Magnetic Island

Week 3:

Townsville

James Cook University, yet another monument to the ubiquitous James Cook. I can't seem to escape his presence, and neither can anyone else. Captaining several different vessels over the course of 29 years, he sailed to all 7 continents and discovered New Zealand, Hawaii and Australia, among others. In fact, the native Hawaiians were so grateful for their "discovery" they bludgeoned him to death.

It is at James Cooks University that I am currently "squatting" (though I'm not sure how many more years gives me squatters rights). I've got a cheery 3 x 6 ft screened in porch off of Carrie's dorm room to call my own. I was going to spruce the place up a bit, a little shag carpeting here and a lava lamp there can really do a lot for the feng shui, but I haven't had the chance to settle. Despite the lack of homemakings, its a great place to sleep, open air, and quiet.

Not long after we arrived, though thankfully enough time for a shower, I re-sorted my pack and Chris and I jumped a ferry (no, not a fairy*) heading for Magnetic Island. Every transport, be it bus, ferry, or plane, that I've taken spits you out into a visually assaulting terminal, and this was no different. Brightly colored flyers, pamphlets, posters, of every scuba trip on the East coast, discounts at hostels, bus schedules, tours, lost dogs, whatever, its there. Chris, more accustomed to the marketing madness, struck out straight for the hostel bus.

Enter Captain Daniel. With a face like a dehydrated grapefruit and shredded jean shorts stolen from Daisy Duke, the first intelligible mutterance was "Getonthefuckingbus". From there he went into a 5 minute mumbling tirade punctuated with moments of silence where I thought he was going to envelope his whole face with his lower lip. Remember the commercials with the puckered bitter beer face guy? He's got nothing on the Captain.

Base Backpacker is a hostel perhaps better suited to some of my socially outgoing friends. Its atmosphere more befitting that of a singles cruise, with nightly social events escalating in debauchery through the week, and this week, culminating in an all night Full Moon Raver Party (should I tell them its not actually scheduled on a full moon?). The term "backpacker" here takes on a different meaning than what I had envisioned. Instead of the traditional trekking gear, most of these faux-packers carry hairdryers, irons, several sets of club worthy clothes, skimpy swimsuits, and the intense desire to party hard. That's not to say you can't find a few true trekkers in the crowd, or at least ushered into one socially awkward corner. Though everyone was open and pleasant to talk to, the scene was not my cup of tea and I was glad we were only staying one night.

From Wednesday's reconnoitering high atop an abandoned WWII lookout post, we planned the next few day's destinations. While we hit the water for some fantastic snorkeling, the highlight of Arthur Bay was the amazing rock formations; they looked like sculptures from a modern art museum exhibit.


Carrie took the ferry out to join us on the island. Initially, the idea of spending the night on the uppermost platform of the lookout post seemed like a lofty idea. With views of the incredible bays, a gentle breeze to sooth the day's sunburn, and the promise of an unimpeded views of sunrise, we couldn't resist. Later that night, the temperature dropped, the wind failed to slow, and before long we all headed for shelter below. Seizing the opportunity of the abandoned upper platform, a possum reminded us this was his territory, and marked the perimeter with astonishing amount of pee.

I was content to cure my restless night's sleep with morning, midday and afternoon naps in shady seclusion at various spots around Florence Bay. Chris and Carrie claimed I was missing the best snorkeling on the island but I have no regrets, especially now, back at James Cook University, they're both asleep and I can use the computer for my nefarious blogging.


My First Koala. Yes, I found it. No, you can't have it. The Forts trail is a great place to find them.


I have no idea what this was doing on the trail.

Chris, standing tall.

Sunrise over Bowling Green Bay.

Guess which one can nearly eclipse his whole face with his lower lip.



*Sadly, in the land of croc-wrestling, kangaroo-eating cowboys, the insinuation of homophobia holds a similar taboo as in the States; Fairydown, a New Zealand company legendary for its outdoor gear, will be changing its name. Market research has shown rough and rugged Aussie men find the brand name Fairydown lacking in the testosterone department. Sir Edmund Hillary didn't seem concerned with the image of his masculinity when he summited Everest swathed in Fairydown gear. Yet despite Hillary's seal of approval for Fairydown, you will soon be able to find the great gear under its much more virile name, Zone.

This way to the beach

Week 2:

Ailrie Beach to Townsville


Sunday, when I was jealously waiting for Chris and Carrie (out sailing and diving, if you remember), I opted to strike out on my own. With a National Park at the city's border, I assumed hiking would be bountiful. You know what they say about assumptions... Not a single person I had asked knew anything about hikes in the area, or really anything that didn't involve a package tour and a commission.

A vague idea of direction and a pocket full of change, I struck out for bus heading to Conway NP. If you want to know the lowdown on any area, just hop on the local bus and talk to the driver assuming he's not offended by Seppos. Seppos, for the record, is a term for us Americans, though its a bit abstract- Americans are commonly called Yankees (which we all know is a gross generalization, though most of the best Americans do come from New England- Johnny Appleseed, JFK, Whitey Bulger), Yankees is shortened to Yanks, Yanks rhymes with tanks, as in septic tanks, then shortened to Seppos. I don't think I need to inform anyone on contents of a septic tank, which is what they think we are full of. If I was more creative I'd attempt to return the favor, anyone have any good suggestions?

Fast forward a few hours, and I was meandering a quiet beach after a 6 km overlook hike. One of the few signs of life was a green tree frog; a pint sized-Superman, reputably able to leap from second story buildings to the ground in a single bound. On the beach I bumped into a few young French ladies who were debating a quick dip in the picturesque sheltered bay. I too had considered it, but with Box jelly fish season fast approaching and graphic beach signs depicting the whip-like burns on a corpse, I chose life.

You may think I'm exaggerating like a typical Seppo, but an excerpt here ought to clue you in.

http://animaldiversity.ummz.umich.edu/site/accounts/information/Chiropsalmus_quadrigatus.html

A considerable number of people are killed each year by these transparent, grapefruit-sized predators. Laboratory experiments have shown that the sea wasp's venom is 700 times more powerful than that of the better known Portuguese Man-of-War. Victims usually experience shock, muscular cramps, numbness, nausea, vomiting, severe backache, frothing at the mouth, constriction of the throat, loss of speech, difficulty in breathing, paralysis, delirium, convulsion, and ultimately, death. Once the venom from the sea wasp enters the human bloodstream, it can paralyze the heart in 30 seconds. The pain caused by the venom has been described as the most excruciating in the world.

With the astounding cornucopia of pain, I'm willing to bet the "loss of speech" is mostly a side effect of the incessant screaming. And yet Aussies discuss the imminent doom with the same even keel as they would the weather. And so sunshine, maiming, death, and hiking were the topics of choice in my short conversation with a local Aussie couple recently arrived to the beach.

Just as the conversation with them was waning, an older (65?) gentleman slowly walked up, shoes resembling Swiss cheese and a rucksack with patches and mends spanning decades of use. He was more soft spoken than the typical Aussie, and I had to take a step closer just to hear him at all. For 26 years he's been sailing the East Coast of Australia, only mooring up in the summers. Having spent years exploring coastline from both the ocean and the shore, he had quite a bit of knowledge to share. So we traded stories of brown bears and bandicoots, and he and I started walking and talking back toward the trailhead, though not without a twinge of regret on my part. Do you have any idea of how hard it is to leave a secluded beach with three young French ladies renowned for scantly (read topless) clad sunbathing?

With a short trip back to the main drag, I bumped into Chris and Carrie on their way for a dip in the lagoon, and of course I joined them. I was lucky enough to catch the last of the sunbathers, a few foreigners in thongs. Surely a few hairy gut busting men is a great way to enjoy the sunset at the lagoon.

Anyway, a few promised pics here. I'll try and catch up a bit more later.



A quick pic from the epic bus ride from Brisbane.


Note the bus station sign. My roommate, wanting to give his Australian Shepard puppy an authentic name, went with Matilda. And as you can see, he has named his dog after a gas station.



Chris and Carrie taking the "Spin and Hurl" for twirl.

On the Road

Week 2:

Airlie Beach

Late Friday night I finally managed to solidify my plans with Chris and Carrie, two friends from Atlanta. Let me just make a suggestion to anyone travelling abroad, use calling cards (note the plural). International calling cards are great; a meager 1.7 cents per mintue to call the States, though that's where the value ends. Try calling long distance in Queensland and suddenly you are paying through the nose for the mere privelage of picking up the phone. Out of 14 attempted calls, only two connected and I was about ready to try a telegraph office. Do youself a favor and get a domestic long distance card as well.

With a new destination on the horizon it was time to break camp. Packing up and leaving the comfort and familiarity of my home away from home created a bit of apprehension yesterday. There is the slight fear that where you are headed isn't quite as nice as where you are now. Certainly would have been easier to make tracks if Tane and Lee hadn't been so magnanimous; home cooked meals, tours of the city, an explanation of the game of cricket (no small feat there). The trivial tasks of laundry and packing helped to keep me occupied for the day.

With all my gear loaded in the car Saturday morning (minus the cycle, just not enough time to warrant lugging it around), Tane, Lee and I headed out for a last "Hoora" in the city. In this case the hoora was a metro market. Its been a long time since I've been to a city market, and recollecting the incredible Saturday markets in Hawaii (tropical fruits, fresh fish, ornate jewelry) I was eager to stock up for my trip. You never know when you need a dazzling necklace and a pound of avacados.

-A little seguay here- there is a raging debate going on in the shop where I am typing this. It reminds me of the Clinton scandal and the great "definition" debate. Except here, its a debate of the definition of "private". Someone booked a trip on a boat with "private" accommodations (not to be confused with accommodating privates like out former president), but the boat has a shared bathroom, which they find unacceptable (can't say I blame them for $1800). The situation certainly didn't get any better when the insults started to fly. Its like watching Judge Judy. Wish I had some popcorn.-

What a market it was. I don't even know what to compare it to. I'd say its a bit like the St. Dennis church bazaar back home, but that would be insulting to the St. Dennis bazaar. Imagine a small wharehouse with three aisles filled with the hokiest, cheapest, worthless knick-knacks. It was a graveyard for Walmart, K-Mart, and gas station chinz. Except of course for the swords. I don't know if they were smuggled off the set of Lord of the Rings or forged by the master smithys of Brisbane. I'd have got some for the guys back in Atlanta, but they would've probably poked holes in my pack, and then the small matter of security- they are nearly as dangerous as nail clippers. Sorry guys.

After a leisurely lunch at a great bakery in the West End, Tane and Lee (swordlessly too) escorted me to the bus station. I think it was as much an act of goodwill as it was to make sure that I was actually leaving town.

Why take a bus? I'm actually asking myself the same question now. Why did I actually opt for a 1500km, 17 hour ride? At the time of booking I thought it would give me an opportunity to at least catch a glimpse of some places I wouldn't be able to visit. Just stepping on board and catching a whiff of that faintly fruity, faintly chemical, all nauseating bus smell was enough to wash away my romantic illusions. It certainly did give me an appreciation of the great expanse of openess of the country here, and for fresh air.

It also gave me an appreciation for my own motor vehicle. What I would've given to have either my truck or motorcycle over here, this is the terrain both were designed for. It would have made stopping at some of the inviting small towns much easier. And I can't forget to mention Mini-Europe. Probably along the calibre of "The World's Largest Ball of Twine" and other such highway distractions, but I would have loved the chance to eclipse the Eiffle Tower, leap the Arc de Triomphe or right the leaning tower, instead it was just a mommentary reprieve from the constant blur along the way.

When on the bus you have plenty of time of time for senseless activities. Unlike one of my bus-mates who passed the time with bi-minutely trips to the bathroom (can you say "junkie"?), I had some time to count my change. Low and Behold! just a handfull of change here is $10! Closer inspection revealed $2 and $1 coins. They are decpetively small, at least for a trained American; I don't bother with anything that isn't silver right off the bat, and then dimes and nickles are tossed into a change bin. A costly mistake here. The also have the familiar range of coins; 5, 10, 20, 50 cent pieces, though the 1 cent is thankfully absent. Intersting little currency tid-bit here: Australia was the first country to move away from paper notes to a plastic polymer. With clear plastic windows in the corners of the notes, it is some of the most complicated to counterfit. The USA has failed to follow suit despite widespread counterfitting for one great reason- Tradition!

And the penchant for round things doesn't end with the coins. How Aussies love their roundabouts! They are nearly as commonplace as traffic lights, and used anywhere one can be squeezed in. I've even seen one on a main road that runs straight through with only a vacant deadend side street joining the rotary. I'll bet if I were to confess my town is so small it doesn't even have a roundabout, it would illicit gasps of disbelief and pity.

So for 17 hours, that's about all that ran through my head. Well, in addition to a thought near the end of the trip that I actually prefer the fruit stank to the unbathed backpacker stank.

And now I still have a few hours to explore Airlie Beach before I meet up with my friends who are out on a boat. Sorry, pics may have to wait until I find a suitable computer.

A special note the ones who worry, I'm camping at Koala's Resort.