Departure Pending

Last morning away. Sitting in "The Mall" in Darwin, just outside a shop called "Paspaley", which is a very common name here. It's the largest pearling company in Australia, starting in W.A. in the 1930's, but now diversified into lots of other industries.

Interesting for me is the fact that the founder of Paspaley, Nicholas Paspaley Senior MBE, is the son of Theodosis Paspalis, who brought his family to Australia from Castellorizo, in 1919. This must have been about the same time that my grandfather, Alexandros Harmanis, he of the eagle nose and fabulous watch chain which I inherited from Mum, also arrived in W.A. from Castellorizo, and started working in the same industry, pearling. Alexandros also ran his own boat. Wish I knew more about him but my surviving uncle was too young then to remember much, one of my aunts doesn't remember much at all these days, and the other goes into a racist diatribe every time I meet her and leaves me depressed for days. Maybe the Mormons have records? Wish they'd do my story on "Who Do You Think You Are?"

Got a 3rd email from Alex today. Poor little blighter upset and sad. Carlos, apparently, isn't any more charming in his own environment than he was in Sydney. I think Alex is considering hombreicide.

Gotta go, wash, pack, and vacate the room. My Flickr friend, Tony, will pick me up and deliver me to the airport.


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The Top of the Top End

Darwin: don't know what I expected to find here, but it wasn't high rises and a tourist buzz. I guess, if I've ever thought of Darwin up till this point it appeared in my mind like a cross between a shanty town made of corrugated iron shacks, such as the photos from the aftermath of Cyclone Tracy revealed, and Baz Luhrmann's vision, in "Australia", of a dusty port where cattle are loaded.

On the Esplanade, where my hotel is, and in the main drag, Mitchell Street which runs parallel to it, I guess Darwin resembles the Gold Coast more than anything else. But further out, it's flat, flat, flat and spread out. Walking anywhere is a long, hot slog, and not something to be undertaken lightly. You have to plan and carry water, lots of water, and everyone does.

Last night went to the night markets at Mindil Beach. Sat on the brown powder sand and waited for the sunset while I ate my gado gado and sate. Lots of people, families, locals, travellers and tourists. Sun slipped through the clouds into the Timor Sea leaving some rosy swatches across the sky. Everyone madly snapping. Then back to the markets behind the sand. A young man eating fire and mainly (Asian) food stalls; also (Asian) clothes, jewellery, hippy light fittings, massage & acupuncture and what have you. Lots of fun, people, lights, music. And then a long, cool (not to me, but to my local companions) gust of wind. Stalls flapping, paintings, cards, jewelry blown off stalls; a Marquise turned over with the electric light still glowing inside. "Unplug the light!" (Frantically)"Unplug the light!" Ant-like busyness. You can see they've done this before. Stallholders packing goods back into boxes and crates, dismantling counters, folding tents. The buyers rushing through the dismantling tent town, dodging the raindrops and exiting cars, to get to their own vehicles before the heavens open.

And they do open, fully, generously, loudly and with lightning just after we get inside Tony's car.

Tony is a Flickr friend and I met him and his wife, Carole, yesterday, when they picked me up from the museum and Art gallery. Tomorrow Tony and I are going shooting (photos) in a couple of places, if I can drag myself up at a respectable time. 4 a.m. now. Better leave off and try to get a little sleep before it gets light.

Natural Wonders

Back in Darwin after four days in the glory of the Top End. Who knew about this? I hoped it would knock my socks off, and it did. We stayed in Katherine the first couple of days, swimming in rock holes, under waterfalls. Although saltwater crocodiles have been caught in one or two of them, the authorities keep an eye on the water. (The salties do seem to prefer American tourists, though, so I had a measure of natural protection.)

Let me just digress now, dear readers, to tell you that my web address for this blog was not just a fluke. I don't know whether it's just me, or the rapid fire experiences that have come at me over the past two weeks, but really I could not report on very many of them without my itinerary by my left hand. I cannot remember most of the place names, and sometimes I can't remember the place itself. My itinerary says I went to the Katherine Museum. Seems to have slipped my mind. I search back in my photos (and I've taken about 1,400, which is a pleasing mnemonic device, and may be the only one remaining soon, sadly) hoping to find an image which confirms the itinerary.

Thank goodness! Yes, found the photos of the Katherine Museum and now it all comes flooding back to me. I had a great couple of hours there taking photos of all the rusty machines. Loved it. Just didn't file it in the data bank with the tag "Katherine MUseum". Later, hope to find an Internet cafe so that I can send you the images.

Kakadu National Park was all that I could have hoped, and the cruise on the Yellow Water billabong is one of the highlights of the last two weeks. Crocodiles as far as the eye could see. Jabirus, white bellied sea eagles, wave upon wave of magpie geese, stunning!

One of the lowlights of the 4 day "Natural Wonders of the Top End" tour was the last night, staying in Cooinda bush camp. The crummy tour company (Travel North SUCKS!!!) has a permanent campsite with no amenities block: only enough power to turn on one light, in the "dining room". Nit enough clean water in the "kitchen" to wash the vegetables, or wash the dishes after the meal (the dishes we had to reuse for breakfast the next morning.) One port-a-loo, without a light. The tents leaked (and there was a torrential downpour all night). That night we weren't allowed a shower and had to go to bed covered in a stew of our own sweat, sunscreen and insect repellant. We'd made our beds before we went to dinner, but when we got back to the tents, there were big wet patches in the middle of the bunks of each tent.

But Nourlangie Rock, Ubirr and everything we saw in Kakadu was magnificent: the Aboriginal rock art galleries, the unbelievable vista of rock and tropical vegetation.

I Ghan't Believe it!

There is a species and vintage of Australian man devoid of grace, wit and native charm; unable to function in normal social intercourse except if the subject is cricket or football. The type of man who could benefit greatly from a charisma transplant. The patron saint of such men is John Howard.

What I am leading up to is my experience on the second part of the Ghan journey from Alice to Darwin, where I arrived this evening.

At meal times Ghan passengers are invited to enter the dining car and the waiters fill the tables so that one has to share tables with other diners. Last night I shared with a couple who were drinking a bottle of wine. I ordered a glass of wine. It did not come. We'd finished our entree and the main course was served. The wine still did not come. I asked for the waitress again.

Now, I ask you, wouldn't it have been a very natural thing to offer me a glass of wine from their bottle? Wouldn't you have done that in their situation? I know I would have. I can't understand the mean-spiritedness that stopped that man from perceiving my discomfort. I can't imagine a man from another country behaving in this way. I can't begin to understand the missus either. We'd been chatting about our jobs. We seemed to be getting on. I just don't understand it.

I was disappointed in the Alice to Darwin leg of the journey, and it wasn't just because of this interaction I have just described. Most of that journey took place in the dark and so the passengers missed out on seeing a lot of the landscape: the very reason I chose to travel on the Ghan. And it did get to me how old and infirm most of the other passengers were. They took the Ghan so they wouldn't have to walk anywhere. I found their advanced ages depressing this time; one of the old ladies was in an especially bad way: she looked a bit like my mother just before she died.

Off to Kakadu tomorrow. Won't be able to access an Internet cafe until I get back, so no more photos for a few days.

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A Closed Town, a Killer and Creativity

The second last day of the camping tour for me was the last day for the young European couples. We bounced along an unsealed, washed out in places, and corrugated red road for three hours.

We were due to visit Hermannsburg, the mission town where Albert Namatjira was born and had lived. The sign tells the story.

Chris said the police might have been expecting trouble, as Gus Williams had died a couple of weeks earlier; today he was to have a state funeral. Other families from the town could well be jostling to fill the power vacuum.

The following is the report from the ABC website:

'Legendary' Aboriginal singer gets state funeral
By Anna Henderson

Updated Mon Sep 13, 2010 1:37pm AEST


Gus Williams, traditional owner from Hermannsburg and father of Warren H Williams, has died. (ABC Local: Nicole Lee)

MAP: Hermannsburg 0872
A state funeral will be held for a well-known Aboriginal leader and country music singer from the Northern Territory.

Gus Williams died early this morning in Hermannsburg, aged in his mid-70s.

His musician son, Warren H Williams, who recently ran as a Greens candidate in the Senate, has told the ABC his father was a proud and wonderful man who will be greatly missed.

Fellow musician Ted Egan says Mr Williams was a legend in the industry.

"He'll be missed and respected all around Australia, this man because he was just such a legendary figure in country music," he said.

"Everyone knew him as the big genial, big smiling man from the Northern Territory." . . .

Chris (our tour leader) was in a bit of a pickle then, as Hermannsburg was the transfer point for the Europeans. Another Intrepid/Connections bus was due to pick them up from there and take them to Alice Springs airport. He drove past Hermannsburg to a parking area outside town which had a monument to Albert Namatjira as its only reason for existence. And Albert Namatjira might well have turned in his grave to see the way his life and work is being commemorated. The monument is a big reddish structure, looking like nothing so much as a chimney.

Chris used the satellite phone to contact the driver of the transfer bus and we waited in the heat, dust, and long shadows to say goodbye to the young Europeans.

The bus arrived, the lively couples left, and the rest of us continued on another dirt road to Wallace Rockhole permanent campsite.

When we arrived we were greeted by the yellow camp dog belonging to the owner of the campsite and attached art centre, a white Australian man (whose name I can't remember, unfortunately) married to an Aboriginal woman. He's been initiated into the local Aboriginal culture and sports the symbol of his initiation, a missing front tooth. His wife is the teacher of the local school.

But it's the dog I want to tell you about. His reputation preceded him: he's a killer. He'd killed and eaten his owner's other pets: a kangaroo and an emu to which their owner was very attached. Not as attached to this dog, though. The dog would have been shot after his big meal, if not for the intercession of the manager's wife, who loves the mutt.

Well, the dog hung around and sat under Julie's (my New Zealand buddy and the other uncoupled woman in our group) camp chair, hoping to catch some dropped meaty morsels, no doubt.

After dinner, we retired early. But early next morning I had to trek to the bathroom block. Little bit gingerly in the dark, shone my torch along the red earth, trying to see the building in the distance. Made it there, but on the way back I saw a yellow streak coming towards me in the 5.30 gloom, and then heard the growl: the killer was stalking me, out alone in the dark. I put on a gruff voice, like I'd heard Andrew use at dinner when he tried to chase the dog off.

"Get out!"

A light flashed from the tents in front of me.
"I heard some yelling," said Julie. "Was that you yelling, Maria?" I didn't think I was yelling. I thought I was keeping my voice down, trying to be considerate to the sleeping campers. Went back to my tent and the dog lay down outside.

After breakfast we got into the bus and trundled off down the dirt track to the rock hole.

We could have walked it faster. There Neville, an Aboriginal employee of the art centre, took us on a tour of the rock hole, pointing out rock engravings of animal tracks: ducks, emus, snakes and dingoes. He showed us some medicinal and other useful plants: the mulga tree is used for making boomerangs and digging sticks, spinifex grass provides the glue for attaching spear tips and the hook on the woomera.

This is Gladys Porter, an in-law of the owner, doing a painting of honey ants.

We got back to the art centre and were provided with paints, brushes and a crib sheet of various symbols used in Aboriginal art: seated men and women, water holes, paths, animal tracks, rain, etc. Below is my artistic outpouring, the story of my day at Wallace Rockhole. That grey/black square surrounded by white dots is my tent. There's my path to the water place (the toilet) that morning; there are the killer's tracks where he stalked me back; there's the path to Wallace Rockhole.  The long grey patch on the left is the table where we sat to create our art. There were six women and two men at my table. (The men are surrounded by their boomerangs, the women by their digging sticks.)

I've just realised, I failed to report on one of the wonders of my sojourn in the bush, the walk in King's Canyon. Tomorrow, then. And some musings on my experience with the Aboriginal residents of Alice Springs.

Little Bit Longer

Hope I'll be able to upload some photos today to illustrate the blog a bit, so do come back and have another look at the older posts.

Yesterday I left off while we were drinking champagne and watching the Rock put on its colours.

The next day we got up at five, had breakfast and drove off to Kata Tjuta (The Olgas in Old Speak). They're about 50 km west of Uluru, a group of domes separated by magnificent gorges. They cover an area of about 21 square km and are composed of a coarse grained conglomerate of granite, gneiss and other volcanic rock.

The first European to see Kata Tjuta was Ernest Giles, in 1872. He named the domes after the King and Queen of Spain at that time: Amadeus and Olga. The Aboriginal name means "many heads" or "four heads" (not quite sure which is right. Perhaps "four" and "many" are synonyms in Pitjantjatjara.) The highest point is Mount Olga, which rises approximately 546 m above the surrounding plain, 203 m higher than Uluru.

We walked to the Valley of Winds, and it was bloody windy, all right. Cold; Chris offered a spare jacket, which was snapped up. It was hard walking: nooks, crannies, climbing little bit and then stepping down, which is much harder. Knees have held up marvelously so far. I still have the two and haven't had to use the brace yet. That night we stayed at King's Creek Cattle Station and had a traditional camp oven drovers' dinner.

Kings Creek Cattle and Camel Station was set up by Ian and Lyn Conway less than 30 years ago from nothing.

They threw together scrap metal to start a home and rounded up wild camels to start a business. They ran safari tours on camelback into the desert. Ian's mother was an Arunta woman, and his father a Kidman boss drover.

He grew up on Angus Downs station and was raised by his traditional Aboriginal grandmother. He learned to catch, ride and eat camel there. After a successful tender for crown land, Ian and Lyn Conway built their home, the sheds, garages, and a shop out of scrap.

Now they have a thriving tourism business. They set up a charity which sends the some of the local Aboriginal children to boarding school in Adelaide. You might have seen Ian Conway on "Australian Story".

Some of our campers walked down to the shop area to check out Ian
Conway's show before dinner that night. It got dark and the rest of us had scoffed down our camp oven dinner, but they still weren't back. There was talk of going out to look for them, but Chris, I guess mindful of losing any more campers, suggested we wait a bit.

They eventually returned, having spotted a lone torch in the blackness. It was held by the teacher of a camping school group. He offered the lost members of our camp a guided walk back to the campsite in exchange for some dishwashing liquid.

That night I was the official photographer and took the group portrait, as most of the Europeans were leaving the next day. Sad really: they were all young and energetic. There were four honeymoon couples: two from Italy, one from Sweden and one from France. The next day they would go and leave behind only two young ones, Andrew and Kav. There were four couples left: three Australians and one Dutch. Willy, the Dutch woman spoke not a word of English, but chatted to us all happily in Dutch. Suzette from Melbourne works for AMES, and apologized for sending us Chris Corbel and then Michael Cox. Michael Cox was known for his failure to greet his colleagues and his graphs in Melbourne,too. Heartening to know that it isn't just us at ACL he despises.

Little Bit Long Way

Back in Alice after four days camping: sore but elated.

The Ghan dropped me in Alice on Monday afternoon. Next morning at six the bus rolled off in the dim light and eventually collected a full load of campers. Half of them were Europeans and all rather subdued. The sounds of silence. I thought, this is going to be a big laugh.

The bus heated up and a few of us started talking. We had collected firewood and were back on the road when I spotted a huge red rock on the left. I poked Andrew, the farmer's son from south-west Queensland, who was bouncing next to me in the back of the bus. "Uluru," I said. Word passed down the bus and we all started snapping madly. Kav, the guy sitting at the opposite end of the back seat passed his camera down to Andrew so he could record the scene. Then Chris, our tour guide/driver/cook/fearless leader/font of all knowledge, said: "You wouldn't be the first to mistake Mount Connor for Uluru." I quietly pulled my head in, like a rock wallaby in the canyon.

The Red Centre looks more like the green centre lately. The average annual rainfall is 280 mm but more than that fell in one week, earlier in the year. It's now had over 600mm and the year's not over yet. There are wildflowers all over the landscape. No road kill because there's so much water the animals don't have to approach the road to lick the condensation from the edges.

Picked up our last contingent of campers, making a total of 24, from Ayers Rock Airport. Walked around the rock. Nothing I have ever seen had prepared me for the majesty, the colour, the texture.

That evening we went back to the area to watch the sunset colour the rock and toasted the icon with champagne.



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A Town Like Alice

Arrived here off the Ghan this afternoon. A great journey with wonderful food and the additional advantage of making me feel very young. Most of the passengers were 80 in the shade and travelled by train 'cos they couldn't have coped with climbing in and out of a bus. Some of them looked like they might cark it in the heat while waiting on the platform.

Red earth, strangely decorated with green now after lots of recent rain.

I met a delightful 85-year-old gent, Peter, who had the sleeper opposite mine. He told me about his most recent stint as a butler in the Director's Cottage in Broken Hill! Which I believe came to an end twenty years ago. Some times I thought I might nod off if I had to hear about one more sailing chum, or another anecdote from his working life, but he was generally pretty good value. Met a Dutch woman whose boyfriend dropped me off at the hotel.

Been wandering round Alice Springs since I arrived in the Alice, and I've never seen so many Aboriginal people in my life. Another piece of culture shock was being asked for my driver's licence when I bought a bottle of wine in Woolworth's. At first I thanked the boy for his compliment about my age: thought I must be hot stuff now that I've relaxed a bit on holiday. But no. . . "Some people have restrictions on whether they can buy alcohol."

Tomorrow, at 6 in the morning, my tour leader will pick me up and transport me by 4WD van, with a group of my fellow adventurers, to a campsite at Yulara , from where we'll explore the area around Uluru. More later when there's more to write.

Rundling down the Mall

Not impressed with the room in the Mercure Grosvenor in North Terrace. Depressing: papered over windows. No view to the street. Able to see at the edge of the paper a brick wall belonging to an adjacent building. Even the meagre natural light from that city canyon would be preferable to no natural light. But. . .let's not dwell on the negative. Why did I stay here? Lorraine, the agent told me it was opposite the station. It is, but it's not opposite Keswick Station, from which the Ghan leaves.

Last night had a wander down Hindley Street. Was following the map,looking for Rundle Mall and all the restaurants. (Another thing that I've discovered doesn't improve with age are my map-reading skills.) I was headed in the opposite direction. Hindley Street is the red light district,I found out.

Dinner in a Malay-Thai restaurant promised to blow my head off, but they gave me the tourist version. Still pleasant but no excitement.

Sitting on the Ghan right now, getting ready to leave Adelaide.

I know I'm getting old when. . .

the excitement of the journey incapacitates me.

I'd planned a journey to the Northern Territory so that I wouldn't be sitting home alone, thinking of my son, away in Spain for three weeks. I wanted to take photos of that red earth and deep blue sky. (Emus charging across sand dunes icing on the cake, if I managed to shoot some.)

Bought an iPad, thinking that I could upload my photos on the run. No, I discovered, I'd need a camera connection kit. They hadn't arrived in Sydney yet, but they should be there within a month. I waited and bought the iPad and the kit. Ready to blog now and upload wonderful images of the outback to Flickr as I take them.

But I seem unable to cope effectively with the excitement of travel now: can't think straight, can't move fast enough. I left my camera connection kit in the drawer when my friend showed up to drive me to the airport. So, this is my boring blog from Adelaide, without a single image to break up the text.

(I could go on for an eternity, but it's so hard to type on an iPad keyboard.)   

Sent from my iPad