Time in the Bush (The Outback)

Spending time in the bush, as the Aussies call the Outback, is something I had always fantasized about. Again, it was something my grandmother used to talk to me about when I was a young boy. I was particularly fascinated by the Aboriginal peoples in the books my grandmother showed me and I wondered aloud to her why black people in Indiana, my childhood home, did not live like that. I don’t really remember how she answered that one, except, of course, to laugh at my precociousness. It was not until much later at school that we learned about Australia and her indigenous people – of course from the white man’s perspective. Cast as savages in these books, some of that early indoctrination still lingered, although logically now, I knew better. I had questions relating to blood drinking, spiritual beliefs, dream time, and the like. Even before my interaction with some of the indigenous Aboriginal people, I still firmly believed that Western people completely missed the opportunity to learn from and learn with indigenous people whenever and wherever they have invaded and conquered (this opinion is now firmly cemented). In the case of the Aboriginal people of Australia, it is not outside the realm of possibility that various groups (8 major classifications I believe) of indigenous people whom have survived as long as 80,000 years in the harshest of climates, may actually know a thing or two about their land. And, the customs, traditions, culture, and norms may actually be something to value and learn from instead of ignored and tossed in favor of those things associated with the dominant military might.

With my left-leaning pondering aside, and filled with a great deal of trepidation, I could hardly wait for the experience. I landed in Alice Springs – in the center of Australia – without a hotel, but pre-registered with much anticipation. The flight from Bris transpired smoothly, I dozed a little on the plane, tired from my travels with Simon. Exactly like I had been warned, the heat and humidity greeted me warmly in Alice Springs. It was very similar to landing in Phoenix, Arizona in the middle of summer. While waiting for baggage, I noticed a mass of younger people heading over to the hostel greeters who were standing around, waiting to find all their guests. I chatted with a couple of the greeters, and then selected the place closest to the center of town. I jumped into the transit van provided by the hostel called Haven, and soon we were on the road. The drive into Alice Springs provided a small window into this place – certainly not prosperous and metropolitan like Sydney or Melbourne, nor beachy and touristy like Bris or the Gold Coast. No, Alice Springs immediately presented itself in a similar fashion to a small, dying manufacturing town somewhere in the Midwest of the United States. The obvious difference here, unlike other parts of Australia that I had seen, was that dozens of Aboriginal people were peppered throughout the landscape – literally sprinkled randomly around the place, under trees and squatting, as if taking a break under the shade, waiting out the heat of the day. They wore oddly mix-matched western clothing that appeared to be ill-fitting. Trash blew freely with the wind, giving the dusty environment something to toss as the dry air tore across the flat landscape. The driver pulled through the gate and into the parking lot of the hostel, exposing a modest looking structure whose facade appeared as if it had also been beaten by the elements and never healed. A nasty pool sat to the left of the structure and some brave German women tourists sunbathed in the heat. The woman who greeted me upon arrival wore a cheery expression and she immediately booked me into one of the dorm rooms for $22 Aussie bucks – a wonderful deal considering the cost of hotels, food, and activities thus far during my travels. My room, number 19, contained 10 beds bunked style. I grabbed one of the lower beds since I was first to enter. By this time, late afternoon had come and I was eager to wander about town and get a better view of life in central Australia.

Armed with my required list of supplies for my time in the bush – sunscreen, bug repellent, wide-brimmed hat, fly net to go around my face, 1.5 liter water bottle, hiking shoes, and a towel – I headed into the city center (barely an accurate term for this place). The heat of the day beat down on me, making the 8 minute walk I took with a Dutch kid heading the same way, nearly unbearable. I found a few shops straight away that catered to bush visitors, but opted to look at all the shops before making a purchase for supplies (I hate being the tourist who gets ripped off by not surveying the situation first). While walking, I encountered many more Aboriginal people (later, I was to learn that Aboriginal is a bit of a misnomer. It is like saying American Indian – a generic term that ignores various descriptive groups like Cherokee, Navajo, etc.). Sadness could be seen in many of their eyes. These were not the proud people in the pictures I saw in those books years ago –with paint markings and feathers as important ritualistic adornments (and obviously no Western clothing). These were faces of unspoken loss, perhaps confusion? I picked up on something amiss. Considering myself something of an intuitive, empathetic person, my mood immediately darkened. The spiritual energy was low here, damaged somehow? It reminded me a little of being in some of the economically depressed areas of the US where life for people of color and newly arrived immigrants is tough and unwelcoming. It also reminded me of the melancholy I felt trying to fit in to the larger society back home in Fort Wayne, Indiana when my mother, sister, and I lived in a government-subsidized housing project on the south side of town. I knew I did not fit for some reason. I felt others knew it. At school, I was teased for being poor and not having the right clothes, toys, lunch. I tried hard to be one of them; to succeed in a place where rules, norms, and the general understanding or outlook on the world were foreign to me. I tried to ignore this aspect of the place, and then pushed onward to complete my chosen task.

Eventually, I ended up back at one of the first shops that carried supplies. It was probably the best, most authentic and non-touristy places to gain the needed equipment. I chose not to buy hiking boots as per the recommendation by many of the kids at the hostel who had just arrived back from the bush. I did however procure all the other items on my list. The sun block and a proper metal water bottle were the most essential items according to the young people returning from their own bush adventures.

I spend a quiet night writing and doing emails – being sure to get to bed early for the 6 AM pick-up that would come all too soon the next morning. Surprisingly, I slept extremely well with the other 10 kids in my room. All of us, minus one, were getting up at roughly the same time for pick-ups by the various tours we had pre-arranged. It was nice chatting, all of us excited and curious for an adventure. Way before sunrise, I grabbed a quick cup of instant coffee and some toast, luxuriously provided by the hostel, then headed out to the lot for my pick-up. About ten past 6, my tour guide arrived. I noticed the name on the truck as it pulled up and greeted him half-way. I shocked him by screaming with my arms raised as he approached. Inside, I was thinking that that this tall, lanky Aussie with long blond dread-locks coming at me at 6 AM was a little surprising as well. Happily, the uniqueness of my guide’s appearance proved to be a harbinger of the odd and fruitful experiences which were to unravel. At least that is what I told myself as I smiled widely and gained my seat on the vehicle that resembled some kind of bus/truck/4-wheel-off road jeep type hybrid.

As with many adventures I endeavor to take, I fail to do research and instead opt to just let it happen. This trip shocked me immediately because I did not realize that the first six hours would be spent driving. In spite of the vivid landscapes that were to come before my eyes, I just knew that I would be asleep instantly in the front seat of a moving vehicle (trains, buses, cars, planes, boats – it matters not. Once the hum of the motor starts, my mind shuts off and takes me to a sleepy place). The land mass of the United States can be put inside that of Australia, so I am not sure why I was surprised that it would take us hours and hours to get further into the bush (outback) from Alice Springs. I was the last pick-up of our small tour – 14 people in total. Steve, our golden dreadlocks tour guide, asked if anyone wanted to sit up front with him. I jumped up too quickly for anyone else to finish their consideration of the opportunity. In this situation, my eagerness (or selfishness) or instinct was immediate, and I gained this prime travel seat for the duration of the five day sojourn. Talk about being up front and personal with the experience, this front seat position allowed me to ask questions when they came to me, to see animals and sights freely, and to feel overall more in control of the ride (verses being a passenger in the back of the bus so-to-speak). The downside was that I missed the bonding time with the group as the days progressed – that would have been nice too.

We stopped mid-way to grab a cold drink at a Camel ranch – yes, where I enjoyed eating a camel burger (my first) while actually playing with the camels at the same time (I have a picture of it as proof). Now, before the judgment starts, I will offer a little history. Australia has a problem with over a million wild camels running freely in the Outback. They are aggressive feeders on the delicate bush, breaking trees and injuring the wildlife. The damage they have caused is really hurting indigenous species of plants, shrubs, and tress. Back during the early days settling the central part of Australia and during the establishment of the telegraph line, camels (and Afghan camel handlers) were imported to do the hard work. Everything that was moved and needed during this period was arduously done by camels – including hauling full-scale cast-iron stoves (more than 1000 lbs) from the port towns to the central part of Australia in the settlement areas. What at the time appeared like a very smart idea since camels were extremely strong, needed little water (unlike horses), and were much more capable of dealing with the sands of a desert, has turned into a big problem. Once the railway was established, the camels became, well, worthless to the settlers since the new trains did all the work the camels had once accomplished. Thus, the early settlers simply released them into the bush – set them free into the wild (into a land that was not their own). This turned out to be a terrible decision. As we fast forward a hundred or so odd years, the camels have done a great job adjusting to their new home, proliferating like proverbial bunnies. Now, there are various Governmental and environmentalist programs to deal with (read eradicate) this scourge on the Outback.

Some modern entrepreneurs (I being one of them) see the potential here. Basically, anyone can go into the bush and collect as many camels as desired (take them as one’s own) without consequence. Millions and millions of pounds of free meat that could be fed (pun intended) into the marketplace (can anyone say China) where quality, lean red meat is in short supply. The work has just begun creating a market (demand) for camel meat, but I smell opportunity. When maintained properly, camel are less harmful to the environment than the cattle (Australia is well-known for their beef) ranches that dominate the outback. With all that said, I quite liked the burger.

At our next stop, the last place to buy alcohol, most of us freaked out, fearful at the thought of not having booze, and happily paid the excessive prices they were charging so that we would have beer and wine around our camp fires over the next five nights. Since half of the group was poor kids, I bought a case of Aussie beer ($70). It pained me to do so since I don’t even like beer and could buy it back home for probably $20 for cheap beer. Our guide called the extortion a more neutral term – the Outback tax.

After five or six excruciating hours of travel (and I was riding in front remember), we finally neared Uluru (U-lou-u), more famously named Ayer’s Rock by the white men involved in “finding” it. Any Google search for tourist sites in Australia will probably pull up this place which has been photographed and featured in probably thousands of various media forms. It is basically a giant sandstone chunk of rock that has been pushed to the surface by a giant geological shifting of plates deep beneath the surface of the planet. Uluru is unique in that it is deeply ironized (offering a brilliantly amazing red color) and it rose from the earth almost vertically, instead of horizontally. Thus, the lines of rock can be seen at about 89 degrees (verses the horizontal lines most often seen in various other rock formations, mountains, and the like). To say the thing is massive and beautiful is probably an insult of simplicity. It is also a place of great spiritual and cultural importance to the local people, who, even after the land hand-back allow visitors to one of their most sacred sites. Years ago, the white man began climbing “the rock,” although now doing so is seen by most as a major affront to the local people and their customs. Climbing the rock by the local indigenous males is a highly ritualized practice (relating to the transitioning, or rite of passage, of boys to men) in their culture. Luckily, the weather was too hot during our time there for us to even consider the climb (it is outlawed during periods of extreme heat since people have died doing it). Part of the land hand-back agreement allows for the climb to stay open even though it is an insult to the local people and their customs.

Around 1989, I believe, most of the indigenous land was given back (by the Australian Government) to the original owners (the various groups of indigenous people whose people had occupied the land from time eternal) from the mostly white owners who had, by western standards, “owned” the land from as long at 100 or so years ago when the central part of Australia was beginning to be developed as part of the telegraph system which ran from South Australia to the North by Darwin. So, now, many of the sites that have become famous tourist sites due to their beauty are now managed jointly and “owned” by the locals. The locals, however, do not own the land individually. The Western understanding of owning land is foreign to them. They consider themselves group custodians of the land, the current managers who will pass the land to those in their group who follow them into this world as they pass into another. Something about this outlook really pleases me. The land caretaker mentality ensures that they do no harm to future generations of people, plant and other animal life.

We walked around Uluru with our guide; he showed us some of the culturally sensitive and sacred spots. After the first section of the tour, he then told us we could take the longer walk ourselves around the north side (if I remember that correctly). I raced ahead, not because I am anti-social, but because I like to experience spiritual places by myself, alone – free to hear, see, or feel the forces beyond our understood and accepted three dimensions. I made a great call, as the rest of the group seemed to mingle together and walk in unison. I keep a quick pace, but tempered it with stops when I “felt” things of significance. Part of the teachings of the Aboriginal owners of the land is that we “Listen” to the place. I took that to mean more than just listening with my ears (as I am certain that is how they meant to listen). Thus, throughout my walk of solitude, I did listen and hear many wonderful things with all my senses. It was a two hour or so sojourn though the bush around a highly spiritually charged site. It was bliss!

As it was now nearing sunset and the team had regrouped at the vehicle. Steve, our golden dreadlock guide, told us we needed to hurry so that we could have a nice sunset on a hill a few miles away which over-looked Urulu. We jumped aboard and buckled up. He drove that truck like a true race car enthusiasm, the only concern being that it was a large 4-wheel drive vehicle and not a race car on a smooth, manicured track. I earned what were to be many, many white knuckles as he drove throughout our journey in the bush. At the hill, other tour groups had gathered much earlier than we, since they had tables set and were already dining, chatting, and milling about like ladies at a Sunday tea. True to form, Steve jumped out, began off-loading supplies, and then instructed each of us to grab what we could and run up the hill before the sun fell. I loved his style already. As fate would have it, we all managed to get up the hill, unpack our gear and food, and even uncork our Champagne before the absolute showcase of sunsets transpired across the open outback sky. Urulu radiated an even more intense shade of bright red as the sun, now at its level in the sky, blasted rays from the West across thousands of miles of land mass onto the massive facade of this red beast that proudly dominates the Eastern horizon. I was torn, like most of the group, by the beauty of the actual sunset to the West and the magical show the sun was causing on the rock to the East. My head ping-ponged back and forth, right to left. I imbibed the Champagne with glee. The cheese and crackers melted nicely in my mouth. All my senses fired, overjoyed by the magnificence of this moment. Quickly, the show ended, as true dusk took over the sky. We socialized as a group as our guide – whom we learned is quite the photography enthusiast – took some terrific photos of many of us against the back drop of the rock and the competing beauty of the sun-setting sky. This was going to be a very memorable trip.

We arrived at our campsite under the darkness of an extremely black night. The clouds had moved in, cutting off the light of the moon as well as the stars. The site of our first camp was just outside of Urulu, and from the business of the place, it appeared to be the first night’s lodging for just about every other tour company as well. Steve gave us the quick once over – offering us the lay of the land. Showers and toilets down the path. To find our site, he offered that we were to head back away from the toilets and make a left turn at the green trash bin on the side of the road. He also instructed us not to walk through the bush (the trees, bushes and grass) as it is delicate to man’s footprint. Being the first night – and considering we were all city folk – most of us made our way to the toilets and showers. Some, like me, stayed and helped prepare the meal first, and then headed off to wash off the red dust and freshen ourselves from the long day. If I had known that that night’s shower was to be my last for the next five days, I probably would have scrubbed a little harder.

Upon my return to the site from the showers, the food on the open fire was offering a lovely and fragrant symphony of aromas. The Kangaroo meat mixed with onion and garlic combined to give us a brilliant, albeit foreign, offering for most of our noses. The vegetable stew also added a nice contrast of aromas. This night, I spent more time as an observer. I helped with preparation and clean-up, but attempted to hold back my personality for fear of being the over-bearing American stereotype (which I guess I was to become anyway as the days un-winded). Our meal was white rice, Roo stew (as in Kangaroo), and curried vegetable stew, which we were to mix up on our own as we had a vegetarian with us. Throughout the trip we needed to keep the meat and veggies away from each other so that everyone had something to eat.

After dinner, although still relatively early, Steve began pulling out the swags (Aussie bedroll thing similar to a sleeping bag, but much more durable – made of canvass with 3 inch think foam at the bottom to serve as a cushion on the earth). The sky decided to spit on us a little, and despite Steve’s statement that he would sleep under the stars anyway, the group sort of rebelled. He begrudgingly pulled out a large canvass to enclose the very small tin-roof covered area where we had enjoyed our dinner so that we could put our swags under it. As I assisted with this canvass room enclosure project, the sky opened up even more, sending heavier rain down upon us. One of the Canadian girls was off doing something else while the rest of us found a spot for our swags. When she returned, she threw a slight fit about not having a place to sleep. I found the outburst – full of F-bombs – overly dramatic, but I kept my opinion to myself. I pushed my swag, and those of two others, closer together to make a space for her. It was a gesture of kindness yes, but mostly I wanted to calm her nerves and screaming. At this point nearly half the group had already fallen asleep due to our 4:30 AM wake-up call Steve had set at during our dinner conversation. The last thing we needed was someone melting down so early in the trip.

Some rustling noises stirred me from my slumber around 4 AM or so. I looked behind me to find Steve stoking the campfire, his golden dreads flying around as he moved quickly to smother the still red fuel from the previous night’s meal preparation. Surprisingly, I jumped up and folded my swag without hesitation, feeling the anticipation of the day. Others stirred as well, and soon, and we were packing up the site and cleaning our footprint on the place. Considering the hard rain we got, I was surprised to find the sand relatively dry, and learned from Steve that the sandy part of the Outback easily sucks the water deep into the ground after unsubstantial rains. We drove in the dark until we reached our destination, and it seemed to me like the sun had already risen. There was a lot of light above us, and to no avail, I looked around to find the center of our known universe. Steve reassured me that this is how the morning sky looks just before sunrise. Just like at sunset, the change is gradual (just like the sky after the sun sinks, it takes time to go to black). We carried our supplies up the path and onto a viewing platform. Maybe a dozen other tourists had endeavored to see the sun rise as well, and were already ahead of us. Once on the platform, unlike the other tourists, we prepared our morning breaky – boiled water for the French press coffee, broke out the cereal bowls and muesli, got the milk and OJ flowing. At this point, we were looking at Kata Tjuta, another formation of rock that formed at the same time as Uluru (and geologists believe is part of the same layer of sandstone that pushed up when Uluru did so). I found this formation equally, if not more break-taking. It was at least twice or three times as wide as and much taller into the sky than Uluru. But, for some reason, this place has never earned the fame as her famous sister Uluru. On this morning, the group was beginning to bond more, learning names, chatting about home countries, teasing each other, and generally enjoying the time, space, and journey as one unit.

Later we hiked around Kata Tjuta, through the Valley of the Winds Walk and other areas. Most of our group mentioned that we enjoyed this hike better because unlike Uluru, we were able to get up close and personal with this formation (meaning we actually got on it and through it). The hike was moderate by my standards although lesser fit and older, less stable climbers might find it difficult at times. Our group at this point – an older English couple, an older single German woman, a young German couple, two young Canadian men, a young French woman, a young Swiss woman, a young German woman, an older German man, myself, and Steve, our guide – all did fine. Except for the fact that I had 5 cups of coffee at sunrise which later came back to haunt me during the hike (no toilets at this site), the morning unfolded like a naturalist’s dream – beautiful sights, animals, plants, history, artifacts of sorts, weather changes, brilliant landscapes – nature at its best! This hike, like the one at Uluru from start to finish, took about 3.5-4 hours in total. Basically, I was beginning to see the pattern of our tour – get up early to do a nature hike/walk until lunch time, eat lunch, travel to next destination during the heat of the afternoon, set up camp, prepare dinner, clean up after dinner, socialize with the group over beer/wine, prepare the sleeping arrangement, go to bed, and then repeat the next day. It was like a real camping adventure (the ones I always imagined, but never seemed to do growing up in Indiana for some reason).

The second night, we camped far into the bush at another camel ranch property with a make-shift shower and toilet – no doors, three sides wrapped in tin roofing material. There was also a small enclosure, this too, covered with tin roofing sheets. It did have running water, a make-shift kitchen/preparation area, and three semi-secured walls. Basically, it was a four posted tin shack which partially enclosed a 15 foot by 10 foot area of sandy dirt. Preparation for dinner that night began immediately, cutting and dicing veggies went to the Germans mostly. My task was to start the camp fire. I think I did a decent job, and others assisted as well. We got the thing blazing and I was proud of our effort. Later, I somehow volunteered myself for chicken preparation (what a boring meat at this point, right?). The stuff was still half frozen and the camping knives sucked, but I had fun with my task. I enjoyed my beer and the young German woman (part of the couple previously mentioned) assisted. After the chicken was sliced and diced, Steve mixed it up with some spices and on the campfire it went. The veggie curry stew concoction had previously been cooking. We all devoured the food, hungry form our day’s hike in the bush and through the mountains.

Earlier that day at a gas stop, I purchased the raw materials for “So-Mores” – the pink and white Aussie marsh-mellows (the only kind they have here) and chocolate chip cookies (since they don’t have graham-crackers). I opted against buying chocolate since the cookies already had them, but Alan, the young Canadian guy, bought a bar just in case (this proved to be an excellent decision). This American/Canadian camping treat would surely please our international friends in the group. True to expectations, the Germans and French had never heard of this delicacy, so that made it all the more fun – breaking virgin moments for other travelers through life gives me the feeling a parent might experience when they introduce their young children to life’s simple pleasures for the first time. I have to say, the fire burned the marsh-mellow during my first few attempts, but I managed to get the hang of it. By the end, I had prepared about 15 or so pieces and everyone at least tried the treat. They were a little too sweet, but the basic result was similar to the taste back in the States.

The night sky appeared clear. We eagerly unrolled our swags randomly throughout the campsite. I opted to stay somewhat close to the fire; others went deep into the bush for privacy. We enjoyed about two hours of sleep before the thunder started, waking several of us from sleep. Within minutes, the rain started. Unlike the comparative drizzle from the night before, this was rain, real rain. I jumped my ass up so quickly form the swag that I forgot to grab my baseball cap and socks that I had laid out next to me. Since I was so far from the shelter, the others had begun bottle-necking at the entrance, so I walked around the structure to the kitchen entrance. While they all fought for space on the softness of the sand, I made my bed under the make-shift sink on the slab of concrete (read hard, hard surface) by where I had previously cut chicken. Turns out, I was pretty savvy. While the others got soft sand by waiting in line to get into the structure, they also got wet. I stayed relatively dry, but ended up sleeping on concrete. Given choices, I think I did okay. I don’t like to be wet and certainly not while I am sleeping. Wetting the bed for ten years sort ruined me in that regard. Around 2 AM, I awoke with a raging urge to urinate (probably from drinking four beers when I rarely ever drink beer). I made my way in the dark to the bush, not bothering to walk all the way to the toilet. Whilst peeing, I looked up to find the most spectacular sky since my time in New Zealand. Although not quite as immediate and accessible a sky as the one at Cape Regina, this one was close and managed to draw another few tears from my appreciative eyes. Brandon, another one of the young Canadian guys, scared the hell out of me when he wandered into me in the middle of my moment. He too was out marveling at the wonder of the night sky’s performance. After a few minutes, it occurred to me that the rain had stopped. I reached into the red sand to find it barely damp. Perfect, I thought, then quickly grabbed my swag and pulled in out of the shelter and into the bush where I climbed inside and watched the splendor of the night above me. I tried my best to watch the show, but like falling asleep to Letterman, it sometimes just happens when the good guest finally comes out.

Morning preparations woke me again. This time I found Steve boiling a large pot of water for the coffee and tea. He had almost finished putting out breaky at this point. I dressed myself and headed over to him. We chatted and I enjoyed some coffee. All the others took forever to come over to eat breakfast, which I could tell annoyed our guide. I took it upon myself to assist with making another pot of French-pressed coffee for everyone while Steve did something else. I poured grinds into the container, and then made my way to the fire for the boiling water. Once back at the table, I shoved the plunger into the black water, sending a wave of hot water and coffee grinds up and out with much pressure. Most of it went on me, and a little ended up on the table. Later, after we were cleaning up and the sun had lighted the morning sky, Tammy, the young Canadian woman who had melted down the night prior, went to put on her only fresh pair of shorts only to find that the coffee grounds/hot water that I had sent flying into the air actually flew all the way over to her shorts – that she had nicely laid out that morning – landing squarely on them. It looked like a kangaroo had shit on them, which is probably what she thought when she noticed. She grabbed them, began with the F-bombs again, ranting about the mess on her shorts. As I write this I am laughing aloud remembering it. I didn’t dare confess, even though I was and am fairly certain that I had caused the situation, unless of course, someone had deliberately poured a cup of Joe on them. This time, most of us just left her alone to rant and rave, until she calmed down and just wiped the mess off her shorts. I did feel bad about it, but it was an accident. If you are reading this Tammy, I am sorry.

Our hike on day three, King’s Canyon outperformed the previous two, each of us claiming that the hikes were only getting better day to day. There is a lot of indigenous history and white man history here, but suffice it to say, this place is now run by the national park service as too many indigenous groups are claiming rights to this land. The hike up King’s Canyon was a rigorous for me. By day three, my knees (having had surgery already on one) were sore and the steep first part of the hike was true to its name, something like Heart-attack Hill. Still, I was the first one up, passing all the young people and fighting for the top spot with the young Canadian kid, Alan. At the top, he and I waited for the rest of them. He took pictures. I just marveled at the view. It certainly instigated perspiration making it up this mountain side, and when the others reached us we took a break to take it all in. The vastness of the Outback could easily be seen from here. Open space everywhere the eyes could see. Beautiful country indeed.

Along the way, Steve informed us that this is where a lot of the filming for “The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert” took place after they could not secure filming rights to do so at Uluru. He took us to a place the locals fondly call, “Priscilla’s Crack” – an opening in the gorge where I believe the drag queens in the movie sauntered through in full blown drag regalia. I cracked up as he talked about the movie as I was the only one to have seen it. I promptly took off my shirt and posed for a picture – naked and dead center in Priscilla’s Crack. This made the Germans laugh, probably at me, not with me, but I did not really care. I was just happy to be standing in such an iconic site to a movie that I so enjoyed; the movie spoke to me years ago when I was dealing with my own issues. That movie really made me smile and I was inspired by its message – strive to persevere in the face of adversity, fight to be your authentic self, and love yourself and others even when you don’t understand or approve.

When we made our way to the part of the gorge called “Garden of Eden,” our guide handed out apples to enjoy. He said something about making the original decision all over again. I didn’t listen to that, too amused by his obviously pre-planned situation. I did eagerly tear into the apple – give me knowledge any day of the week!

After the King’s Canyon adventure, we headed our resting spot for the third night, passing by a place called Gosse Bluff, a 140 million year old meteor crater. The site is now off limits to visitors as it is also a re-claimed sacred site of the local indigenous people. There is a dreamtime story about how the crater was created that loosely aligns itself with the modern, white man scientific explanation. According to legend, some early female ancestors in heaven were dancing happily when one of the women put down her baby on the Milky Way. The restless baby, upset at being ignored, then rolled off the basket and fell to the earth, causing this massive crater. As with all dreamtime stories, the lesson here is an easy one to grasp.

We made an unscheduled stop at Glen Ellen Gorge, where we swapped trucks as our gear box went out in our initial truck. We got a new one, named Possum – which made me chuckle thinking of how Dame Edna calls her audience possum during her shows. Guessing the name is uniquely Australian. It was at this stop that we bid farewell to those in our group that were only on the 3 day tour. We also gained two new passengers, an older French couple. The wife spoke no English at all.

After getting back on the road and driving for another hour or so, we found our camping site for the night. This place, even more remote than the last, would have no showers, no running water, and no toilets. Perfect, I thought. Finally we were going to really rough it. On the way to our river front camping site, our truck got stuck in the bog (sand). We all had to get out of the truck and push. We gathered some of our firewood to place under the tires for traction. The strong guys – me and the young German guy, named Ika, pushed at the truck since we were the perceived strongest of the group; the rest pushed at the trailer. Steve worried that we might be stuck here for hours. I quickly realized that this was part of the trip (a bonding task and memory they probably pre-plan too). I went along with it nonetheless. It took only one real attempt and we had the truck up and out of the blog in less than twenty minutes from start to finish. We all cheered and felt pretty accomplished. Whether it was a real or staged situation did not really matter. The thing was brilliant and similar to the exercises I used to do with students back when I did a lot of speaking, training, and team-building activities with student groups around the country.

This night, we received no rain. We all found perfect spots around the remote area. The clouds had recessed, opening up the night sky for all of us to witness the brilliance of the burning stars. The only thing different this night was that it grew incredibly cold. I woke mid-way through the night needing to pee again, and then quickly realized that I was too damn cold to get out of my swag. The pervious nights, even with the rain, were warm allowing us to sleep without the top canvass over us. Something in the weather pattern had turned dramatically overnight.

Eventually, I remembered that we also had sleeping bags on the truck so I ran in my underwear over to the bags and grabbed one quickly. Returning to my swag, I shoved the sleeping bag inside, and then quickly jumped inside, immediately warmed by the extra layer of insulation. In the morning, we all relived our “oh my God it was cold last night” stories. About half the group had done what I did; the others forgot about the bags and just soldiered through the cold night in their swags.

Day four we journeyed on to the Western MacDonnell Ranges, most notably the Ormiston Gorge. This place easily became my favorite hike. We started early like every day, making a quick pace up the mountain, then down the valley and into the Gorge. I marveled at the massive amounts of stunningly colored river rocks in the bed of the river – boulders that I spend hundreds of dollars on for my landscaping jobs – were everywhere here. I could hardly believe the beauty. Most of the others probably took little note of it, but to me the place screamed heavenly bliss – full of natural beauty everywhere I looked. The sides of the gorge held massive, brilliantly colored orange rocks (a different type of rock that had been pushed up from the center of the earth) which contrasted amazingly with the sediment river rocks which naturally occurred on the top layer of the earth. We climbed the gorge sides, took pictures, talked and chatted. This hike was a long one in comparison to the others, but none of us seemed to mind. Each of us took great pleasure at different parts, but all of us truly appreciated the site.

For lunch we stopped at Ellery Creek, a water hole where most of the group swam. I opted against swimming in the water this time, my stomach had been bothering me and I was bloated from days of inactive body regulations and simply felt too grumpy to get wet. The place was beautiful and on any other day, I probably would have been the first to jump inside the cool water. After lunch we traveled to our next camping site, only to discover that none of us, including our guide wanted to camp here. We did, however, stop to hike up to a peak on the mountain side where a very large round rock rested strangely alone as if placed there supernaturally. Not everyone could get up to the top, but those of us who did were amazed. It was quite possible one of the most naturally beautiful places I had ever seen. We stood atop this giant red beast and looked out into the openness of the Outback. Mountains and open spaces everywhere we glanced. It was just before sunset, so the colors and lighting offered more brilliant vistas than normal. We spent a good deal of time on this rock, taking pictures and teasing each other; the group had indeed bonded well.

Once off the rock, we drove over to the campground. It was at this point, that the campground inside the national park seemed too structured and soft for us hard-nosed bush campers. We all wanted something more extreme again, so we decided to go off tour and find another remote spot outside the national grounds, again on the side of the river where we could build our own fire (and not use the grills, toilets, showers, etc of the park). A group consensus to rough it more leased me deeply. We had truly grown during our time together in the bush.

At our last camp site for the tour, we all pretty much knew the drill. We started the fire and got meal preparations under way. Since the meal that evening was going to be a big omelet, I decided to cook up the pasta we had. Earlier at a stop, I purchased some red sauce that I augmented with a variety of vegetables and cheese. Steve seemed okay with me doing this as I said I just don’t like eggs. Turns out that my part of the meal became part of most everyone’s too. Honestly, I just wanted to cook a meal from start to finish on my own and I figured this was my one opportunity to cook it in the Outback. The pasta dish I created turned out amazing (modesty aside) and I found myself quite pleased that I made it happen on an open fire with no modern conveniences. That night we also celebrated Kristen’s birthday (she was the young German girl who was part of the couple with Ika). We sang Happy Birthday and shared cake and bottles of wine we bought for the occasion.

During the night we had some dingo encounters, but it was mostly a quiet one, each of us warmly snuggled up in our sleeping bags and swags, having learned our lesson from the previous night. I fell asleep by the camp fire while the youngest in the group stayed awake to drink wine and talk. Apparently, I snored that night and the youngsters laughed at it, but ignored it as the wind mostly concealed the noise. In the morning, I was the first to rise. I gathered some wood and started the morning fire for our hot water. Steve woke to find that I had already begun his typical morning task. I saw a slight smile as he noticed me, and then he headed out to the bush to do his business. Pippa and Rob, the lovely English couple on the tour pulled me aside for a little chat. We had talked on previous occasions during the trip and they wanted to tell me that I appeared to be a natural at this outback thing. They encouraged me to try to start something up like this trip back in the USA. I really liked the compliment and the thought of what they were suggesting. To be honest, I could see myself doing this kind of thing. Serendipity, as Pippa said, sometimes just offers us the next course we are supposed to take. They said they would be the first to join a tour that I started. I liked them a lot.

After our breaky ritual, we discovered a scorpion under one of the swags, but no one was bitten. We packed up quietly, each of us realizing that our time was no nearly over. We all found it hard not to move to the future end of something in our minds, especially when the journey had been so enjoyable.

The last hike, Palm Canyon was not too far away from our camp site, so we got there relatively early. We stopped off at the toilets before we began. This is where some excitement took place. The guys went into the men’s room and the women into theirs. While I was alone in my stall, I heard a scream, then a lot of commotion next door. Then, I heard some more screams and gasps. I quickly exited and ran over to the ladies room, where I found most of the group had already gathered. As I approached, asking what was happening, I saw it – a large python had crawled out of the toilet tank and into the bowl when Claire (the lovely young French woman) was using the toilet. Now, this is stuff of legends, so I thought, but here we were, watching a large snake crawl from the toilet pipes. At the time, I was holding a little frog that I had found in the men’s room, but no one took notice of my little friend as he was completely eclipsed by the much more dramatic creature.

After the snake excitement, we calmed down, left him alone in the toilet, and then made our way to the starting point for our next adventure. We took the long hike, without Steve even offering the short one at this point. After watching us during the trip, he knew we all would do the long, strenuous one. The gorge here has provided the only suitable place in the outback for native palm trees to grow and thrive. It was an odd sight to see palms growing in the desert. During our hike we encountered amazing wildlife, tracks of various creatures, and new flora. As we were rushed to make it to the very last part of the trip – a visit to an Aboriginal community where we would get a chance to get up close and personal with native people – we skipped lunch and instead had a series of snacks while we journeyed hundreds of more miles on bouncy dirt roads (I mean unpaved, uneven, rocky gravel, sand, dust roads).

Finally, after waiting for our Aboriginal guide at the community, Craig, our indigenous guide, showed up to take up on a quick tour and talk about his people. We followed him through his land and asked questions – many of the ones I had always wondered about since I was a kid. I learned many interesting things about how they endured over 45-80 thousand years here (it is debated about the length of time they have been in Australia). Mostly, I walked away more cemented in my belief that Western culture has ruined nearly ruined them. More and more indigenous people are finding their way back to their ancestral ways, but many were lured away from their traditional culture as part of massive assimilation programs over the years. As a response to the problems of the indigenous people (alcohol abuse, domestic violence against women and children), the Australian government has outlawed alcohol and pornography on Aboriginal land. Yes, they cannot buy, possess, or consume either product. Huge signs are posted at the entrances to their communities. The white people in the Outback can still do what they want with regard to these things.

Craig showed us cave paintings done by his ancestors and other notable sacred sites on his land. He explained how the dreamtime stories were practicable and spiritual – relating to procreating, hunting, foraging, intra-group relations, sexuality, punishment, and relations to other indigenous groups. We saw rock carvings with markings that indicated the migratory paths of kangaroo and emu. I witnessed a wild kangaroo hoping along the rocky cliffs, and eagerly pointed him out to the group. Craig explained to me how they would have taken him out while hunting – a large rock to the head while the kangaroo was temporarily blinded by the sun. At 7 PM, we made our way back to the entrance to the community and Steve was waiting anxiously. We should have been on the road by 4:30, but the day had gotten away from us. Now, Steve had to drive on the rocky, bumping, dirt roads at night with the risk of both wandering cows and wild Roos jumping out in front of us.

He drove like the proverbial bat out of hell to beat the nightfall, but we lost that battle. After just 30 minutes, we were in pitch black racing down the road, bouncing around the truck like popcorn in a hot kettle. Only this time, we could not see anything. This was our first nighttime driving adventure and it was frightening for all of us. I still managed to dose off somehow, even though I was nervous. We made it back to Alice Springs safely, obviously. And, with only a half hour until all the restaurants in town closed down, we ventured as a group to Tully’s Backpackers for some grub. There we shared our last meal and beers together and promised to keep in touch.

I will never forget this time in the bush. I will always appreciate the people, animals, plants. mountains, wind, and spirit that combined to give me a once-in-a-lifetime experience!

Cairns and the Great Barrier Reef

My 10 pm flight from Bris to Cairns did not arrive until after midnight. The airport taxi line provided a surprising efficiency and although I was one of the last fliers to get my bag and jump into line (dozens of people back), the queue took only about 15 minutes. I think the cab driver drove me a bit out of the way and back because the toll went over the twenty-dollar mark even though the hotel staff informed me that it would be about 14-15 bucks. I decided not to argue or complain as it was late and I just wanted to sleep. The hotel I booked on-line, bragging about being centrally located turned out to be a 25 minute walk from the city center. Again, as the hotel clerk told me this, I decided not to complain. He was being somewhat helpful regarding booking my great barrier reef tour (even now at 12:30 am), so I figured all is okay with the world.

Once inside my room, I called the company he recommended, only slightly wondering if it was a scam with a kick-back provided to him. They had a 24 hour reservation number, unlike some of the other tour companies, so I swallowed my cynicism, and called. Within minutes, I had myself booked on the 8:30 AM tour to the outer Great Barrier Reef. I needed to be at the dock at 8 AM, so I undressed and climbed into bed, after backing up my wake-up call with the in-room clock radio.

The next morning, my eyes opened early, without the assistance from either source. I was eager to get on that boat to see one of the wonders of the world. I remember hearing that the Great Barrier Reef, although a bit of a misnomer since it is actually a series of separate reefs, is the world’s largest living organism – visible by the astronauts from the moon. Having never really been an underwater person, I was not sure what activity I could do to see all that was possible, but I had settled on doing the included snorkeling and maybe the glass bottom boat. However, after boarding, the young, friendly staff began selling me on scuba diving. I thought I could easily deflect their attempts to up-sell me, but they countered with a first time, assisted dive that included training. This got me thinking. I have always wondered about scuba diving, but the thought terrified me to be honest. Skydiving, bungee jumping, zorbing, free jumping off buildings – did all that without a problem, but the thought of being under water without being able to breathe freely is a whole different thing altogether. The young Swiss kid was pretty persistent, but I managed to put him off as I thought about it.

Stupidly, or fortuitously, I managed to be sitting in the front of the boat when they began the training for first time scuba divers. I pretended to be a part of the group, even though at this point I had not yet decided what to do. I found the training course simple and not too terrifying. After the conclusion of their training presentation, they counted the heads and noticed that I had not yet signed up. To add the last bit of sales pressure, they told me that if I got the equipment on and freaked out after trying everything on the loading platform, I could cancel and not pay anything. This strategy worked on me. I figured if I could suit up, try on the gear, go under water and breathe without freaking the hell out, then I could venture deeper into the underworld of fish, coral, and creatures.

I signed up. My group would be third off the boat. I had an hour of snorkeling before going under water. I was the first person into the water to snorkel. The boat was mostly old people and families, so my quickness was not a huge feat. I shed my clothes and got into the Lycra jumpsuit posthaste and made my way out just above the Great Barrier Reef. Once my mask hit the water, I say a world beyond belief. My first reaction was a tear of joy (a common theme this trip). My eyes filled with colors I never expected to see – neon yellow, green, and blue. Then, I noticed strange fish everywhere. My eyes, my mind needed to digest and compartmentalize. Too much, too soon, I thought. So, I tried to focus on one element of this glorious chorus of beauty at a time. I told myself to see colors only. Focus on that. I floated above the reef and tried to just see the colors beneath me. A rainbow of colors and more lived right beneath me. The neon colors were the most striking to me, perhaps because they were so unexpected to me. I then began to see other colors – black, white, brown, tan, reds, grays, orange, and purples. Next, I focused on shapes. The coral appeared to be shaped like giant mushrooms, mountain sized cauliflowers, forests of deer antlers, clouds, and other vegetables. I floated above it all, trying to notice one thing at a time. Then, finally I was unable to resist the movement of the amazing creatures that swam around it all and next to me. I saw tiny minnow type fish, long eel looking creature, sea cucumbers, large fish that almost matched my size, normal sized fish one could buy at the market, sting rays type creatures, jelly fish things, and baby Nemo fish. The whole experience overwhelmed me. As I brought my head above water, I heard my name being called over the loud speaker. It was time for my dive.

I swam back to the floating, semi-permanent dock they called Marine World and made my way to the scuba area. The group I was to be with was waiting for me anxiously and annoyed. The staff quickly geared me up and had me on the training platform within five minutes. I barely had a chance to get nervous, although I managed to do so nonetheless. Even though I had paid close attention to the training session on the boat as we journeyed toward the reef, I was now wondering if I was forgetting things. Breathe through my mouth, not my nose. Tilt the mask from below and shoot air through my nose while holding the mask at the top to get water out of the mask and away from my eyes. The thumbs-up sign does not mean all is good, it means “take me up”. If I lost my mouthpiece during the dive, I was not to hold my breath. I was supposed to blow little bubbles out of my mouth while I put the mouthpiece back into my mouth. All these rules raged through my mind as I descended the latter into the water onto the platform. The girl who did the training was not the one taking us down, that too gave me pause – she was my teacher and now they switched it up.

The male instructor was very quick with us. He instructed us to get on our knees. To put in our mouthpieces and to submerge ourselves while resting on the platform. Once under, we were to watch him and run through the drills. This happened very quickly and apparently I passed because he then told us he would grab us one at a time and pull us under for the dive. The turning back point was right now, but I didn’t have the fear I expected, so I pushed forward and let him pull me into the ocean beneath the platform. I said a little “sweet Jesus help me” as I went under. Then, silence, except for my exhaled breathing. I released my hand from the safety rope and found myself amazingly swimming to keep up with the diving instructor. The fact that I was diving at the Great Barrier Reef without hours and hours of training and course work, amused me and I laughed, causing a little water to go into my nose. Luckily, I did not panic.
My sinus problems betrayed me and I was unable to equalize my ears, in spite of trying everything they had told me to try. Regardless, I refused to go back up, even after the instructor could tell I was a little distressed by it. I lied and motioned that it was better, even though my right ear was killing me. I was going to do this no matter what.

We continued diving, the instructor leading the three of us novices into a world unknown to us. I was not literally on top of and touching some of the creatures I had seen only moments earlier from the surface while snorkeling. The underwater vantage point opened up a whole new perspective on these things. What appeared to be smooth surfaces from above proved to be thousands of tubular forms so jammed together that from above they just looked continuous. Beneath what looked like mushrooms, lived all sorts of small fish and ocean creatures, moving in and out of their habitats. Our guide/instructor carefully moved various living objects aside, showing their attachments to the coral or rocks. He pointed out eels and sharks and animals I cannot even explain or describe.

At various points, he instructed us to kneel on the ocean floor and he brought creatures to us to hold and inspect. While we did this, the team photographer came by to take pictures of us under water. This was the only time I got myself into a mental place of panic. Something about sitting idle caused my breathing to become irregular. I took in some seawater which exasperated my panic. My body did not want to stay on the bottom (I may have need more weights on my belt compared to the overweight guys who were diving with me). I was trying to stay there, but my ears were hurting. At one point, I thought about just rushing up to the surface, but I knew that was a mistake. Later, when I viewed the pictures the photographer took, I could see the panic in my eyes – wide open, with my cheeks hallow from sucking in air dramatically. That was the only point in the dive that I did not like.

After the pictures, we swam on and everything seemed to normalize with my equipment (or at least my operation of the equipment). I could not believe how wonderful scuba diving felt – emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and physically. All my sensations seemed to be firing full blast, yet I was at peace. I was visiting another world and feeling quite lucky to be doing so. Then, it was over. We swam back to the platform and made our way up to the surface. Besides being a little cold, the experience was superb. I decided then and there to do it again.
After explaining my ear situation to the staff, they informed me that I had better not dive again for a while so that my ear could repair itself in the off chance that I tore the eardrum. Great, I thought, here I am at the Great Barrier Reef, learning to dive, wanting to do it again, and now I cannot. The lunch had begun, so that distracted me from my disappointment. Surprisingly, the lunch on Marine World was tasty. I tried just about everything, except for the large Shrimp, which I thought considering our location, seemed a bit callous to our friends beneath us. I also took the time to unpeel the Lycra and wetsuits and take in a 20 minute sunbath, thinking maybe a miracle might heal my ear. Much to my displeasure, the ear only got worse. I had pretty much lost all hearing in the right ear and the feeling of water-log only increased as well.

So, after resting and digesting, I decided to put the Lycra suit back on and go snorkeling. I didn’t want to piss away the day feeling sorry for myself. I repeated the same process, this time being sure to better survey the items beneath me, wondering if I had simply over-looked the details the first time that were obvious to me while I was scuba diving. Sure enough, the perspective was the same. This, of course, sent me into my head considering the implications of teaching moments relating to this realization. How many things appear one way only to be shown to be completely different with deeper analysis or observation? So, I philosophized to myself and floated for a good 45 minutes alone, with my reef below me. Then, I noticed that a few of the people on the tour had taken off their Lycra suits and/or wetsuits and were snorkeling in their swimmers. What a wonderful idea. It took me a few minutes to get back to the starting platform. Once on it, I peeled off the Lycra and stood there in my Speedo. What the hell, I reasoned; none of these people know me. I put my flippers back on, secured my mask and mouthpiece and jumped back in.

The rush of the water against my naked body felt stupendous. I should have done this in the morning I thought as it sailed through the water much more easily. It was then that I noticed her, a beautiful Hump headed Maori Wrasse swimming, no gliding, beneath me. She was about four feet long and three feet tall and sparkled with the brilliance of neon purple, yellow, green and blue. I had seen her while I was scuba diving, but she paid us little attention. This time, I tried my best to keep up with her, following on the surface as fast as possible, but she was faster than I. Telling her that it was “okay, I just wanted to play,” as I put my hands out in front of me (above her), and let her swim beyond me. Then, it happened. I say her eyes look up and back at me. She turned, swam up directly toward me and made contact. She literally swam right into my arms. I suppose the sight of a very large fish coming directly in one’s path would cause panic in a lot of people, but it exhilarated me. I caught her with my hands and let her swim through them, careful to caress her gently with the love of appreciation. She calmly swam under me back to a position about four feet beneath me – just deep enough that I couldn’t reach her, but close enough that I could see her well enough to follow, which I did. We repeated this dance for some time. I swam all over the reef following her. Each time I reached out my arms as if to hug her, she would turn and swim up to me and allow me to hold her, touch her, pet her, caress her, and love her. Sometimes, I would flip her, causing her to turn somersaults in the water, other times I would lift her above surface to watch her swim back below.

After nearly 45 minutes or so, during a very special pass where she literally let me hold her in my arms for thirty or so seconds, I noticed her eyes looking at me. Then, it made sense. I felt something profound. I felt my grandmother in this fish. I cannot explain it so that it makes any sense to anyone else but me, but then and there, I knew my dead grandmother was communicating with me from another dimension. When I was a young kid, and even as a young adult, my grandma had a loving way of looking at me. It was a peaceful way, a look that made me feel loved and secure. It was something that she and I shared. When I was a troubled young kid, her loving look made me feel okay. It was this look that the fish gave me and it was mesmerizing. It took me a minute to make the connection, but then it was like a sledgehammer. Once I did, she swam through my hands and then far away from me, leaving me on the surface freaking out. Did this really just happen?

I followed on the surface, now crying a little from the emotional connection, and found her just beyond the coral in a deeper part of water where the ropes told us we were not to swim beyond. To hell with their rules, I was following my grandma fish and could not be limited by ropes. I caught up to her, this time she was much deeper, nearly 15 feet beneath me. I decided to test her. So, I called out into the ocean and said, “If you are my grandmother, then swim back up to me.” I held out my hands as I had done prior, and watched as it happened. She turned from deep beneath me, looked up at me, then b-lined toward me. As she made her way to me, I gulped a bit of seawater from the shock of it. Within seconds, my grandma fish was back in my arms and I was holding her, literally holding this very large fish talking to her on the surface of the ocean at the Great Barrier Reef. This time, unlike back in New Zealand, grandma didn’t say anything back to me. She just gave me the look and then scurried free from my hands back to the freedom of the ocean below.

Convinced that my dead grandmother had somehow manifested her spirit into this large fish, I decided to spend the rest of my time at the reef with her. I mean how often does one get to swim with their dead grandmother in Australia at the Great Barrier Reef? I told her how pleased I was that she made the trip with me (since it was her dream too). I told her about my life now and how happy I was. I told her that she made a difference in the world and that she was loved by many. We had a wonderful one-sided conversation as I swam miles around the reef chasing her. Toward the end of the time we had at the reef, grandma fish came back up to play with me a number of times. Unbeknownst to me, the young English kid I had met earlier on the boat had been watching grandma and me for some time. He later told when we surfaced to talk, that he was amazed by the way I would hold out my arms and she would come running (swimming) to me. He tried to mimic me several times, but grandma only came to me. She only let me hold her. She only looked at me with those soft eyes, reassuring me as she always did that everything was going to be alright.

Byron Bay to the Gold Coast

In retrospect, my time with Simon at Byron Bay and the Gold Coast could have been shortened by a day or two and spent in Cairns instead, the reasons for that will have to wait as I am playing catch-up with my writing. Hindsight is always perfectly clear. I did enjoy my time with a fellow American and friend, but the Gold Coast would probably rate at the bottom of places I visited so far around Australia. We stayed at a Hilton property called Conrad Jupiter’s, a resort Casino (yes, just like the ones in Vegas, only smaller, less sophisticated, and a tad more trashy). It is essentially a destination hotel for the blue rinse crowd (read retired English and Aussie types) and Asian tourists – not that I have anything wrong with either group. I am only trying to be a keen observer and report on things as I interpret and witness. Surely, outside the hotel would be better, I reasoned, based upon the time Simon and I spent driving around looking for Conrad Jupiter’. The suburb of Broadband Beach, where we were staying, appeared more promising for activities and nightlife than did Byron Bay when we first arrived there. However, after only an hour or so out of the hotel that first night, Simon and I both independently felt that the place mimicked a place like Ocean City Maryland, Atlantic City, or some other over-crowded touristy beach on the American East Coast. In general, I find nothing wrong with that kind of spot, as it appeals to thousands and thousands of people, but it is just not my scene. To put it into perspective, Simon and I counted probably nearly ten men sporting fresh mullet haircuts and just about every young lady (walking around the beach town streets) appeared to be dressed for a summer prom – little, overly-tight dresses and very high-heeled pumps). I felt I was in an overly hetero-sex-charged 80s movie with some random families making cameos for no apparent reason? To defend the locals (and local Australian visitors from more remote parts near the Gold Coast), it was a Friday night, so the fancy dress may be a weekend party night costume situation?

We managed to find one bar/restaurant that had a good vibe – sort of a LA type feel or a place that could actually thrive in Sydney – so we made our way in to grab a drink and some food for Simon. I had decided the time had come for me to start watching my caloric intake again after over a week of eating everything and not working out, had turned my body – typically, a regular, efficient robot, into an irregular, rusty old machine. So, I ordered a bottle of white wine only (that’s healthy, right) while Simon ordered a gin & tonic (and ended up disappointed at it again) and the salmon dinner they offered. At this bar/restaurant, we enjoyed the craziness of a bachelorette party raging inside, some oddly matched daters seated near us, the antics of the people in the smoking section out in front of the bar, and of course, the amazing show performed by unaware passersby who strolled in front of our side-walk table. Good, food, drink, conversation, and people-watching rescued what both Simon and I judged our least favorite stop so far on either of our trips.

The next day, I rose early to take on the day. I was determined that our time in the Gold Coast would be fruitful and enjoyable, in spite of our early judgment to the contrary. I decided the night before to go to Starbucks in the morning to use their cheap Internet connection with my notebook. Then, Simon and I would try out the beach that we had walked on the night prior since at least the beach looked extremely promising – long, with tremendous amount of sandy real estate at the shore. Surely, daytime at the beach would be nice. I left Simon to sleep and headed off on the 15 minute walk to Starbucks. After ordering a venti dark drip (and wonderfully realizing that they understood me for the first time in the country), I gained a table spot out front near the sidewalk. After several failed attempts at connecting to the Internet, I gave up. Something at their end was not allowing me to gain access? The gals working the counter could not provide assistance as the wireless Internet here operates as a separate company. Undeterred, I worked on my blog (for a later cut and paste job), and did some people-watching while I waited for Simon to join me. About an hour later, Simon came round. He enjoyed his cup of coffee and I finished my writing.

Hungry now, Simon wanted breaky (that’s breakfast for the American readers), so we walked around looking for a suitable establishment. Finally, just near the beach, I spotted a place that served breakfast and had wireless Internet service. $10 later for the connection, I was on-line and Simon and I had ordered food. By this point, the whole bringing my lap-top and using free wireless idea was not panning out to be any easier or cheaper than just using the Internet cafes like I did a couple months ago when I traveled Eastern Europe. I have been paying $5-25 dollars for an hour/day for wireless connections since I landed in the country and it is beginning to annoy me. So far, only McDonald's provides free Internet for their customers, but they are Nazis about blocking websites they feel are inappropriate. I for one don’t need McDonald's telling me what is and is not acceptable for me to access via the Internet.

A short walk across the street following breaky, landed Simon and me on the sandy paradise of one of the longest beaches in the world. I could not see the end or start of the beach in either direction – appearing to go on for miles and miles. We tossed our stuff down on the beach (I again forgot my towel). Simon plopped onto the towel he had taken from the hotel and got himself situated on the sand. I decided to wander – a beach full of people to experience always gets me on my feet. I had sprayed my body up and down with my misty sun-block, so I was confident about walking up and down until something or someone caught my attention. Sure enough, a group of four very large, well-built, Aussie men attempting to launch a type of boat, did just that. These guys were the life-guard types I expected to see in Sydney at Manly Beach or Bondi Beach – each, more perfectly chiseled than the next. And, it was as if a casting director had hand-selected each of them to ensure ethnic diversity, one appeared to be a Scandinavian blond, another looked like a nice mix of Asian meets mid-western US, another a type of Latin influenced white, and the fourth a blend of perhaps Aboriginal and European of some extract. All wore very small Speedos of different colors, and wore them so well that it was distracting to the boat launching I was attempting to watch. I have no idea what the boat was, but it looked like a very large, open at the top, kayak vessel. On the boat were very large oars. Watching the guys fight the ocean in an attempt to get on board was quite the show. These guys had forty pounds of muscle on me, so I neglected to even ask if they wanted my help, plus I would have had no idea what to do. So, I just stood there and watched the process unfold, remaining appreciative for the little gifts I receive as I make my way through my days. The two larger guys held the front of the boat at they put it into the waves at the shoreline and the other two guys got deeper into the water at the back of the boat and attempted to both hold the boat steady, while attempting to jump inside, grab the oars and heartily pull the oars against the waves to draw the boat into the waves and into the ocean from the beach. I watched as they attempted three unsuccessful times. The waves were strong and knocked the guys around a lot each time. What I thought was funny was that when they were in the water the guys each pulled up the backs of their Speedos and tucked the material into their butt cracks, leaving their ass checks exposed. I am guessing this is because the waves can get into the fabric and pull the entire thing off, so they do this as a preventative measure? I did not really care about the reason because I was so fascinated by the ritual. I cursed a few times that I did not have my camera, nor did I have Simon to document the authenticity of this experience. A few times during the attempts, one or two of the guys looked over at me strangely, probably wondering why I was watching their boat launch. I did not flinch or move. I wanted to see if they could get the boat in the water and it was a truly interesting process, the man-show part of it just added icing to the distraction on the beach. After thirty minutes and four or so tries, the guys pulled the boat out of the water and back onto the beach. At this point, an older guy (read, my age) arrived to assist. The guys lifted the boat from the back and poured out the water that had gotten inside during their previous attempts. I was beginning to understand the process at this point. The strong men carried the boat back to the shore. The fifth guy held the front of the boat as the big guys got back into position, butt cheeks exposed. This time, there was success. The two back guys jumped it and pulled the oars. Quickly, the front two jumped in and pulled strongly. The boat lurched into the waves. The fifth guy then jumped on board. The beauty of these strong young men pulling the oars against the waves was very stunning – man against nature for sure. Within a few minutes, the guys were so far out into the ocean, that I lost track of them. Now alone on the shore, I continued to wander.
That night, I tried my attempt at the blackjack tables after Simon and I put about $30 into the penny slots and lost. As my luck would have it, I won about three hundred bucks. Then, I managed to give a bunch of it back later, thinking I would continue to win. Around 1 AM, I headed back to bed. Simon had already gone off to sleep.

The next day, my last in the Gold Coast, Simon and I decided to return to the beach or a repeat performance. Sadly, we did not see the boat guys again and had to settle for sun and sand. I walked around again, and returned to Simon an hour later to find that the sand had almost covered him while I was away on the beach. He woke, dusted off the fine sand and informed me that he was heading back to the hotel, to the relaxation of the pool. I stayed on the beach, fell asleep, then returned to the hotel around 3 PM. Simon and I hung out and talked for a couple of hours before I needed to leave. I took the shuttle to the airport at Brisbane for my flight to Cairns around 5 PM, leaving Simon alone to travel the next day to Brisbane and beyond until Brett joins him in a week.

Leaving Sydney

Simon and I spent nearly all day Thursday driving to Byron Bay, a quaint seaside town that both his people and my people suggested as a must see place located north of Sydney up the East coast of Australia. Putting the GPS in charge proved entertaining as she, we dubbed her Muriel, was full of Australian slang and impossible directions at times. After some pretty amusing turns that developed into circles throughout Sydney, we finally got Muriel to get us onto the Pacific Coast Highway (a familiar name from back home). Once we got going on the freeway, things improved and the drive became quite beautiful and stress-free for the most part. Simon cracked me up with his driving, hitting the windshield wipers instead of the turn signal and spending too much time hugging the left side of the road, over-compensating to avoid on-coming traffic. I did the same thing in Melbourne when I rented my car, so it was funny to watch someone else do it. It’s a hard thing reversing instinctive driving habits. We stopped around 11:30 for lunch in a cute little town just off the freeway – I tried a lamb burger and Simon a regular one. We realized very quickly that we were no longer in Sydney – the people and places were becoming a lot more country the further we traveled from Sydney.

Further along on our journey, we passed a sign for farm fresh veggies and eggs, similar to the street stands one would find along roads in central and northern California (as well as many other states back home in America). Since both Simon and I were experiencing some difficulties with our bodies keeping things cycling, if you get my drift, I got the idea that we should buy a bunch of veggies and I could prepare a major fresh salad once we got to Byron Bay. Since I was driving at this point, I pulled the car over into the dusty parking lot and we stretched and made our way into the veggie stand. Farm fresh veggies are such a delight. Everything was colorful and fragrant. The differences in available vegetables delighted me – they had eggplant that I had never seen, some onions that were odd to me, and some very odd looking fruits. I opted to stay away from fruits, except a few oranges and apples, and instead focused on gathering some lettuce as well as fresh zucchini, carrots, tomatoes, beets, onions, broccoli, pears, squash, and eggplant. Simon wanted fresh eggs, so we grabbed those too. As I approached the check-out, I inquired about a men’s room. The lady said they did not have one, but that I was more than welcome to use the tree. I looked through the opening behind her and spotted a few large fruit trees. “Really?” I asked. “Yeah, sure” she insisted. So, off I went through the back and into the yard. Outside, I realized I was standing right next to the freeway under a tree, next to a house, adjacent to small plots of dirt where food was sprouting from the ground. Oh hell, I thought, when you gotta go, you gotta go. I unzipped and took care of business under that tree. I can’t remember the last time I relieved myself out in the wild. When I returned, I found that Simon had added some chocolate covered licorice to our basket of healthy veggies. He loves his sweets.

Just after 6 pm, we pulled into Byron Bay and it took us another half an hour to find our accommodations. Muriel, bless her heart, did her best, but dumped us a block away, and we wandered about trying to find the right address on the right street – unfortunately, we keep walking toward the beach. I called the place after we decided to give up and seek assistance. Luckily, we were very close. The hotel was an apartment rental in a new building complex – very sleek and modern, with rustic furnishings. Straight away, I liked it quite a bit. The kitchen, modern and clean, greeted us when we entered. The next room, the living room had a large flat screen TV, and it sat next to the kitchen and lead into the bedroom and bath area. We even had a balcony with a nice dining table that overlooked the pool. I had to admit, the accommodations certainly beat a foam mattress in the back of a camper van.

I began slicing and dicing immediately and send Simon to the store for vinegar and oil since that was the only item for the veggie salad that our little veggie stand did not carry. The beets needed to be cooked, so they were the first thing to be prepared. It took me some time to figure out how to turn the stove on – everything here is plugged into an outlet that has an off/on switch (which I think is a very good idea to reduce energy consumption when appliances are not being used), but that wasn’t the problem this time. I couldn’t figure out which switch to turn on since obviously the stove was not a small appliance and is semi-permanently plugged in behind the counter somewhere. I supposed had I been filmed messing about this kitchen, it would have been comical to watch. I poured myself a rum and diet ginger beer (a favorite thing Simon turned me onto back in Sydney). As minutes passed, it turned from amusing to irritating even with the drink. How could I not figure it this out? Eventually, one of the switches worked and the red light went on and the stove top started heating up the beets. I was careful not to switch anything off for fear of losing power again.

The salad was brilliant – just what we needed since both of us had been eating like shit since we landed. I told myself I could spend the first week or so eating whatever, whenever the mood moved me. Simon, I think, just does what he wants. We refreshed a bit, and then ventured out to check out the town. I could tell when we checked into our place and was able to do a quick people-watch perusal that the town appeared to be an eclectic mix of surfer dues, couples and families on holiday, and some artsy types. This, of course, gave us hope that we might find some viable nightlife for us. As it turned out, we were wrong. We walked up and down the main few streets of the town and realized this was not exactly the place we’d speed a lot of time. I think coming off the dynamism that is Sydney, spoiled our perspective. We strolled to the beach and watched and listened to the waves; Simon spotted the lighthouse light circling in the night sky. It was beautiful, the night breeze a perfect blend of humidity and chill.

About the only nightspot we could find was a very large outdoor/indoor bar. At the door, the doorman gave us all sorts of grief before letting us inside the place. He insisted, and asked several times, that we were drunk, or had been drinking heavily. Now, Simon had not had anything, and I just the one rum and ginger, which had this point had been at least two hours and a big meal ago, so his repeated attempts to get us to fess up to being drunk, annoyed us deeply. The guy’s accent was so heavy that I could not understand him and out of irritation, told Simon to deal with him. Finally, he relented, realizing that we must be okay to enter? Like I mentioned before, we should have taken the sign to go elsewhere. The joint offered live music, but the crowd’s energy was a tad bit on the dead side, although some couples were dancing. I bought us two vodka tonics, and then we made our way to the outside section to sit just away from the band and dancers. As we had discovered in Sydney, this is not the country to get a good drink (or pour). The barkeeps are very rigid in their measure – one drink gets one small shot. We sat at our bar table drinking our drinks and laughing that it tasted like pure tonic. Back home, at the Abbey for example, when you order a drink, you get a drink.

Tired and over the scene, both of us left and we talked back to our little apartment by the sea. We crashed after watching a little TV and doing some on-line upkeep – emails and the like. I also did my best to convince Simon to skydive with me in the morning. Much to my surprise, Simon agreed to consider it – a far cry from his initial reaction of “Hell No!”

The weather in the morning turned cloudy and overcast. The gal at the activities center at the hostel I found informed me that the planes were not flying today or tomorrow due to the overcast conditions. Simon was off the hook, pleasing him immensely. She recommended a bike hike, but we just missed the tour. Then, she thought of doing circus activities – trapeze, trampoline, and the like, but I had little hope that Simon would be up for that with his back problems and fear of heights. The last option she suggested was a drive out to the small hippie town of Nimbin. She gushed about how interesting it would be for us and said it can only be experienced to understand. And, at only a twenty minutes drive away, would be a nice detour to our time in Byron Bay.

Keen to the idea, Simon and I got in the car and began our journey to Nimbin, Muriel turned on and ready. Well, Muriel decided that she was smarter than the map we had and began sending up down very small, very local roads. We followed her guidance and ended up at a dead end (due to road construction or flooding repair, not sure which?). We U-turned out of their and Muriel repeatedly insisted that we U-turn back to take the dead-end road. Simon, now driving and irritated, plowed along back to Byron Bay so that Muriel would re-route us a different way. She finally agreed to do so and we soon found ourselves on the road the map suggested.

An hour and change later, we pulled our rental into town. It was everything that young girl had said – and somehow interesting as an adjective did not quite cover our reactions and opinions. She had warned me that not only was it a hippie town, but that it was a very liberal place with regards to marijuana. That became obvious immediately as the iconic marijuana leaf seemed to be plastered everywhere in this town – billboards, signs, shop windows, bus stops, and graffiti, announced that the folks here enjoyed God’s wonder weed. I loved it, but Simon seemed a little hesitant. The first shop we entered was a combination head shop (drug paraphernalia), clothing store (hemp clothing), and spiritual resource store. Simon began taking pictures and I laughed internally, thinking how bizarre the place was. Connected to the shop was a coffee store and I realized they sold hemp brownies. The young woman informed me that the THC has been removed in accordance with Australian drug laws. When I jokingly asked where to get the real thing, a man behind me was more than willing to chime in and asked me what I wanted. He looked somewhat aboriginal and was un-mistakenly high himself. I quickly brushed him aside, saying that I was just teasing and Simon and I left that place.

We continued our tour through the town, which was essentially one street with shops on either side – maybe twenty storefronts in total. More than half of these shops were drug-related, the others a mix of coffee houses, bakeries, or restaurants. Down a little walkway, Simon and I wandered into a small shop, another odd mix of this and that. Just as Simon pulled his camera out and snapped a picture of something that caught his fancy, the shop owner busted him and made quite a scene about this. Her tone surprised me and she pointed us to the front door where she clearly had a no pictures/photos sign hanging for customers to read. I tried to have a little fun banter with her about it and said that we were silly tourists. She asked Simon to delete the photo. In the back, I spotted a bunch of hemp clothing and I encouraged Simon to try some on. I had purchased a hemp t-shirt in Montana years ago and to this day it is one of my favorites. Hemp beats cotton hands-down on comfort and performance (it never really shrinks), yet the moralistic majority in the US Congress (who have drafted and passed the most insane drug laws in the world) combined with the members in Congress being paid off by the US cotton industry, will never allow hemp clothing (one cannot get high from hemp fabric or clothing) into the marketplace. This too is another diatribe that I will ignore for now in deference to my story.

Once the shop owner realized she had a live one shopping, her mood changed and she became quite helpful and accommodating to us. Simon loved the hemp clothing and purchased a number of things for him and for his boyfriend. I found myself sucked into the buying frenzy Simon was creating, and purchased a purple t-shirt made from bamboo. I can honestly say I don’t have anything made from bamboo, so it seemed an unusual souvenir for me to give myself. The deal I made myself when I began traveling is that I have to toss or donate a piece for every new piece I buy myself. This time, I made a painful decision to toss a red tank that I love in hopes that it convinces me to stop buying additional things that I really don’t need. I tossed it out at the hotel in the Gold Coast where I sit now (but that’s getting ahead of the story).

Walking around this town with bags of shopping items felt a little like we were betraying the spirit of the place. Yet, like the shop owner told us, years ago she opted out of the hippie mentality and embraced capitalism with her own little twist. Good on her. Regardless, we tossed the stuff into the trunk and went off to find Simon since he was starving. Still stuffed from the breakfast I prepared, I chose to wait until the hunger hit me. Simon bought another meat pie (he loves those things) as well as a large cake roll (for later) and a peanut butter chocolate bar.

The shop owner at the previous store where we bought our clothes told us where the drug action happens – behind the Nimbin museum – so off we went. I was curious to observe how this process worked and I think Simon was too. Drug sales are illegal here in Australia, but somehow they are relaxed in Nimbin? As we meandered down the trail on the side of the museum, it was obvious what was happening. Dealers were selling their stuff to mostly young backpackers. I waited for someone to ask me, but we got through the path and nothing. This bothered me (I don’t like to be ignored). As I had just watched several deals go down, I wondered what the heck. Simon got nervous and wandered back to the car. I was annoyed that no one wanted to sell me anything, not that I really wanted it, but I wanted to at least be asked so I could have a story to tell, so I walked back up the path toward the street side of the museum. Again, no one came up to me. One more try, I thought, as I walked down the path toward the parking lot behind the street shops. This time, I walked over to someone. He looked at me – giving me the once-over and grimacing. “You’re a fucking cop; get out of here, nothing for you.” Finally, my Ah-ha moment. They thought I was an undercover Aussie cop. Really, me? Well, this development cracked me up. I stood there in the middle of drug dealers and all of them ignored me. They pretended to causally hang out, enjoy the sun or park, or whatever they intended to present to me. After a moment, I wandered away, laughing inside. “Work on your American accent your fucker,” he screamed after me as I exited his work place. Back at the car, I told Simon about it and he nearly wet his pants laughing so hard. I am still not certain why I look like an Aussie narc, but I chocked this one up to another great Australian story.

We left this odd little place in search of Protester’s Falls – supposedly an amazing water fall area inside a natural palm rain forest just a 15 minute drive from Nimbin. Back in the early 70s I believe a group of hippie protesters (thus, the name) rescued this place from loggers/developers and the whole area was turned into a national park. We found it after I talked to a nice old hippie at the gas station and got directions Aussie style (turn at the big tree at the bend kind of directions). We parked and made our way into the hike easily. I learned that Simon had never hiked up any falls before, so this excited me to share the experience with a virgin. I can think of nothing more perfect than nature, and I was hopeful that Simon would appreciate the hike up through the rain forest. Turns out, Simon was a quick study. I pointed out natural beauty – the inspiration for some of my sculptures – like the moss growing on the fallen tree trucks, the way the baby palms struggle to make it under the canopy of the larger trees, the way rocks have naturally dotted the landscape, the palm leaves scattered magically into forms and shapes on the forest floor, the natural curves of the roots that have lost earth only to find it again somewhere lower, the way the colors explode against the neutral backdrop, the sound of the water rushing down beside us. Simon pulled out his camera and began taking pictures of some of this stuff – sights others probably walk past without noticing or appreciating. I felt profoundly appreciative again for the gift of this hike. I have done countless hikes similar to this, but each one is unique and different from the others. This place was no exception and the thrill of sharing what I see with Simon made the experience special to me. Since I am used to doing this kind of thing on my own, I typically have no one to rejoice with during the evolution of new and exciting visual beauty as a hike unfolds. I was very proud of Simon, pushing himself to make it all the way to the top to experience the brilliance of the actual falls themselves. I had to teach him how to climb and maneuver the rocks – I skill I take for granted but that he had never done. At the top, I could tell Simon was amazed – he took another 30 photos. It pleased me deeply that he enjoyed the hike, and reinforced why I love my friend so much.

Back at Byron Bay, we crashed early – the hike and trip to Nimbin exhausted us both and the next morning would be an early check out and drive further up the coast to Australia’s Gold Coast. With Muriel on our side, what

Sydney Tues/Wed

Coming off a day full of emotional responses to amazing experiences, the de-flowering of some of my virgin moments, absolutely stellar entertainment, the beach/surf/sun, and, lastly, good eats, I wasn’t sure how Tuesday in Sydney could begin to compete with Monday’s smorgasbord. Yet, I remained optimistic. I had pre-arranged with Simon that he would spend the day with Jason, Michael, and me on our tour of something called “Sculptures by the Sea” – an art exhibition from world artists along the seaside. The show extends basically between Bondi Beach and Bronte Beach in NSW.

Michael and Jason arrived on time at the Westin, and after a quick introduction between Simon and the boys, we jetted off to Bronte Beach to grab a late breakfast before we toured the art outside art exhibition. Simon bonded quickly with my new Aussie friends – they all share the roots of England, I guess? We selected a quaint breakfast café just above a park, over-looking the beach at Bronte. The others all ordered breakfast, but I, being high maintenance and sensing the need to be different, ordered a burger with blue cheese (did I mention that I was gaining the weight I lost before the trip?). We discussed entertainment, world politics, theater, religion, food, travel, our ambitions and careers – covered some nice ground and bonded as people. Oh, and I had the best cup of coffee so far on my trip.

We headed down to the shore to start the art walk. I immediately commented to Jason, as he and I sort of paired off to walk together while Simon and Michael causally did the same thing, the sea side alone was art enough for me. The colors of the rocks, algae, waves, red dirt, sky, clouds, and sand, combined to paint just the most glorious vistas and vignettes. Suddenly, as we journeyed along the path, we began to see sculptures dotting the landscape in front of us and on the sand in the on the beach beneath us. The four of us bristled with excitement as the art was already grabbing our attention and demanding a response, which of course, the four of us offered to each other before we even managed to make our way down to the beach that sat 100 feet below us. To be honest, both Simon and I were so eager to get to the beach and experience the art, neither of us can remember how we got to the beach – did the path just gradually descend toward the beach or did we take a set of stairs? Regardless, we hit the sand – the soft, dusty white powder immediately, warmly kissed my toes, causing me to smile inside. The first few sculptures we explored moved us slightly – amusing but not overly sensational pieces. Other works, spoke nothing and we all commented about how subjective art is generally, but sometimes there is consensus that a piece of art just doesn’t work. Simon and I began taking pictures to document the day and the beauty of large scale work being displayed opening (and for free) at a public beach. An idea whose time may have come for Los Angeles?

That first night in Sydney in Trevor’s hotel suite, the Aussies were discussing the Sculptures by the Sea Exhibition and they spent a good deal of time talking about the controversy surrounding one of the pieces of art. Apparently, one of the artists created a sculpture of a lost boy – a naked, big-eyed toddler on the cusp of tears standing alone wanting his mommy. The artist created his work to appear real (especially if photographed or viewed out of context with actual humans) – flesh colored skin, real hair on the head, and a small uncircumcised penis. And, as one can imagine, therein lays the controversy. Seems the Aussie public has a crazy fringe conservative right that is just as prudish and ridiculous as the conservative loonies back home in America. The critics here are quite upset about the size of this young boy’s penis, which during the discussion in the hotel room, prompted me to ask if it would have been okay if the artist had given him a big one? We contemplated and discussed how ridiculous the moral extremists are – so assured of their righteousness that they need to impose it on others. It reminds me that those who operate out of weakness are the first to try to subject others to their view, way, or understanding so as to reinforce their beliefs. Diversity of thought, morals, or opinion cannot be tolerated. It saddens me really because this mentality constricts, suffocates, and kills the creativity of the human spirit.

I spotted the lost boy’s ass as we moved toward the water and away from the sculptures closest to the cliffs we had just descended. I knew right away that it was the sculpture the group had been discussing on Saturday night. As we approached, we noticed that the work certainly stood out as one of the more popular pieces of art. Dozens of people, and as many cameras, were staring, closely observing and documenting the young lost boy, standing in the sand. I knew I had to get a photo with the kid, so I waited patiently for my turn with him. As is obvious from the attached photo, one can see that the sculpture of the 2 year old certainly was not made to scale, unless born of some Amazon race. I pretended to put my arm around him, as if guiding him back to the safety of his mother. I quite like the shot. It creeped me out – causing a reaction – the one true thing art is supposed to do.

The rest of the art spread out over a nice long stroll between the beaches spoke to us as well and both Simon and I took about 100 photos of the sculptures. Every so often, we were surprised by some of the work that was so fully integrated into the natural landscape, that the works could easily have bee3n overlooked. In fact, after the tour, we all wondered how much we missed. I took the opportunity to climb in and around the cliffs and caves and found different vantage points for the art that I am sure the artists had hoped for as they were doing the installation. Near the turn from Bronte to Bondi, I noticed a bunch of trash, some chairs, and clothes spread across the rocks. Then, it hit me, this is the squat site of a guy who lives on the rocks over Bondi who has been on the news here in Australia for allegedly raping a young woman. I am not sure about the veracity of the allegation, but this fella has been living on the rocks for over five or six years now and keeps winning court battles with the politicians who are trying to remove him. It was a tad bit strange to come across his ramshackle beach cave home during our brilliant art walk, but in a way, it added to the adventure.

Bondi Beach, world famous and packed with tourists, spread across much more land than I had envisioned prior to my trip. The sand here too was extremely fine and white. The ocean blue and beautiful. Swimmers and sunbathers everywhere – just as the tourist photos show. We opted to take a drink on the second floor above the tourist madness below. It had been a long day and we needed a little refreshment. We followed that up with a little stroll along the beach so that I could do some people watching instead of swimming this time.

Back at the hotel, I crashed for a little nap and Simon got himself ready for seeing Wicked – thinking it might somehow be different in Sydney verses LA and NYC. Not being a live musical loving person, I decided to just check out the city on my own. I walked Simon down to the theater and we enjoyed a lovely hot bowl of Korean food before we parted ways. Before I even got back to the hotel and out of the shower, Simon called to tell me that he was almost back from the show – he decided to leave at intermission. Guess the show disappointed him. As it was already almost 10 pm and Simon was wiped from the day, I decided to just hang with him in the hotel since we had to get up early to pick up our vehicles – his car and my camper van.

Wednesday was spent orchestrating the whole vehicle / rest of the trip coordination and planning situation. Simon had, on order, a rental car to take him up the coast to Brisbane, with a few stops along the way in Byron Bay and the Gold Coast. I had pre-arranged a camper van to do the same route basically, and, in addition, to take me further up the coast to Cairns. In the hotel that morning, we decided that we would walk to his rental shop for his car, then drive a few blocks over to grab lunch on Oxford street, then venture on to find my camper in one of the suburbs of Sydney called Waterloo, I believe. When Simon said he rented from Europcar, I mentioned my experience with them in Melbourne – not a good one. And, sure enough, I think I jinxed it for him. They were not helpful and were not wanting to offer Simon a GPS even though he had specifically ordered it. Typical for us Americans, we demanded what we ordered over and over until they finally relented and decided to accommodate him.

On Oxford Street, Simon spied a pie shop, and I knew that my lust for kebabs would have to be satisfied another day. He darted in and got excited for the treats of his homeland. I settled in and ordered a meat pie with smashed peas, mashed potatoes and gravy on top. Very healthy choice I would reckon. It tasted okay to me, but the look on Simon’s face communicated to me that I was missing something wonderful. I mean, it was okay, but it tasted a little bland to me. Anyone who has ever eaten a meal prepared by me knows that I like spice and this little meat pie maybe offered salt and pepper, but that was it. I did like the mashed up green peas – something that I might try back home with a little spicy Smike twist.

I really wanted to select another swimmer (bathing suit for my US readers, lol). Now that I knew the little Speedo was NOT the suit of choice, I certainly did not need to put myself into any more embarrassing situations if it was not necessary. We jumped into a nice men’s shop that seemed to cater to the metro sexual types. Simon began finding clothes immediately as I began having a go at the shopkeeper. He was a gay man in his early 50s and a bit of a muscle head and I knew he’d be good fun to chat to while Simon consumed. The guy was quick to tell me what not to miss on my drive up the coast to Cairns. But, after he realized Simon was a serious shopper, his attention turned to capitalism. Now, to further my amusement, I decided I needed to up the ante. Guess I had to start trying on clothes myself so that I could keep the attention of this guy. I stripped my shirt off right in the center of the store as I began trying his selection of tight t-shirts/club shirts. It worked. Now, he was a bit flustered. Should he help Simon, or the guy who was flashing his chest around the shop? He took the bait and began offering me swimmers to try on. Not surprisingly, he keep pushing the Speedo cut suits as he feed Simon more and more shorts and shirts. I paraded around in each and every suit he had me try. Each time, he came over to give me the once (then twice, three time) over and gave his opinion, all were good. I however felt naked in each of them and would not have worn these suits anywhere as they were even skimpier than the average speedo. After Simon decided to buy two shorts and a shirt, I realized I didn’t need to buy anything. This was the first store, and I have learned to hold out because good stuff comes later in life.

At the next store, I found two swimmers I liked. And the young kid selling them, who I considered a much harsher critic since he was maybe 20 and young and cute, made sure to force me into options I would never have selected on my own. The first few selections, although they appeared little to me, seemed big to him. At this point, Simon was laughing because every time I came outside the kid would say they are too big (even though they barely covered my bits). Finally, he put me into a red, square cut suit with a touch of 70s disco retro to it. I normally NEVER buy anything red as it clashes with my hair and skin. But, something about this suit, suited me (I tried a long time to get that sentence in here). The kid was apoplectic about it, gushing about how good it looked. I realized he was NOT just selling me since he did not like previous options and since I say a little something in his eyes this time?!

Out the door we dashed: Simon, nothing at this place, and Smike, a suit. A Cuban coffee house on the corner of Oxford slapped Simon in the face and as a result, I too had got pulled along for the ride. Luckily, Simon’s sweet tooth compelled him to order a chocolate & date cake. Along with my coffee, the few bites of cake hit a nice gastronomical spot. A pharmacy around the corner carried the misting sunblock for which I had been looking. Two cans later, one for me and one for Simon, we exited and ended up in front of another store, similar in nature to the first two, as Simon realized he needed a hat to shield his head from the sun. Inside, we found a fun English shopkeeper. Simon purchased a baseball cap while I decided to flirt with the shopkeeper – again, hard-up for entertainment.

I figured we could find the Wicked Van shop without using the GPS, but after quite some time driving around like two morons, and two failed attempts to gain useful directions from a gas station attendant and even a police officer, I finally plugged the thing into the cigarette lighter and then entered the address I had for the camper van rental store. Just before the place closed at 3:30 pm, we found it – over an hour after we set out on what should have been our 10 minute trip.

The Wicked shop was what I expected, the sort of place one expects to see hippie wanna-bes and dread-lock wearing 20 year-olds. It is certainly a place that caters to a particular type of traveler – the kind I really longed to be years ago, but never had the guts for it. The kind of guy that packs himself into a wicked camper van (essentially a VW bug station wagon with a cooker in the very back) with three or four other mates and takes off to see what adventure is out there. These guys somehow manage to travel together, sleep jammed into the back or under the starry nights, cook off the bunts and burner – all the while doing it somewhere new and different for weeks on end. It is the ultimate unplugging adventure and after the taste of this lifestyle when I traveled throughout New Zealand, I realized I could still approximate that kind of adventure traveling alone (and cheating by allowing myself a few more amenities and perks that a little disposable income offers). The plan was to rent the camper and make my way north up the Eastern coast of the continent to Cairns where I would spend a day exploring the Great Barrier Reef.

Simon sat in the rental car as I began completing the paper work for the camper. For some reason, the enormity of the task I was beginning hit me squarely in the face – probably when the young kid renting the thing to me asked if I was sure I was going to drive all the way from Sydney to Cairns in seven days. I studied the map, the distance was greater than driving from Indiana to California all those years ago and that nearly killed me and took me a week (and to remind my readers, I was about 25 when I did that drive). So, standing there at 41, considering a longer drive, it became clear to me that I needed to adjust my expectations. Talk about a life moment. I don’t do well when I realize I need to re-think my ambitiousness. I have always been the guy that just does it and makes it happen. At this point, Simon entered to find me perplexed. I told him that I was considering just renting the camper to go to Brisbane where I could drop it and then catch a plane to Cairns – instead of driving the more than 1000 miles from Bris to Cairns. He told me that was a good idea and that his Australian friends told him prior that I was crazy to attempt that part of the drive since it was both very long and somewhat uninhabited along the way. So, I pulled the trigger and decided to do that drive, adjusted to drop off in Brisbane. As Simon and I talked, we strategized how to drive, since he was essentially making the exact trip up the East coast. Somewhere in the middle of our planning, I looked at him and asked why am I even renting this thing then? He immediately knew what I was saying and offered to just do this leg together – with me splitting rooms costs, driving and gas. I considered what this meant. If I go with Simon I lose all my freedom and will have to make concessions and compromises, but I gain time, companionship, and a buddy film (potentially if I am able to glean a movie out of this. Lol) . If I go alone, I gain all my freedom and ability to do whatever/whenever, but will be so busy driving and figuring out where to camp since none of this had been preassigned, that I lose time and possible experiences because of it. In the end, I decided to go with my gut and travel with my buddy. As much as he will never admit it, Simon and I do get on well-enough together and enjoy each other’s company even though we are two very unique and stubborn individualists. So, I cancelled the camper on the spot, much to the chagrin of the young Irish lad working the counter at the rental shop. They had stayed open for me at this point, and now I have cancelled.

We plugged in the GPS and made our way back to the Westin – I sat somewhat quietly in the front seat, mentally reviewing what the hell I had just done. The whole point of my trip was to camp and be independent and now I was preparing to spend another 6 or so days doing resorts and hotels with a travel companion – strange how life throws curve balls. In the end, I think I opted to go with Simon because I am trying to be okay, no thankful and appreciative, to each and every development that comes my way, even if it is not what my ego is thinking or saying or wanting. Saying yes to the universe sometimes, truly appreciating one’s life, perhaps means taking the route that presents itself, especially if the intended direction that ego takes is presenting challenges and obstacles (maybe the universe was telling me something when the ride to the camper rental site took 5 times as long as it should have and was halted various times by bad directions, detours, traffic, missed turns, and general chaos). Distinguishing between the things I am supposed to fight for (taking the knocks and punches in pursuit of something meaningful and worthy; things hard-won in life that complete my experience here) and the things I am supposed to ignore (those that are not right for me, the experiences that are not supposed to be part of my life’s journey) is complicated. This small example of free will illustrates larger questions I continually ask myself and struggle to answer.

Simon had no interest whatsoever in joining me on the bridge climb over Sydney Harbor, so I arranged for him to hand out and spend some time with Jason and Michael while I was climbing. The three of us, Simon, Jason, and I, walked form the Westin down to “the Rocks” area of Sydney (the oldest area of what developed into the city of Sydney) to find the entrance to the Bridge Climb. We arrived early for my climb time and the guys mentioned that they wanted to sit around and wait so they could see me in the snappy jumpsuit that all climbers are required to wear.

At my pre-allotted time, I climbed the set of stairs to the second floor to meet my group of climbers. Immediately, I found a friend from the states – San Diego – whom I bonded with and knew we’d climb together and talk, as the rest of our options were various couples, mostly members of the blue rinse set. The prep before the actual climb took about 40 minutes and Dennis, my new pal from SD, and I were getting anxious to get climbing. The whole point of picking the dusk climb was to be at one of the highest possible points in Sydney to watch the sun set over the western horizon. Gearing us up and doing the stair climb training took forever, but everyone finally passed the course and we entered the holding tank, just outside of the actual bridge. Dennis and I pushed our way to the front to set a good pace for the seniors behind us. It was a blast being up front with the guides as we were able to banter with them and ask questions while the others attempted to keep up as we climbed. We quickly climbed up a number of sets of ladders and I soon found myself inside the metal structure of the bridge. A few climbs later, and we entered traffic level, then immediately climbed above it. I noticed Dennis running ahead of me as we made a final ladder climb and entered the part of the bridege where it begins to arch up into the sky. I followed quickly, not know, not caring how or why he was moving so rapidly. Then, it hit me. The guides moved way up the brige, allowing the two of us to race up the stairs on top of the arch so that we could witness the sunset. I looked left toward the West, my eyes capturing the most amazing orange blazing ball of fire that was just beginning to touch the horizon in the distance. I turned around to climb backwards (which is a no-no) so that I did not miss anything. I arrived to find Dennis standing, staring too. We laughed at each other because we did it. The others in the group would never get here in time. The sun was now a half circle, losing ground to the horizon that appeared to be eating the big ball of fire. The beauty w witnessed cannot be captured by words, and I am not a great enough writer to even make the attempt. Some things in God’s creation can only be witnessed, enjoyed, and appreciated for the brilliance. This sunset was no exception. As is a growing theme on this trip, profound appreciation swept through me and I shed a few tears of joy.

The rest of the climb was a bit anti-climatic of course since we had just experienced what we set out to experience. Yet, the guides and my new friend made the rest of experience wildly entertaining. At various points throughout the climb, we stopped to take pictures (the Climb staff takes them and the company attempts to see them after the climb). I took the opportunity to enhjoy the view, now nighttime, of the various parts of the city. The lights at night create an entirely new perspective for the eyes and I am thankful that my roommie Karl suggested the climb at dusk (thanks Karl). I would say that any visitor to Sydney must do this climb – and even at $200 plus dollars, it is not something that should be missed, even by someone with a fear of heights.