A Glimpse of New Zealand

Hopefully in the coming days I'll have an opportunity to construct a couple of Kiwi blogs. Until then, enjoy a couple of pictures to "wet your whistle". Cheers!!

The Other Half (of Australia)

Bizarrely forgoing memories in Cairns, I failed to mention in my previous post a profound conflagration of condensed ear wax and sinus disorder wreaking havoc in my apparently fragile ear canals. As the three-day dive extravaganza progressed, my “hearing holes” became increasingly clogged. By the time we procured land again, I felt as if I was speaking in a small tin can, hardly aware of my volume and detached from reality. Since, I've incessantly had fingers and wax-removal substances in my ears. It's only a matter of time until a chance encounter with a beautiful woman is decimated by a giant ball of wax hanging from my fingertips.

Thus, “the waxy wall” separating me from the tangible world existed still as Mr. Johnson and myself migrated to the less populated state of Western Australia. I've most certainly left ear wax on almost everything I've touched from Eastern to Western Australia. And probably mucus. Along with massive quantities of “ear gold”, I apparently have some over-excited mucus production device operating somewhere between my eyes and my nose, as my sinuses release a seemingly unending supply of the sticky, gelatinous substance.

As I've now forgotten why I've mentioned my clogged ears, whether for pretext or as an aside, I'll progress to Western Australia.

The primary impetus for traveling to Australia, other than wallabies and platypus, involved visiting Travis' cousin Enich, and Enich's wife Jayme. We planned our arrival in Perth to coincide with Enich's and Jayme's return to Australia after they spent some time on holiday overseas. Converging at the airport, we traveled to a hostel just south of Perth and spent a friendly amount of time consuming “Bundi's”, Australian rum and Coke, and sharing yarns of recent adventures.

Our agenda was to travel along the southwestern swath of Australian coast, visiting breweries, tasting wine, lodging with a pair of Jayme's relatives, climbing the “Gloucester Tree” in the Tall-Tree Forest, swimming in cold ocean water at a dipping-hole called Green's pool, checking-out a lighthouse, and arriving at the beach-heavy town of Esperance. All of this was accomplished in four days of pleasant, lugubrious travel. Still with fingers in my ears, but certainly on the road to congestion-free canals. “Baby steps” to a wax and mucus free melon!

I didn't know quite what to expect from Esperance. Having accomplished very little research prior to our arrival, my mind had yet to form any type of meaningful visual construct. Strangely, and quite irrationally, I envisioned some sort of “Wild West” town from “Quigley Down-under”, with Tom Selick and Yahoo Serious playing cards in a rustic saloon. Certainly this must be some sort of ear wax poisoning, or perhaps an Australian spider laid eggs in my brain. Regardless, I certainly didn't expect miles worth of white-sand beaches, partitioned and framed by scenic rock formations. Nor did I anticipate the avid surf culture that existed in the coastal town. Mere hours after settling into our temporary accommodations, we drove to the beach with surfboards and spent the afternoon riding forgiving waves in a long, sand-laden bay.

The following days brought more surfing, diving, a chance to follow Enich, a partial owner in a veterinary clinic, into the field, driving on a beach at eighty kilometers-per-hour, exploring a national park filled with rock-islands, and nights filled with good microbrews and great food.

After five exhausting days in Esperance, Mr. Johnson and myself thanked our cordial hosts and departed for New Zealand. Hopefully time will allow for a couple of Kiwi posts!

Queensland & The Great Barrier Reef

Dive. Eat. Sleep.

We descend into the warm Pacific water. We float around peering at sharks, cuttlefish, and turtles. We rise from the sea, content as visitors in another world, shed the underwater breathing apparatus, and enter the cabin. Lining up like soldiers in a mess hall, our tired bodies confront piles of cakes, bowls filled with salads of every sort, scalloped potatoes, curried tofu, fruit, coffee, and many other assorted food items meant to pack our gullets full and raise our spirits.

Content as stray cats finding a dumpster filled with salmon, we waddle from the chilled eating room to the upper deck, where intense sunlight warms our bodies and sends us into a deep slumber. Lost in dreams of deep sea cities and mermaids, our aquatic fantasies are cut short by indifferent dive masters anxious to beckon us all back into the sea.

So, we begin again.

Dive. Eat. Sleep.

Thus is the life of the participants on a live-a-board dive boat.

Three days of early mornings, diving, eating, conversing about what one does and where one has traveled, and sleeping at every conceivable opportunity. Slumber comes easy on a dive boat. One moment you might be talking with a lively bloke from Liverpool, and the next your asleep in your chair – head cocked backwards, limbs splayed about searching for positions of comfort.

Regardless of the frenzied nature of the trip, the diving was quite spectacular.
Surprisingly, my best fortune occurred with the boat's cook – a young Frenchman. As Travis occasionally decided to take additional time for regenerative purposes, I found myself partnered with the chef during a couple of dives. We first descended into the darkness for a night dive, where we encountered a timid lobster and a friendly cuttlefish.

On the third day, I dove with the curly-haired Frenchman again. We floated along a wall covered with an incredible assortment of coral until turning inward along a short, steadily rising valley. Suddenly, the cook gasped and wailed through his regulator. Floating peacefully in a completely oblivious state, I turned to acknowledge the crazy Frenchman's exasperation. Finding the cook pointing with profound glee into the tapered valley below, I glanced over to see what was procuring so much excitement. A wave of terror and disbelief raced through my body. Gliding through the warm Pacific ocean was a monster of the sea. An enormous eagle ray – as large as a Volkswagen Bug with wings, coasting effortlessly and with much disregard. The creatures long tail stretched for fifteen or twenty feet behind a sleek, hydrodynamic body. An amazing encounter. Many eyes glistened with envy as we revealed our serendipitous contact with the giant ocean beast.

Other expeditions in Queensland included a tour of the Atherton Tablelands, where we swam beneath waterfalls, spotted a giant spider, and watched platypus feed at dusk. A short trip northward took us into the Daintree Rainforest, and across the Daintree River, were a large crocodile was observed and long deserted beaches were explored. Heading south before our flight into Western Australia, we jumped on a catamaran and sailed into the Whitsundays – a series of islands of the eastern coast.

Rain in the Outback

Supposedly is doesn't rain in Central Australia. Supposedly rivers run dry most of the year as the sun boils the arid landscape. Supposedly watching water fall from the alien canyons and crevasses of Uluru, formerly Ayers Rock, occurs once in every fourteen blue-moons.

Well, if you haven't already surmised from the sarcastic tone of this presage the inevitable situation that defined our stay, let me say that blue-moons in Australia look much like clouds and mud.

An adventure nonetheless, and one thoroughly enjoyed. We integrated ourselves into a tour that rattled across the Outback in a bus loaded with anxious foreigners and one lively tour guide. We slept in “swags”, a Australian concoction integrating a long canvas bag, a foamy pad, and an enormous “flap”. We encircled a campfire and dozed beneath the stars – that is, the distant balls-of-fire we occasionally observed through the dark blanket of clouds. We learned about Aboriginal culture and history, we hiked though rock formations mimicking those hardly fathomable in daydreams, and we consumed some of the most atrocious damn coffee this side of Columbia.

In regards to “hardly fathomable rock formations”, Uluru is perhaps the most bizarre mount of granite I've ever encountered. The accompanying pictures hardly expose the fantastical nature of the notorious rock. A “monolith” rotated, Uluru consists of layers of hardened sediment jutting vertically from the ground. Strange indeed, akin to virtually nothing. Apparently only a small portion peeks from the soil, leaving thousands feet buried in the earth. The shapes, rounded and smoothed from years of weather, dance with the imagination. Something from the “Alien” movies perhaps? Inspiration for H.R. Giger?

Kata Tjuta, another sacred Aboriginal site, belonged to the agenda, and levied her beauty to the water saturated group on the second day. Due to the unexpected dousing from mother nature, a dry night sleeping amongst the sand and bugs became three brave souls parked around the campfire and the rest sleeping in the campground laundromat. Jared, the guide, woke everyone before sunrise, and following a filling breakfast, hauled the lethargic crowd to the lesser known rock formations of Kata Tjuta.

While not quite as prolific as Uluru, Katajuru is an impressive littering of giant mounds of compressed river rock strewn across the desert. We wondered along the path looking upwards at cliffs extending into the clouds. Kata Tjuta seems to cover more ground than Uluru, but the formations have experienced more natural degradation.

The third day brought us the cliffs and waterfalls of Kings Canyon. A near heart-stopping dollop in a sub-fifty degree swimming hole kept the spirits high, and a blow-out celebration at a popular watering-hole back in Alice Springs involving absurd amounts of beer brought the tour to an appropriate end.

On a darker note, the Aboriginal people appear to still exist upon the fringes of the white population. The native inhabitants of Australia seem to roam the streets of Alice Springs as vagabonds, howling and screaming from habitual intoxication. Intolerance and violence brought about by early white settlers has brought an indifferent modernity against a culture thousands of years old. The Australian government is now much more sensitive to the Aboriginal culture, but full integration may prove a difficult task. A greater respect and understanding of Aboriginal heritage is desperately needed. Hopefully things will change.

The Great Coastal Highway

The folks down-under love their meat and dairy. While vegetarian options exist at most grub stations, flesh dominates. From kangaroo burgers to crocodile steaks, meaty concoctions abound for the giddy carnivore.

As Mr. Johnson and myself ventured east along the Great Coastal Highway, cattle stations, dairy lands, and sheep ranches stretched as far as the inquisitive eye could see. Opposite the ocean to the north, green pastures seemed to provide plentiful bounty to the animals – a smorgasbord of grassy plains to fatten the complacent creatures. (Our venture northward to Alice Springs confirmed the meat infatuation with million-acre cattle stations!).

It was the south that we were most interested, though. Here, the cold waters touching the icy antarctic shores at the bottom of the world meet the rocky, cliff-strewn southern Australian coast. Whales migrate through these cold waters, penguins frolic, and enormous swells pour into giant foamy waves for a multitude of surfing fanatics. Around every curve, views from the elevated lookouts would present tiny insulated bodies floating in the tumultuous sea, waiting for an epic ride. A brief meander into the water provided an adequate conception of the rather frigid temperature of the ocean, yet neither this nor the enormous waves crashing into the burning red walls dissuaded the persistent riders.

The Great Ocean Road hugs the coast for about 250 miles. It presents a winding road cut along cliffs, rock-outcroppings, and pleasant bays. Koalas abound. Arising from our attic-like dwelling at the forested YHA hostel, a couple of the gray fur-balls sat high in eucalyptus branches, looking lethargically and with near disregard at Travis and myself as our cameras fluttered with a multitude of exposures.

After contenting ourselves with the digital equivalent of rolls-upon-rolls of pictures of the fuzzy little bears, the Great Ocean Road brought us upon more Koalas, and over-priced lighthouse, bays, surfers, piers, and finally to some spectacular rock formations towards the latter end of the ride.

Hundred of thousands of years of erosion left the Twelve Apostles stranded from the coastline. They lumber from the rolling sea, standing tall and defiant while looking ever into the southern horizon. As natural wonders tend to decay with time, so some of the apostles have crumbled and fallen into the sea. Only five or six still stand guard, but their visual magnificence seems no less stunning. A well-timed visit left us swimming in a myriad of colors shown with great extravagance by the sky, the sea, and the rocks. Hours passed as we observed the sun plunge with fiery brilliance into the cold Antarctic Ocean.
Travis, privy with common sense, returned to the car following the exit of the sun. I waited in vain for penguins, foretold by the travel guide to waddle upon the shores beneath the Apostles. No “sea torpedoes” appeared, but I did confront either a dingo or a fox in the twilight. Not exactly a screwball, flightless bird, but a good end to a great day.

The following day we searched in vain for whales, spotted some wallabies in a lush volcanic crater, and raced back to Melbourne to return the vehicle.

Melbourne

Strangely enough, while Melbourne was thoroughly enjoyed, not too many pictures were snapped for posterity. Nonetheless, here are a couple to bring some complacency to those inquisitive of the southeastern Australian metropolis.

We had the good fortune to watch a “footy game” at the MCG in Australia – a stadium built to bring 100,000 frenzied Australian Rules Football fanatics together to cheer, chant, drink beer, and watch their favorite teams play a bizarre game similar to rugby, but faster and more peculiar. Having entered the stadium without a primer to the basic concepts inherent in the game, we were a bit dumbfounded as we watched the players prance about bouncing and kicking a football around a large grass field.

Apparently the goal was to punch or kick the ball between two tall poles located at either end of the field. Similar to kicking a field goal in American Football, but here the ball is kicked while the player is running. The ball can also be hit with a closed fist on the vertical end or tossed underhand. Strange indeed, but nonetheless entertaining.

We also biked around the city and checked-out a Tim Burton exhibit at the Australian Centre for Moving Images.

Our next stretch will take us along the Great Coastal Highway.

The Blue Mountains

The books foretold of a national park filled with waterfalls, lush semi-tropical rainforests, birds, and immense cliffs falling to a valley filled with tall gum trees and mist. Upon our arrival, with nary a ray of sunshine to guide our path, we encountered only the mist. A mist so soupy and dense one could have just as easily been walking along Broadway Avenue in New York City and been none-the-wiser. The overlooks presented a sea of gray stretching into infinity. Giant rock formations hugging the sheer sandstone drops lay no more than two hundred feet beyond our noses yet hid like ghosts in a blanket of nothingness. We hiked along a rain soaked, swampy trail with a fellow traveler, looking at floating gravy while spirals of dancing raindrops navigated their watery forms into our eyeballs. A spaceship the size of Montana could have taken off twenty yards behind us and we would have been completely oblivious.

A tad bit disconcerting after a two hour train ride.

Thankfully our plans allowed for nearly three days at the Blue Mountains, a consolation dearly welcomed. After a night of profuse wine consumption and a not-so-honest game of monopoly with a trio of Brits, we rose from a bleary-eyed slumber in the mid-morning anxious to see that which we missed the day prior. We were going to see these damn rocks, so help us Crocodile Dundee. The day presented less mist, but still concealed the ball of fire that would have exemplified the splendor. Nonetheless, we set out to the Park once again.

The Three Sisters finally revealed themselves. Peering from Echo Point, the sandstone ladies form remnants of a once solid rock peninsula jutting out into a leafy ocean of thick vegetation. Narrow sets of steep stairs drop inquisitive gawkers into the valley below, where giant gum trees, eucalyptus and such, grow from the moist, black soil.

The hundreds of feet that drop from the upper portions of the ridge to the valley below force many rivers into majestic waterfalls. The most impressive, Wentworth Falls, splays a wide swath of water over a rounded rock-outcropping, where the water falls to a ledge, collects in Eden-like pools, and falls again into the rainforest. The waterfall can be viewed from many perspectives, including a steep, narrow staircase that winds up a rock face along the western side of the falls. The entire area around Wentworth Falls is incessantly scenic.

The third day, on which Wentworth Falls and surrounding parts were thoroughly explored, the sun finally appeared. Unfortunately, with mostly clear skies came a ferocious wind. The thundering intensity of the powerful gusts became clear as we finished the Darwin Trail and confronted the massive cliff faces hosting the falls. As we perched upon the first lookout-point overlooking the dense forest below, amazingly intense winds forced us onto our heals, and even re-directed the waterfall both sideways and upward, directly into the faces of anyone crossing the river above the falls. Gathering a picture became an adventure, as the fluttering arm-strap connecting the camera to my neck floated above my head, and rushing streams of air attempted to launch the picture taking device into orbit.

Nonetheless, the path skirting the rim of the cliff-edge provided incredible perspectives of the valley below. The wind, however fierce, could not deter the splendor of the Blue Mountains.

The Zombies of Sydney

It only seems logical that after 25 hours of continual travel through fourteen timezones, one might consider a short rest to settle the mind and regenerate the body. But, excitement tends to disrupt rational thought.

So, after an expensive German beer at an expensive German restaurant, and after checking into our expensive hostel, we set forth into the city – bleary-eyed and powered almost entirely by airplane food.

The Opera House -

Spirals of shells, piggybacked, with their curved, triangular, vaulted openings confronting the bay. Two white camels sleeping. Sails, stationary, but overwhelming. The Sydney Opera House is the culmination of 16 years of continual labor and one-hundred-million dollars. A construction schedule grossly underestimated and a budget ninety-million over original projections. Yet, unarguably a magnificent structure. So quintessentially unique that even after seeing the opera house consistently in media for eons, the impact of viewing the building in person is not lessened a bit.

Nearly every perspective provides a fascinating curve, or an intriguing shape. From a southern vantage point much is concealed, yet extravagant curves spring from the ground to form the roof lines. From the east and west, more angles begin to converge, and the overlapping “shells” begin to reveal themselves. The northern view adds beautiful pockets of contrasting darkness to the intensely bright, white complex. The opera house lends itself to artistically oriented photographs like few other architectural entities I've encountered.

The Gardens -

Still in a catatonic state, somehow mobile and cognizant, we walked in somewhat bushy-tailed fashion into The Royal Botanic Gardens. A constant stream of runners, apparently the national past-time in Australia, streamed by as we pondered our trajectory on a shaded park bench. Wondering further into the lush gardens, we came about a grassy field covered in birds. Most intriguing were the wild, white cockatoos feeding on something appetizing in the grass. The untamed parrots amassed in great numbers, and had little problem perching upon on-lookers. A pleasant surprise to find such magnificent birds in abundance on our first day.

The Old Fitzroy -

Wondering further, we breached the park and meandered into a more earthy, more residential district in Sydney. Gleaming skyscrapers were replaced with partially dilapidated town-homes – a well-suited business-class with blue-collar workers. A nice change from the polished downtown area. Coincidentally, and quite serendipitously we happened upon a rugged joint, seemingly populated with mostly locals. Having somehow pushed ourselves this far, operating on mostly inexplicable reserves of energy buried deeply in disparate intrigue and insanity, we were relieved to find a watering-hole. By some mixture of intergalactic good-fortune, the bar and restaurant poured some excellent Australian micro-brews, and cooked-up a fine selection of tasty noodle bowls.

The Walk Home -

Exhaustion doesn't begin to explain the profound lethargy we felt stumbling out of the Old Fitzroy. Empty, completely lifeless bags of meat miles from the hostel, wishing that each new step would lead us to the bumper of a speeding cement truck, so that our misery might come to an end. As mindless zombies, we limped along city blocks with towering skyscrapers watching high above. Two great Australian micro-brews consumed at the Old Fitzroy evaporated the last bit of energy surviving in our veins, leaving only the prospect of a dry, relatively soft bed to encourage each new step. Feeling our way through the concrete jungle, we finally ascended the last staircase to our room at the hostel. Sleep was at hand, and not a minute too soon.

I leave you now with a picture from the Sydney Fish Market.

Cheers!

A Glimpse of Sydney

Here are a couple of shots from the fabled, coastal city of Sydney. A full post will follow shortly. Enjoy!!

Madness!

Unlike my previous long-term traveling experience, this trip spawned slowly, and then reached a pinnacle of unpreparedness shortly before departure. That is, supplies were thrown haphazardly into my red backpack mere hours before New Zealand Air would whisk us away to the Southern Hemisphere. Most of my brain had ceased functioning, and only sporadic memories culled from my last trip served to fulfill the majority of the supply list. Thus far I don't believe I've left anything vital behind, but only time will tell.

Other than a severely compressed preparation period, the first real act of drama occurred even before we boarded the airplane. Apparently a semi collided with a person on the highway between Colorado Springs and Denver, leaving traffic lingering in stasis for hours upon end. Having utilized all of my contingency time buying books and filing an amended tax return, a swift venture to the Denver airport was vital. Additionally, a short detour was required to wrangle my wayward traveling companion, a Mr. Travis “Marigold” Johnson. Time was pouring from the hourglass as if it had been shattered upon a concrete floor. Days of accumulated stress were culminating. My parents, still somehow surprised that I had planned things so horribly, even after years of habitual tardiness and procrastination, began to suffer the woes of a contagious anxiety spreading rapidly through the car. Still forty miles from the airport, and we were without Travis and at a complete standstill.

Perhaps this was it. My complete detachment from the realities of time would finally result in a firm kick in the groin, metaphorically speaking. I would miss the flight to Los Angeles, and severely disrupt the chain-of-events that would lead me to Australia. This would conceivably, and quite probably, lead to a partial, or full-blown nervous breakdown, coupled with a complete mental collapse, permanent deadening of certain parts of the brain, resentment from close relations and friends, and a travel companion left to his own devices to fend of killer wallabies in the Outback. As all of these pleasant sentiments drifted briskly through my pulsating cranium, and the impending doom wrapped its devilish fingers around my frantically jittering heart, the mass of stagnant cars began to fragment.

From what I can surmise, my hopes that the miniature black-holes produced by the new particle accelerator in Europe swallowing the wreckage along the highway were fulfilled, and traffic began to progress with greater fluidity. My certain encounters with the worlds deadliest spiders and Crocodile Dundee were again becoming a reality. The anxiety lessened slightly, Travis was delivered at a mutually agreed-upon midway-point by a kind and charitable Mr. Keith “Why the F*ck is Mazzola always late” Knoll, and arrival at the nest of the metal birds was, dare I say, right on time.

As I compose this post from a train heading to the Blue Mountains (which will be part of a later post), I wonder how much permanent brain damage actually occurred during the transitory madness between Woodland Park and Denver. Suffice-it-to-say, a pint of Cold Hop at the airport numbed the ailing mental faculties, and the first step onto the airplane offered some sense of assured arrival.

Stay tuned as the Mazzola and Johnson show broadcasts in miraculous electronic print from the airy, coastal haven of Sydney.

Post Note -
A special thanks to Mr. Knoll for depositing Mr. Johnson at the specified location, and to my parents for sharing in the frenetic ride to the airport!