Noggerup: It's a Real Place, I Promise

I have had a morning ritual every day that I have been on a farm. Before I put my shoes on, I knock them together with varying degrees of violence in order to jar any potential interlopers from their hiding spots before I poke them with my dainty toes. This ritual tends to be more pronounced (aka, I throw my shoes across the room and then beat them with a rock) at the beginning of a stay, when I’m still unsure as to the nature and quantity of the interlopers, and pretty lax by the end, when I’ve realized that it seems unlikely that I’m going to be the victim of a sneak attack. So imagine my complete and utter surprise when, on one of the last mornings at my current farm, I half-heartedly smacked my shoes together and something fell out. Not just any something, a something with 8 legs, that seemed very perturbed by suddenly finding itself on the ground, ironically very close to my naked feet that I had been trying to protect by smacking my shoes together. To my credit I did not scream (I swear!), but I did jump back roughly 10 feet and then lean over to stare at it to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.  I wasn’t. It ran away into the bushes, and I never trusted those bushes again. 

Luckily, all of my other wildlife encounters while in Noggerup (really, that is the name of the town; next door is Mumballup, they both sound like solid drinking games to me) were simply exceptional. On the domestic side of things, I made friends with a chicken, who deigned to let me hold her, and didn’t even poop on me. I learned to tolerate 2 cats, - a sweet old fur ball named Oscar who didn’t understand why I wouldn’t pet him, and a young hotshot named Blackie who had to wear a little bib that slowed him down and made him move a bit like a bowling ball learning to walk, which allegedly prevented him from sneaking up on birds - and by tolerate I mean exist with one hand on my inhaler and one hand on my nasal spray. Denny, my gracious host, had a bit of a Dr Doolittle streak in him, so in addition to the cats and chooks, I was also introduced to a string of wild animals. There was Limpy the Magpie, who had been in some kind of fight and couldn’t use one of his legs, so he would hop along the ground in front of the veranda and chitter away plaintively and incessantly until you took pity on him and brought him bread. There was a little goanna (an Australian lizard) that Denny rescued and eventually released after feeding it bits of cat food, apparently a goanna delicacy. There was Bendy the Bandicoot, so named because of a little kink in his tail, and his more elusive brother, Bandit the Bandicoot. Bendy was my favorite - Denny would put out bread and peanut butter every night for the bandicoots, and Bendy had become so accustomed to this, and was so comfortable with Denny, that he would show up at the door if his dinner was not presented on time. He had no problem just waltzing into the house and pawing at Denny’s pant leg, and he would even tolerate a gentle pat or two, as long as he was kept in peanut butter, which he would smear in gleeful abandon all over his paws and pointy little nose.

To give some context to this cornucopia of wildlife, let me explain that I was staying on something of a permaculture installation. I feel like ‘farm’ is not an evocative enough word for the Noggerup Homestay. The land was originally the heart of the town of Noggerup, which existed along railway tracks leading into coal country. The tracks, and the town, have long since been abandoned, and Denny has built his kingdom on what used to be Main Street. After being there for 10 days, I believe the best way to imagine Noggerup is to picture a commune that has lost its community. It is a dizzying maze of gardens and buildings and caravans and sheds and trees, with an internal logic all of its own. Every day I would find areas that I didn’t know existed before. And everywhere you turned, there was food. Apple trees and citrus, pecans and pistachios, gardens strewn with greens and celery and potatoes and herbs, and tomatoes peeping out from behind every corner. Chickens made that strange happy-chicken moaning sound in three different pens, roosters crowed night and day (because no one had ever told these roosters that they were only supposed to crow at dawn), and magpies fought with each other over pine nuts. The buildings nestled amongst all these trees and gardens took a variety of shapes, from an old repurposed railway workers’ bunk house, to a caravan painted in psychedelic patterns, to the straw bale home that Denny lived in. I was lucky enough to have an entire house to myself, a beautiful 1-story + sleeping loft house built of repurposed lumber and salvaged windows and doors. 

Now, on the surface, having a house to myself sounds like heaven. In reality, I discovered that I am an incurable and irredeemable wuss. I don’t know how I managed to live alone for a year in college, because I am, I have now learned, capable of turning every creak into an ominous footstep, every shadow into a creature from a Japanese horror movie. This house was perfectly designed to feed my overwrought imagination - not that it wasn’t beautiful, but it was just so horror-movie perfect. There weren’t locks on any of the doors, the bed faced the staircase of the loft and the yawning abyss of the pitch dark lower floor, there was a balcony to one side, perfect for the murderer to steal on to, and a big wardrobe on the other, perfect for a lurking phantasm to hide in. None of this was helped by the fact that I had to walk back through the winding paths from Denny’s house with only the weak and decidedly skeletal-looking light of my flashlight to guide me (never mind that it was only about 500 feet), or by the fact that this was one of the most talkative houses I have ever been in. The roof creaked and rattled, the walls settled so often that it seems a miracle that they haven’t caved in, and the floorboards protested under real and imagined weight. One night, walking back, I heard the distinct sound of footsteps walking through the trees to my left. Not just any footsteps, but the ponderous tread of someone wearing heavy work boots. I froze, the footsteps wandered off, and I ran the last 100 feet to the house. It was only through a sheer force of will that I didn't know I was capable of that I managed to turn out the light and lay in the dark waiting for spooky sounds. When I ran this by Denny the next day (because I was not murdered in the night, obviously), I found out that kangaroos hopping sound exactly like a man in boots walking. So, on the one hand, I was really close to a kangaroo, which is awesome, but on the other hand, screw you kangaroo for making me think the Scream mask was going to appear in my window at any moment. 

Me and my new friend, sun-dried raisins

This apple was harmed in the making of this blog

When I was not busy jumping at imaginary serial killers, I actually got to do some pretty farm-y stuff. I cracked open pine nuts and macadamia nuts with my bare hands (kidding, I used a hammer and a log, which still made me feel pretty awesome). I planted garlic. I dug for potatoes, which is exactly as much fun as a scavenger hunt in the dirt, and may be my new favorite pastime; I’m hoping the city of New York won’t mind if I plant potatoes in Central Park next spring and spend the autumn burrowing through the dirt like a human mole. I learned how to make yogurt, and olives (if anyone ever offers you a raw olive, refuse. Trust me.). I discovered that corn seeds are actually just the kernels on an ear of corn, and then felt like the biggest city slicker that had ever been admitted to a farm. I basically, to quote Denny “lived like a peasant”, and discovered that I didn’t mind it. As someone that has spent so much of my life in cities, disconnected from the means of food production, there was something magical about picking my dinner out of the garden. I adored selecting greens and tomatoes for a salad, or cutting a squash off the vine to use in soup, or pulling an apple off the tree and eating it. It all felt vital and sumptuous, almost decadent, to have so much food at my fingertips. Living off the land requires an unbelievable amount of work, but, if the land is willing, the rewards are bountiful. 

I didn’t get off the farm very often, but on one of my last days, we took a little day trip around the area. We visited a beautiful national park, with a lovely meandering stream and big overhanging trees. And on the way home, we visited Gnomesville. I wish a picture could do this justice. Gnomesville is a lonely stretch of land that is populated entirely with garden gnomes. There are thousands. Some have little houses, some have clever signs, some have lost an arm or a leg or a breast or a head, some are wearing very little clothing, some are in very compromising positions. I have never before seen or guessed at such a width and breadth within garden gnome culture. I am so pleased that I saw one of these weird slices of Australian roadside shtick, and I am so pleased that I saw it during the day. Because had I seen it at night, I think the creaking floorboards of my home would have taken on a very different quality, and I refuse to have nightmares about gnomes. Serial killer spiders wearing scream masks, sure, but I draw the line at garden gnomes. 

Gnomes as far as the eye can see

Naughty gnomes

Darwin: The Real Australia?

I did something unbelievably terrifying while I was in Darwin. And no, it wasn’t watching crocodiles jump out of the water while sitting in a very tiny boat. And it wasn’t handling wild, angry snakes. And it wasn’t catching poisonous cane toads with my bare hands. Although, in hindsight, I feel very lucky to have survived the past week with all my limb

s intact and in the normal shapes and sizes. But none of those struck me at the time as death-defying feats. Ladies and gentlemen, I drove. On the wrong side of the road (well, technically the correct side of the road here, but you try telling that to my brain). In a monsoonal rain. Nothing will ever frighten me again.

But we’ll get to all that in a bit. First, bear with me while I talk about rain, again (I’ve apparently switched from birds to rain as my favorite indicator of the strange in Australia). Every place I go to seems to destroy all previous fancies I had about inclement weather. When I was in Mullumbimby, I was very impressed with the beautiful, cascading rains. Then, I was introduced to the furious storms of Cairns, and thought it couldn’t get any more biblical than that. And then I went to Darwin, where the extreme is so commonplace that it fails to register as anything out of the ordinary for the hardy people that live there. As an outsider to their meteorological phenomena, I’m here to assure you that I wasn’t aware that weather could do the things it does in Darwin; it takes the laws of nature and decides that they don’t apply any more. If the weather over Darwin were a person, it would be a violent schizophrenic with God delusions and hallucinations of alien invasions. For the most part, Darwin is just absurdly hot. I had been warned of this by my lovely host, Melissa, before I got there, but I brushed it off, thinking that if I could survive Manhattan in the summer, I couldn’t be fazed by this piddly Australian hot. I am sometimes a very silly child. While Darwin hot is pleasantly devoid of the smells of rotting garbage and hot piss, in every other way it is exemplary. It is the kind of heat that makes you feel a little dumb, possibly because your brain is being gently cooked like a soft-boiled egg. My time there coincided with the very end of the wet season, so the humidity was very high. Like 90% high. With 95 to 100 degree heat. You even think about stepping outside of air conditioning, and your body breaks out in a sweat as a defensive measure. I distinctly remember thinking one day, while I was weeding out in the garden, that Bikram Yoga had nothing on Darwin. I’m actually amazed they haven’t started trying to market the city as a giant day spa. It’s like this for half of the year. The other half, the dry season, is the same broiler-grade heat, but without the humidity, but with the added risk of raging brush fires, so I suppose it all balances out. These are the only two seasons that matter in Darwin - wet, and dry. The traditional 4 seasons have all abdicated because of the heat. 

During the wet season, rain is (obviously) very common, to the point that, every time I remarked in awe about how much it was pissing down outside, Melissa hastened to assure me that it ‘was just a little rain.’ I dread to think what her definition of ‘a lot of rain’ would be. During one ‘little shower’, we got 33 mL of rain in just under an hour. That’s more than an inch of rain, in 45 minutes. I could actively watch parts of the garden flood, and the geese suddenly had a new swimming hole to frolic in. The thing I found most remarkable about all this rain, however, was that, for all its sound and fury, it was shockingly regular. You could almost set a watch by it. Around 2, you would start to see some clouds roll in, maybe get a little sprinkle of rain as an amuse bouche, and then between 3 and 3:30, every day, the heavens would open and try to drown you for an hour. By 4:30, it would be over, and unbearably hot again. Clockwork. 

It was during one of these mini-monsoons that I found myself on the road, hunched over the steering wheel like a 90-year-old who had forgotten her glasses, grimly singing ‘To the left, to the left’ over and over to myself (I have no idea which bad pop song that is from, but it wouldn’t leave my head the entire time I was driving; I really ought to thank them for their brilliantly instructive lyric witticisms). Steve and Melissa had been kind and trusting enough to loan me their car, and I was going to see jumping crocodiles, which is exactly as bizarre and primally frightening as it sounds. But first, I had to survive this driving nonsense, combined with this rain nonsense. Staying on the left side of the road isn’t so bad (you just keep the steering column in the center of the road, as my dad helpfully suggested), but trying to remember that all of the car is to your left IS that bad. I could not get used to this hunk of metal and plastic and upholstery that was swimming around my left arm. The shoulder of the road and I met many times, and every time a car approached me going the opposite direction, I had to gently remind myself that I just had to stay between the lines. This may sound absurdly easy, but before you judge too harshly, please note that I was in the land of the ‘road trains’, which are basically semis multiplied by 4. Actually, that’s literally what they are — it’s one cab, hauling 3 or 4 trailers. They are huge, they make an unearthly racket, and when it’s pissing down rain, they throw up a small lake of water in your path when they rocket past you going 110 km/hour. Add to this that the turn signal is controlled by your right hand, not your left, and driving felt a bit like slap stick comedy. I would be bravely singing my ‘to the left’ song, and realize I had to change lanes. Before I had time to remind my body that things were backwards here, my left hand would enthusiastically hit the turn signal, except that, unfortunately, the left hand didn’t have access to the turn signal, and instead would be hitting my windshield wipers. At this exact moment a road train would thunder past, effectively dumping me at the bottom of a swimming pool, while I frantically tried to get my wipers back on, signal, change lanes, and not go careening into oncoming traffic. In addition, parts of the road were flooding so badly that I think I forded a couple rivers in my hardy little Suburu; luckily perhaps, I couldn’t really tell, because I could only just see to the front of the hood, so every obstacle was a surprise! I’ve always thought the expression “peeled her fingers off of the steering wheel” was an exaggeration, but I am pleased to inform you that it is, in fact, possible, and sometimes even necessary, to peel one’s fingers from a steering wheel. I think I may have left my finger prints ingrained in the leather. 

After that, driving back was a breeze.

In between, I saw the famous Adelaide river jumping crocodiles. Please don’t imagine that these are trained circus-style animals; these are very real, very wild, very predatory crocodiles that want nothing more than an easy meal. Whether that means the hunk of meat dangling of off the fishing pole, or you, is up to you, and whether you let any of your body parts dangle out of the boat. I’m not sure what it is with Australians and taking loads of tourists on tiny boats to look at deadly animals, but it seems to be a thing. After being enthusiastically ordered by the ‘skanky skipper’ (her description of herself, not mine) to keep all of our arms, legs, and belongings inside the boat at all times, we cruised out into the middle of the Adelaide River, which is home to about 7000 crocs. Within minutes, you could see a few (metaphorically) perking up their ears and swimming out towards the boat. Apparently, they recognize the sound of the motor. The knowledge of that does very little to take away from the sort of gut horror you feel at seeing these animals look up from the bank, slide into the water, and glide toward you. On some ape-level, you know that these animals not only want to eat you, but would be very difficult to stop from eating you if given half the chance. The brave ladies that were running the show tied meat to a giant bamboo fishing rod and slapped the water with it, waiting for the crocs. They like to approach from beneath, so about 20 yards from the boat, they would drop out of sight in the murky water. Then, rising up like something out of Michael Crichton’s nightmares, they would appear beside the boat, close enough to touch. And they jump. Well, not jump exactly, but they use their incredibly powerful tail to  piston the top half of their bodies out of the water to grab at the meat that the ladies are yanking out of their reach. After getting over my slack-jawed amazement at 1) the size of these creatures and 2) their speed, it occurred to me to wonder why, given how good crocs apparently are at jumping, they don’t just jump up and take a tasty snack out of the boat. I moved away from the edge after that, let someone else prove the unreliability of small craft around large predatory wild animals. 

A couple fun croc stories, and then I’ll talk about other scary wild-life. Back in the 80s, a croc along the Adelaide River snatched a 23-year-old man off of a quad bike. I cannot fathom how that is possible, but apparently this croc was very determined. Deciding that wasn’t enough, the croc then proceeded to stalk the young man’s two friends, and they eventually took to a tree and hid for 24 hours waiting for help to come. There is another croc, famous in the Northern Territory, known as Sweetheart, who was a monster 6 meter male, with a penchant for outboard motors. The supposition is that, as crocs are extremely territorial, the outboard motor sounded like the growling of another crocodile. Sweetheart munched on a number of motors over the course of a few seasons, although remarkably did not munch on a single person, as he was so focused on his metallic enemy that the people in the boats had time to swim away. I won’t comment on why people continued to go to this lagoon after it became clear that there was a motor-murdering croc living there. Eventually, it was decided that something had to be done, but in the process of trying to capture Sweetheart, he got tangled in a net underwater and drowned. He now makes a feisty-looking photo op at the museum in Darwin. 

My interactions with wild animals were not all so well-organized. One of my first days on the property, Melissa’s sister came over with a giant python that she had caught in her chook (chicken) yard. She had it in a pillowcase, which is apparently the preferred method of containing snakes. After being assured that it couldn’t really hurt me, and that even if it bit, it would only hurt a little (I’m taking this as more Australian understatement), they asked if I wanted to hold it. I assume I won’t have many more opportunities to hold a wild snake, so I took it. Holding a wild snake is much different from holding one at the zoo. This snake was supremely pissed off, and was making every effort to express that as much as possible. Mostly, this involved squeezing my arm like it was his next meal, and trying to rip his head out of my grasp so that he could sink his impotent fangs into my arm. Luckily, I have a grip like steel, especially when what I’m holding has a very good reason to dislike me. On my last day in Darwin, Melissa woke me to let me know that the snake catchers were coming (because that’s a job) to catch a python that was in HER chook house. We went out to take a look before the snake catcher arrived, and all we could see was the last 2 feet or so of the snake hanging out from the back of the little shed, fat with the guinea fowl that he had snacked on in the night. The snake catcher did not think much of our find, and just grabbed the snake by the tail and yanked him out, and dumped him unceremoniously into a bag that looked a lot like a dressed up pillow case. Snakes are protected, so I am pleased to note that no snakes were harmed in the course of my entertainment. That is not the case with cane toads, an invasive species that are wreaking havoc on the Australian eco system. Cane toads secrete a poison out of glands on their backs, and as they are a favorite food of everything from snakes to domestic dogs, and are not native to Australia, they are on a lot of peoples shit-list. I went to a Wetlands Welcome Center, which was basically a giant diorama describing animal life in the wetlands (and was just as fantastic as a giant diorama that you can walk around in would be) and even the signs there advised on the best ways to get rid of cane toads. The preferred, most humane method, is catching them and putting them in a bag in the freezer. While I’m not a big fan of killing any animal, I do understand generally the threat posed by the toads, and specifically the danger that they posed to Melissa and Steve’s adorable dogs, which think the toads make a tasty bite. 

Something cute, in case you're sick of slimy...

In addition to all the wildlife, I had the pleasure of spending the week around a lot of happy farm animals. I learned that chooks not only make the traditional clucking sound, but also make a sort of throaty moan when they are content, mostly in the presence, assumed or real, of food. Muscovy ducks pant like dogs. Geese are unbelievably loud, as are donkeys. Pigs like watermelon. Steve and Melissa also had 4 dachshunds and a schnauzer, who were sweet, slightly spoiled, and very loving. I was in animal heaven. 

The people of Darwin (not technically true, I was on farm/bushland about 20 kms outside of Darwin, but it’s easier to just say Darwin) were also friendly and open, if unto themselves. I dread using the phrase ‘the real Australia’, so suffice it to say that this was much closer to American expectations of Australians. In the Northern Territory, the men are men and the women could probably kick the ass of any NFL player. These are people who aren’t afraid of hard work, or really much of anything. They all own ‘utes’, or utility vehicles (what we would call trucks), and they use them for the purpose for which they were created. The accent is a little stronger, the slang is a little more prevalent, and they will certainly tell you if you’re being a wimpy little city girl (which I was never told, thank you very much, because I am Crocodile Katie. Please never repeat that, that was horrible). This isn’t to say that I wasn’t in the lap of luxury — Melissa and Steve had a beautiful home and lush gardens — but simply that there’s a no-nonsense and can-do attitude about all the people that I met. Melissa’s mother, for example, is 86 years old, and runs a 300 acre farm by herself. She has a voice like a bullhorn, and more energy than most 30 year olds I know; apparently, she’s a bit of a legend in the area, for good reason. I think a pearl of wisdom that I learned from Melissa’s sister (the same one who brought over the snake) sums it up pretty well. This wonderful lady, Kezia, is the speaker of the house in the Northern Territory parliament. She represents a large rural district where there are more guns than kids. As Americans, I feel like this makes us assume that everyone is going around with a shot gun in each hand, Texas-style, but really it just speaks to the rural quality of the area, and the amount of farmers and ranchers. In one of my first conversations with Kezia, she told me that to prepare for any kind of natural disaster, all you need is the 3Bs - beans, batteries, and booze. To me, this is the character of the Northern Territory - direct and practical, with a healthy sprinkling of playfulness and humor. 

Fitting in in the Northern Territory

To be sure, they have to have a sense of humor about natural disasters. Cyclones are a fairly common occurrence for the Top End (the Northern part of the Northern Territory, which is much more tropical than the southern part where desert conditions prevail), and many people still live with painful and powerful memories of Cyclone Tracy, which devastated the city of Darwin on Christmas Day, 1974. The museum in town has a beautifully laid out exhibit on Tracy, the centerpiece of which is a walk that takes you through rooms designed to look like housing before and after Tracy. In between the pre- and post-Tracy rooms, there is a small black closet. Inside, in the absolute darkness, you can stand and listen to the sound of Tracy raging through Darwin, recorded during the cyclone by a priest. It is harrowing. Most buildings before the cyclone were built with corrugated iron roofs, which were torn off during the cyclone and became missiles that destroyed everything in their path. Above the shockingly train-like sound of the cyclone, you can hear the screech of metal as roofs are ripped off of their houses and crash into each other. People survived by hiding in closets and bathrooms, while the rest of their houses disintegrated around them. The machine that measured wind down at the Darwin airport broke after recording a gust of 216 km/hour; they hypothesize that the winds reached speeds in excess of 250 km/hr. After the cyclone, tens of thousands of people were evacuated, to try to prevent the spread of disease, and to curb any possibilities of anarchy. Husbands and wives and children were separated and flown all over the country, more or less left to try to find each other. People boarded flights in a state of shock, clutching whatever belongings they had left - one evocative photo showed a man at the airport holding a cat, and a bathroom sink. It was all he had left. Amazingly though, people returned, including my hosts Steve and Melissa, and rebuilt Darwin, so that today it is bigger than it was before Tracy. These are strong people. 

To end, I’ll give you a few fun facts and anecdotes (yay bullet points!), before I jet off to the next adventure.

In the Venomous Animals section of the Darwin Museum (because I believe that every museum in Australia has to have a Venomous Animal section, it’s like a law), not only did I finally get to see an Irukundaji jellyfish and a blue-ring octopus (both of which are adorably tiny balls of death), but I also discovered that there is something called, I kid you not, a Very Toxic Sponge. I was delighted.

In the wonderful diorama that was the Wetlands Welcome Center, I found out that one of the millions of ant species here is called the Genial Killer Ant. I both do and do not want to meet this creature.

I ate an ant butt. It tasted like a very minuscule drop of lime juice. I would not recommend eating any ant butt, but these are Green Ants, which have a very distinctive green bum, which tastes like lime. Apparently all children in the Northern Territory have eaten ant butt at least once. 

Outside of big box stores here, there are not people selling Girl Scout cookies or trying to get you to sign petitions. No, here they have Sausage Sizzles for charity. While I did not try a sausage, I did find this pleasing. 

To my complete delight at the Wetlands Welcome Center, I was invited to ‘See the World as a Mud Skipper’, which involved climbing a small ladder and sticking my head through a hole in a platform at the base of a small enclosed dome. Mudskippers, for those who don’t know, are weird fish that spread their time between the shore and the water, and look like something created by Nickolodeon in the 90s. When I stuck my head through the hole, I was greeted with a lovely scene of peaceful water and the sky overhead and trees standing lazily in the background. As I craned my neck around to see what was behind me, I came face to face with a giant crane, mouth open, ready to eat me. I almost knocked myself out jerking my head back through the hole. They take their dioramas, and their children’s entertainment, very seriously here. 

Darwin gave me a taste of a completely different kind of Australia, and I was lucky to meet some really wonderful, wacky people. Also, if sweating is healthy, I think I extended my life by at least another year.

Cairns: Tourist Level: Ultra

Cairns seems to have a habit of spitting on me. I am taking this as a sign that Cairns doesn't much like me; to be fair though, it may just be that Cairns doesn’t much like people. It does appear to be particularly inhospitable to human life. Going in the water is an iffy idea, because of stingers (just about the cutest way possible to say chemical-weapons-grade jelly fish) and crocodiles and sharks and god knows what else; spiders the size of my hand just wander across the sidewalk (apparently harmless, but still, is that really necessary?), the sky regularly tries to pull a Noah’s ark and wash everything away to start fresh, and the mosquitoes (or mozzies, again, just an adorable name for the worst thing ever) engage in guerrilla warfare throughout the streets. After seeing a sign warning about the dangers of Dengue Fever in the airport just after I arrived, I was a little concerned about the mosquitoes feasting on every part of my exposed flesh; I asked one of my tour guides about it, and he assured me that it was quite rare, and completely curable, but may be a “little unpleasant” in the meantime. Dengue Fever. A little unpleasant. I am not a doctor, but I feel like that may be a bit of an understatement. But when you live someplace where everything is trying to destroy you and all of your progeny, I suppose understatement is necessary to save your sanity. 

Cape Tribulation

It doesn’t so much rain in Cairns (which, by the way, I will never learn to pronounce correctly; each time I think I have it, a local corrects me. I have compensated by making it as American-sounding as possible, punching that ‘r’ like a Texan) as perform a magic trick in which the sky and the sea trade places for periods of time. It goes from zero to monsoon in about half a second, rendering umbrellas, jackets, roofs, completely obsolete. They apparently get about 20 feet of rain a year. Just let that sink in for a minute. Once, they got 33 inches of rain in 24 hours. That’s more than San Diego has gotten since Pangea split up into individual continents. When they were building a railway from Cairns into the rainforest at the end of the 19th century, the horses would get so bogged down in the muck that there was nothing to do except shoot them, wait for the mud to swallow them completely, and then build the railroad over the top of them. And yet people live here, presumably by choice. 

The thing about Cairns is that there is no compelling reason to spend time in the city. However, the trips you can take out of the city are completely remarkable, and account for the stubbornness with which this city holds on to its tiny foothold of land, no matter how much Australia tries to shake it off. On the one side, you have a gateway to the Great Barrier Reef, and on the other, you have the oldest rainforest in the world. I was only in Cairns for 3 days, but I think I accumulated about a million tourist points (that’s how this works right, with points?) by going on every damn tour I could book. Consider this my foray into hardcore tourism.

If you look very carefully, you can find a fish!

First up, the reef. If you don’t know a bit about the reef, go spend a hot second on Wikipedia and educate yourself a little, it is a natural wonder after all. I spent a day on Flynn Reef, which is on the outer edge of the whole reef, and was able to scuba dive in 3 different areas. In the grand scheme of things, this means I have seen about 1/1000000 of the Great Barrier Reef. The weather (damn you Cairns) was unfortunately fairly overcast and squally, so some of the colors didn’t pop quite as much as they would have in bright sunshine. But it didn’t matter. I can’t imagine a calmer, more beautiful place to dive. The current isn’t too strong, the reef is quite shallow, and even on a bad day, the water is so impossibly clear and blue. Now, I don’t have much to compare to, given that all 4 previous dives I’ve done have been in frigid cold waters with about 5 feet of visibility, but I was amazed by the variety and quantity of fish swimming around me. Just thousands of them, swimming in these vast schools, creating whirlpools and eddies of fantastical colors. Truthfully, I have no idea how or why fish could be these colors - they look like a cross between an abstract painting and wallpaper samples. Color-block fish like something out of a Mark Rothko painting, Jackson Pollock scribbles and splatters, and Behr hardware geometric dots and lines. It felt a bit like swimming around in a giant aquarium. The coral is stunning, huge architectural structures in a myriad of colors and shapes - cathedrals and domes and naked forests of coral. I saw sponges that looked exactly like something I would use in the bath, little igloos that could house 5 or 6 people, ghost coral that changes color whenever it senses vibration in the water, and even an outcropping that looked just like (nerd alert) the Starship Enterprise. We swam through coral canyons and up out into dazzling sunlight cutting through the water - I’m not afraid to admit it, I felt a bit like the Little Mermaid, except that I couldn’t sing underwater. I did hum ‘Under the Sea’ quietly into my regulator though. For those who are wondering, we did see a couple sharks, pretty small in the grand scheme of things, and completely uninterested in us. We also saw a sea turtle, who was going to town on some algae in the coral - apparently, the algae has an intoxicating effect on the turtles, so they basically go around all the time stoned out of their little turtle minds. The only down sides of the day were the realizations that underwater photography is much harder than I had expected, and that seasickness pills are not optional. There was a whole gang of us walking wounded on the back part of the ship, staring resolutely at the horizon, and trying, with various degrees of success, to not toss our cookies wantonly over the side of the ship. The crew, anticipating this, were nice enough to give us little white paper bags, and ice chips. Luckily, the desire to just end it all and let a shark eat me subsided the second I got under the surface, which is good, because I think I would have had a devil of a time convincing either of the sharks we saw to take a good chomp. 

Star Trek!

Once I made it back to land, and after I had sat on a bench for about an hour convincing myself that the world was not, in fact, moving, I decided to spend the next two days as far away from the ocean as possible. To this end, the next morning I boarded a historic scenic (aka not very good at actually getting you anywhere, but very pretty while it does it) train to a tiny rainforest town in the mountains called Kuranda. The train ride truly was beautiful, winding up the side of a mountain, passing some tiny little waterfalls, and one quite majestic one, which went crashing down into a huge gorge. The town itself, unfortunately, has subsisted on the tourist industry for so long that it feels a bit like Disney-does-rainforest; perhaps I would have enjoyed it more if I had had more money to spend in the little markets that make up the heart of the village. I did, however, get to visit a venom museum, which felt like a slightly disturbed 16-year-old’s pet project. It was tiny, and mostly located down a long ramp in the middle of what appeared to be an unused basement that had been painted black and liberally splattered with skull and crossbones insignias. One wall bore the inscription “Long Live the King” and a number of articles about Steve Irwin, just in case one might be wondering what Elvis had to do with venomous snakes. I was slightly scared for my life the entire time I was there, whether because of the snakes and spiders or because I was convinced there was a gimp hiding behind one of the doors, I won’t say. On the plus side, I got to see the most venomous snake in Australia yawn, which seemed very profound to me on some level. Afterwards, I took a walk through the rainforest along what seemed to be a more or less unused boardwalk before returning to Cairns via SkyRail, which consists of gondolas above the rainforest. It’s remarkable, about 12 kilometers over the tops of the trees and then sharply down the side of the mountain. On my budget, it’s the closest I can come to a helicopter ride; I tried making ‘copter noises to enhance the experience, but sadly I’m not very good at it. 

Gondola off a mountain!

Croc on a log

After this adventure, I was under the impression that I had seen Australian rainforest. I was wrong. The next day, I did a guided tour (shudder), which was actually quite good (less of a shudder), into the Daintree Rainforest, another World Heritage-listed site. It’s a bit of a drive up from Cairns, into the northeastern tip of Australia, but it’s alright because you’re driving along a coastal highway with huge eucalyptus and ferns and cycads and other dinosaur plants on one side, and miles of white sand, black rock, empty beaches on the other. It’s a simply stunning drive, along a very tiny and twisty road, that it’s best to just not think about. Once you cross the Daintree River, you are into rainforest; about 600 people live up in this area, which is vast, but no amenities have made it this far, so there is no power, no running water, certainly no cell phone towers. The only way to get there is by car ferry across the Daintree, which houses one of the largest populations of crocodiles in the country. But not to worry, the guide on our little croc-spotting cruise (in a disturbingly tiny boat) assured us that the only people that get eaten by crocodiles are people that really deserve to get eaten by crocodiles, and they probably shouldn’t be part of the gene pool anyway. We (sadly?) didn’t see a full grown croc, but we did see some babies, ranging from 4 weeks to 2 years old, which our guide lovingly referred to as ‘finger-munchers’, although the 2 year olds looked fully capable of taking off a whole hand or foot if the opportunity arose. The most exciting part for me, however, was the deduction I did in my head after the guide told us that sharks also occasionally get into the river (it feeds directly into the ocean and is, in fact, salt water) - sharks and crocs both live in this river, which sets the stage for an epic battle the likes of which have only been seen on the Syfy channel! Unfortunately, we saw no sharks, and the baby crocodiles looked decidedly unlikely to try to wrestle one anytime soon in any case.

A swamp wallaby (like a small kangaroo)

Beyond our croc adventure, we also took a beautiful walk through the rainforest, saw trees older than the United States (hell, older than Australia for that matter), tried funny-looking tropical fruits, swam in a (croc-free) stream in the middle of the forest while it poured down rain, fed tame kangaroos, visited a beach where the rainforest actually grows onto the sand (those plucky mangroves will grow anywhere) and watched one of our guides make billy tea, which is a terrifying ritual involving boiling water in a giant tin can, throwing in tea leaves, and then twirling the whole damn thing over your head in order to get the leaves to settle to the bottom. A full day, to say the least. 

So Cairns, while I may not like you, or your silly name, very much, I do appreciate everything that surrounds you. Keep up the good work. 

Swimming in a rainforest, like you do

My Hammock: The Biggest Little Hangout in Featherview

I had an epiphany last night. In the manner of all good epiphanies, it almost made me sit up in bed and shout “Eureka” or some such thing, except that I didn't want to wake Other Kate, and also we had had a significant portion of a box of goon (boxed wine, for those with bad memories), and so sitting up sharply seemed like an ill-advised choice. Instead, I assured myself that I would remember it in the morning, and went back to sleep. 

I didn’t remember it this morning. 

I remember that I had it, but it’s totally gone, not even leaving a trail of bread crumbs in the direction it went. Oh well, so go epiphanies. 

Featherview (the banana plantation, again for those who don’t pay attention) lends itself to epiphanies. When life is easy, and you can spend inordinate amounts of time staring at beautiful distant vistas, your mind sort of invents deep thoughts just to keep you on your toes. Most of these, upon further reflection, are the sort of pseudo-intellectualisms that are best kept locked away somewhere safe and dark and far away from unsuspecting people, so I will not be sharing them here. However, a lovely hippy that we met the other day informed us that it is the astrological New Year, a great time for new beginnings, et cetera, et cetera. So in the interest of starting my new astrological year with a clean slate, I’m going to put down all the things I will miss about Featherview, and then try to focus on the adventure ahead rather than the comfort I’m leaving behind. In the interest of pleasing my inner lurking stage manager, I’m going to do it in list form, because I like lists. 

The Definitive List of Things I Will Miss About Featherview

1. The Damn Birds. The magpies were opinionated, raucous, somewhat aggressive, and completely hysterical. They stood a safe distance from us every morning, slowly creeping forward when they thought we weren’t looking, fervently focused on our muesli. We would give them little bits when they performed their devastating rendition of “Dial-Up Modem, circa 1999;” we assumed they were singing for their supper, or breakfast as the case might be, although in reality it’s entirely possible that they were working out an attack plan to storm us and steal all of the grains. They also had another song, heard predominantly in the evening, that sounded shockingly like a kooky old uncle laughing at an off-color joke. A sort of throaty “Har har har,” that lingered uncomfortably on the final “har.” I could never quite shake the feeling that they were laughing at me, which produced a very low-level sort of paranoia, not helped by their habit of peering in through the windows. Amazingly, I’ll miss the feeling of being laughed at by birds. I could try to encourage some other birds to laugh at me, but I’m not sure it will work. 

2. Seeing Sunrise. Because let’s face it, it is a very rare occurrence for me to be awake at sunrise, I would not dare to presume that I will manage to repeat it with any kind of regularity. Also, I cannot imagine that I will see many sunrises that will rival these - without getting too flowery, let’s just say that the sun would stain the sky in increasingly dramatic shades of pink and orange before throwing itself above the horizon, rising out of the ocean and sending long traces of God-light back towards Byron Bay. Often, there were an incredible variety of clouds that picked up the light in different ways and tossed it around the valley. Add to this the fact that I was watching these sunrises from the top of a hill, looking over this unspeakably green valley dotted with little ponds and streams and gorgeous gum trees, with the ocean stretching across the horizon, and frequently curled up in a hammock with a cup of coffee, and I dare say that this is an experience that will never be recreated.

3. Sleeping. Not that I need any more reasons to love sleeping, it is probably the love of my life. But this was some seriously spectacular sleep that I was getting. Just screens between me and the outdoors, the sounds of frogs and crickets, and often rain, lulling me to sleep, with stars overhead and no other light for miles. Frequently, I could hear animals shuffling around outside of the flat, which was a little unnerving at first, but I managed to convince myself after a few nights that what I was actually hearing were ghostly footsteps pacing the perimeter. For some reason I found this more comforting. 

4. Delicious Bananas. Trust me, I have never tasted bananas this good, which I suppose is as it should be, given that it was a banana plantation. I don’t even particularly like bananas that much, and I would eat 5 of these in a row without even noticing, and then reach for another 5. My potassium levels have got to be simply exceptional right now. 

5. The Wonderful World of Outdoor Bathing. I have rhapsodized enough about the joys of the bathtub, but the shower was no bad thing either. I have a new aspiration in life, which is to have an outdoor shower to call my own (definitely not in New York City, because ew). There is just something wonderful about being surrounded by trees while you wash your hair. My shower singing took on whole new dimensions, including one brilliant medley, if I do say so myself, of songs from Into The Woods. 

6. Living on a Hill. Don’t get me wrong, there were moments when I was at the bottom of the hill that I was not particularly enamored with the idea of having to climb up it, but it was consistently worth it. Being able to look out over some small part of creation every day manages to make you feel both incredibly removed and omniscient and peaceful, and also amazingly connected to everything you can see. You feel closer to the heavens and yet more grounded. It’s a feeling to which words cannot do justice. Also, there were tomato plants growing all over the hill, so every time I walked from the bottom to the top, I would pick delicious, adorable little cherry tomatoes and they would keep me company on my journey. And by keep me company, I mean I ate them. 

7. The Speed of Life. Garry, my wonderful and charming host, would tell me that he would be ready to start some project or another in half an hour. This could mean anywhere from half an hour, to three hours, possibly more, remember that I wasn’t wearing a watch, in an attempt to not be too concerned about these things. There was an abundance of time on the hill, you could luxuriate in it — days lasted forever, and there was never anything that had to be done at any specific moment. Sadly, this took me almost all of my 10 days or so to get used to. New York has exerted much more influence on me than I care to admit, and combined with my Type-A overtones, it appears that I am the kind of person that likes to get shit done, and not stop til it’s done, and work work work, and other such intensely focused activities. By the end of my time there, I felt like I was perilously close to actually being relaxed, possibly for the first time since…elementary school? If I can only take one thing away from Featherview, I hope it is this, that the work will get done, even if you stop for a while to watch the light play over the valley, or to roll around in the mud, or to bugger off to the beach for a nice swim. At the risk of being horribly cliched, life doesn’t stop happening just because you’re not paying attention. Now I’ll just have to hide that attitude from any future employers when I get back to New York. 

I could go on and on about the beauties and joys of Featherview, but I imagine that would get rather tedious to read. So I’ll just say, it’s a magic place, full of rainbows and koalas and love. Also, wearing clothes again, especially bras, really sucks.