Tis the season, I guess! This year, Chinese New Year, Losar (Tibetan New Year), Tet (Vietnamese New Year), and American/Hallmarkian Valentine's Day all fall together. So people the world over are watching fireworks, eating delicious things, and generally celebrating happiness, love, and in the United States' case, craven commercialism.
Happy everything, from WEWW!
Showing posts with label new holidays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label new holidays. Show all posts
Monday, February 15, 2010
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Are you going to Okains Bay?: Banks Peninsula, 2
As my travels continue, I've been exploring my personal travel style, learning what I like and don't like, my preferred pace, how many museums versus parks versus restaurants I can handle before it all gets to be too much. Spontaneity is one ideal I've maintained-- I say "ideal" because often being spontaneous causes me a lot of stress and anxiety, but I try to persevere because it means being able to take advantage of the random opportunities that sometimes present themselves on the road.
I left off last entry at one of those opportunities, the chance to see a Maori-centric celebration of Waitangi Day at Okains Bay on Banks Peninsula. I had planned to return to Christchurch after one night until I heard of the celebration, and so I had to scramble to find accomodation. All of the hostels in town were booked up, but I finally lucked into a free room at a local SERVAS host's bed and breakfast. When I arrived at her house, up a steep hill outside of town, it was immediately clear to me that the lady, whose name was Val, was significantly batty-- not in a malevolent way, just enough to prattle on about the discovery of Atlantis, past life regression, and the coming golden age brought on by a Buddhist Jesus figure as we ate her delicious vegetarian curry for dinner.
That evening I walked down to town, watching the sunset and trying to figure out how to get to Okains Bay, about 20 minutes away by car, the next day. In the US, such a celebration would warrant shuttle busses, or at least taxis, but I could find evidence of neither. In fact, the single taxi driver in Akaroa told me that she had advertised for a shuttle service and had had no responses. She apologized, but if there weren't any more takers the trip would not be worth her while.
I was flummoxed. It seemed incredible to me that such a big-deal celebration happening nearby would merit no public transport, but as it stood I would have done better to go all the way back to Christchurch and then get a bus to Okains Bay the next day, rather than stay in the immediate area of the celebration. But now that I had committed to stay, I was determined to figure out a solution. I started asking around in the restaurants and shops in town, and most of them recommended hitchhiking. I decided I might try my hand at it for the first time as a last resort, but first I would ask to see if there was anyone in town who was already planning to attend and had a free seat in his/her car.
And so I did. Akaroa's single main street is about a mile long, lined with little stores, galleries, coffee shops, cafes, restaurants, and bars. And I went into every single one of them (well, the ones that were open past dinner time) and asked the waitstaff, the clerks, and sometimes the patrons if anyone was planning to go to Okains Bay. It was a difficult task: I'm not a big fan of talking to strangers, in general, and this required me to continually break the stranger barrier for two hours. But I was generally greeted with politeness and friendliness, although this was always followed by apologies. When I reached the town's main pub, I stooped to asking every single customer. Finally, a well-dressed man seated with a group looked me up and down. "I'm not planning to go to Okains Bay," he said, "but I'll run you over if you like. You don't need a ride back, do you?"
I said I didn't: ironically enough, my Christchurch host, Theresa, was planning to drive down to the celebration and had agreed to give me a ride back to the city.
"Great, my name is Robert," he said, and extended his hand. "Do you like a fast ride?"
The next morning, after I had said goodbye to Val, I saw what he had meant. Equipped with a coffee for myself and one as a gift for Robert, I climbed into his beautiful blue Porsche at 9 am on the dot. We took the winding roads from Akaroa to Okains Bay at at least twice the speed limit, and he explained that he had a beach house on the peninsula, that he had started a factory business with three friends and when they weren't sure if they'd do well they'd agreed to each buy a Porsche if they succeeded. He paused to throw the car into third gear. "Well, two of us bought them. The third fellow didn't because he's Fijian Indian, and if he drove it people would think he pinched it," he said. I opted not to respond to this comment, instead silently admiring the car, which was all curves and growls.
View from the road to Okain's Bay
Out of breath from the speed, we arrived in Okains Bay, I thanked Robert and hoofed it down the road to the town's marae (remember, that's the Maori word for meetinghouse), the center of the day's festivities.
The beautiful blue Porsche. See what some determination and two hours of asking everyone in sight for a ride can get you?
At the marae, things were just getting underway.
The Okains Bay Waitangi Day schedule
The day started off with a powhiri, or formal welcome ceremony, in which a Maori representative challenges the visitors to prove their intentions before they are allowed on the marae. That day the powhiri was purely for ritual's sake, as there were no tensions to be resolved, but the sight of the chosen warrior stomping his feet, bugging his eyes, and sticking his tongue out angrily was still affecting. I looked around the crowd, which was filled with both white and Maori faces, rapt at attention. And for the first time I saw a Maori woman with a moko, or traditional chin tattoo. According to what I've read, moko used to be used to indicate rank and identity. They disappeared for a long time but now are making a comeback.
Performing the powhiri
Maori woman with chin moko
Once the powhiri was completed, we settled in for a lengthy program of Maori language and English speeches, discussing the history of New Zealand (Waitangi Day commemorates the signing of the Treaty of Waitangi, where virtually every important Maori chief agreed to become a subject of the Queen, creating modern New Zealand-- just what "becoming a subject of the queen" meant to both sides was where the problems started) and emphasizing the importance of understanding and peaceful coexistence between Pakeha (White European) and Maori. In between the speeches, a group of Maori girls performed traditional songs, an interestingly diverse group (note one red-haired singer in the group below) in one-shouldered dresses swinging their hips and arms to the beat.
Maori girls waiting to perform
Following the speeches, we got to watch a NZ citizenship ceremony, which I thought was a very cool and moving way to observe the holiday. As we looked on, families from Samoa, Fiji, and South Africa recited oaths and started new lives. Each family was also given a tree to plant near their new homes, representing the roots they could now put down.
The rest of the day presented an earthy, down-home version of Kiwi culture, akin to going to a small-town Independence Day celebration in the States. There were sheep-shearing demonstrations, blacksmithing, arts and crafts. And intermingled with that, in a comfortable, unforced sort of way, were Maori traditions. Okains Bay has a fantastic museum of Maori artifacts, and lunch was a hangi, a traditional Maori meal of root vegetables and meat baked underground.
Cooking a hangi for 500+ people in the ground
A hangi lunch: sweet potato, pumpkin, chicken, pork, bread, and carrots all cooked in underground oven. Mmm, delicious.
Through it all came the voice of the day's announcer, a sharp Kiwi accent flowing continually through a PA system thredded across the entire festival site. He commented on the weather and current events, told jokes, and occasionally recommended that we go see a certain event, his disembodied voice assuring us with a classic Kiwism that this or that was "well worth a look." The sound of his constant patter added a lovely texture to the already fascinating day.
The afternoon ended on a fitting note, with a waka (traditional Maori war canoe) making a trip up the river feeding into the bay. The canoe paddled in from the Bay, with the occupants singing traditional chants in time with their strokes-- but those occupants were both Maori and Pakeha volunteers, and the revelers who packed close to the bank to watch the canoe come in were mixed as well, watching traditions made, stories celebrated, and centures of struggle not resolved but certainly remembered.
Paddling the waka
I left off last entry at one of those opportunities, the chance to see a Maori-centric celebration of Waitangi Day at Okains Bay on Banks Peninsula. I had planned to return to Christchurch after one night until I heard of the celebration, and so I had to scramble to find accomodation. All of the hostels in town were booked up, but I finally lucked into a free room at a local SERVAS host's bed and breakfast. When I arrived at her house, up a steep hill outside of town, it was immediately clear to me that the lady, whose name was Val, was significantly batty-- not in a malevolent way, just enough to prattle on about the discovery of Atlantis, past life regression, and the coming golden age brought on by a Buddhist Jesus figure as we ate her delicious vegetarian curry for dinner.
That evening I walked down to town, watching the sunset and trying to figure out how to get to Okains Bay, about 20 minutes away by car, the next day. In the US, such a celebration would warrant shuttle busses, or at least taxis, but I could find evidence of neither. In fact, the single taxi driver in Akaroa told me that she had advertised for a shuttle service and had had no responses. She apologized, but if there weren't any more takers the trip would not be worth her while.
I was flummoxed. It seemed incredible to me that such a big-deal celebration happening nearby would merit no public transport, but as it stood I would have done better to go all the way back to Christchurch and then get a bus to Okains Bay the next day, rather than stay in the immediate area of the celebration. But now that I had committed to stay, I was determined to figure out a solution. I started asking around in the restaurants and shops in town, and most of them recommended hitchhiking. I decided I might try my hand at it for the first time as a last resort, but first I would ask to see if there was anyone in town who was already planning to attend and had a free seat in his/her car.
And so I did. Akaroa's single main street is about a mile long, lined with little stores, galleries, coffee shops, cafes, restaurants, and bars. And I went into every single one of them (well, the ones that were open past dinner time) and asked the waitstaff, the clerks, and sometimes the patrons if anyone was planning to go to Okains Bay. It was a difficult task: I'm not a big fan of talking to strangers, in general, and this required me to continually break the stranger barrier for two hours. But I was generally greeted with politeness and friendliness, although this was always followed by apologies. When I reached the town's main pub, I stooped to asking every single customer. Finally, a well-dressed man seated with a group looked me up and down. "I'm not planning to go to Okains Bay," he said, "but I'll run you over if you like. You don't need a ride back, do you?"
I said I didn't: ironically enough, my Christchurch host, Theresa, was planning to drive down to the celebration and had agreed to give me a ride back to the city.
"Great, my name is Robert," he said, and extended his hand. "Do you like a fast ride?"
The next morning, after I had said goodbye to Val, I saw what he had meant. Equipped with a coffee for myself and one as a gift for Robert, I climbed into his beautiful blue Porsche at 9 am on the dot. We took the winding roads from Akaroa to Okains Bay at at least twice the speed limit, and he explained that he had a beach house on the peninsula, that he had started a factory business with three friends and when they weren't sure if they'd do well they'd agreed to each buy a Porsche if they succeeded. He paused to throw the car into third gear. "Well, two of us bought them. The third fellow didn't because he's Fijian Indian, and if he drove it people would think he pinched it," he said. I opted not to respond to this comment, instead silently admiring the car, which was all curves and growls.
View from the road to Okain's Bay
Out of breath from the speed, we arrived in Okains Bay, I thanked Robert and hoofed it down the road to the town's marae (remember, that's the Maori word for meetinghouse), the center of the day's festivities.The beautiful blue Porsche. See what some determination and two hours of asking everyone in sight for a ride can get you?
At the marae, things were just getting underway.
The Okains Bay Waitangi Day schedule
The day started off with a powhiri, or formal welcome ceremony, in which a Maori representative challenges the visitors to prove their intentions before they are allowed on the marae. That day the powhiri was purely for ritual's sake, as there were no tensions to be resolved, but the sight of the chosen warrior stomping his feet, bugging his eyes, and sticking his tongue out angrily was still affecting. I looked around the crowd, which was filled with both white and Maori faces, rapt at attention. And for the first time I saw a Maori woman with a moko, or traditional chin tattoo. According to what I've read, moko used to be used to indicate rank and identity. They disappeared for a long time but now are making a comeback.Performing the powhiri
Maori woman with chin moko
Once the powhiri was completed, we settled in for a lengthy program of Maori language and English speeches, discussing the history of New Zealand (Waitangi Day commemorates the signing of the Treaty of Waitangi, where virtually every important Maori chief agreed to become a subject of the Queen, creating modern New Zealand-- just what "becoming a subject of the queen" meant to both sides was where the problems started) and emphasizing the importance of understanding and peaceful coexistence between Pakeha (White European) and Maori. In between the speeches, a group of Maori girls performed traditional songs, an interestingly diverse group (note one red-haired singer in the group below) in one-shouldered dresses swinging their hips and arms to the beat.
Maori girls waiting to perform
Following the speeches, we got to watch a NZ citizenship ceremony, which I thought was a very cool and moving way to observe the holiday. As we looked on, families from Samoa, Fiji, and South Africa recited oaths and started new lives. Each family was also given a tree to plant near their new homes, representing the roots they could now put down.
The rest of the day presented an earthy, down-home version of Kiwi culture, akin to going to a small-town Independence Day celebration in the States. There were sheep-shearing demonstrations, blacksmithing, arts and crafts. And intermingled with that, in a comfortable, unforced sort of way, were Maori traditions. Okains Bay has a fantastic museum of Maori artifacts, and lunch was a hangi, a traditional Maori meal of root vegetables and meat baked underground.
Cooking a hangi for 500+ people in the ground
A hangi lunch: sweet potato, pumpkin, chicken, pork, bread, and carrots all cooked in underground oven. Mmm, delicious.
Through it all came the voice of the day's announcer, a sharp Kiwi accent flowing continually through a PA system thredded across the entire festival site. He commented on the weather and current events, told jokes, and occasionally recommended that we go see a certain event, his disembodied voice assuring us with a classic Kiwism that this or that was "well worth a look." The sound of his constant patter added a lovely texture to the already fascinating day.The afternoon ended on a fitting note, with a waka (traditional Maori war canoe) making a trip up the river feeding into the bay. The canoe paddled in from the Bay, with the occupants singing traditional chants in time with their strokes-- but those occupants were both Maori and Pakeha volunteers, and the revelers who packed close to the bank to watch the canoe come in were mixed as well, watching traditions made, stories celebrated, and centures of struggle not resolved but certainly remembered.
Paddling the waka
Friday, February 27, 2009
Oh, here she comes, she's an ant eater: Cairns, 1
The bus ride to Cairns was long. Really long. Ten hours long. But in the end it wasn't as bad as I expected. They showed a couple of movies, "In Good Company" and "Ghost Busters" (I know!) and I saw a herd of kangaroos out the window and it rained and rained on the sugar cane fields. A few weeks after I left Cairns the road we drove on was completely underwater, deluged by flash floods, and the buses were canceled for 10 days straight. So really, for the rainy season I got pretty lucky.
I could not believe the humidity in Cairns. I got off the best and looked at a map, and by the time I had gotten my bearings I was soaked with sweat. Walking to find my couch surfing host, Tessha, was even worse. I got lost (as is my tendency) and was hot and overwhelmed, but eventually found my way and there was a lovely pool waiting. Tessha and I floated and chatted, and I made plans for my stay in the city.
Welcome to Cairns!
The next day was Australia Day, a holiday like America's July 4 that commemorates the day the first fleet of ships from England made landing in Sydney. There's often a lot of tension among Aborigines on Australia Day (I've heard some refer to it as 'Invasion Day') and sometimes there are protests, but in Cairns it was all barbecue all the time. Tessha and I met her friend Becky and several other sundry Aussies/Brits/Scots at the Esplanade by the ocean to have our own barbie.
The environment was very festive--small children swam in the lagoon, people played pick up games of cricket, and everywhere there were Australian flag hats, flags as capes, face paint, and stick-on tattoos. I learned that the proper way to celebrate Australia day is with damper, a fluffy white bread made traditionally in the Australian bush, and cane syrup (which is way sweeter than maple syrup). Also sausages with fatty bacon and sauteed onions, followed by Lamingtons, which are bits of pound cake covered in chocolate frosting and coconut.
A very festive cricket game
Toward the end of our feast
Needless to say, it was not a healthy day-- but it was totally delicious. We ate and chatted and put on our temporary tattoos, braved a rain shower, watched the revelry, and at one point I ate an ant raw.
... What's that you say, one of those things doesn't sound normal to you? Welcome to Queensland, where ants don't ruin the picnic-- in fact, just the opposite! Green ants are everywhere in Cairns, and I was goaded into trying one. You pinch off the thorax, which is twice the size of the rest of the ant, and after screwing up your eyes and nose you find that it's actually tasty. Apparently this is a custom that children in Queensland learn quite young, and they keep at it as they grow. I have to say I never thought I'd find a raw ant tangy and delicious.
My temporary tattoo: loyal to my (temporarily adopted) country
I started to feel a little antsy (ha, pun), like I needed to "do" something-- I knew I wouldn't be in Cairns long, and the call of a tourist activity to somehow prove I'd used my time well was strong (this idea that you have to "do" things, and usually spend money doing those things, to use your time well traveling is not something I'm proud of, but it is a phenomenon I'm interested in in the sociological sense.) So I went to the Wildlife Dome, which is a sort of open air rain forest zoo on top of a casino in downtown Cairns. They had all sorts of creatures in mini versions of their natural habitat and birds making the rounds in the dome's top, high above, calling endlessly. Tiny kangaroo rats hid in little groves of trees; Papuan birds that looked exactly tree stumps stood frozen outside of their enclosures. A guide showed me where a Bettong, an adorable marsupial, was hiding under a rock.
Bettongs are so cute!
Some of the friendlier, bigger birds followed me around, curious-- one, an enormous black cockatoo was happy to hang out on my arm. She sat with me and watched the 1500 kilo crocodile being fed. I'd come at almost closing time, so while the staff finished the day up around me I sat and enjoyed the sounds of the manufactured, but entirely functioning, jungle. I watched as the zoo keeper chased one escapee from the bird show around and around the dome. The bird was flightless, as many birds are in Australia, with very long legs, so it was just running as fast as it could from away from her, in circles around and around the footpaths. It looked like something out of a cartoon.
This cockatoo was every bit as heavy as she looks when she decided to have a ride on my shoulder
Picture the zoo keeper running as fast as she could after this bird, who was sprinting away on its funny too-long legs
I know this photo is totally unnecessary, but how weird is it that this is how that bird sits down?
After I left the dome I stopped at the Cairns Aboriginal art gallery, one of the largest in Australia. I find Aboriginal art., which is instantly recognizable in its vocabulary of dots, swirls, and patterns, very interesting. Looking at it feels like trying to read braille or Thai script: I know it has a complex deeper meaning, but it's just lost on me. A lot of it resembles abstract art, which I don't enjoy, but I like this more because I know it is based on a deep and long-running system that I just don't have the tools to decode. From reading I know that a lot of it is about mapping the landscape of inner Australia, telling stories of migration and journeys and family. Mostly I enjoy the vibrations some of the designs produce, optical illusions that create movement where there is none. You aren't allowed to take photos of the art (it's both a spiritual and a copyright issue, I think) so I can't offer you pictures, but it's certainly worth looking up if you have time.
The gallery had bios of all the artists near the paintings, explaining where they grew up, which people the belonged to, their training, the themes of their art. I found these bios really helpful and interesting-- I love people's stories, and the bios also helped me to understand the art a little bit more. Although I hadn't planned to make a purchase, I did buy a painted boomerang as a small souvenir of Australia. I think this was a worthy cause to support. The fight for equal treatment, respect, and social integration for Aborigines is far from over-- although that discussion is for another entry, I think.
I spent the rest of the evening wandering the Cairns Night Market and then drinking and socializing at a popular bar called the Woolshed. I replaced my daypack, which was coming apart, with a (very loudly decorated) cheap backpack, and then, at long last, I tried kangaroo-- I found it chewy but flavorful and filling. The Woolshed, a few blocks away, was festive, and I drank cider (of course) and chatted with Scott and Sonali, a Brit and a Canadian I'd met at the Australia day festivities that morning. But I couldn't stay out too late, because the next morning I was getting a super early start to fulfill a lifelong dream. It was time to take on the Great Barrier Reef.
I could not believe the humidity in Cairns. I got off the best and looked at a map, and by the time I had gotten my bearings I was soaked with sweat. Walking to find my couch surfing host, Tessha, was even worse. I got lost (as is my tendency) and was hot and overwhelmed, but eventually found my way and there was a lovely pool waiting. Tessha and I floated and chatted, and I made plans for my stay in the city.
Welcome to Cairns!
The next day was Australia Day, a holiday like America's July 4 that commemorates the day the first fleet of ships from England made landing in Sydney. There's often a lot of tension among Aborigines on Australia Day (I've heard some refer to it as 'Invasion Day') and sometimes there are protests, but in Cairns it was all barbecue all the time. Tessha and I met her friend Becky and several other sundry Aussies/Brits/Scots at the Esplanade by the ocean to have our own barbie.
The environment was very festive--small children swam in the lagoon, people played pick up games of cricket, and everywhere there were Australian flag hats, flags as capes, face paint, and stick-on tattoos. I learned that the proper way to celebrate Australia day is with damper, a fluffy white bread made traditionally in the Australian bush, and cane syrup (which is way sweeter than maple syrup). Also sausages with fatty bacon and sauteed onions, followed by Lamingtons, which are bits of pound cake covered in chocolate frosting and coconut.
A very festive cricket game
Toward the end of our feast
Needless to say, it was not a healthy day-- but it was totally delicious. We ate and chatted and put on our temporary tattoos, braved a rain shower, watched the revelry, and at one point I ate an ant raw.
... What's that you say, one of those things doesn't sound normal to you? Welcome to Queensland, where ants don't ruin the picnic-- in fact, just the opposite! Green ants are everywhere in Cairns, and I was goaded into trying one. You pinch off the thorax, which is twice the size of the rest of the ant, and after screwing up your eyes and nose you find that it's actually tasty. Apparently this is a custom that children in Queensland learn quite young, and they keep at it as they grow. I have to say I never thought I'd find a raw ant tangy and delicious.
My temporary tattoo: loyal to my (temporarily adopted) country
I started to feel a little antsy (ha, pun), like I needed to "do" something-- I knew I wouldn't be in Cairns long, and the call of a tourist activity to somehow prove I'd used my time well was strong (this idea that you have to "do" things, and usually spend money doing those things, to use your time well traveling is not something I'm proud of, but it is a phenomenon I'm interested in in the sociological sense.) So I went to the Wildlife Dome, which is a sort of open air rain forest zoo on top of a casino in downtown Cairns. They had all sorts of creatures in mini versions of their natural habitat and birds making the rounds in the dome's top, high above, calling endlessly. Tiny kangaroo rats hid in little groves of trees; Papuan birds that looked exactly tree stumps stood frozen outside of their enclosures. A guide showed me where a Bettong, an adorable marsupial, was hiding under a rock.
Bettongs are so cute!
Some of the friendlier, bigger birds followed me around, curious-- one, an enormous black cockatoo was happy to hang out on my arm. She sat with me and watched the 1500 kilo crocodile being fed. I'd come at almost closing time, so while the staff finished the day up around me I sat and enjoyed the sounds of the manufactured, but entirely functioning, jungle. I watched as the zoo keeper chased one escapee from the bird show around and around the dome. The bird was flightless, as many birds are in Australia, with very long legs, so it was just running as fast as it could from away from her, in circles around and around the footpaths. It looked like something out of a cartoon.
This cockatoo was every bit as heavy as she looks when she decided to have a ride on my shoulder
Picture the zoo keeper running as fast as she could after this bird, who was sprinting away on its funny too-long legs
I know this photo is totally unnecessary, but how weird is it that this is how that bird sits down?
After I left the dome I stopped at the Cairns Aboriginal art gallery, one of the largest in Australia. I find Aboriginal art., which is instantly recognizable in its vocabulary of dots, swirls, and patterns, very interesting. Looking at it feels like trying to read braille or Thai script: I know it has a complex deeper meaning, but it's just lost on me. A lot of it resembles abstract art, which I don't enjoy, but I like this more because I know it is based on a deep and long-running system that I just don't have the tools to decode. From reading I know that a lot of it is about mapping the landscape of inner Australia, telling stories of migration and journeys and family. Mostly I enjoy the vibrations some of the designs produce, optical illusions that create movement where there is none. You aren't allowed to take photos of the art (it's both a spiritual and a copyright issue, I think) so I can't offer you pictures, but it's certainly worth looking up if you have time.
The gallery had bios of all the artists near the paintings, explaining where they grew up, which people the belonged to, their training, the themes of their art. I found these bios really helpful and interesting-- I love people's stories, and the bios also helped me to understand the art a little bit more. Although I hadn't planned to make a purchase, I did buy a painted boomerang as a small souvenir of Australia. I think this was a worthy cause to support. The fight for equal treatment, respect, and social integration for Aborigines is far from over-- although that discussion is for another entry, I think.
I spent the rest of the evening wandering the Cairns Night Market and then drinking and socializing at a popular bar called the Woolshed. I replaced my daypack, which was coming apart, with a (very loudly decorated) cheap backpack, and then, at long last, I tried kangaroo-- I found it chewy but flavorful and filling. The Woolshed, a few blocks away, was festive, and I drank cider (of course) and chatted with Scott and Sonali, a Brit and a Canadian I'd met at the Australia day festivities that morning. But I couldn't stay out too late, because the next morning I was getting a super early start to fulfill a lifelong dream. It was time to take on the Great Barrier Reef.
Kangaroo skins at the Cairns night market
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Oh, Happy Day
Made it to Cairns safely from Airlie Beach. Ten hours on a bus is... a lot of time on a bus.
Without making things too out-of-chronological order here, I wish to state my great excitement that I will be away on an overnight sail-snorkel-scuba-dive deal on the Great Barrier Reef (!) on Tuesday/Wednesday. Also, tomorrow is Australia Day (commemorating the day the first fleet from England arrived in Sydney, like Independence Day in the US), and I will be spending it on the Cairns Esplanade with my host and about 10 of her friends. No, we will not be throwing any shrimp on the barbie (especially because there aren't "shrimp" here, only "prawns") but there will be sausages. Australians love sausages.
In case you were wondering, Cairns is INCREDIBLY humid. Like, I thought Brisbane and Bundaberg were humid. I thought Boston in August was humid. I thought the Costa Rican rainforest was humid. But this is humid on an entirely new level. I was soaked to the skin by the time I arrived, so I went for a swim with my host in a lovely little pool in her apartment complex. The reason this is important is to explain to you that we had to creep through some dark gardeny parts to get to the pool, and all I could think about was that one picture I saw on the internet, basically one of the most terrifying things I've ever seen, which was a spider eating a bird--Yes, you read that right--right here in lovely Cairns. I'm betting you could google "spider eating a bird" and find the photo in question if you felt the need.
So hopefully I won't step on one of those?
Happy Australia Day!
Without making things too out-of-chronological order here, I wish to state my great excitement that I will be away on an overnight sail-snorkel-scuba-dive deal on the Great Barrier Reef (!) on Tuesday/Wednesday. Also, tomorrow is Australia Day (commemorating the day the first fleet from England arrived in Sydney, like Independence Day in the US), and I will be spending it on the Cairns Esplanade with my host and about 10 of her friends. No, we will not be throwing any shrimp on the barbie (especially because there aren't "shrimp" here, only "prawns") but there will be sausages. Australians love sausages.
In case you were wondering, Cairns is INCREDIBLY humid. Like, I thought Brisbane and Bundaberg were humid. I thought Boston in August was humid. I thought the Costa Rican rainforest was humid. But this is humid on an entirely new level. I was soaked to the skin by the time I arrived, so I went for a swim with my host in a lovely little pool in her apartment complex. The reason this is important is to explain to you that we had to creep through some dark gardeny parts to get to the pool, and all I could think about was that one picture I saw on the internet, basically one of the most terrifying things I've ever seen, which was a spider eating a bird--Yes, you read that right--right here in lovely Cairns. I'm betting you could google "spider eating a bird" and find the photo in question if you felt the need.
So hopefully I won't step on one of those?
Happy Australia Day!
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