly steaming hot abode, stuffy and with 5 beds, which we turned down in spite of the very nice ladies who ran it. The second, now that was something, with stone built houses in a gum-tree forest with open French windows and fans in the ceiling. Felt like Heaven, with rain and +27 as we sat and ate supper and drank wine on the terrace, while the gentle cooling wind touched our skins. Darkness surrounded us, but earlier we had seen wallabies jumping about, peering at us before bounding off into the bush, now quiet and silent and only filled with the patter and thunder of rain. I liked the names here; next stop would be Rubyvale, but first came Emerald. Gem country this, with fossicking going on, boots and pots and pans at the ready outside the houses. We were lucky again, just one cabin free, or not really as the keeper said, one has to pay!
But the Big Wet being in full swing, there was a slight worry: how will we go on? Nobody knew, each day is a new challenge with these rains, filling the floodplains and blocking off roads. The Bruce Highway was still shut this morning, so no turning back yet, not that we wanted to either.
I like camping sites where parents are duly cautioned: “Unruly children will be given double-expressos and a puppy at departure.” And signs say: “OLDFARTSISCARAVANPARKS”. Makes you feel welcome.
We woke however, after loud rainfalls in the night, to the call of birds. It was as if one woke in an aviary! And the sounds so different from ours, from the wistful whistling to frantic chirrups and guttural croaks, all blending into a perfect bush-like chorus. No other sounds emerged before the blokes woke up in the next house and loaded their truck to go fossicking for sapphires. Would have loved that.
The sky was grey, a warm damp wind rustled and a chap walked past with thin legs and oversize boots. But he had a bush-hat that took my fancy. Out with the camera, a few words and he smiled sweetly. We visited the only decent building in Sapphire, (according to a local) run by a big-eared earnest looking man, who sat in his kingdom of glittering sapphires like a gem among rusty nails. But hard work was behind it, as his life-story unfolded, from Kenya to this forgotten town of mostly wooden shacks and lone crumbling caravans. Broken dreams drowning in the rivers, or being shattered by collapsing claims. The Japs came and bought jewels by the sack-full from more established places, but this was small-fry country. The little man had a sadness in him, as he yet again polished a sapphire. “I do love them.”
Got a pair of ear-pendants. Sapphire of course. Bertie is a sweetie, and so with them in my handbag we set off towards the central table-lands and Blackall.
Blackall/Isisford
We passed little Outback towns, really only hamlets with a shack or two, or self-important towns like Jericho who boasted of extraordinary biblical knowledge. And had a Drive In Theater. Or “Barkie”, where the only thing open for a 150 miles on a Sunday was a bakery where world-famous pies were made, and where we learned all about them and sat on a bench along the street eating them for lunch. We were given a bag with “Barcaldine Bakery” stamped on it, that the baker dug out from under some bags of flour when he heard we were all the way from far, far Norway. I have never tasted anything better as meat-pies go!
The road was so empty of traffic, gumtrees and green grass passing as the only sights, interspersed with “floodways” and suspicious public toilets we never went near again. I am not a brave soul.
Huge dark-blue thunderclouds built up along the plains, and when bursting over us, cooled the air in minutes from 34 to 22. Still cant get over this strange “Big Wet” that we are now part of.
In Blackall the campsite was much the same as 7 years ago, as was the town, this special place with Australia`s finest water rising from hidden depths of artesian wells, so hot, no water is heated, just cooled, and totally untreated. It stinks when hot, but sweetens to perfection when cooled. Worthy of Evian. And this they both drink, swim and water their gardens with.
The pool was a cool +30, and for the first time I got hot and sweaty swimming, and we sat under the sails to “chill out”. Lovely! Its 50m long, the pool, so plenty of space for all, though only a few were there under the sky that threatened with a thunderstorm. The guard kept eyeing the sky, listening to the nearing thunder, and when it split the air, ordered everybody out. I was the only female in the showers, with a hot sulfuric shower cascading over me. I reveled and wished time would stand still. This is what I was evolved for, all those millions of years ago.
Road-Trains rumble past, its night in Blackall, and there is, what sounds like a little lion, some animal under our window foliage.
The nights were “chilly”,+18, but it soon warmed up after an early morning swim and “Spa” as the little pool with mineral water, gushing hot and bubbly, at the pool-area is called, apart from the pool itself. Hot, but like tea, refreshing.
An elderly man floated about, but then it was just us, the mad and only tourists in Blackall to get up and get voluntarily wet! It is lovely, the only place in Aussie land where you can swim in pristine water with no chlorine or fear of sharks or stingers or sting-rays.
At the tourist “i” the lady welcomed us with an enthusiasm saved for the low-season traveler, and told us of all the places that were closed and roads blocked. “the wet is still around,…so sorry, but you can always try!” Cheerful as always. Re-arranging the pamphlets in the hope of other visitors. We noticed we were the only foreigners for months. “They don’t come anymore, I don’t know why, Melbourne is so cold, whats wrong with us?” I wondered too.
As the sky was blue and the wind made the gum-trees silver, we headed for Isisford along a straight, 120km road with only 3 stations along it, besides cattle and emus and wallabies and eagles. Carrion gathered around road-kill, scattering as we drove past, and we nearly ran over a couple of cute wallabies contemplating the car approaching them, managing only just to brake before their bums hit the bumper, when they finally bounded off into the bush.
The surroundings were green and lush, where as last time we drove here, the earth was pounded by intense heat.
Driving over the rivers we came after 2 hours to Isisford; population 263, more men that women, and never willing to forgive the Labour government for taking away their status of Shire. There in the heat along the one and only street we met Edith who runs the Fossil-crock centre and was now entertaining a truck-driver. He was about to burst like a pink balloon of bonhomie! Edith phoned the Stancy Overflow Hotel owner without us asking or anything; ”Two tourists from Norway here, they have come all this way and you closed! Mate, what are you up to? Right…he is opening it NOW!” And added “Talk to him, he is Dutch, darlings”. And so we were welcomed by Hans, a little wiry man full of energy, but also a sadness. He loved it here, away from drugs and drunks and crowds, working 24/7 doing the cooking, (up to 40 guests a night at times) cleaning, washing, reparations, paperwork, hosting, you name it, but not wanting anything else more than this. Sadness because he was alone. He kindly looked after us, told us his life-story, joined us in a beer or two or three, told us of his plans and showed us around. Upstairs in the rooms overlooking a shady balcony, he told us the story of the Battle of the Three Pubs, when an aboriginal girl was killed as the hotel was set fire to, and escaped into the “Clancy Overflow” to punish the deed-doer, now haunting one of the rooms. “Slept there one night to try this out, but she never came.” Downstairs were the original drovers rooms, cept for beds. “Nobody been here for months, but sometimes its full” he said hopefully. He pays for the only wireless internet connection in town in his beer-garden and lets the locals use it for free. “They have given me much, I can do this for them.”
Got a free entry too, to the museum of the Crock from Edith “since you have been here before”, and had a hamburger afterwards with a knife stuck in it, elegant Aussie style, and talked to Beth, the daughter of the only two existing inhabitants of Emmet: A tiny hamlet in the bush, where once “lots of things went on”. Now Beth has moved to Isisford, where it is so much more social.
Back in Blackall we sat in the evening breeze and then drove out at night just a few minutes outside the little main street and met utter blackness and a starry sky out of this world, literally. Night was so very big here, spread like a huge canvas on the taut horizon. And there, suspended by someone we could not see, hung the Southern Cross. You felt you were in the middle if the milky way. Lay on the warm tarmac on the road, gazing upwards into space, moved to tears contemplating the wonder of being alive just now, when this planet has life on it. A moment of soul possessing joy. Only the cicadas heard our soft exclamations of wonder.
One more glorious swim, cups of tea on the little balcony with bougainvillae dripping down beside it, and off we set towards Tomba and Charleville, south into the heartland of the Queensland Outback.
Heartland
We had been told rains had hit the area, but nothing worse, so like Major Mitchell who wandered around here on horseback in 1886, we took a highway named after him. Empty roads, heading straight ahead, with skies as vast as the heavens, green wavy grass undulating as far as the eye could see. No wonder, when Mitchell saw this land in the wet, it looked like the Norfolk broads, and he thought it a great place for farming. Little did he know then.
A lizard, beautiful and graceful lay as road-kill, fresh as from the butchers on the hot tarmac. The roos along the road you could smell quite a distance away, rotting in the heat, nothing to linger by and take artistic photos of!
Augathella, the place where we last time landed in the middle of a sandstorm and asked the way to Blackall, was as forlorn and quaint as I remembered. Bottle-trees, Boabs, grew in a few gardens, but a lady leathered by the harsh sun, told me there had been masses of them in her youth. “All gone now. But better get to my hair-dresser.” No time for standing and staring here.
Tomba was a delightful town, with its typical wooden granny–like Post-office and library, butcher and baker and rose gardens, all flourishing in this big wet.
Time somehow flies even if the landscape is quite monotonous, but this time we noted with some awe all the recently flooded plains and rivers and bridges, that had been inundated only days before us.
At Charleville, the Cosmos Centre was wonderful, but due to only us two wanting the experience to gaze at the stars on the night-star tour, famous for its observatory we missed last time, it was not on. “Sorry, it’s the low season…”
Yeah, the museum closed too, but we got a lovely cabin and watched the night sky from there, deepening from oranges into blood red and darkness with a toe-nail sliver of a new moon in the sky. The sunset was beautiful, the silence and scent of the bush present even in the middle of this little town. And the next pharmacy was only a 1000km away. This was the Outback.
A cat came to visit. The rosella parrots circled around the trees and the town with its wide streets and old Queenslanders went to sleep. Utter silence after 9pm. These outback places are all for morning people! So we got up before dawn, as we had asked for help at the office from a nice young man about traveling to Bourke last night, flood warnings being in the area. He phoned the police station and let us know that it seemed ok, as the closed road had been opened today. “But don’t linger, the floods are building right up after you, drive before them. Sunday its peaking at 13,8 m.” Such a calming thought.
Just as well we had got up early, as we had to drive 750km avoiding closed roads due to floods, and ending up at Moree where we had no plans of going.
It was lovely being on the road with the early eagles perched on branches in the first rays of the sun, in a very pleasant +22, see the grass glimmer and emus drinking by overflow waters under gum trees as wallabies jumped perkily in the high yellow flowered fields. Missed the offered breakfast menu though.
“Budgie on a diet”= Continental breakfast
“She `ll be eggs” =Fried eggs
“Outback Eggs Benedict”=poached eggs on steak.
Pushed into the hinterlands already from Cunnamulla where two nice people directed us to the police station, with the ready attitude of traders with no customers (which they were, their shops being devoid of people) and time on their hands and bums, with great detail. There we were told in no uncertain terms that yes, the road to Bourke was just about open, but would trap us in Bourke indefinitely as all roads from thereforth were now clammed shut. So no exploring the Darling and Murray rivers, but instead being caught in the cotton-country by and by, after hundreds of miles of grassland and bush and flooded roads with floodways and horrid, worrying signs of “road under water” with no other cars in sight! Or humans, just little tracks leading off to a station far inland. Water, like a liquid menace invaded our thoughts. It was exciting though, and we loved the animals we saw.
After 13 crossings of flood-ways, as fords are called, we stopped counting. If we get stuck, we get stuck. And instead admired all the colours reflecting the sky and bush in the overflow. Very lovely really, with ducks, but ducks, swimming in the desert!
At one place we actually met a couple driving a dusty Toyota, and they were as if ordered for that photo I was taking. Nice people, as all here, friendly and open, broadly smiling with or without teeth. Note me taking the picture in her sunglasses and the hole in her hat, when looking at the photographs.
Some small places were weirdly special. Wyandra had bras festooned all over the “town”, in all colours, along fences and gardens and above pubs and post offices? And a sign read “don’t be a Galah, if you got this far, get out of the car.” People lived in what goes for shacks elsewhere, but seemed perfectly happy. In another world from the coastal cities.
We got tired as the road stretched on, but after asking for road advice at St.George, and having to drive 100km to Mungindi along a road with bad flood damage, we had to continue looking for a place to stay, as it turned out to be the worst yet. The Caravan Park had a few dilapidated, dusty caravans and ancient cabins with dirty windows. Some Aboriginals wandered around aimlessly, as they sadly do, the sad effluence of their history around them. The heat hung heavy on our shoulders, as their past hung around theirs.
The next place had a jolly lady in the pub with new false teeth and a spotty t-shirt, running around with beer for the dozen sweat-stained, muscled and tank-topped
men, who sat like a jolly bunch of hippos at a water hole. She was so nice though, as nice as can be, and told us her cabins had not been used for ages and were really not for habitation except for road-men. So on we go again. The last we heard her say was “…wonder how many of you are friends at the end of the night, mates, with all this beer!”
In spite of Lonely Planets rather dismissive account of Moree as a noisy cotton-picking backward town, it turned out to be rather nice, and certainly the Motel we spotted and occupied with its natural artesian pools and spa, was.
One pool with +40 water, the next 37 and the cold one +24. I swam in the last, as it was still +33 in the evening outside. “Silver fish” emerge from drains here, one cant be the only living thing even in a motel in the tropics, and Dettol was liberally used again. But the bed was good! No hidden bed-springs like at Blackall that bit you in the night. I missed Blackall though, this was getting to be too near civilization.
Escaping floods
We thought we had made it to a small reprise of a paradise for a few days before going to pester our long-suffering friends in Melbourne again, when we arrived at Forbes. A less than thrilling drive had taken us here, skirted by endless fallow wheat fields and silos through places that only the names could thrill you; Narrabri, Coonabranabran, Dubbo. All found along the Newell Highway that the nice police officer, guns abrizzle, at the last station had told us to follow to avoid flooding. What were all those guns for?
A few wonderful, very Aussie objects materialized along the road, a house, a pick-up truck, of the austere and utilitarian kind, like lino floors and laminated surfaces in cafes. Worn, used and still found not wanting! The very soul of the country. And more clouds, more rain, more flooded waterways.
Road-Trains thundered past you, pushing you to the very verge, the driving culture a bit like Iceland; if you don’t like it, we`re not bothered. Mind you, they were good to follow through flood ways as they shifted the water in great sprays before you. The town of Forbes is an utterly charming place and we got a cabin overlooking the Belubula River. The place landed right into our hearts. River gums on green grassy slopes crept towards the water, and birds flew all around. Our neighours were a charming couple, the husband just having had a nose amputation for cancer, standing with a beer in his hand and a huge bandage on his face, poor man (he was a farmer the wife told us, after she knew I was a nurse, and that none of the nurses knew how to do a dressing on his nose) and she worked for the evaquation unit for flood victims, of which a lot was amassing now. She predicted worse, and told us not to dwell here, roads were being closed as we spoke.
All night it bucketed down, but for a few hours we forgot it and enjoyed the peace of the river, its sound and the bush singing in the night. The camp manager had come down the stairs from his bedroom early in the morning, and we listened to “severe flood warnings”, and “be prepared to drive across water”, “don’t drive unless you have to” on the radio with him. We had so wanted to stay here a few days and see this old, charming town where gold had been found, but we could not afford being stranded for days on end.
We were hounded south with rising water levels in the fields along the road towards NSW, told not to tarry, but had to rest for the night at Albury, directed to two rather run down and worn campsites by a very kind and perky i-girl (info-centre staff). Must admit this was a real low in the whole of our stay, and I should really not even mention it, but after driving through floodways countless times, never knowing if we would make it through the next one, then coming to a cabin by the noisy Hume Highway in a “basic” standard cabin in chilling rain, and having to shop in a cold, horrid Aldi, eating chicken soup from a tin, I have to admit I was not in a sunny mood! I was cold, and I longed for the simple, hot Outback with its flies and sunsets and starry skies like a ranger for his fartsack after a day of roving.
The cheery info-girls told us the next morning that 75% of NSW was to be flooded in a few hours, so better move on towards Victoria and try to get past Warrangata before settling down. Hurry, hurry.
In Benalla it looked cosy, even if a steady rain was falling and every single room was occupied due to baseball-camp in situ and all the flood victims being re-housed here, but the coffee was wonderful and a sweet-potato and onion muffin likewise. This was Ned Kelly country, his image behind the iron mask proudly presented as often as possible. His museum was here, even along with the door that kept him locked in. Gave money to a handicapped girl who sang her heart out in the rain outside the shops, and then had to leave to try and find a place for the night. “Don’t go east or west or north, all roads blocked…” said the kind i-lady who had bravely tried to find us bed in the near vicinity.
So south to Seymour. Where a rather confused camp-site manager could not find a key to our cabin because it was broken in half, then moved us to another, told us it was “de-luxe” (maybe in the 80`s, not now) and ducked down back into his lair with spider webs hanging from the roof.
Tired but happy, helped with champagne and a cheery Johnas welcoming us back tomorrow to Melobourne on the phone, we had a nice, cosy evening as the rain pattered less and we put on heating for the first time on this trip.
Our neighbour was a cattle farmer a few hundred k`s east, who longed for Bourke where he was born and where his granny collected and pressed wild flowers, sending them to botanical institutions. “Oh, I hate the bloody cold, but the wife and kids love it here, so I have to settle for longing for the Outback. “ My very sentiments! “Best send my boys to McDonalds, or there will be a Cabin Fever outbreak… he said, and re-directed the two teen-agers as they rounded the corner on fast motor-bikes.
Winding down in Melbourne, the days have been filled with both lazy moments in the sun and rushing around trying to imbibe the last scents, the last strains of bird song, the last hugs from friends, and each evening so late one has just stooped into bed, getting the hours of sleep one needs to go on with. But one more surprise awaited us as after breakfast as one morning Johnas said:” We have taken you to Ballarat, haven’t we?” They had not, so they had to.
Ballarat
Even though it’s a tourist trap, now in off-season, the outdoor museum at Sovereign Hill has such charm it takes you back to the gold-rush days with no great effort. Towards the afternoon when all the busses had taken most day-trippers away, we had the place almost to ourselves. The dusty and hot main street cuts through the town. Carriages drawn by black with horses rumble along it, there were fights and verbal interchanges with police men, doctors and brothel girls involved, and they did not mind a bit if you joined them. Only they will talk to you as if it still is the 1800 hundreds. No point asking “how much do you get paid for working here?” the answer will be “ I am starving. Have not eaten for days, no gold, no food. Only the fat banker up the hill does not care. But one day, yes, one day I shall strike lucky!” and “gerroff me, you, I am no street girl!”
I asked at the post-office if it was open, and the girl just laughed. Then she touched my ear and said “Oh, my lady, you have lost your ear-ring!” Bother. I must have lost it down the mines, no point looking for it now. I was really annoyed, as I loved those silver-rings. Then the police officer near-by clears his throat; ”Alice, are you up to your tricks again! Give the ear-ring back!” And she meekly produces it from her pocket. “Honest, lady, a passer by left it for me to give…” I could not find out if she had taken it or if somebody actually had found it! “Oh, madam, you must believe me!” I had lost it once already that day.
Below the soldiers in red jackets marched and shot volley after volley with their muskets. In the shops candy was made and sold, a real candle-maker was busy, coffins were put together, the baker turned out round loaves of bread, and hats and dresses were sold at the “ Dress and Hat” shop. Gold was melted, formed into ingots, the oven a hot burning furnace as we watched. Miners cottages lined the upper road, minute dwellings with the tin-bath always visible, but such luxury compared with the tents of the gold-diggers by the river.
Going down the mines was on the agenda too, and a train took us far down where the temp was cool, but otherwise the 12 hour shifts and constant noise of drills must have been hell. Gold was found though, in great quantities, the biggest the “Welcome nugget” weighing 71,3 kg. Neither Bertil or Johnas managed this, though they washed and washed with the gold pans, but a beer helped, drank sitting on the bench along the dusty High street as some men in tatty and worn shirts played banjos and sang.
Evening light drew long shadows as we left, and just before it set, we found a delightful restaurant by the lake with black swans, where we had a wonderful meal before the drive home. An orange full moon rose above the gum trees and lingered in the tree tops like a lantern to guide us. Even the moon looked different from home, as most things do in Australia.
There was so much we had wanted to see that the floods put a stop to, but looking at this bulletin, we saw quite a lot anyway! And as always, made new mates. That’s the most important thing when you come here, meeting new mates.
They claim strangers don’t exist in Australia.
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