November 12, 2006

Sydney to Tokyo

I am actually a little sad to leave Sydney. The city and country have been a great adventure and the fellow travelers delivered a real joy. One of my newfound German friends happened to enter the hostel lobby while I was waiting for the airport shuttle.



She is from Karlsruhe, where Dad’s family lived in Germany. There was a genuine sense of warmth and care. When the van pulled up there was a tangible tension of two people who likely will never see each other again holding on. Release. Turn. Walk to the van. Look over shoulder. (Still there.) Dump bags in the back. (Still there.) Walk along side the van to the front seat. Wave. (Wave back.) Van jolts forward. (Still there and waving.) Out of sight. Moron! No e-mail or contact info. One of these days I will learn to command the moment, relinquishing fate.

The international terminal at Sydney Airport was a complete zoo for 8:30 am. The Qantas queue stretched around the corner and then the length of the terminal. Unbelievable! My flight left at 10:25am and this line represented at least three hours of doing the luggage shuffle. After an hour and fifteen minutes of curling my 19 kg main pack and 11 kg day pack there was a “final call” for the Tokyo flight. In Australia this gives free reign to walk directly to the front counter. Whew. Saved.

Our flight was half empty, translating into an empty seat next to me for the 9 hour and 15 minute flight. The entire experience was completely enjoyable, with service and food exceeding that we received on the top deck of the 747 flight to Sydney in June. (Sorry KJ. Thanks for the once in a lifetime top deck experience.) Arriving in Tokyo, most of the passengers were relaxed and without the typical trans-Pacific grog.

For some reason, I was completely unintimidated by entering a country where hardly a spoken word and definitely not a single written word was comprehensible. I had directions, what else is there really?



Easily grasped in theory, but when directions fall short, in the execution of exiting the subway to a neon-enhanced darkness, what is there to do? Simple. Find a young looking couple on bikes and ask. The couple in their early 20’s had great energy for solving my problem, but just like me little comprehension of exactly what we were attempting to communicate. Finally, like a Rosetta stone discovery, the young man saw a phone number on my hand written directions. Borrowing his girlfriend’s phone he dialed. “Moshi, moshi” was his greeting and then surprisingly he handed the “trinket dangling” phone to me. After a brief conversation, it was clear which one of the six streets that fed into this subway mole-holed intersection led to the Tokyo Hostel.

November 11, 2006

Sydney

What a fun day! Preparing to head out into the morning from the hostel lobby I saw Malte sitting on the couch. He is a young German kid of probably about nineteen and part of the crew from last night’s barbeque. We exchanged greetings and then Malte asked, “What have you planned for today.” I ran through my laundry list of sights and then returned the inquiry. He paused momentarily and said, “I go with you.”

I was actually very happy to have him as an exploration partner. He had an energy and honest invigoration about seeing the city. Since I’m consciously trying to log miles, we walked almost everywhere, which fit perfectly with the conscience of his budget. Our hostel was about 3Km from Darling Harbor and then a long stroll from there to Circular Quay and the Rocks.





I love art and modern art specifically reaches deep within my psyche. To mentally stretch, thinking beyond initial impression and delving into potential meaning reaches my head as well as heart. Malte was great and I had a true partner in crime when he said, “I don’t understand this, but I want to know what the artist was thinking.” Malte’s perspective on various works added even greater depth to the experience, than if I’d sat and processed alone.



We strolled to The Rocks and an open-air market so that I could buy a children’s book about a persuasive wombat. (I had purchased one for Devon in June and now wanted a copy of my own.)



Hungry, we took the next ferry from Circular Quay to Manly Beach for fish & chips.



Malte ended up buying a $4 slice of pizza, but I had to indulge the tradition of eating fish & chips while sitting on the sea wall, watching the people, sea, and surfers. Malte proved he was worth his salt when after eating, bam, I got hit with what felt like a dirt clod on the side of the head. The thud was strong and disorienting.

Stunned and looking at Malte, he asked calmly, “You have shit?”
“Did a seagull shit on me?”
“Yes, you have a big one!” he said without even a snicker.

(Sorry, no pictures to share here.)

I kept waiting. When would the laughter start? Come on Malte at least a giggle, a potential nasal snort of viewing another’s misfortune. Nothing.
“Would you mind watching my bag while I go to the restroom?” I said tentatively.
“Yes. Sure. No problem.” was his sympathetic reply.

Maybe it’s a genetic German thing. I can remember my friend being pooped on while we sat near the steps of Tamalpais High School and there wasn’t a single personal ounce of energy towards laughter, simply a desire to help.

Later in the evening, I went to a movie and Malte opted to walk back to the hostel. When I met up with him and the rest of the German crew by the Anzac Brige no one laughed at my arrival.



He hadn’t told a soul. I knew this because, later, when I told the story to Mena she confirmed that Malte hadn’t shared that part of the day with the group.



I felt deeply valued and respected by this friend of 24 hours who hadn’t sunk to the easy humor that comes at the expense of someone else’s misfortune. At nineteen, Malte is a much bigger man and example than I.

November 10, 2006

Stuart’s Well to Sydney

Mistakenly, I thought that last night would be an opportunity to catch up on sleep while camping in the bush. The temperature and Aboriginal neighbors made this an unreality.

Given my tent was set up in a literal desert, expectations were for a warm beginning to the evening, followed by a cool night. The change never came. My one-man tent proved to be a better insulator than expected. It held a majority of the heat of the day through the night. So laying on top of my sleeping bag the night was an exercise in catnaps. At one point I stuck my head out the tent flap to see a broader blanket of stars than afforded in the Northern Hemisphere. This may be an illusion, since the arrangement and available stars were different.

Just as the temperature appeared to be cooling and a deeper sleep was at hand country music came blaring. I was completely disoriented. Where had I awakened, somewhere in the Tennessee? The Aboriginal teens were cranking country music from one of their cars. As the singer twanged on about wanting to go back to Louisiana, it made me wonder “why” of all the music available in the world these particular native Australians would pick U.S. country music. A check of the watch showed 5:45am.



Culturally, from what I had learned, this group of Aboriginals kept traditional tribal organization. By 6:15am all male adults had left camp. The women sat in the dirt around a fire and tended to the children and teens. The male teens were obviously bored and tried to wander away several times. When one of the females finally noticed the excursion, a single female did all the yelling. It didn’t matter whether one of the toddlers needed to come closer to the circle or one of the five-year-old boys was being too aggressive with one of the penned kangaroos, the same woman gave a guttural reprimand. Everything appeared to result in a tonal throaty yelling. The toddlers snapped to attention at the commands but the older the children the less affected they were. The wandering teen boys simply acknowledged the barking by stopping their forward progress and slowly wandering back in the direction of the fire circle.

A notable cultural difference was the earthly comfort the Aboriginal people appeared to demonstrate. Practically everyone was barefooted. When there was occasion to sit, then the posture was bottoms on the ground and legs straight out in a forward position. This may account for the Aboriginal art form of a “U” symbolizing a seated person, as that would be the imprint left behind in the red sandy soil. The children were covered in a red sandy earth glaze and most adults had a good covering from the thighs down.

Genetically, the Aboriginal people are some of the most anciently pure and consistently evolved on earth. It is interesting how their skin has adapted to protect against the sun, producing deep melanin tones and their hair is predominantly straight and bleached by the sun to blonde tips. Bone structure appears to be very fine. It is a wonder that there haven’t been more great runners aside from the 400 Meter gold medalist Cathy Freeman. Looking at the physical structure of the teens, they have the natural build for foot speed. Given the extreme heat of the central desert, I can’t blame anyone for not being inclined to go for a jog.

The flight from Alice Springs back to Sydney was uneventful. It still takes some “getting used” to open air jet boarding. The stroll on the tarmac is still a novelty. The one process that is actually much more helpful is the dual front and back door loading. This allows for a total passenger embarking process of just about ten minutes.





The backpacker’s hostel where I’m staying this time is not exactly in the center of Sydney, near the far span of the Anzac bridge, away from Darling Harbor. This made me a little apprehensive at first but the people were once again the great equalizer. The hostel was having a Friday night barbeque for $5 AU. We met up on the roof deck and enjoyed burgers, sausages, salads, and bread. The culinary highlight was the kangaroo steak pieces.





While waiting for the food to be prepared, I met a group of German travelers. They were very engaging and accepted me right in to their crew. What made things fun was my growing ability to understand and communicate back. Right now, I listen to the German and respond in English. They seemed to enjoy the idea that I was trying. We hung out for the barbeque and most of the evening.

November 9, 2006

Kata Tjuta (The “Olgas”) to Stuart’s Well

Another sunrise, but a different rock formation, and I met the day at 4:45am. It was well worth the effort for the golden cloud speckled sunrise breaking over the desert. Before the sun actually cracked the horizon a preceding wind swept across the desert flatlands. The wind appeared to be controlled by a natural rheostat, progressively increasing in strength the closer the sun came to the horizon and finally coming to a crescendo after it completely cleared the desert floor.



The rock formation scaled today is called Kata Tjuta, formerly known as “The Olgas”. The differences between this grouping and Uluru are many. First, Kata Tjuta is a series of closely grouped rocks and not a single structure.





The actual rock structure is not pure sandstone but an aggregate mixture of rock and sand. Finally, there was a single Aboriginal sacred valley, so a few routes were well blazed and available for hiking.





Temperature is always a factor in Australia’s central desert. In the winter, evenings and nights can drop well below zero. However, since it is early Spring the temperature is topping out at about 39 or 40 degrees Celsius. Most trails in the park close once the temperature reaches 36 degrees. So, the day starts early in the morning and shuts down for the peak temperature mid-day hours, picking up pace again about an hour before sunset.



I decided to “opt for” the full outback experience tonight by not driving all the way back to Alice Springs and stopping for the night at Stuart’s Water Hole about 100 kilometers outside town. The site comes complete with singing dingo, camels, ostrige, Emu, and kangaroos. The “free camping” section, nicely down wind from the camels, played host to my tent tonight. This should be very interesting, as once again, I am the solo camper.







In any other situation, this would make me a little nervous. The difference here is that I stopped at the station on the way out to Uluru and hung out with the owner to watch the Melbourne Cup, a horse race that literally brings the nation to a standstill for 3.5 minutes each year. In Melbourne, the entire working day is declared a holiday, with many restaurants and pubs providing free dinner to patrons. Who knew a horse race could be such a healthy, community loved, spectacle. It is truly like the Kentucky Derby x 20 or the Super Bowl being declared a state holiday each year. The Mint Julep of Melbourne is fashion. Known as the fashion capital of Melbourne, its residents attempt to “one up” one another with stylish suites, dresses, and crazy flowered and feather hats. The winner of the dress with hat competition becomes somewhat of a local celebrity and is entered into a national competition.

So to prepare for my ultimate “out back” evening I started with a culinary favorite, camel burger. Hmmm… yummy, it was actually not bad, tasting like a cross between beef and venison. So that makes two countries and two local dishes, New Zealand with possum pie and Australia with camel burger. Somehow, with Japan as the next country the culinary extravaganza will likely have a “seafood bent”.

Picture for Aunt Dot

Hi Aunt Dot!

I hope you are enjoying living in Santa Rosa.
It will be great to give you a big hug in a few months.





Love,
Paul


(Blog Readers - Thanks for bearing with me on this post, as it was the easiest way to share a photo with my ninety-something Aunt who doesn't have an e-mail address in her new managed care facility.)

November 8, 2006

Uluru (Ayer’s Rock)

Today was an exercise in the power of dilemma. I woke at 5:00am to witness the spectacle of Uluru at sunrise. The color and texture was phenomenal. The damper was sharing the experience with about 25 busloads of Japanese tourists, who take a very active approach to appreciating the otherwise naturally quiet sunrise. The other surprise was the howling of dingoes and their intrepid approach to the crowd. Obviously, tourists had fed them on previous mornings, so this was now a conditioned behavior.







Anyway, the dilemma of the day had to do with whether or not to climb the big red Uluru rock. In signs and brochures the Aboriginal leaders request that tourists refrain from climbing. However, official ownership of the rock was not transferred back to the native peoples until 1985, which means that steel stanchions and guide ropes have been installed up the red rock face. Approaching the rock, I could see the “ant trail” of tourists leaving their buses and heading upwards. My conscience was now put into full “blender” mode.



The physical aspects of ascent and return would not be an issue but there would be that nagging in the back of my mind. The exhilaration of viewing uninterrupted desert-scape to every horizon would be stunning.



Very close to the starting point, where one literally must jump the fence to begin the climb, a salty Aussie Tour Bus Guide was giving an introduction to his passengers, near the mouth of a sacred cave. His monologue went something like this; “This is a sacred spot for the Aboriginal people. In the 1950’s we used to use it for a toilette, if you wanted a little privacy in the bush. We used to be able to swim in the pools that form after rain falls and climb anywhere we liked. Now, harrumph.” And, with a disgusted backhand sweep of his hand his lecture was finished. I felt like building an immediate soapbox and countering, “Did you know that this spot has been sacred to the Aboriginal people for more than 50,000 years and that it was only discovered by Europeans in 1927? I think the Aboriginal people just might have the right to claim imminent domain from this spawn of an Anglo convict and his bush bathroom.”




An unsavory fact is that the Australian government did not officially consider the Aboriginal people as human beings until 1969, where they were previously listed like animals by genus and species. To date, they represent the longest continuous human culture in history with over 50,000 years of anthropologic lineage. The Anglo Australian myopic prejudice is still a little stunning with the Aussie version of “Rednecks”, complete with mullets, calling native people “whompas because that is the sound they make when struck by a truck at night.” The previous is in quotes, because it is an actual quote as the term was explained to me.



So, I have no regrets in walking past the point where my sunrise viewing friends were jumping the fence, choosing to ignore the request posted in 10 different languages (including their own). This was still a difficult choice, especially watching them scamper up the rock, enjoying the experience.



Finally, it was a choice of respect for something invisible yet tangible. Similarly to the bus driver, I could understand how their choice of spirituality doesn’t make modern sense but this is “their land” and the foundation of their faith.



By noon everything was shut down in the park. When the temperature exceeds 36C then all trail are closed. So the park really has a two tailed tourist day, early morning and sunset. Today, I headed 30 kilometers away to Kata Tjuta (The Olgas) for a clouded sunset viewing and still managed to catch a little afterglow on Uluru on the return.

November 7, 2006

Melbourne to Uluru

Another early morning with a 5:30 am shower and a 6:30 am bus ride to the airport. The entire check-in and security process is so streamlined in Australia that I was sitting at the gate within 10 minutes of the door opening on the bus.



The 8:45am flight was entirely uneventful, with the exception of a trip down the aisle to the bathroom. Waiting for availability, I stood in line with a teenage Aboriginal boy. I felt remarkably uncomfortable. The prejudice and history of British massacres and small pox poisonings of the early 20th century are still fresh wounds to this ancient people. I looked at the floor. Then feeling stupid for a cultural injury that had nothing to do with me, I raised my gaze and met his eyes. It was a race for who could look away first. I think I won. Awkward. Venturing to bridge the gap, I asked if he lived in Melbourne or Alice Springs (obvious, dumb question). The one word response was “Alice”. The sliding clap of the bathroom latch was a welcome diversion and he was off but the unfounded guilt lingered.

How does one deal with stereotyped and disassociate guilt. I couldn’t be farther from having had a correlating impact on Aboriginal atrocities than I could have been responsible for the sinking of the Titanic. Yet, purely by indirect association of common appearance to the offense inflictors of the past I am uncomfortable in my own skin standing in line for the bathroom on an airplane.

The heat of Alice Springs wasn’t the “Florida Wall” of humidity but a gradual roasting. The first impact after de-boarding the plane is radiant relief from the chill of high altitude travel. Then the two hundred meter stroll to the terminal thaws the skin level chill and core temperature rises. The wild thing is that the dry heating process actually draws “goose bumps” to the skin’s surface and then they’re gone.

Climbing into my rental car, for which I accepted every possible insurance, the steering wheel was so hot my hand reflexively shot back from the searing rubber. This was going to be an extremely hot trip. No worries, there’s air conditioning in the car. A logical assumption would be that the compressor would aptly chill the compartment, but when the temperature is approaching 110F the AC efforts are more directional in terms of climate control than definitive.



With a full tank of gas, a quick Mc-y D’s run, and sun glasses in place I headed for Uluru National Park which should take between four and five hours. The first surprise was that in the Outback the two lane freeways contain “Road Trains”, which are Semi-Trucks hauling up to five full size trailers in tow. You can imagine my surprise and reflexive reaction to the air turbulence generated by the first of these surprising behemoths to blow in the opposite direction. The sheer wind wall nearly swept my compact rental car off the simmering blacktop into the waiting red sand dessert.



Second, was that the cab temperature was so elevated that the sweat was flowing freely. Any expose skin was tangibly cooking in this mobile solar oven. Permeating heat combined with a late night and early start were a recipe for falling asleep at the wheel. Fortunately, Stuart’s Well watering hole appeared as a perfectly timed mirage.



The station was real and so was the hospitality. (The camels could have been a figment of my imagination... haaa.) The Melbourne Cup was due to start in less than half an hour, so I bought a bottle of water and an ice cream. The handful of desert faring locals thought it was great fun to give “the Yank” grief for total Australian horse racing ignorance. I didn’t mind the good natured drubbing as the mutual laughs were energizing, which is what was needed most. After the race, I promised a return visit on my way back from Uluru.



The rest of the trip was hot, energized by diet coke and an undisturbed (doors locked) roadside half-hour nap, resulting in an uneventful arrival. There is a single location in which to stay outside the Uluru National Park. This resort is full service, providing every level of accommodation from campsites to 5 Star suites. With the sweat of a four and a half hour drive still fresh and an increase in the heat index, I opted for the air conditioned 48 bed dorm accommodation. This really wasn’t that bad, because the bunk beds are divided into groups of four, then separated by an eight-foot cement block semi-wall.

After “checking in” it was already time to head to the true Uluru location and the great red sandstone rock for sunset. The rock and sunset sky were both extremely impressive, far over-delivering against any preconceptions. This was exceptionally one of “those moments” where I viscerally longed to share the experience in “real time” with someone else.