3:25am– Packing is going well. I've squished and squeezed all my belongings into 3 suitcases. A kookaburra chuckles in the night from somewhere close by.
3:55am– I am attempting to stay up all night. I'm hoping this will help reset my internal clock in preparation for my 14 hour flight back to the US. The neighbor who often practices his saxophone has begun an unusually late hour rehearsal-- perhaps my so-long serenade? Yeah, right.
4:10am– On my last night in Australia, I'm pondering the questions that are bound to come my way as soon as I return home: What did you like best? What will you miss most? I've been trying to really observe and take in all the details in these final few days.
I love the smell of the gum trees. They line the sidewalk between the apartment and the train station, so I pass them each day and find myself always taking in a deep breath.
I love the sound of the magpies and the myna birds. Magpies, especially, have a light, airy chortle that you can see in their throats as they lift their heads up, singing towards the sky.
I love the fresh produce and seafood. Rocket (arugula) and ginger, especially, are prevalent in many restaurant recipes. I love the bite of the sharp, fragrant flavors. The oysters are fresh and refreshing- the perfect light dish for a hot summer evening. Salt & pepper squid melts in my mouth, so tender and sweet.
I'm going to miss my friends and hosts. They've been so hospitable to take me traveling with them and show me the sights. I've lived a once in a lifetime experience!
I'm going to miss the sunshine. It's intense and hot when it peeks out from behind the clouds, but somehow it's clearer, brighter. Not exactly like a David Hockney painting, but for anyone familiar with his work, it's similar in it's vividness as it highlights the bluest ocean and sky.
4:55am– Soon the cockatoos will screech and caw as they awaken with the sunrise, and I prepare for my return to winter.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
Final Countdown
I'm giddy with anticipation as my 14 hour flight back to the US looms near. With less than 3 days left in Sydney, I've been scrambling to fit in all the things I didn't get around to doing already... it's hard to believe there's anything left to do after almost 10 weeks Down Under.
Due to extreme flooding, and the fact that it's mid-summer and hot-hot-hot in Cairns, Queensland, I decided I'd rather wait until "next time" to go up to the Great Barrier Reef. Instead I took a four day trip to Melbourne to visit an old friend. A few evenings in the city and the weekend at Rosebud (more details to come in my next entry) were the perfect way to relax as my holiday is coming to an end.
Making the most of my next few remaining days in Australia, I've got plans to walk across the Harbour Bridge (not climb it, since that costs $180+), watch the Aussie film "Candy" starring Heath Ledger (RIP), and consume my fill of Bundaburg's Ginger Beer and soft black licorice.
I also have to pack. I had to buy a third suitcase for all my stuff! Now I just hope my luggage is not over-weight. Too many Tim Tam cookies!
Due to extreme flooding, and the fact that it's mid-summer and hot-hot-hot in Cairns, Queensland, I decided I'd rather wait until "next time" to go up to the Great Barrier Reef. Instead I took a four day trip to Melbourne to visit an old friend. A few evenings in the city and the weekend at Rosebud (more details to come in my next entry) were the perfect way to relax as my holiday is coming to an end.
Making the most of my next few remaining days in Australia, I've got plans to walk across the Harbour Bridge (not climb it, since that costs $180+), watch the Aussie film "Candy" starring Heath Ledger (RIP), and consume my fill of Bundaburg's Ginger Beer and soft black licorice.
I also have to pack. I had to buy a third suitcase for all my stuff! Now I just hope my luggage is not over-weight. Too many Tim Tam cookies!
10 Days in NZ
At the beginning of February, we spent ten days on New Zealand's South Island. Picturesque and cultural, it reminded me of growing up in the Pacific Northwest. The natural beauty, the outdoorsy lifestyle, and the native influences felt familiar, like home.
On our drive over the Southern Alps towards the western coastal town of Greymouth, most of my view of scenic New Zealand was from the rear seat of our rental car. Mist hung heavily in the morning air, covering the mountain tops in its thick white cloak.
As we drove up to Arthur's Pass on our return trip to Christchurch, however, the sunshine broke through the white blanket to reveal balding, dry mountains, thirsty from the long-time drought they've been suffering through. The forests, though, remained lush with evergreens, alpine trees, and tropical brush.
I have been charmed by this beautiful country, with its unearthly beauty, kind people, and quaint towns. Nestled along the eastern side of the mountains, just about 90-minutes drive from Christchurch, sat a small resort town called Hanmer Springs. With its small shop-lined streets and tourists strolling about, we stopped for a stretch just as a light rain began to fall.
It's not uncommon for a two-lane road to share a single lane bridge to cross many of the low riverbeds. In one instance just outside of Greymouth we crossed a bridge that was shared between two lanes of oncoming traffic AND train tracks.
Sheep were, of course, everywhere. The meat of choice Down Under, I expected to see many sheep, but I met this fine specimen not in the wild, but at the Willowbank Wildlife Reserve just outside Christchurch.
Most of the week was spent in Christchurch exploring the city. I visited the Christchurch Art Gallery/Te Puna O Waiwhetu, where I enjoyed the exhibit highlighting art by graduates from the University of Canterbury Fine Arts program of the past 125 years. We learned more about the Maori culture and the lives of Christchurch's early settlers at the Canterbury Museum. There is also a huge connection between New Zealand and Antarctica, which may be common knowledge, but I was unaware of before my visit.
The highlight of my time in New Zealand had to be the Nature Cruise we took in Akaroa Harbour. About an hour and a half bus ride brought us along winding, narrow roads down Banks Peninsula from Christchurch into town. Shops and cafés line the French-named streets, and occasional French flags remind visitors of the town's original settlers around 1840. Now the town attracts travelers with its offerings of eco-based tours.
Endangered Hector's dolphins swam alongside our boat as we entered the deeper waters of the harbour, cruising along towards the great Pacific Ocean. Mother and calf joined at least six other members of their pod to greet us and play in our wake. Upon reaching open water, the swells felt like they'd launch us from where we stood at the bow into the cool, crystal blue water. After several breathtaking lurches up, then down, then up, then down, we entered another inlet where seals slept, sun bathed, and play within the sheltering cliffs. On the ride back into the harbour, we withstood 80km/hr winds as we, again, clung tightly to the bow.
Our last day in town we caught a free performance by a trio of actors set up in the Botanic Gardens, "The Complete History of New Zealand (Abridged)." In 90 minutes, with some outrageous humor, they summarized the volcanic land development, native history and colonization, Waitangi Day (kind of like their Independence Day), politics, pop culture and the Lord of the Rings, of course.
On our drive over the Southern Alps towards the western coastal town of Greymouth, most of my view of scenic New Zealand was from the rear seat of our rental car. Mist hung heavily in the morning air, covering the mountain tops in its thick white cloak.
As we drove up to Arthur's Pass on our return trip to Christchurch, however, the sunshine broke through the white blanket to reveal balding, dry mountains, thirsty from the long-time drought they've been suffering through. The forests, though, remained lush with evergreens, alpine trees, and tropical brush.
I have been charmed by this beautiful country, with its unearthly beauty, kind people, and quaint towns. Nestled along the eastern side of the mountains, just about 90-minutes drive from Christchurch, sat a small resort town called Hanmer Springs. With its small shop-lined streets and tourists strolling about, we stopped for a stretch just as a light rain began to fall.
It's not uncommon for a two-lane road to share a single lane bridge to cross many of the low riverbeds. In one instance just outside of Greymouth we crossed a bridge that was shared between two lanes of oncoming traffic AND train tracks.
Sheep were, of course, everywhere. The meat of choice Down Under, I expected to see many sheep, but I met this fine specimen not in the wild, but at the Willowbank Wildlife Reserve just outside Christchurch.
Most of the week was spent in Christchurch exploring the city. I visited the Christchurch Art Gallery/Te Puna O Waiwhetu, where I enjoyed the exhibit highlighting art by graduates from the University of Canterbury Fine Arts program of the past 125 years. We learned more about the Maori culture and the lives of Christchurch's early settlers at the Canterbury Museum. There is also a huge connection between New Zealand and Antarctica, which may be common knowledge, but I was unaware of before my visit.
The highlight of my time in New Zealand had to be the Nature Cruise we took in Akaroa Harbour. About an hour and a half bus ride brought us along winding, narrow roads down Banks Peninsula from Christchurch into town. Shops and cafés line the French-named streets, and occasional French flags remind visitors of the town's original settlers around 1840. Now the town attracts travelers with its offerings of eco-based tours.
Endangered Hector's dolphins swam alongside our boat as we entered the deeper waters of the harbour, cruising along towards the great Pacific Ocean. Mother and calf joined at least six other members of their pod to greet us and play in our wake. Upon reaching open water, the swells felt like they'd launch us from where we stood at the bow into the cool, crystal blue water. After several breathtaking lurches up, then down, then up, then down, we entered another inlet where seals slept, sun bathed, and play within the sheltering cliffs. On the ride back into the harbour, we withstood 80km/hr winds as we, again, clung tightly to the bow.
Our last day in town we caught a free performance by a trio of actors set up in the Botanic Gardens, "The Complete History of New Zealand (Abridged)." In 90 minutes, with some outrageous humor, they summarized the volcanic land development, native history and colonization, Waitangi Day (kind of like their Independence Day), politics, pop culture and the Lord of the Rings, of course.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Sydney vs. Boston vs. Melbourne
Leave it to a table full of New Englanders to spend an evening in Sydney, Australia discussing all the reasons this city ISN'T Boston. We ate tasty dinner of crocodile, kangaroo, and barramundi with a fine lemon butter sauce and broccolini. We drank a bottle of a beautiful Hunter Valley Shiraz. We sat out on the patio, the lively hum of summer hugged our ears, and the Opera House sat bright and majestic across the water of Circular Quay. But we all had Boston in common, and we all agreed that despite its many pluses, something was missing from our lives in Sydney.
So I sleep in my Red Sox t-shirt, that doesn't mean my heart belongs to New England only. Far from it, in fact.
We agreed that the restaurants in Sydney are outstanding. It goes without saying that the beaches are amazing. And where else can you sit out on a summer night and watch enormous bats swooping and diving overhead? But the lack of cozy pubs filled with smart 30-somethings, the lack of people reading on public transit, and the exorbitant cost of live music left us missing (just a little bit) our small, cold town. Maybe we're not looking in the right neighborhoods. Or maybe, when in Sydney, we should do as the Sydneysiders do. But what is it they do? Where do they go to unwind and relax when the work day is over?
I surmised that Melbourne might, culturally, be more akin to our historic hometown of drinkers and thinkers. I will report back next week, as it just so happens I'm going to Melbourne tomorrow for a long weekend. I'll be staying with a friend, a local there, who will be showing me the town. Hopefully my days will be filled with theater, music, art, creative inspiration and relaxation.
So I sleep in my Red Sox t-shirt, that doesn't mean my heart belongs to New England only. Far from it, in fact.
We agreed that the restaurants in Sydney are outstanding. It goes without saying that the beaches are amazing. And where else can you sit out on a summer night and watch enormous bats swooping and diving overhead? But the lack of cozy pubs filled with smart 30-somethings, the lack of people reading on public transit, and the exorbitant cost of live music left us missing (just a little bit) our small, cold town. Maybe we're not looking in the right neighborhoods. Or maybe, when in Sydney, we should do as the Sydneysiders do. But what is it they do? Where do they go to unwind and relax when the work day is over?
I surmised that Melbourne might, culturally, be more akin to our historic hometown of drinkers and thinkers. I will report back next week, as it just so happens I'm going to Melbourne tomorrow for a long weekend. I'll be staying with a friend, a local there, who will be showing me the town. Hopefully my days will be filled with theater, music, art, creative inspiration and relaxation.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
A Night at the Opera House, part 2
All this talk of music and I had completely forgotten about Sunday's Grammy Awards. I suppose they are highly anticipated in Australia, but they were completely off my radar, implying that perhaps there is not quite the equivalent media frenzy as back in the U.S. I was happy to hear, however, that New Zealand's own Flight of the Conchords won the award for Best Comedy Album. And speaking of New Zealand, I was just there! But more on that in my next entry.
Back to the Opera House.
Slinky fishnetted legs swaggered to jazz standards in the smokey, dimly lit spotlight of The Studio. The draping sleeves and feathered hat gave the "singer" the look of a Muppet crossed with Sally Bowles doing karaoke. Her hands were real, but her head was all foam. Tonight, at a cafe table in the small theater, I sipped a glass of champagne and watched with a smile as puppet after puppet "performed" song and dance in SOMA Puppets' Cabaret Décadance.
http://www.sydneyoperahouse.com/whatson/SOMAPuppetsCabaretDecadanse.aspx
Two puppeteers dressed in black worked in seamless unison to create flawlessly believable gestures and movements of each character, often risqué and always with humor. Implied and shared limbs converge as the three individuals become one performer. Sometimes the men in black were part of the act as they would interact with the puppet, and other times they were merely the momentum behind the dance.
And let me not forget the tri-lingual M.C., a French/Spanish/English-speaking foam-faced woman who waltzed across the stage between acts, occasionally lending her limbs to the main performances.
From life-sized characters with the Swedish Chef's style real hands, to sock puppets with elastic shoulders, to foam-beaked birds with feather fans as tails, the variety in song and style was beyond impressive. The performers were obviously trained in choreography and their inherent enthusiasm for their art and the music they'd chosen roused the audience to clap and laugh throughout the performance. Nina Simone's "Love Me or Leave Me" was one of my favorites, as the silver sequined starlet shimmied and swayed, swinging her green feather boa as she gestured and sang.
With Mardi Gras celebrations just around the corner, this was the perfect Priscilla Queen of the Desert-style performance to set the flamboyant tone for the festivities to come.
Back to the Opera House.
Slinky fishnetted legs swaggered to jazz standards in the smokey, dimly lit spotlight of The Studio. The draping sleeves and feathered hat gave the "singer" the look of a Muppet crossed with Sally Bowles doing karaoke. Her hands were real, but her head was all foam. Tonight, at a cafe table in the small theater, I sipped a glass of champagne and watched with a smile as puppet after puppet "performed" song and dance in SOMA Puppets' Cabaret Décadance.
http://www.sydneyoperahouse.com/whatson/SOMAPuppetsCabaretDecadanse.aspx
Two puppeteers dressed in black worked in seamless unison to create flawlessly believable gestures and movements of each character, often risqué and always with humor. Implied and shared limbs converge as the three individuals become one performer. Sometimes the men in black were part of the act as they would interact with the puppet, and other times they were merely the momentum behind the dance.
And let me not forget the tri-lingual M.C., a French/Spanish/English-speaking foam-faced woman who waltzed across the stage between acts, occasionally lending her limbs to the main performances.
From life-sized characters with the Swedish Chef's style real hands, to sock puppets with elastic shoulders, to foam-beaked birds with feather fans as tails, the variety in song and style was beyond impressive. The performers were obviously trained in choreography and their inherent enthusiasm for their art and the music they'd chosen roused the audience to clap and laugh throughout the performance. Nina Simone's "Love Me or Leave Me" was one of my favorites, as the silver sequined starlet shimmied and swayed, swinging her green feather boa as she gestured and sang.
With Mardi Gras celebrations just around the corner, this was the perfect Priscilla Queen of the Desert-style performance to set the flamboyant tone for the festivities to come.
A Night at the Opera House, part 1
With a roar of applause, Nigel Kennedy came on stage leading the Sydney Symphony Orchestra members after shouting an audible locker room style cheer from off stage. Just from the looks of him I knew I was in store for a classical performance unlike any I had experienced before. With his head shaved except for a deliberately unkempt patch on top, wearing a loose-fitting collarless black jacket that more resembled a beauty salon gown than a tuxedo, his entrance was more befitting a rock star than a violin virtuoso.
The crowd had grown anxious as we awaited the very tardy performers. But, all was obviously forgiven as he plunged into a solo Beethoven treat that was not on the program. Fast and furious, I was immediately absorbed in his mastery of the music and his instrument.
Having arrived at the Sydney Opera House early before the show, the sun was just beginning to set. We walked around inside the grand hallways, marveling at the architectural details that mimicked and reflected the über-famous exterior. Our seats were in an upper balcony, velvet and fuchsia colored. But, actually, there was not a bad seat in the whole Concert Hall since they were arranged 360 degrees around the central stage.
Kennedy played solo and directed the orchestra through Mozart's Violin Concerto No.4 in D, K218. Marvelous! He played with such style and enthusiasm, and it was so obvious the orchestra had a fun time with him as well. The delicate, light notes lilted through the hall. The harpsichord added an historic touch. Heavier notes resonated, full and bold. The performance was Kennedy's take on the piece, interpreted as I've heard jazz: as a dialog. Call and response between the soloist and the orchestra, or the soloist and another individual musician, was something I'd have thought unheard of in classical music, which is typically performed with such formality. The crowd was ecstatic!
His antics continued through to the end of the show. Apparently Kennedy and the first violinist were old school mates, so we were treated to a face-off of the two master musicians. They played a duet, which turned into a competition of sorts: prompting each other to progressively produce some of the highest notes a violin can play. He spoke of his co-stars as "proverbial MF's" with their exceeding talent. He spoke to the crowd, saying how important it is to be a patron of live music, and how much he enjoys "playing for live cats." The swagger in his step, whether from the drink, or drunk with creative passion, was genuine Kennedy.
Two encores later, I think the classical enthusiasts may have been a bit confused by the improv turn that took place after the end of Beethoven's Violin Concerto in D, Op.61. Beethoven's a bit of a sleeper, though, if you ask me. And I think the balding guy who nodded off in front of me might agree. But if all audiences could experience the treat of witnessing Kennedy and the SSO's playful theatrics, the sheer joy expressed through the music, classical music's reputation would change forever for the better.
The crowd had grown anxious as we awaited the very tardy performers. But, all was obviously forgiven as he plunged into a solo Beethoven treat that was not on the program. Fast and furious, I was immediately absorbed in his mastery of the music and his instrument.
Having arrived at the Sydney Opera House early before the show, the sun was just beginning to set. We walked around inside the grand hallways, marveling at the architectural details that mimicked and reflected the über-famous exterior. Our seats were in an upper balcony, velvet and fuchsia colored. But, actually, there was not a bad seat in the whole Concert Hall since they were arranged 360 degrees around the central stage.
Kennedy played solo and directed the orchestra through Mozart's Violin Concerto No.4 in D, K218. Marvelous! He played with such style and enthusiasm, and it was so obvious the orchestra had a fun time with him as well. The delicate, light notes lilted through the hall. The harpsichord added an historic touch. Heavier notes resonated, full and bold. The performance was Kennedy's take on the piece, interpreted as I've heard jazz: as a dialog. Call and response between the soloist and the orchestra, or the soloist and another individual musician, was something I'd have thought unheard of in classical music, which is typically performed with such formality. The crowd was ecstatic!
His antics continued through to the end of the show. Apparently Kennedy and the first violinist were old school mates, so we were treated to a face-off of the two master musicians. They played a duet, which turned into a competition of sorts: prompting each other to progressively produce some of the highest notes a violin can play. He spoke of his co-stars as "proverbial MF's" with their exceeding talent. He spoke to the crowd, saying how important it is to be a patron of live music, and how much he enjoys "playing for live cats." The swagger in his step, whether from the drink, or drunk with creative passion, was genuine Kennedy.
Two encores later, I think the classical enthusiasts may have been a bit confused by the improv turn that took place after the end of Beethoven's Violin Concerto in D, Op.61. Beethoven's a bit of a sleeper, though, if you ask me. And I think the balding guy who nodded off in front of me might agree. But if all audiences could experience the treat of witnessing Kennedy and the SSO's playful theatrics, the sheer joy expressed through the music, classical music's reputation would change forever for the better.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Superbowl/Super Tuesday
What a week to NOT be in the U.S.!
As the New England Patriots sit poised to win another Superbowl this Sunday, and as the presidential primaries come to a polling station near you on Tuesday, I'm going to miss it all!
I know, I know... Here I am soaking up the summer sun as my fellow Bostonians freeze their arses off, so I suppose you may think I'm not allowed to complain. But I speak of comraderie! This is our opportunity to come together over football and/or democracy! Cheer! Vote!
I am an unassuming American ("You sound Canadian," I've been told here) but I take my God-given right to watch football and participate in the electoral process very seriously. We fly to Christchurch, New Zealand today, and our mission is to find a pub that will televise the game... live, at noon on Monday. I did not cast an absentee ballot since my mind was absentee before my departure Down Under, though. I follow the news on who's dropping out of the race, at least.
So, as you all sit eating your nachos and drinking your beer, I'll be thinking of you, and our future president.
P.S. Sydney is still hot and sunny, beautiful beaches, and I am so tan (for a pale white girl like me)!
As the New England Patriots sit poised to win another Superbowl this Sunday, and as the presidential primaries come to a polling station near you on Tuesday, I'm going to miss it all!
I know, I know... Here I am soaking up the summer sun as my fellow Bostonians freeze their arses off, so I suppose you may think I'm not allowed to complain. But I speak of comraderie! This is our opportunity to come together over football and/or democracy! Cheer! Vote!
I am an unassuming American ("You sound Canadian," I've been told here) but I take my God-given right to watch football and participate in the electoral process very seriously. We fly to Christchurch, New Zealand today, and our mission is to find a pub that will televise the game... live, at noon on Monday. I did not cast an absentee ballot since my mind was absentee before my departure Down Under, though. I follow the news on who's dropping out of the race, at least.
So, as you all sit eating your nachos and drinking your beer, I'll be thinking of you, and our future president.
P.S. Sydney is still hot and sunny, beautiful beaches, and I am so tan (for a pale white girl like me)!
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Blue Mountain Abseil
I sat in the icy cold river where it pooled in a small cave-like inlet. Light filtered through the trees and ferns that grew from the high cliffs above. The roar of Empress Falls shouted my impending test of skill and nerves. Though I wore a wetsuit, my feet were frozen, but I didn’t notice. The guide clipped the carabiner to my harness and prompted me to the edge. With a deep breath and without hesitation I let myself drop; blinded by the rushing water, smashing into the slippery rock-face, I was hanging mid-air 30 meters from the pooling water below!
My adventure had begun at 8:30am in Katoomba, a small town in the Blue Mountains, about an hour west of Sydney. Renowned for its abseiling and canyoning, this seemed like an adventure I shouldn’t miss. My friend back in Boston had begun teaching me to rock climb this past summer, and I really enjoyed the physical challenge, the sense of accomplishment, and the beautiful sights from so high up. How different could the skills in abseiling (also known as “rappelling”) be?
Last week I had booked myself this trip with the Blue Mountain Adventure Company, which offered guided tours through a number of different waterfalls and forests throughout the area. Canyoning consists of swimming, jumping, wading, and abseiling along the river at the bottom of a canyon, and sounded like fun.
I arrived bleary-eyed from my doze on the drive up and was unsure of exactly which tour I had been booked for. Originally I had requested an all-day canyoning trip to Serendipity, but due to overbooking, they put me in a half-day beginner abseil group, followed by lunch and half-day canyoning. This turned out to be far more than enough for me and my experience level.
My heart pounded. My breath drew in sharply and unevenly. The hot noontime sun beat down on my crispy pink shoulders. The sounds of my own thoughts were all-consuming: “Feet spread wide. Right hand down at my side. Go-go-go! Oh sh*t! Go-go-go…” This practice abseil dropped 25 meters over a dry rock face, and at times I was unable to reach the cliff with my feet due to its inward curve. It’s not like in the movies: push off—zooooooom! -- push off-- zoooooooom! It was more just trying to descend without losing my balance and without spinning around in circles or swaying from side to side into other abseilers.
If this was just the practice run, was I going to be able to summon the courage to do the real thing? Over lunch the guides explained that our canyoning trip would take us down the river to the falls, where the rock face would be “as smooth as glass covered in Vaseline.” I was scared, so I asked the red-headed guide what my options were if I decided I chickened out. “You’ll be fine,” he assured me with his Aussie accent, his eyebrow piercing glinting in the sun. Why was I not convinced?
All the participants (there were about 20 of us, plus 6 guides) were fitted with wetsuits, harnesses, helmets, and backpacks at the office before departure that morning. So, after lunch, we hiked down a trail with our packs, about 30 minutes, to the bottom of the canyon and suited up.
My swimming abilities are not strong at all, so I was moved to the front of the pack with one other girl who couldn’t swim. They gave me a pack that had an air bag inside to help me float. I was surprisingly calm as I jumped from the boulders into the pools along the way—except for the 4 meter drop-off. There I oped for the crawl-through, which was a hole in the rocks just big enough for my body and my pack. I clunked my helmet on the boulders as I wiggled my way under the falling water in the little crevice, then into the pool below.
Occasionally we stopped to let the rest of the group catch up, and it was only during these pauses I was able to relax and look up to enjoy the beauty of the canyon. It had been hot, dry on top of the rocks, but now, in the shadows of centuries old limestone, the sight and sound of softly trickling groundwater seeped down from the exposed tree roots and small rain forest vegetation.
But the calm would not last. The pounding waterfall awaited our soggy arrival.
I was second from our group to descend. I did not look over the falls before I got into position. I take that back, I tried to look, but the edge where we stood jutted out further than the rest of the cliff’s edges. With my feet on the top edge, rear end sticking out, water rushing over and around my soaked sneakers, I held on to the rope tightly with my right hand, lowered my backside until I was eye-level with my feet, and then it was all smashing and crashing and water and swearing from there until I reached the bottom. The water hit the top of my helmet with such force that I had to keep my eyes closed the whole time, feebly feeling my way down with my left hand while trying to keep my legs in front of me, and struggling to retain or regain my grip on the rope to lower myself down to the bottom of this hell I’d paid to participate in.
I was shivering with terror as I felt my feet dip into the pool at the bottom of the falls. I think the guide was shouting for me to let go of the rope and drop in. I was face down in the water, paddling furiously, as I tried to get my bearings and then heard a shout to turn over, swim on my back, pull myself out of the pool at the river’s edge. I couldn’t. I was so scared my muscles had become immobile, now that I had escaped the onslaught of the mighty waterfall. A guide from another group grabbed my backpack and dragged me up onto the slimy boulders at the water’s edge-- though I think he did this only because I was in the way of his group’s exit from the pool. Either way, I was grateful for the assistance.
One by one, everyone from our group made the descent. It was a rush, and most of the others would have gone again had they been given the option. I, however, felt more like this was an accomplishment that wouldn’t necessarily be repeated.
My right hand looks like I’d been in a fight, all bruised and bloodied. My muscles ache. I love the sense of accomplishing such a feat. However, though I like to think I’m up for an adventure, this test of will has shown me what my limits may be.
My adventure had begun at 8:30am in Katoomba, a small town in the Blue Mountains, about an hour west of Sydney. Renowned for its abseiling and canyoning, this seemed like an adventure I shouldn’t miss. My friend back in Boston had begun teaching me to rock climb this past summer, and I really enjoyed the physical challenge, the sense of accomplishment, and the beautiful sights from so high up. How different could the skills in abseiling (also known as “rappelling”) be?
Last week I had booked myself this trip with the Blue Mountain Adventure Company, which offered guided tours through a number of different waterfalls and forests throughout the area. Canyoning consists of swimming, jumping, wading, and abseiling along the river at the bottom of a canyon, and sounded like fun.
I arrived bleary-eyed from my doze on the drive up and was unsure of exactly which tour I had been booked for. Originally I had requested an all-day canyoning trip to Serendipity, but due to overbooking, they put me in a half-day beginner abseil group, followed by lunch and half-day canyoning. This turned out to be far more than enough for me and my experience level.
My heart pounded. My breath drew in sharply and unevenly. The hot noontime sun beat down on my crispy pink shoulders. The sounds of my own thoughts were all-consuming: “Feet spread wide. Right hand down at my side. Go-go-go! Oh sh*t! Go-go-go…” This practice abseil dropped 25 meters over a dry rock face, and at times I was unable to reach the cliff with my feet due to its inward curve. It’s not like in the movies: push off—zooooooom! -- push off-- zoooooooom! It was more just trying to descend without losing my balance and without spinning around in circles or swaying from side to side into other abseilers.
If this was just the practice run, was I going to be able to summon the courage to do the real thing? Over lunch the guides explained that our canyoning trip would take us down the river to the falls, where the rock face would be “as smooth as glass covered in Vaseline.” I was scared, so I asked the red-headed guide what my options were if I decided I chickened out. “You’ll be fine,” he assured me with his Aussie accent, his eyebrow piercing glinting in the sun. Why was I not convinced?
All the participants (there were about 20 of us, plus 6 guides) were fitted with wetsuits, harnesses, helmets, and backpacks at the office before departure that morning. So, after lunch, we hiked down a trail with our packs, about 30 minutes, to the bottom of the canyon and suited up.
My swimming abilities are not strong at all, so I was moved to the front of the pack with one other girl who couldn’t swim. They gave me a pack that had an air bag inside to help me float. I was surprisingly calm as I jumped from the boulders into the pools along the way—except for the 4 meter drop-off. There I oped for the crawl-through, which was a hole in the rocks just big enough for my body and my pack. I clunked my helmet on the boulders as I wiggled my way under the falling water in the little crevice, then into the pool below.
Occasionally we stopped to let the rest of the group catch up, and it was only during these pauses I was able to relax and look up to enjoy the beauty of the canyon. It had been hot, dry on top of the rocks, but now, in the shadows of centuries old limestone, the sight and sound of softly trickling groundwater seeped down from the exposed tree roots and small rain forest vegetation.
But the calm would not last. The pounding waterfall awaited our soggy arrival.
I was second from our group to descend. I did not look over the falls before I got into position. I take that back, I tried to look, but the edge where we stood jutted out further than the rest of the cliff’s edges. With my feet on the top edge, rear end sticking out, water rushing over and around my soaked sneakers, I held on to the rope tightly with my right hand, lowered my backside until I was eye-level with my feet, and then it was all smashing and crashing and water and swearing from there until I reached the bottom. The water hit the top of my helmet with such force that I had to keep my eyes closed the whole time, feebly feeling my way down with my left hand while trying to keep my legs in front of me, and struggling to retain or regain my grip on the rope to lower myself down to the bottom of this hell I’d paid to participate in.
I was shivering with terror as I felt my feet dip into the pool at the bottom of the falls. I think the guide was shouting for me to let go of the rope and drop in. I was face down in the water, paddling furiously, as I tried to get my bearings and then heard a shout to turn over, swim on my back, pull myself out of the pool at the river’s edge. I couldn’t. I was so scared my muscles had become immobile, now that I had escaped the onslaught of the mighty waterfall. A guide from another group grabbed my backpack and dragged me up onto the slimy boulders at the water’s edge-- though I think he did this only because I was in the way of his group’s exit from the pool. Either way, I was grateful for the assistance.
One by one, everyone from our group made the descent. It was a rush, and most of the others would have gone again had they been given the option. I, however, felt more like this was an accomplishment that wouldn’t necessarily be repeated.
My right hand looks like I’d been in a fight, all bruised and bloodied. My muscles ache. I love the sense of accomplishing such a feat. However, though I like to think I’m up for an adventure, this test of will has shown me what my limits may be.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Australia Day / Float, part 2
On this day in 1808, General Bligh, of "Mutiny on the Bounty" fame, was Governor of New South Wales, and seemed to have troubles with subordinates in the same fashion as he had on his ship. A coup, known as the "Rum Rebellion," took place, culminating with Bligh being pulled out from under his bed by the military. *If this were Wikipedia, I'm sure there would be all sorts of disagreement about my recounting of Aussie freedom, so I do not claim this is entirely accurate. And so today we stood in the forecourt of the Museum of Sydney (formerly the Government House) to watch an anti-climactic reenactment of the anti-climactic rebellion by Sydneysiders as part of the 200th celebration of Australia Day.
But enough of this history lesson. We kicked off our long weekend down at Gordon's Bay. This was my second attempt at a snorkeling lesson. The tide was high as we searched the boulders for a shaded spot where Amy could sit while David and I attempted to swim. I put my water-wings on, same as before, and we made our way out to the rough surf.
By this time the tide had risen high enough that we couldn't easily make our way to the inlet where the water was shallow enough for me to stand. So, with little blue floaties on each bicep, I tip-toed my way past all the tanned, though un-toned swimmers, across the large, hot rocks, to shallower waters. Or so I hoped.
We reached the inlet where we'd swam last time, but as I slid into the rough waves I was immediately slammed against the rocks, shells scraping me as I was pulled back across them when the wave rushed out again. I almost lost my balance, and could feel the snails clinging onto the rocks for dear life as I clung onto them.
With a powerful current, I never really snorkeled. I got used to the mask and did a few practice breathes with the snorkel itself, but the water was pushing me around so much, I didn't think it wise to let myself go with the flow. ha!
Cold, with bruised elbow and scraped knee, and with a little help hoisting myself free from the water's tight grasp, I was back on dry land. I'm a little more comfortable in the water, but no more a snorkeler than before.
But enough of this history lesson. We kicked off our long weekend down at Gordon's Bay. This was my second attempt at a snorkeling lesson. The tide was high as we searched the boulders for a shaded spot where Amy could sit while David and I attempted to swim. I put my water-wings on, same as before, and we made our way out to the rough surf.
By this time the tide had risen high enough that we couldn't easily make our way to the inlet where the water was shallow enough for me to stand. So, with little blue floaties on each bicep, I tip-toed my way past all the tanned, though un-toned swimmers, across the large, hot rocks, to shallower waters. Or so I hoped.
We reached the inlet where we'd swam last time, but as I slid into the rough waves I was immediately slammed against the rocks, shells scraping me as I was pulled back across them when the wave rushed out again. I almost lost my balance, and could feel the snails clinging onto the rocks for dear life as I clung onto them.
With a powerful current, I never really snorkeled. I got used to the mask and did a few practice breathes with the snorkel itself, but the water was pushing me around so much, I didn't think it wise to let myself go with the flow. ha!
Cold, with bruised elbow and scraped knee, and with a little help hoisting myself free from the water's tight grasp, I was back on dry land. I'm a little more comfortable in the water, but no more a snorkeler than before.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Tandem Twins
"Are you two sisters?" Amy and I are frequently asked. We may laugh alike, and do everything together, and both have brown hair, and an insatiable desire for iced mochas... but we are not related. Though sometimes for kicks we say we're cousins. How very Patty Duke. ha!And perhaps the sight of us riding a tandem bike could look a little "Doublemint Twins."
Its our tradition that Amy and I rent a tandem bike each time we travel together. This time we cruised around Sydney Olympic Park, site of the 2000 Summer Olympics.
The cicadas screamed and the sun scorched as we peddled around the mostly flat grounds that circled wetlands, lakes, and the old Newington Armory. We lost our way several times, and each time we stopped meant we had to count "1-2-3" to get going in unison again.
The challenge is part of the appeal, I think. That, and the people who drive past us singing "... A bicycle made for twooooo..."
Monday, January 21, 2008
Leisure Sports
Laughter erupted from a nearby tree as two kookaburras sat, presumably watching my feeble attempt to lawn bowl. Also observing our game, two greying, moustached men who sat drinking beers in the shade at the other end of the court. We were obviously on their turf.
The sun was searing as I hucked the ball down the cleanly shorn grass. Lawn Bowling is like Bocce Ball, except the balls are weighted on one side, so you're supposed to roll them with consideration that it will curve.
I sipped my cold glass of Lemon & Lime Bitters as Amy relayed to me that there's "no running allowed on the field." These Aussies really take it seriously that life be relaxed. No running in sports? I'd never heard of such a thing. "Do we get a tea break too?" I asked, in reference to the Cricket tradition of a tea interval in the second half. Hardly the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders, eh guys? So, our leisurely game continued in an appropriately leisurely fashion.
Turns out I bowl better when aiming left of the jack (the white ball we're aiming for). This is backwards, the same way I'm a "goofy" snowboarder, and the same way I deal cards with my left hand, even though I'm actually right-handed. It may have looked odd, but at least the birds had stopped laughing.
The sun was searing as I hucked the ball down the cleanly shorn grass. Lawn Bowling is like Bocce Ball, except the balls are weighted on one side, so you're supposed to roll them with consideration that it will curve.
I sipped my cold glass of Lemon & Lime Bitters as Amy relayed to me that there's "no running allowed on the field." These Aussies really take it seriously that life be relaxed. No running in sports? I'd never heard of such a thing. "Do we get a tea break too?" I asked, in reference to the Cricket tradition of a tea interval in the second half. Hardly the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders, eh guys? So, our leisurely game continued in an appropriately leisurely fashion.
Turns out I bowl better when aiming left of the jack (the white ball we're aiming for). This is backwards, the same way I'm a "goofy" snowboarder, and the same way I deal cards with my left hand, even though I'm actually right-handed. It may have looked odd, but at least the birds had stopped laughing.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
My Favorite Ads
Not working affords me time to watch a fair amount of television. I like to think of it as "immersing myself" in Australian culture, rather than wasting a sunny, hot afternoon sitting inside an air conditioned apartment. We only have five channels, one of which is a Public Access station that airs everything from homemade Bollywood videos to the most precious elderly people doing armchair exercises. Nonetheless, I find myself looking forward to seeing a few of my favorite commercials on breaks between "Neighbors" and "Jamie at Home."
http://www.volleys.com.au/tvc/
Bizarrely fascinating and annoying at the same time, I can't help but watch intently as the hand-fart man plays Pachelbel's Cannon (my favorite of the three "tunes" he plays). What is that a commercial for, anyway? It wasn't until I gave in and went to the website that I discovered they're an Australian tennis shoe company. Exceptionally Average.
http://www.avospreadinstead.com.au/
I actually have only seen this commercial once, but I found the tune to be rather catchy, and the production value is so much better than most of the other ads on Aussie television.
I have to add another observation here: Aussies love "value"... all the commercials claim "great value"... "better value." I think of this as similar to the American obsession with a "bargain"... like WalMart or the Christmas Tree Shops, need I say more? At least Aussies want quality with their cheapness.
http://www.volleys.com.au/tvc/
Bizarrely fascinating and annoying at the same time, I can't help but watch intently as the hand-fart man plays Pachelbel's Cannon (my favorite of the three "tunes" he plays). What is that a commercial for, anyway? It wasn't until I gave in and went to the website that I discovered they're an Australian tennis shoe company. Exceptionally Average.
http://www.avospreadinstead.com.au/
I actually have only seen this commercial once, but I found the tune to be rather catchy, and the production value is so much better than most of the other ads on Aussie television.
I have to add another observation here: Aussies love "value"... all the commercials claim "great value"... "better value." I think of this as similar to the American obsession with a "bargain"... like WalMart or the Christmas Tree Shops, need I say more? At least Aussies want quality with their cheapness.
Friday, January 11, 2008
New Music
Crap dance beats, Aussie remakes of old ‘80s classics, and American pop dominate the Australian radio waves. I’ve been searching for new music by Australian artists that I won’t be able to buy back home, but obviously the radio has been no help. What have they produced here since Olivia Newton-John, Men At Work and Kylie Minogue? Silverchair is big again… still? I’m not sure if they’ve been popular here all along since their ‘95 hit, but that was the last time I heard about them in the U.S.
Friends here recommended I check out the music stores Hum and Fish in Newtown, near University of Sydney. They have tons of listening stations, and they’ll put on anything you’d request to hear-- a sweet reminder of my days at the CD shop that employed me during college. So we took the train to my favorite college neighborhood and perused the Local section, easily highlighted on the wall in both stores, luckily.
The fruits of my labours:
Operator Please, “Yes Yes Vindictive” – Aussie kids from Gold Coast (Queensland, Australia) averaging 18 years olds, are apparently touring with Arctic Monkeys for the Aussie leg of their tour. Infectious simple-chorded indie rock with some sweet orchestral layering makes it a guaranteed head-bobber. Don’t be dissuaded by the over-hyped and overly-hyper “Just a Song About Ping Pong” and skip straight to “Leave It Alone” or “Ghost.”
Martin Craft, “Silver and Fire” – This is actually a UK artist, but it got good recommendations and came with an extra bonus disc, Australia-only release (I like a little extra bang for my buck… CDs run about $30AU on average).
Youth Group, “Skeleton Jar” – I saw these guys on tour with Death Cab For Cutie a couple years ago. The sentimental acoustic-guitar laden indie rock comes through best in “Lillian Lies” and “Baby Body.”
“Coastal Chill 08,” a compilation which includes all the most recognizable Aussie artists of the moment. Stand-out songs for me, so far, by: The John Butler Trio (frat-friendly rock a la Ben Harper/Jack Johnson/Dave Matthews), Missy Higgins (folk-rock darling of the moment), Sia (sometimes vocalist for British band Zero 7).
Friends here recommended I check out the music stores Hum and Fish in Newtown, near University of Sydney. They have tons of listening stations, and they’ll put on anything you’d request to hear-- a sweet reminder of my days at the CD shop that employed me during college. So we took the train to my favorite college neighborhood and perused the Local section, easily highlighted on the wall in both stores, luckily.
The fruits of my labours:
Operator Please, “Yes Yes Vindictive” – Aussie kids from Gold Coast (Queensland, Australia) averaging 18 years olds, are apparently touring with Arctic Monkeys for the Aussie leg of their tour. Infectious simple-chorded indie rock with some sweet orchestral layering makes it a guaranteed head-bobber. Don’t be dissuaded by the over-hyped and overly-hyper “Just a Song About Ping Pong” and skip straight to “Leave It Alone” or “Ghost.”
Martin Craft, “Silver and Fire” – This is actually a UK artist, but it got good recommendations and came with an extra bonus disc, Australia-only release (I like a little extra bang for my buck… CDs run about $30AU on average).
Youth Group, “Skeleton Jar” – I saw these guys on tour with Death Cab For Cutie a couple years ago. The sentimental acoustic-guitar laden indie rock comes through best in “Lillian Lies” and “Baby Body.”
“Coastal Chill 08,” a compilation which includes all the most recognizable Aussie artists of the moment. Stand-out songs for me, so far, by: The John Butler Trio (frat-friendly rock a la Ben Harper/Jack Johnson/Dave Matthews), Missy Higgins (folk-rock darling of the moment), Sia (sometimes vocalist for British band Zero 7).
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Surry Hills
South of Kings Cross station, nestled into the area between Darlinghurst and Paddington, sits Surry Hills. A quaint little neighborhood with metal lattice-fronted homes side-by-side with cafes, boutiques, and galleries.
We brunched at bills (http://hungry-tasty.blogspot.com), then slowly strolled along the tree-lined sidewalks, avoiding the occasional pile of dog poo. Galleries featuring textiles made by Australian artists, vintage clothing stores, and cute little Bourke Street Bakery filled our warm yet overcast afternoon.
Monday, January 7, 2008
Warning
We had laughed on our road trip at the severity of wording used in signs we passed warning: “Stop. Revive. Survive.” and “Drowsy Drivers Die.” With the seemingly endless stretches of dry, deserted roads between Sydney and Melbourne, its no wonder people would prefer to push-on to get to their destination, risking "Microsleep Kills."
So it seems Australian public safety announcements employ scare tactics as a matter of course.
But not to be taken lightly, the Aussie government's skin cancer commercials scare the heck out of me! Featuring descriptive visuals of how melanoma carry through the bloodstream and showing actual surgery and removal, "there's nothing healthy about a tan."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dCohyD5gVdU
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S7_G6fmQo2o
Aussie Word of the Day: sunnies = sunglasses
So it seems Australian public safety announcements employ scare tactics as a matter of course.
But not to be taken lightly, the Aussie government's skin cancer commercials scare the heck out of me! Featuring descriptive visuals of how melanoma carry through the bloodstream and showing actual surgery and removal, "there's nothing healthy about a tan."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dCohyD5gVdU
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S7_G6fmQo2o
Aussie Word of the Day: sunnies = sunglasses
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Float
I’m bringing floaties back. Get your sexy on.
South of Bondi, we bouldered down along smooth golden-orange cliffs to the turquoise cove below to find a spot for my first unofficial snorkeling lesson today.
Beaches in Sydney, and along much of the eastern Australian coast, have been closed for the past three days due to excessively rough surf, and anticipated to be rough waters through the weekend, so we shouldn’t have been surprised that the surf here had stirred the sand and silt from the bottom so much as to block underwater visibility. Ah, no worries.
The sun was hot overhead when we came back to the shelter and shade of the cliffs for a picnic at the water’s edge. A group of nuns dressed in white gathered further down the shoreline, dipping their toes in the white frothy surf. With potato salad, Camembert cheese and crackers, cantaloupe, and a bottle of a refreshing white wine, we basked in the warmth radiating from the rocks.
Aussie Word of the Day: cozzie = swim suit
South of Bondi, we bouldered down along smooth golden-orange cliffs to the turquoise cove below to find a spot for my first unofficial snorkeling lesson today.
Beaches in Sydney, and along much of the eastern Australian coast, have been closed for the past three days due to excessively rough surf, and anticipated to be rough waters through the weekend, so we shouldn’t have been surprised that the surf here had stirred the sand and silt from the bottom so much as to block underwater visibility. Ah, no worries. The sun was hot overhead when we came back to the shelter and shade of the cliffs for a picnic at the water’s edge. A group of nuns dressed in white gathered further down the shoreline, dipping their toes in the white frothy surf. With potato salad, Camembert cheese and crackers, cantaloupe, and a bottle of a refreshing white wine, we basked in the warmth radiating from the rocks.
Aussie Word of the Day: cozzie = swim suit
Friday, January 4, 2008
Home/Sick
So, my big New Years Eve in Sydney consisted of fighting the flu for the entire day and night, doubled-over in the bathroom and wishing it would be the last barf— please, this time, let this be the last barf! I had to spend New Years Day recovering, apparently with the rest of Sydney, though theirs was alcohol induced.
Despite Australia’s fresh food, picturesque beaches, and perfect sunshine (today, 25 degrees Celsius… heavenly!) and the prospects of tomorrow’s snorkeling trip, I am feeling so disconnected from friends, family, home. I miss my cat. I’ve been away from Boston (complete independence) for over a month now, and away from American technology and services (my own reliable internet connection) for 4 weeks.
The liasse-faire attitude in Australia has its perks, but only if you’re unconcerned with life beyond the Land Down Under; it’s all about the here and now. Our internet connection has been disabled for 2 weeks (my primary life-line!) and slow maintenance and repair only further my frustration, and a little loneliness.
Time to start planning trips to Melbourne and Cairns!
Aussie Word of the Day: trackydaks = track pants, sweat pants
Despite Australia’s fresh food, picturesque beaches, and perfect sunshine (today, 25 degrees Celsius… heavenly!) and the prospects of tomorrow’s snorkeling trip, I am feeling so disconnected from friends, family, home. I miss my cat. I’ve been away from Boston (complete independence) for over a month now, and away from American technology and services (my own reliable internet connection) for 4 weeks.
The liasse-faire attitude in Australia has its perks, but only if you’re unconcerned with life beyond the Land Down Under; it’s all about the here and now. Our internet connection has been disabled for 2 weeks (my primary life-line!) and slow maintenance and repair only further my frustration, and a little loneliness.
Time to start planning trips to Melbourne and Cairns!
Aussie Word of the Day: trackydaks = track pants, sweat pants
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