Alex's adventures in Oz

Why I hate hating other people (part pi)

2009-04-01T14:50:33Z

To disgracefully plagiarise from one of history's greatest orators -

You can hate all of the people some of the time
You can hate some of the people all of the time
But to hate all of the people all of the time...

Well, I think you get my meaning.

This is my response to rustica 's post about the total suckiness of an individual she had the misfortune to encounter recently. And while I fully understand her indignation, I'd like to offer a different perspective.

Those of you who are aware of my family's current circumstances may understand two things, on the one hand that I might be forgiven for having a low tolerance to people's general crapness, but conversely that my recent experience of the kindness and basic humanity of strangers has me predisposed to be much more positive.

Given this, it would be very easy for me to conclude that some people can be utterly, unforgivably reprehensible. And others spectacularly, often incomprehensibly, selfless and thoughtful. That we do indeed live among saints and sinners. And this is perhaps true to an extent. Clearly some of us are preferable to others. But this is not the point I wish to make.

The gentleman in question is clearly a dick. One would be more inclined to forgiveness if his rudeness in one shop hadn't led to an equal display of disrespect even as he tried to rectify his first outburst. If any Americans would like a definition of irony, there you go. I am smirking as I write this.

But, and this is the important bit, two things stand out from this tale. Firstly, rustica only saw the briefest snapshot of this man's life. He may on balance be generous and warm, loved by his family, admired by colleagues, and kind to small fluffy animals. He may have been experiencing a particularly bad day. This doesn't excuse his behaviour, but may account for it. Or he may in fact be, in all his dealings with his fellow humans, consistently, a dick. We'll never know (unless rustica is stalking him as I speak). But to judge an entire character from a single incident is unfair, and to extend that to a general rule for the greater part of humanity is unwise.

Secondly, if we do wish to judge from this brief anecdote, what does his behaviour actually tell us about him. Clearly, this chap has an attitude problem in such circumstances, a tendency, when stressed, to treat strangers with less respect than he feels he himself deserves. However, the very fact that he recognised he had caused distress, and was trying to rectify this, regardless of how ineffectual and troublesome his attempt was, demonstrates more reflection, self-awareness and remorse than some people manage. Let's not forget it's never easy to admit you're wrong, especially in public.

So in short, yeah he's a dick. But he knows it. And he's not proud of it. He sucks. But not to the exclusion of any finer qualities. And the same is true, in varying degrees, of the rest of us. There are some saints, and some sinners. The rest of us are just people.

Club 14-22

2007-12-15T14:18:56Z

My first trip overseas, indeed my first proper holiday away from my parents was a Club 18-30 style booze cruise to Ibiza, a farewell jaunt with friends before we all headed to universities or jobs scattered around the country. I think you can guess it wasn't exactly an odyssey of Spanish art and culture, but it was replete with more opportunities to irreparably damage my young liver than I had ever encountered. Needless to say, we had a blast. I recently rediscovered the group photo we had taken on our first night. We look very happy to be there. We don't look old enough to drink though, especially not me. I'm amazed I even got served.

Six years later, another holiday, another Mediterranean island, another tacky resort, but this one's rather dull. We hadn't done our homework properly, too tempted by a good deal. We'd ended up in a family resort, all the clubs and young, single women on the other side of the island. It wasn't a total disaster. The hotel was modern and fairly luxurious, the beach was large, not too crowded, with magnificent mountains rising round a vast sandy bay. But the pace of life was a bit too slow and inevitably our conversation turned to the type of holiday aimed at our agegroup. A friend from the previous trip suggested we should try another 18-30, this time when we hit the other extreme of the target demographic. After all, we were halfway there already, and still up for it.

We never did follow through with that idea, but I can state with certainty that we would've had a very different experience now we are all mature, responsible adults (cough!) And this is how I know:

Many hostels employ backpackers as receptionists and cleaners, but those clustered in Sydney's urban centre also have another job on offer, and it's much more rewarding, at least socially. As one hard working guy commented to me with great honesty, he got paid to make sure everyone in the hostel got as drunk as possible and spent a ton of money in the many pubs and clubs in the area. Other travelers roamed from hostel to hostel offering concessions as encouragement. Not that many of my fellow residents needed any incentive.

Trouble is, some bizarre things can happen to you when you allow yourself to get swept up in the ubiquitous drinking culture. You can find yourself asking random women if you can borrow their clothes for the evening, something slinky and revealing to get you free drinks on 'ladies' night. You can find yourself agreeing to take charge of your new friend's wallets because only you had the foresight to borrow a handbag. You can find yourself overwhelmed by the sheer volume of free nasty champagne they practically force on you. Then you can find yourself disoriented, in a hospital ward, still in a little skirt and bikini top, talking to a psychologist. Then you can find yourself talking to a nice policeman because you seem to have had your handbag (still stuffed with wallets) removed from your person, at some point during hours you don't remember, and probably never will.

All these things could happen. All of them did. But not to me. I generally find these experiences much more funny from an observer's point of view. So for about a week, I hung out with people whose ground state was either drunk, stoned or hung over. It was fun, I had a laugh and some interesting conversations. But I also quickly realised I had no wish to join them in their happy inebriation. Well, perhaps just a little. After all, the nasty wine (goon to the locals) is very cheap.

See the real Australia - mow the lawn

2007-12-11T01:57:59Z

Most tourists don't actually experience the lifestyle enjoyed by the majority of Aussies - they travel up the coast to beach resorts, or across the desert to see the wilderness of the outback, or gather in the centre of the state capitals to see the sights. But that's not where most of the 20 million locals live. The vast majority occupy the few large cities, and there few live in the high-rise CBDs. Nope, pick any Aussie at random, and the chances are good that they live in the suburbs. Yes, it really is just like Neighbours.

So I was very lucky on arriving in the country to have the opportunity to see that side of Australian culture. I was practically adopted by the family of my traveling companions, and for five weeks I enjoyed the unhurried pace of Sydney's vast sprawl.

The first thing an Englishman notices is that there are very few houses like the ones back home. The most curious thing is that every home seems to occupy the same amount of land, and that amount is quite generous by British standards. Our tendency to cram as many dwellings as possible onto a given plot doesn't seem to occur here. Each family gets a garden front and back, and I haven't spotted such a thing as semi-detached, so no banging on the walls if the neighbours make a racket.

But even the most expensive mansions with million dollar harbour views don't seem to merit much more square footage than the average. Here, the mark of affluence seems to be how high you build, and how solid it is. The typical house here is what most Europeans would call a shed, constructed with weatherboard walls, perhaps lined on the inside with pressed aluminium sheeting. I remember we used to joke about the poor production values on Aussie soaps because we could see the walls wobble. Turns out that's quite realistic. And the whole structure is usually topped off with a corrugated iron roof. And that's fine for a country as warm and dry as this, except it's not always warm, or dry. Though they don't get much rain, when they do, it means business, and anyone inhabiting an older house better have a few buckets available. It also gets pretty loud.

If you do well for yourself, you can knock down the shed and build something a touch more substantial, concrete and perhaps a brick or two, and if you're really raking it in, you might even indulge in a upstairs - then you can sit on your balcony and look down on your less affluent neighbours. The end result is a complete lack of uniformity anywhere. Houses come in every colour and style - a short walk will take you past bright mediterranean villas, plain brick boxes, and the occasional swiss chalet, all randomly interspersed with sheds in various states of repair.

Another thing I noticed during my wanderings is that pavements are optional. Grassy verges go right from fence to roadside, cut only by driveways. But there's often so little traffic that walking on the road isn't a problem. What pavements they have are usually concrete, and not very well drained after a downpour.

I have found that any town or city has a different feel after dark, so I tend to wander around fairly aimlessly in the evenings, which luckily it is safe to do here (I'm advised not to try similar if I'm ever in South Africa). The views across the Sydney landscape lit up like Christmas are spectacular, both towards the city centre, and west across Olympic Park, but I'd recommend scouting out any potential route by daylight first - streetlights seem to be optional in some places too. And watch out for low-flying fruitbats.

Anyway, I mentioned mowing. What activity could be more domesticated (for a man at least). In gratitude for the hospitality I had received, I offered to cut a ridiculously overgrown back lawn. I apologise to any lost pygmy tribes I decimated in the process. Pausing midway through my efforts, I found myself sitting in the sunshine next to the leaky tin shed that was temporarily home, silly akubra hat on my head, cold beer in my hand, looking out over a splendid view of the the city, the top of the harbour bridge just poking over the treetops. I couldn't imagine anything more quintessentially Australian, unless it involved a prawn.

Looking at stuff

2007-12-08T02:17:57Z

That's basically what being on holiday is about. You look at buildings, landscapes, art, old stuff, flora and fauna, and all sorts of miscellaneous. Even the more active pursuits tend to involve looking at stuff - diving wouldn't be much fun if the mask was opaque.

Sydney is definitely one on the best cities in the world to gawp at, and the perfect place to see it all from is the harbour. I have been surprised to find other tourists here who haven't even been on a ferry yet, and so I've been encouraging them all to do so. Since I've been here I've taken trips in all directions - first the short hop across the harbour to Taronga Zoo, followed by cruises out to the ocean, and as far inland as the Paramatta river is navigable.

Aside from the Taronga peninsula, which houses the zoo, the harbourside is very built up, a diverse array of picturesque villas and apartment blocks crammed up the steep slopes. Sydney's upper crust pay more for a tiny plot with that famous harbour view, than they would for acres of unspoilt bushland. The good news is, the shoreline is all public, so if you have a boat, you can squat on the beach in front of some millionarie's mansion and spoil his view as much as you like.

One of the best places to get a panoramic view is Watson's Bay. The furthest stop on the ferry on the south shore, you get a superb view back towards the city, and it's only a quick hike uphill to the top of the headland for a look out at the Pacific. It's only the second ocean I've see from the shore, and I guess it's not much different to the Atlantic, generally large and wet, but it's still good to see. There's a great walking track up to the heads, where you can watch the liners and tankers enter the harbour, as well as the occasional tall ship. And the remains of the old artillery base.

Not too many visitors here take the trip up to Paramatta. No cruises go that way, just a regular stream of commuter ferries providing city workers the most convenient way home. Few of my fellow passengers seemed concerned by the interesting landscape passing by, but I suppose they see it every day. The trip wasn't the in the best conditions, but even through a light drizzle, the sight of thick mangroves lining the river seemed wild and exotic. Then unexpectedly a carpark, freight yard or refinery would rise up behind the thick foliage to remind us that we were still well within the city boundaries.

This has been my most striking impression of Sydney, just how green and lush it is. The grey urban sprawl of English cities just doesn't exist here, except perhaps in the more industrial areas to the south. Sydneysiders, with the luxury of space that the Brits lack, have been sensible and avoid building anywhere that's guaranteed to flood. So the suburbs are criss-crossed by dozens of steep, lushly forested creeks winding down to the harbour. And most suburban roads are wide and tree-lined, trees that grow high and broad.

Not surprising then that my first panoramic view of the city, from one of the few high apartment blocks in the northern suburbs, struck me as like a scene from some post-apocalyptic sci-fi flick, islands of skyscrapers rising from a dense primeval jungle. Of course, there was plenty of urban civilisation buried amongst the foliage, but they tend to build high-rise or bungalows here, and not much in between, so from above the landscape is mostly trees as far as the eye can see.

A tube with a view

2007-11-05T06:13:18Z

There's a lot of Australia to fly over before you get to Sydney. It's always seemed odd to me that Brits started their first settlement on the far side. Maybe the first colonists just liked sailing. I doubt the convicts did though. The sun rose as we were about halfway across the continent, and I swapped to the window seat, craning my neck to see as much of it as possible. All desert at first, seemed to be somewhat a theme of this trip, but eventually that gave way to scrubby bushland, then lush eucalyptus forest, then the first signs of civilisation, farms, towns, finally the sprawling suburbs of outer sydney.

Apparently the Dubai-Sydney flights usually loop south around the city and approach up the coast. Frustratingly, I was on the wrong side of the plane, and all I'd see would be ocean. I like oceans, but seen one, seen 'em all. Big. Blue. Lumpy. Turns out luck was on my side once more. The pilot chose the scenic route, seemingly turning every which way to give all his passengers the best introduction possible. As first impressions of a place go, it was impressive. They say that Sydney is the most beautiful harbour city in the world. I haven't been to many other contenders for that title, but I'd certainly acknowlege the nomination. It immediately decided I was going to like it here.

Then it started raining. A lot. And I got the blame.

The Thai guide to physical fitness.

2007-11-02T05:46:08Z

So sitting in one seat for hours at a time is perhaps not the best thing for your legs. It took them a lot longer to work this out than it should've, but now the airlines have got the idea they offer lots of handy advice to keep the circulation going during the long hauls. And provided you're not too self-conscious about wiggling your feet in little circles, they do help, to an extent.

However, nothing's better for staving off dreaded DVT than the chance to get up every now and then and stretch your legs. And sometimes the opportunity to exercise cramped muscles is imposed upon you whether you want it or not.

I'm certain this is the reasoning behind the otherwise utterly pointless quarter-mile round trip I was obliged undertake through the concourse at Bangkok International. Upon arriving all passengers were informed they would have to disembark for 45 minutes while the plane was cleaned and restocked. Fine, I thought, looking forward to the opportunity from some fresh scenery and even fresher air. A pleasant stroll to the departure gate, a rest in a chair with room to stretch out my legs as far as I desired, and brief but memorable impression of another airport interior, this is what I imagined.

So I was quite surprised when every passenger was seriously cautioned to take note of the gate number. Admittedly there's always someone who wanders off for a bit of sightseeing and doesn't make it back on time, but with barely 45mins to wait, it didn't seem likely many passengers would leave the vicinity of the gate. But it turned out I was mistaken - every one of us was headed on a breakneck trip through the terminal.

You see, apparently, there is a chance that while you sit in your economy class armchair, innocently whiling away the time watching movies and playing games, above your head your hand luggage is up to no good. Illegal narcotics, obscene materials and weapons of mass destruction might be spontaneously appearing in the your flight bag. It is therefore imperative that if you disembark, each item you carry is x-rayed again, even though you're only taking it back on board again.

Unfortunately, it seems they can't afford a scanning station at each gate. They did at Dubai, but they've got all the cash you give them every time you fill up your petrol tank. So we had to proceed to one central location, about 500m away, get scanned and get back. They have lots of travellators, which are fun for the lazy person not in a hurry, but when you're in a rush and they come to an abrupt halt, you often narrowly avoid going flat on your face.

Anyway, we got there in a ragged group, weaving around the slower passengers, pushed aside by those eager to get there first and avoid a queue. All items of luggage were scanned without incident - it turns out, against all probability that everyone had exactly the same things they had brought with them in Dubai. Who'd've thought?

And then the same trip again, in reverse. And it became clear how important it was to remember the gate number. Bangkok's main terminal is modern and architecturally interesting, but it's very minimalist, chrome, grey paint and bare concrete, similar in style to the new underground stations in docklands. It's a very large enclosed space, a great tube arching above you, probably big enough to fit a plane inside, if you're not concerned about cosmetic details like wings. And its long. In fact, it's looooong. Extra o's are needed for an accurate description. So long that it's very difficult to judge how far along it you've come. Distinctive landmarks are infrequent. The only thing that really stood out was an ornate pagoda, painted deep red and gold, quite a contrast to the surroundings.

We did manage to get back to the right gate though. The lady who had swapped seats with me was there, as were other faces vaguely recognised. And typically we then had to wait a little longer than expected. It seems that some new passengers had decided that having paid hundreds of dollars for a trip to Australia, they'd rather stay at home. They were somewhere in the airport, their baggage checked in and on board. I expect they're still there, wandering up and down travellators, looking for a gate they recognise. They're not gonna get deep vein thrombosis though.

Places you go to but don't visit.

2007-10-30T02:14:40Z

Dubai airport is clean, bright and very spangly, tackily proud of it's reputation as the richest destination in the Arab world. They have palms all along the concourse, rigged with fairy lights, and gold filigree on the roof. Lots of marble too, and big windows. I think that's what they had in mind with Milton Keynes shopping centre, but it works far better here. More importantly, they have air conditioning. So does the plane. But the tube between them doesn't. The heat hits you like a sauna, 33 degrees and it's only 7am. I'd like to visit here properly one day, but not in August. Everything is too hot - even the toilets flush with warm water. I guess it costs too much to cool it down.

Back in the air, and this time we'll be flying in bright sunlight. I'm hopeful I might actually get to see something now. It's a new plane, different layout, and I'm the other side of the aisle from my travelling companions (and equally importantly, the window), until a very kind aussie on her way home agrees to swap seats. I'm sure I got the best deal. I'm reunited with my friends (and the window); she gets to sit next to a horde of young kids, their parents minding the rest of their brood a few rows in front. In fairness, they're well behaved, and she lets one sleepy tot stretch his legs out on her lap. Later, when my knees feel cramped, I wonder if I could swap again. Maybe she'd let me put my feet in her lap too. Probably not.

Anyway, finally a chance to see something out the window! Well, if anyone wants to know my impression of the Indian subcontinent, I'd have to say 'fluffy'. I like the way clouds look from above, a definite improvement on their underside, but they do tend to block the view. I didn't get to see even the merest hint of land until we crossed the coast of Thailand, descending for our next landing. Predictably, ouch! Again! Though perhaps not as bad as last time.

alex_downunder @ 2007-10-30T12:05:00

2007-10-30T02:10:42Z

Okay, think Pulp Fiction, non-linear storytelling. I make no attempt to present anything in the order it happened. Maybe one day I'll organise it chronologically, like the alternate cut of Memento. Til then, enjoy the randomness.

Safer than crossing the road

2007-10-22T06:31:56Z

So they say, anyway. True or not, I'm in still one piece after jumping out of a plane today. Once I got over the initial experience of freefall - breathing is very hard until you get the hang of it - the ride down was fantastic. Pacific Ocean on one side, wooded hills the other, in between the teenie houses and streets of Wollongong. Over far too quickly for my liking.

More details in a few days, I want to share this one in more detail.

Later

alex_downunder @ 2007-10-18T11:14:00

2007-10-18T01:26:42Z

Satisfied that we were competent enough not to dent his insurance premium, Dave took us off in the van, two towns eastward to Wentworth falls, where, after a picnic lunch of ham and peanut butter (hey, once you face one fear, the rest are easy, right), we set off down the bush track towards the canyon. The walk was rather dull, a sandy path with hundreds of uneven log steps, and probably because it was so repetitive, and I was too eager to get to they canyon, I wasn't paying enough attention to where my feet were going. Turning a corner, I felt my ankle twist painfully beneath me.

If you want a definition of irony for an American acquaintance, there you have it. After mocking a friend just weeks before for not paying attention and twisting his ankle in a rather pathetic manner, thus forcing him to spend much of his holiday indoors, I did exactly the same, brought low by a mere step, after spending the morning harmlessly negotiating thirty metre cliffs.

At the bottom of a valley, it was going to be a tough trip back to the van whichever way I went, onward or back. And with such a small group, with only one instructor, escorting me back up to the top would halt the trip for everyone. The looks on every face were a peculiar mix of genuine concern and annoyance as this conclusion dawned on them too. Luckily for me, my injury wasn't actually so severe. After the initial shock of pain, the ankle felt okay to walk on. I was relieved. I tested it down the last few dozen steps to the sandy little creek at the canyon entrance, and decided that so long as I treated it with respect, it would hold out just fine.

Anyway, with that little crisis provisionally resolved, it was time to suit up. Even in the height of the Aussie summer, a mountain creek is not to be attempted without a wetsuit. And this was the first tour of spring. Still, I'm British, so I'm used to swimming in freezing cold water. Our beaches don't have any other variety. You can always tell people who have never used a wetsuit before - they're really tentative about getting into the water. Dave, myself and Marie plunged right in, knowing the sooner we got wet, the sooner the suit would heat up. Martin was more cautious, wading in a bit at a time, and suffering for it. Fairly rapidly, I was quite comfortable, certainly moreso than the others, who shivered noticeably, though I suspect some over-acting. Only my hands were painfully chilled, but the habit of lifting them out of the water soon became automatic. My bare ankles quickly went numb, which under the circumstances was a blessing, so as we set off I felt pretty good.

It was an interesting and challenging trip, wading waist-deep along the sandy creek bed, then clambering up over slippery rocks as the torrent rushed past us. I trailed at the back of the group, taking great care how I placed my feet, but this careful approach was actually a benefit because I was really able to appreciate the surroundings as I went. A strip of blue sky with occasional ragged clouds above, tumbled limestone cliffs either side, stripes of rusty ochre, blood-red hematite eroded to intricate patterns. Plenty of scrubby bushes and ferns clinging to every crevice. Here and there sandy pools with darting silvery fishes. And no beaten trail for the casual bushwalkers. Only those who like us were prepared to suit up and be adventurous would ever see this place.

A few hundred metres into the canyon, Dave called us to a halt. We had arrived at the first jump. Here the river plunged over a smooth lip into a deep, freezing pool two metres below. Overhead, the sheer canyon walls closed into a vaulted cave. This really was the point of no return. After this the only option was onward. It didn't take me long to catch up with the rest of the group, because they were all huddled at the water's edge, umming and erring about who would leap first. Both Martin and Marie seemed far more concerned by the prospect of total immersion in the dark chilly waters than the jump itself. Up to this point they had tried to avoid the water as much as possible, whereas I knew that the best way to stay warm was to remain submerged, so I scrambled up past them and took the plunge.

Damn it was cold, but nevertheless it wasn't an altogether unpleasant experience. Once my head broke the surface and I could draw breath, it was a relaxing swim to the nearby shore, floating lazily on my back, aided by the rucksack which formerly had carried the wetsuit, climbing harness and helmet, now sealed to provide extra floatation. I paddled across the pool and waited for the others to join me, which they did, in Martin's case with an impressive tsunami-inducing divebomb.

The journey proceeded in this manner for I'm not sure how long, wading through the shallows, scrambling up to the next jump, another leap, another swim, back to wading again. Then, at the far edge of one pool, Dave's voice called out urgently 'Do NOT go any further'. Well, so far his advice had kept us all unscathed, so I immediately halted. Or tried to - a narrowing of the channel was creating an insistent current, so I abandoned swimming and planted my feet as firmly on the rocky bottom as I could. Dave clambered past me onto the ledge, where he set about affixing ropes to the anchors embedded in the rock. Soon we were ready for the final descent, and this time I didn't hesitate to volunteer to go first. The prospect didn't seem as intimidating this time, after all the descent here was no higher than those I had successfully attempted that morning. And this time the abseil wasn't optional. There was no way back up the creek, and no way down except by rope. So I strapped myself in and leaned out over the abyss once more, even sneaking a look down the rockface to the pool below. Water cascaded all around me in a foamy white torrent, Empress Falls, a magnificent sight from the lookouts below, even more impressive from right at the top of it.

Down I went, trying to remember everything I had learned that morning, maintaining control over my rate of descent, searching for suitable places to plant my feet. But it soon became apparent that this was nothing like the rock faces I had encountered that morning. The rocks were slippery as ice, a layer of shiny green slime coating every potential foothold. Millennia of erosion had left the cliff-face an undulating wave of ridges and overhangs. And the creek, well water tends to go what gravity wants it to, and so does a guy on the end of a rope, so I was basically hanging in the heart of the downpour, icy waters pouring interminably on my head. It's hard to concentrate in such circumstances, so inevitably my feet slipped beneath me, leaving me hanging pressed against the slimy rockface.

It could have been far worse. I wasn't upside down at least. 'Push yourself out with your feet' Dave called unhelpfully from above. That didn't seem very to happen - there wasn't any room for my feet, or anywhere stable to put them, so I just lowered myself gingerly past another overhang to the next ledge. Once I was back on my feet again it was easier going. There were a few more slips along the way, and I was glad of the wetsuit's padding, but I got the hang of staying out of the way of the main torrent, and soon I was just a few metres above the pool - time for the final jump. I couldn't really see below me too well, and jumping backwards isn't something I'm usually keen to attempt, but Dave had assured us it was wide and deep, so off I went.

When I surfaced I got a round of applause. A bush track wound past the little beach at the waterfall's base, and a small crowd had gathered to watch my descent. I was relieved that I hadn't been aware of this on the way down. I was still attached to the safety rope, so I floated on my back struggling to untie the tight damp knot. I must've looked something like a sea otter struggling to get into his dinner.

The others then made their descent. Martin seemed to have got over his tendency to drop like a brick, but I was pleased to see he slipped in the same place I had. Marie made it down without a hitch. Then we waited for Dave. He took his time, because he had to re-rig the ropes so he could release them from the bottom, but eventually he appeared at the waterfalls mouth and leapt out. And that was it, over in a moment. Leaping from rock to rock, he was down in barely ten seconds. Made the rest of us look kinda pathetic. But then he had been practicing since he was ten.

And there the tale should end, probably with tea and scones, then into the van and back to the hostel for a hot shower and a comfy sofa. And it did, eventually. Unfortunately the van was parked about 100 metres above us. The slog back up the hundreds of steps nearly killed me. Still, I made it eventually. And as I crawled into bed that night, ridiculously early, I understood why Katoomba shuts at sunset - everyone is worn out.

As brave as a 12 year old girl

2007-10-17T05:28:04Z

So skip now to last week. Spring is here with a vengeance, and Sydney is a pleasant place to be, but I'm running out of things to gawp at, and I'm giving serious consideration to moving south. My original plan to remain in the area til New Year was always a flexible one, and lately I have been inundated with suggestions of other places to visit. Tasmania, never part of the itinerary, is sounding very tempting. Anyway, someone mentions that the temperature will soon hit, and probably pass, 30 degrees, and that's too much for me, if I can avoid it. I remember that yes, I can avoid it, because it's usually 5 or 6 degrees cooler in the mountains, so off I go.

No longer having access to a car or a chauffeur, train is the only option. The railway follows the highway, running right beside it for much of the way. I head to the station round the corner and am pleasantly surprised at how cheap the ticket is. I suppose in a country this vast, Katoomba is really just up the road. I get to Central Station without a hitch, but then, presumably in an attempt to make me feel at home, I am helpfully informed there are trackworks all weekend, so I embark onto a coach (so they say, it's a bus by my standards). The coach sets out to negotiate the mid-morning traffic, and we eventually arrive at Penrith, last gasp of urban sprawl before the ground rears up steeply before us. I transfer to a train, and await the scenic journey to my final destination. And wait. And wait some more.

Okay, a bus holds fewer passengers than a train, so I can't fault their logic, but we have to wait for at least one more busload to arrive before we set off. Not that the train is an unpleasant place to while away the time. It's a double-decker, still a novel thing for me, for I've never gone by rail outside the UK. When I think of the uncomfortable hours spent crowded into a British commuter train, standing room only, if you're lucky, it astounds me that Branson doesn't invest in some of these. The carriages are old, but they're well kept. I'm reminded of a cheap caravan interior, lots of faux-pine veneer everywhere, and the seats are worn green leather. They're cleverly designed too. You can flip the chair backs to face the other way, so you always get the seat you want.

Once we were finally underway, the trip was a good one, clear blue skies all the way, sunshine through eucalyptus leaves, and the occasional panorama out over the plains to the ocean. I arrived relaxed and comfortable, but due to the delays much later than expected, so I headed directly to the hostel, which was colourful, comfortable, but empty. I was let in by a random guest, and as I waited for the owner to arrive, my eyes wandered around the large loungeroom, looking for something to occupy myself. A large, nearly completed jigsaw held my attention for five minutes. The bookshelf of tattered, well loved volumes, mostly in German for some reason, occupied another five. The TV was a non-starter - Australian mid-afternoon programming is dire. Eventually, my attention was drawn to the large blackboard in the corner.

'Welcome to the Flying Fox.' Well that's a good start. I'm in the right hostel and the walls are friendly.

'Mountain Biking - $28!' Not really me. Bikes are not my ally.

'Horse riding!' More tempting, but I've done it before, and if you're not that experienced, you get an old docile nag that won't go faster than a walk. If I ride anything here it'll be a camel.

'Abseiling!' Nah, far too dangerous. I'm such a big chicken - I'm not proud of that, but I can't deny it. But...and that's where these tales usually begin, that ominous 'but'. But, I'm here for an adventure after all, alone, far from home, looking for new experiences. So when the manager, Ross, finally arrives, I ask him about abseiling. Noncommittally, of course. Enthusiastically, he tells me he knows the best adventure tours in town, he'll ring round a few options in the morning if I'd like. Fantastic! I get to sleep on it. Plenty of time to be sensible and back out. Maybe he'll forget all about it.

But the more I think about it, the more I'd like to give it a try, and after breakfast next morning, I ask again. Ross makes a few calls, gets a few quotes. But it's still not main tourist season yet, tours only run if enough people want them. The best offer is only a half day excursion. There is another option though, same price as abseiling, a whole day adventure. Canyoning. Sounds intriguing. Clambering over rocks in a deep gorge, swimming through freezing mountain streams. Abseiling down waterfalls. Obviously the mountain air, combined with the now apparent lack of anything to do in town, had piqued my sense of adventure.

An hour later and I'm standing on top of a three metre outcrop, trussed up like a Christmas turkey. It sure looks a lot higher than it did from the bottom. Luckily, I'm not the only one having reservations. Martin (Irish, a rock-hopping virgin like me) and I offer Marie (Danish, slightly experienced, but still terrified) moral support as she leans back over the edge, and disappears from view. Then it's my turn. Dave, our intrepid guide, shows me how to hook the rope to my harness, and over I go. I'm terrified. Probably more terrified of messing it up and looking a fool than falling and injuring myself. Dave has attached a safety line onto me, so I know I'm not going to crash into the path below. But leaning back over the edge, letting your centre of gravity drop into empty void is a disconcerting experience.

Once you're over, it's not so bad. The only option is down, and the speed of your descent is entirely in your own hands, literally. I'm sure it takes me twice as long as Marie to get to the bottom, it's a slow, painstaking descent, but Dave seems satisfied. Martin goes last. He's keen to get down as fast as possible, and there's a lack of control that is obviously giving Dave some concern. It's good not to be the class dunce. Anyway, we each try a second descent, and Dave thinks we're all ready to move to the next stage.

Drop two is about 10 metres. Funny thing is, I can't remember much about it. The brain can probably process so much in a day, and my dreams that night were preoccupied with the higher descents that followed. I think I went first this time. I was told I was brave to volunteer, but to be honest, it's best to get it over with, and I didn't want the others imparting tales of dread before it was my turn. All I knew going over was that there would be an overhang a few metres down.

Once again, going over the edge is the hardest part. After all, why leave a perfectly solid cliff edge if you don't have to. I made a point of not looking down, and walked my feet carefully down the cliff. Fairly soon my feet were on the edge of the overhang. Dave's advice had been to plant my toes firmly on the lip, lower my body til nearly horizontal, then push out and drop a few metres. There was quite a bit of room here for error. Push off when you're too upright and your chin will swing back to greet the rocky edge. Lower yourself too far with your feet still on the rock, and there's a risk of ending upside down. Not only is this not a dignified way to descend, but if the harness, (which is rather like those baby walkers you bounce around in as a tot) isn't tight enough, out you'll come.

Luckily my harness was tight, of that I had made specially sure. In fact, it was damn uncomfortable, my whole body weight pressing down on some pretty sensitive areas, but I was secure. And Dave's advice worked a treat. Suddenly I was hanging in midair, still about seven metres up, the cliffside quite a distance away. Now some people apparently find this disconcerting, they find the presence of a nearby cliff somehow comforting - land is land, even if it is vertical. Me, I liked hanging there, slowly rotating as I lowered myself. The absence of nearby cliff was just one less thing to worry about. I actually found myself looking about to admire the view. It was a pretty good one too.

The landing was a bit precarious. A rocky ledge just a couple of metres wide, with another cliff beyond, it wasn't that flat, the surface was kinda loose, and whether due to the discomfort of the tight harness, or just general-purpose fear, it seemed my legs took a while to remember how to stand up. I released the harness and waited for Martin to descend. He was still bombing along, eager to get down, but he was obviously enjoying himself. We went up for another go each, then it was time to move to the last descent of the morning.

For the final stage, we had some company. Another tour group, much larger than our own, were negotiating the next cliff over, so while Dave set up we settled ourselves to watch the show. We weren't disappointed - one guy, in his eagerness, did end up with his head pointing downwards for a while. It was informative to watch how he eventually rectified this situation. The most inspiring thing though was a young girl, perhaps 11 or 12, sitting with her mum, crying because this height was just too much for her. We had a quick chat with her, letting her know we were all terrified too, that she was very brave to have got this far, then moved on to where Dave was now ready for us. A few minutes later, we looked over to see the kid strapped in and making her descent.

Now it's impossible to back out when a little girl is gutsy enough to go through with it, so down we all went. I think everyone experiences fear if their own unique way. Some people fear heights, and the higher they are, the greater the fear. Others fear the sensation of falling. For me, the concern is more practical - hitting the ground and going splat! If it's safe and stable, stick me up a skyscraper and I'm fine, but I'm nervous at the top of a wobbly ladder. So when the others voiced their fears at the height of this final stage, I had to admit I didn't feel any difference to what had come before. I'm not sure they believed me. Ten metres onto a sharp, rocky floor is plenty high enough to kill you. Anything on top of that is just more time to think on the way down.

So, for me at least, it went by much as the previous times. No matter how much you do it, that first backwards lean out over nothing is the hardest part. I had finally got the hang of settling myself in the harness so it didn't cut off my circulation, so I quite enjoyed the trip down. I'll go as far as saying I was eager to go again. But there was a snag. To modify some popular wisdom, what goes down must come back up, especially if it wants another go. And the route back up wasn't a winding path like before, but a thirty metre scramble up a steep ravine. It was fun, but by the time I got back up to the top I was worn out, and I just couldn't be arsed to go through it again. Of course the others assumed I was too chicken to go again. I'll forgive them the error - they don't know me well enough to realise fear is a far lesser enemy than sheer laziness.

Besides, I was keen to get on with the day. You see, this wasn't the real adventure, this was just practice....

Yes, they really are blue

2007-10-16T08:36:15Z

Okay, lets start at the beginning. It should be obvious that I didn't go to Katoomba for the nightlife. So why did I go?

Lets go back a month or so. I had been in Oz for about 3 weeks, and the weather had taken a turn for the worse. To be fair it was still a few days until winter officially ended, and it wasn't terrible by British standards, but it was fairly chilly and grey, certainly poor enough to squash my enthusiasm to go out and indulge in touristy things. I had already sampled a range of Sydney musts from the guidebook, and nothing was urgently gripping my attention, so I spent a day or two just loitering around the house catching up on my movie backlog.

Then one morning I was awoken unexpectedly by the arrival of R&C, with an invitation to accompany them to the Blue Mountains for the day. It wasn't the ideal time for a country excursion, but they were heading back to Blighty in a few days, and until then had the use of a car, so off we went.

After an hour or so negotiating the congested and often confusing urban traffic, we were venturing up the Great Western Highway, climbing steeply into the foothills of the mountains. For many years of Australia's early colonial history, the sheer cliffs of the Great Dividing Range prevented any european expansion beyond the narrow coastal plain. Attempts to find negotiable passes up the river valleys failed, always blocked by impassable waterfalls. Then someone hit on the idea of finding a route up over the ridgetops, and a few years later the first road opened up the fertile interior of New South Wales. It's still pretty much the only route west out of Sydney, and the loose collection of towns and villages that call themselves rather pretentiously 'City of the Blue Mountains' are strung along its length, crowding a ribbon of plateau barely a mile wide with a sheer drop either side.

We headed to Katoomba, the largest town and main tourist centre for the area. Our first stop was Echo Point, a custom built lookout offering spectacular views of the Jamison Valley and Mount Solitary, which as the name suggests is a lone peak rising steeply from the valley floor. Of greatest interest to most people who come here are the Three Sisters, a formation of three eroded pillars jutting out from the cliffside. There is of course an ancient Aboriginal legend accounting for their origin. It's written on the wall of the visitor's centre, so it must be authentic. Oh, and on the wall at the other visitor centre down the road, too. Except that version's slightly different.

Almost every postcard, calendar and t-shirt on offer at the souvenir shop features this landmark, and it seemed to me that's all many people are interested in. You know the drill at these places. Coach pulls up at the carpark, everybody piles out, cameras get set up, tourists strike stupid poses with the Three Sisters in the background, then off for tea and scones before piling back onto the coach Sydney-bound.

For the slightly more adventurous (only slightly) there is Scenic World. Any place with a name like that will either be well worth the trip, or a spectacular disappointment. It's actually worthwhile, offering a glass-bottomed cable car ride over the gorge at its narrowest point, past the spectacular Katoomba falls, a choice of boardwalks through the forested valley bottom, and the world's steepest railway up the side of the cliff, an experience akin to a very serene rollercoaster. Perfect for the lazy explorer (which, let's face it, most of us are).

It was a fine way to spend the day, beautiful even in the cold drizzle that intermittently made its presence felt, but as we prepared to return to the city, I felt that I had barely scratched the surface. I should wait for spring to assert itself, then return here for a few days, really give myself the chance to immerse myself in the mountain life. So I did.

Six nights in Katoomba

2007-10-15T09:04:44Z

Melodramatic, huh? What a great name for a place though. Katooooom-ba. Sounds exotic, and slightly wild, evoking perhaps some dingy smugglers' den in the heart of the Congo. Good name for a Bond villain too. But does a place always live up to its name?

In this case, resoundingly no.

Katoomba is dull. And not just compared to Sydney - that'd hardly be a fair comparison for most places really. Nope, by any standard, it's a boring place to be stuck. And stuck I was; for one interminable day I tried to entertain myself about town, to little avail.

One of a handful of shabby towns strung out along the Great Western Highway, it's a sprawling collection of typically Aussie suburban houses, many looking sadly neglected. Here and there are signs of a thriving industrial past, but the warehouses and factories you'll find if you venture beyond the main precinct are empty and crumbling. The only part offering any interest to an outsider is the single commercial street, a long straight road down a steep hill, overpopulated with tiny cafes, overpriced novelty shops crammed with the usual tat, and more travel tour operators than I have ever seen in one place. No theatres, few museums of note, one cinema, poorly signposted and boasting just one screen. To complete the ensemble, in a town covering a few square miles, there are about four pubs. I still suspect there may be a secret enclave somewhere in town reserved for the locals, perhaps guarded by some sinister cult or conspiracy. Somebody somewhere had to be having more fun than me.

Oh, and everything shuts at night. By 'night', I mean after sunset, which at this time of year occurs around teatime. There is just one place open til midnight - the supermarket, which becomes a veritable hub of activity after dark.

Now you'd expect such a dire shortage of drinking holes, coupled with the total lack of other nocturnal entertainment, to result in anywhere still open attracting hordes of thirsty locals, but the few pubs are eerily empty, any day of the week. Sundays are the worst though, causing me to severely doubt the accuracy of my watch when told the bar was closing in 5 minutes. The display said 9:25pm. Worryingly, so did the clock on the wall.

Different places, different customs and all that, but the Aussies have a reputation for drinking to rival us Brits, so I incredulously asked the staff if this was typical procedure. In that helpful, friendly way so lacking back home, they immediately put me right. The silly foreigner had clearly misunderstood. Indeed, it would be ridiculous for a pub to shut so early. We still had another hour to enjoy the practically empty premises. Nope, the pub definitely wasn't shutting. Just the bar.

So there I was, slowly eeking out the remains of my schooner (a sorry excuse for a pint - Aussies must have weak wrists or something) with two guys I had met back in the city. They had quite randomly walked into the pub after traveling to Katoomba on a whim. They had arrived at sunset and had quickly reached the same conclusion as me - the town had little to offer anyone breathing. Grabbing a quick drink before heading back to Sydney in defeat, they had been surprised to see me, and I them. We commiserated in our mutual boredom, exchanged unlikely tales of our exploits in the week since we had last spoken. And then...then I started to persuade them that they absolutely had to come back. And not just for a day, but for as much time as they could spare.

Why? If everything I have written here about this grotty town is true (and it is), what could possess me to recommend it so highly to anyone? Well, the same thing that inspires travelers to come here each spring in their millions. No-one comes for the town. It's just somewhere to grab a coffee and a souvenir, or for the more adventurous, somewhere to go to bed early and rest your weary bones. But at the southern edge of town, the earth drops away in spectacular 100m limestone cliffs, and beyond, a rugged wilderness of eucalyptus forest clinging to steep valleys and precipitous ravines. It is probably the most impressive landscape I have ever beheld, reminiscent of the grand canyon if they got the gardeners in. Even on the most, dreary winters day it is beautiful, a mist of eucalyptus oil rising from the foliage to tinge the air, giving this section of the great dividing range it's name, the Blue Mountains.

I'm sure that Jason and Zach will return to Katoomba. I didn't have to sell it, I just told them about my day in the bush, and they were convinced. Next post I'll tell that story.

alex_downunder @ 2007-10-05T18:01:00

2007-10-05T08:06:53Z

Go by tube

I have never liked flying. I expect I'd enjoy a trip in a light aircraft, and I've enjoyed being dragged behind a boat strapped to a parachute. But airliners take what should be the most incredible thing a gravity-bound human being could experience, and make it dull. You sit in a chair bolted inside a metal tube for hours, and if you're not lucky enough to get a seat by the tiny window, you get no sense that you are actually going anywhere. They could fly you in circles all night and land 20 miles down the road, and it would feel pretty much the same. I have traveled above far more places than I will ever visit, passing too rapidly over sights I'd like to get out and see.

And then there's the landing. As a pilot quipped to me once, take-offs are all optional; landings are all compulsory. Unfortunate, because I like the landing the least. My ears never fail to ache, and sometimes continue to do so for hours after I disembark.

So I wasn't exactly looking forward to the long-haul to Australia. Looking forward to the destination, without a doubt, but not the trip. I'd prefer to take the bus, or a ferry, but it takes just a little too long. Flying is really the only option. Oh well...

And landings. Three of them. Three chances for my ears to explode, with no time for recovery between. I wished an Airbus could refuel midair like a jet fighter. Restocking the pantry in flight might be a little more complicated though.

Let's just say I was pleasantly surprised. Not much of a view at first, for we took off at sunset and were in darkness before leaving Britain's coast. But I have always appreciated the way cities look at night, like bright orange galaxies, laced with rivers of white and red flowing in opposite directions. Even Birmingham looks pretty, when you get high enough.

For the next few hours we passed over Europe as it got ready for bed. One city pretty much looks like another from 20,000 feet - different size constellations, but generally the same pattern of random wiggly streets. So it gets a little dull. Luckily, they provide plenty to occupy you. I hadn't been to the cinema much in the months before, so I whiled away the hours up in that aluminium tube with quite a movie marathon. But even that gets dull too, eventually. So I turned my attention back to the camera in the nose of the plane.

At first I thought it was broken. Fuzzy black, nothing else. No towns, or any sign of life down there. I checked the map. We had just tuned south, making a cautious dogleg to avoid Iraqi airspace, and were flying down the other side of the Persian Gulf, the highlands of Iran beneath us, apparently. I'd have to take their word for it. Then I began to notice there was something down there after all, faint flickering lights, perhaps just small campfires in the wilderness. And the faintest hint of horizon. I put on some music and waited.

It is a breathtaking thing to behold the sun rise over the desert, a landscape as arid and blasted as the moon. I've never seen anywhere like it, vast swirls of brown and red rock, bare of vegetation, marching ridge after ridge to the fuzzy horizon. Hard to believe that anyone lives there, or that they would fight so hard for it. Oh, and it works really well with Jimi Hendrix as a soundtrack. East meets west I suppose. Excuse me while I touch the sky, indeed.

And then we landed. Ouch! I think I'm deaf.