A Visit to Amma

With our time in Australia quickly coming to an end, you would think there was little left that would top our list of adventures and doings, but in one regard sense our activity on Wednesday was thepenultimate event of the journey. From our Bozeman friends we had become aware of Amma, a Hindu religious leader from India who has become world famous as a fundraiser for humanitarian causes and her bestowal of blessings on people by hugging them. This may not sound too impressive in and of itself, but when you factor in that many people consider her to be the human embodiment of the Absolute, that she has literally hugged MILLIONS of people, and has donated MILLIONS of dollars for disaster relief and other causes, you have an idea that this is no ordinary person. I have wanted to see Amma for a long time, once even planning on taking a Greyhound bus to Seattle to meet here during her annual visits there. You can imagine our surprise when one day I was reading the local paper and saw that she was going to come to Sydney for a visit on
April 15 and 16 and knew we would be able to see her. It seemed like it was meant to be.

We got up early on the 16 and took the ferry into the city, a rather unpleasant task since it has been raining here on and off for the last week and the harbor has some pretty big swells from a restless ocean beyond. Once we landed at Circular Quay, we got on a train to a stop that I was reasonably sure would be close to the advertised location of Amma’s appearance, but I had drastically miscalculated. The train left us short of our goal, walking down a rainy city street with no clue as to our destination, but I managed to hail a passing taxi and the driver took us the
remaining blocks without any trouble.

When Amma travels, hundreds of volunteers help organize her events and they were in full force at the Sydney Boys High School gymnasium. First we took off our shoes, then were given a token with a number on it that would let us know when to start lining up to receive our blessing from Amma. This last part is crucial, for thousands of people want to see her and without putting some sort of order to the crowd there would be chaos. There were several thousand waiting in that auditorium, or in the immediate vicinity, so we were glad to note our own token numbers indicated our wait would not be long.


After waiting about an hour, during which time they showed a video which explained the extent of Amma’s humanitarian work, the woman herself entered the building to the hushed wonderment of all. She was followed by several priests in saffron robes who chanted a Sanskrit blessing and she greeted the crowd with a gesture before sitting down on the floor in front of everyone. One of the priests then led the audience through a brief meditation before the actual greeting line got underway. We watched as Amma hugged them all; old, young, infirm, healthy. Her smile never wavered and she was particularly charming when asked to embrace a baby or a toddler. Jayne and I joined the line and slowly worked our way to the front of a long line of double row chairs, ending with the last few feet to be covered on one's knees at the approach to Amma. It all happened so quickly that I have trouble remembering much other than a warm embrace and a "mantra" whispered in my ear, and then we were whisked away by the attendants so the next in line would have a turn.

It was a very beautiful experience, and I am glad we went. Several times since the incident I have tried to remember that mantra she whispered, and I believe I have done so. Perhaps it will do us both some good, and we feel very lucky to have crossed paths with this remarkable woman.

It Might be a Camel

Those of you who are Frank Zappa fans might remember this title from one of his songs on the Hot Rats album, but it has a double meaning for our story today. Ever since I mistook a large dead log laying in a rural New South Wales paddock for a bull, I have been the subject of ridicule by Ronald for both my bad eyesight and my “Look at the size of that bull!” declaration. This time Ronald made a similar declaration, with much different results, but we will get to that in a minute.

On day two of our visit to the center of the continent, we rose to find a somewhat chilly, windy dawn and no time for breakfast beyond a few “bird seed bars” that we had bought before our trip. Ronald drove us back into the national park, but this time we took a different road to go to Kata Tjuta, a group of strange, bare rock mountains visible in the distance from Uluru. We got to the first hiking point in good order and proceeded down the “Valley of the Winds” loop trail, a rocky passage that takes hikers deep into narrow canyons flanked by almost vertical walls of strange, conglomerate rock. Geologists might cringe at that last description, but I can only tell you that these mountains look as if they are giant concrete castings, with a mortar of sandstone holding together millions of smaller rocks as if they had been set by a stone mason.

The hike was much more demanding than the cakewalk we took around Uluru, and we had to scramble over many giant ledges of slanting rock surface where the trail was simply indicated by a few plastic arrows set into the ground. The canyons themselves were beautiful and lush with trees and undergrowth, all taking advantage of the rock walls’ ability to collect the sparse rainfall and gather it into the deep channels below. We kept seeing large piles of “scat” (a polite term) along the trail, and we thought they were the result of passing kangaroos, but the turds were somewhat large for that animal and set us to speculating. We encountered lots of other hikers, some with ridiculous fly nets around their heads to ward off the myriad insects that infest the place, but really the wind was making such precautions unnecessary. One fellow took a group photo of your intrepid explorers, and I believe it may be posted on Ron’s blog.


Once we regained our car we began the drive to the second hike, a short trail to the end of a massive gorge further along in this small mountain range. While Jane was at the wheel, Ronald had the leisure to survey the surrounding countryside. Whist so engaged, he declared, “Look, there is a camel!” and I was sure that he was again putting my mistaken bullock sighting up for a few laughs. Not so. There, out in an open area about two hundred yards away, a wild camel was resting and chewing its cud. Jane stopped the car, allowing Jayne and Ronald to go out and approach the beast (perhaps closer than they should have in Ronald’s case) and got some fantastic pictures before the camel rose and meandered off.

Our final hike up the gorge was a short stroll up an easy trail that ended in a box canyon. More of the giant ‘roo poop was seen, but now we were convinced it was the camel’s droppings, especially when we saw a few small pools of standing water along the canyon floor. When we reached the end of the trail and were sitting quietly, I heard a clattering that was somewhat alarming and realized that a rock had come loose from the canyon wall above and had crashed down to the canyon floor with lethal speed. With all that cement work holding together these massive rocks it was to be expected, but unnerving nonetheless.

The rest of our time in the Ayer’s Rock Resort was spent in two major activities: hanging out in the Pioneer Bushman’s pub and searching for a geocache treasure without the benefit of a handheld GPS device. We tried to pinpoint the treasure’s location using Google Earth and the map coordinates and had a pretty good idea which ridge to search, but we had no success the first day. On our last morning, armed with clues we got from other finder’s photographs, Jayne made her first geocache find and we all made our way to the hidden loot. We signed the logbook and left two American coins for the next finder, and took a small globe keychain for our pains.

The Big Red Center

I know, I know....I did not spell "centre" according to Australian custom, but I can't entirely get rid of my American prejudices after six weeks here. Last Friday Jane, Ronald, Jayne, and I boarded a plane in Sydney to travel to Uluru and the big resort hotel complex that welcomes visitors at this isolated spot. We all got package travel deals, which included a stay at the "Lost Camel Inn," a pretty nice hotel as we found out even though the rooms lacked individual television sets.

The trip began by a limo ride to the airport courtesy of Ron's preparation arrangements, and before we knew it we were travelling far, far into the interior of the continent. I had no idea how vast this country is until that plane ride. It took over two and a half hours to get to Uluru, and had Quantas adopted the American airline custom of letting passengers try to subsist on a package of pretzels we would have starved. As it was, the ham sandwich they served up did not last me until the drinks came around.

The Ayer's Rock Resort complex is a really bizarre oasis in a desert that looks a lot like the area around Tucson. We had expected a moonscape of red sand, but the whole area was covered with strange little trees that looked like Dr. Suess had drawn them, and the dry washes gave host to large eucalyptus trees. Even though the soil was mostly red sand, batches of prickly grass seemed to grow everywhere, and we were all a bit surprised by this.

At the resort, we quickly found out that there was only one place we could afford to eat at, the Pioneer Bushman's Bar and Grill. It was also the only place you could get beer, which was cheap by the glass, but outrageous by the six pack. We went to this watering hole the first night to grill our own steaks and abuse the salad bar, and listened to a pretty good guitar player who seemed to know every popular tune you could think of from the last thirty years or so.

Most folks at Uluru book tour buses that take them out to the rock at dawn, dole out a ration of two cookies and a cup of tea, and then let folks wander around for a couple of hours. We were lucky enough to have booked our own car, so the next morning we drove out before sunrise to see the rock come to life. When we arrived at the viewing spot we found it crowded with tourists and the sunrise obscured with clouds, so we went to a parking space and began our seven kilometer march around the giant red stone. . It was quite an experience. The rock has thousands of pit marks where the wind and elements have eroded the surface, and periodically there are small box canyons where the sparse rainfall allows for some pretty substantial brushland growth. We also saw ancient aboriginal drawings in some of the caves, and paid heed to the countless "sacred site" warnings that advised tourists their cameras were an insult to the natives These warnings are second only in number to the admonitions that climbing the rock is also an insult, although the park managers alledgedly allow the practice to continue. I cannot imagine wanting to climb it. Even if the weather was hot (which it was not) the effort it would take to pull oneself up along a giant chain would be enough to discourage anyone with a lick of sense.

After our trek around the rock, we went to the "cultural centre" which was filled with more lenghty notices regarding the significance of the site to the aboriginal people and some of the most expensive "crafts" (read: carved sticks) on the planet. We tried to eat at the little cafe, but the sausage rolls they were serving were filled with the fabled mystery meat that you may recall from juinor high cafeteria days and other dining options were prohibitively expensive. In all, the cultural centre seemed to be designed primarily to relieve well-heeled tourists of their disposable income, without a word being said of the local geology or history of the place.

In my next post, I will describe the rest of our trip.

Ben Hall Serves a Tasty Dish

Ronald twisted our collective arms to go on another road trip on Monday and we are glad he did. Our destination was vague; we could either go up the coast towards Queensland or back into the interior of New South Wales to see the country on the other side of the Blue Mountains. We opted for the latter shortly after we got into the car and headed out.

The first leg of our journey brought us up into the Blue Mountains along the Bell’s Line of Road, a winding stretch that meandered through giant rain forests and spectacular views. This part of the country is close to three thousand feet above sea level, and we had the sensation of having our ears pop for the first time since our flight here. As we expected, the country got drier as we passed over the crest of the Great Dividing Range, but the temperatures were much cooler than we have felt anywhere in Australia. We stopped in Lithgow to get tourist propaganda from the “super helpful” staff and were directed to a roadside area futher up the road to Bathurst for our picnic lunch. We could not find the correct place and so simply pulled over into a wooded area, spread a tarp, and then began spreading sandwich rolls with mustard and butter. Here we discovered the most foul smelling ants on the planet. Harmless little black beasties, these ants gave off an odor when squished that would stink to high heaven. Unfortunately we only made this discovery after we had dispatched a few of them who had hitchhiked a ride in the car.

Our car pointed towards Parkes and the giant radio telescope made famous by the movie “The Dish.” On the way to the town we passed through many small cattle and sheep ranching towns and got a hint of the area’s gold rush heritage. When we finally made it to Parkes it was getting towards evening, so we looked for accommodations instead of going out to the dish that night. We found a great little tourist cabin run by a friendly old guy who told us to eat at the local RSL Club. (The Retired Servicemen’s League is a rough equivilent to our American Legion.) This proved to be a good choice because, while we waited for the ten minutes before the restaurant began serving, I tried my luck at the Ned Kelly “pokie” machine and won enough money on a one dollar bet to buy dinner. My luck did not hold, though, because we then returned to the cabin where Ronald cleaned me out of matchsticks in a spirited poker game. Benjamin and Ronald settled in for the night in their submarine bunks while Jayne and I split the queen size bed in the other room.

The next morning we went out to the dish, and it was a pretty neat experience. The dish is still in operation, only now it is strictly used for radio astronomy observations. It was pretty cool to see the place where they had filmed the movie and it made me want to see the film again. From there we went south to the town of Forbes (which was the location for all the town scenes in the movie; I guess they figured Parkes itself was not pretty enough). Here at the visitor center we learned about Ben Hall, a bushranger who is as famous locally as Ned Kelly. We watched a pretty corny fifteen minute movie about Ben in the visitor’s center, and the thing reminded Jayne of the half-baked westerns I used to film in high school.

Our next stop was Cowra, a place made famous by a World War II incident involving a Japanese prisoner of war camp located there. It seems that in 1944 about a thousand Japanese soldiers decided to rush the barbed wire and break out of the place, and they launched a suicide banzi attack at two in the morning. A pair of spunky Australian guards managed to get on a machine gun and break up the party before they were killed, but about three hundred of the prisoners managed to actually get outside the perimeter of the camp. All of them were rounded up within days, and the whole story is told in the Cowra visitor’s center by a holographic projection movie that was totally cool. We visited the rose garden outside the visitor’s center, and then took a short drive to the site of the camp and the big breakout. It was a lonely hillside with only the remains of several barracks foundations, but we found a rather talkative local who would have kept us there for hours had we not made a move back to the car.


We decided to have lunch at Woodstock, but there was no evidence that Janis Joplin or Jimi Hendrix had ever been there. Here we tried a few cricket pitches after devouring more ham sandwiches and drinks. What followed next was the most heroic driving endurance performances ever achieved by Ronald, who managed to get us back over the Blue Mountains to Sydney in a heavy rainstorm. He must have a bladder of steel, and nerves of the same metal, to have piloted that car so long.

The National Park

Yesterday we went to the Royal National Park, and getting there proved to be more than half the fun. I had been wanting to see the place since our arrival, and since Sundays and public holidays were the only time a certain transportation option was available, we made up our minds to go yesterday.

We actually started the trip the night before by attending a delicious curry dinner at Ronald's house. The dinner party was in honor of Ross's fiftieth birthday, and he graciously took a lot of kidding from everyone, as well as a bottle of scotch. Ron then drove us back to Manly and spent the night on our couch so we could get an early start the next morning. The first ferry on Sundays starts at 8:45, and since we just switched to daylight savings time down here it seemed as if we had plenty of time to get to the boat.

Another seven mile voyage brought us to Circular Quay and the train station, where we bought tickets to the Loftus terminal. We rode along for quite a while, making all kinds of stops at little commuter stations that grew more simple as we headed south. Finally we got to Loftus, and according to my Lost Planet guide book, we should have been able to catch a "tram" to the Royal National Park headquarters on Sundays. It turned out to be true, but not exactly what I had imagined.

After a confused crossing of the railstation bridge, we found the "Tramway Museum" where a group of dedicated volunteers operate these vintage trolley cars they have carefully restored. Sure enough, they offered a ride to the National Park, and we hopped on the old fashioned wooden benches for the ride. The car clicked along, crossed the highway, and entered into the woods......and then stopped at a rusting, abandoned rail siding. It seemed like it was the middle of nowhere, but it turned out to be about a hundred yards from where the Park heaquarters USED to be.

Much confused marching and countermarching ensued because the place is so poorly marked. Signage doesn't seem to be a big piority for the world's second oldest national park, and we found out from a firefigher that the park headquarters were actually located about two kilometers down the "Honeymoon Trail." What followed was a great bush hike down a steep rock staircase to reach the old Victorian pleasuring grounds called Audley. Each step we took down caused us to reflect that, barring any other happy circumstance, we would have to retrace our path going UP to reach the trolley car and home. When we got to the bottom, we found a very simple headquarters facility and a small snack kiosk....hardly on scale with Mammoth Hot Springs or Old Faithful Inn. In fact, most people there were simply urbanites on a Sunday afternoon picnic, and it seemed more like a city park than anything else. Of course we only saw a fraction of this giant park, and many areas are genuine wilderness.

Our hike back involved a wilderness experience, but not one of our choosing. The lady at the park headquarters told us about an alternative trail, but we should have realized the Park's lack of adequate signs would foil this attempt. Ronald, our brave guide bedecked in genuine Indian moccasins, led us through the tangled undergrowth like a true Leatherstocking, and we managed to reach the "Honeymoon Trail" again. We climbed the steps with spirit and vigor, reaching the top in no time and ready for more action....which proved to be waiting for the trolley car and a ride home.

Australian Home Security

Australia has a proud military history, although much of it seems to be the story of their involvement in other people’s wars. This is certainly not true of World War II when the continent was under a direct threat from the Japanese. Since we arrived here, local explorers have discovered the undersea remains of HMAS Sydney, a ship that the German’s sunk off the west coast of the continent in an attack that killed just about everyone on board. When we take the ferry into the city, we pass by a point that has a sign commemorating this ill-starred vessel, and the discovery of its resting place has generated a great deal of emotion from relatives of the sailors who lost their lives. Another action that directly involved our Australian allies was a 1942 submarine attack by the Japanese on a ship in Sydney Harbor itself. The Aussies pursued the three subs involved in the attack and sunk two, one of which is on display at the War Memorial in Canberra.

The reason I mention these incidents rests in a long hike I took yesterday with Benjamin to the top of North Head to view the Artillery Fort museum. Fred, Benjamin and I went up to the area on bicycles shortly after our arrival here, but we were unfamiliar with the area and completely missed the fort itself. This time Ben and I stopped in at a visitor’s center for the nature preserve located in the gatehouse of an abandoned artillery school complex and got a good map, showing the various footpaths through the bush to the fort itself. The paths are delightful, and in many places the foliage completely covers the walkway and forms a sort of shady green tunnel to walk through. Once we gained the top of the hill we found walkways that allowed us to overlook Sydney Harbor and had a million dollar view of the metropolis.

We made it to the Artillery Fort about an hour prior to its closing and were allowed in on our own self guided tour. We saw a nifty exhibit hall showing a brief overview of the gunner’s experiences in Australian history, and displays of uniforms, equipment, and “trench art” created by the soldiers. Since much of warfare consists of boredom while waiting for something horrific to happen, “diggers” would fashion beer mugs, champagne buckets, and other items from cast off shell casings. Some were quite beautiful. After leaving the exhibit hall, we toured the grounds and saw many rusting cannons and one huge gun emplacement that, during World War II, housed a giant gun that could sweep the entire harbor. Obviously they were of no use when the Japanese submarines managed to slip into Port Jackson and down the troop ship.

After we returned home, Jayne and I prepared for a “Mexican Party” to be hosted at the Manly Yacht Club. Barb and Cindy, friends of Ronald and Jane’s, had invited us to attend this bizarre little affair where everyone wore Mexican costumes, practiced salsa dancing steps, and tried to hit a pinnata full of candy. We tried to scrape together some costumes ourselves, no small feat since we are primarily wearing shorts and t-shirts these days, and even if we were not the most authentic looking, we were probably some of the few people at the party who had ever actually
been to Mexico and actually seen a Mexican!

A Cave, a Wave, and a Library Rave

Since our last dispatch there has been little doing for our tribe down under. We took a trip into the city on Tuesday so that I could visit the state library of New South Wales and Jayne, Ben, and Jake could do some more sightseeing in the city. We took the ferry again, of course, and by now the glorious half hour journey has become old hat to all of us. The only stop the family made together was at a “disposal store,” the term the Aussies use to describe war surplus outlets, where I wanted to see if I could get an Australian army hat. Unfortunately, they were too pricey, but Jayne took a second look at some hat netting that she is sure we will need when we go into the outback to Uluru (Ayer’s Rock) next week. Unfortunately, those were too pricey as well, so we will probably pick up these handy bug screens at a discount store here in Manly later.

I left the family then to walk down to the library, a magnificent structure that contains everything ever published in this state as well as a fine collection of manuscripts and personal papers. My success was mixed due to my unfamiliarity with their procedures and a marked reluctance on the part of the staff to promptly retrieve requested items. Meanwhile the rest of the clan explored more of the city, and Jayne went to St. Mary’s Cathedral, one of the largest churches in the world.

The next day was a recovery day, with all of us trying to rest up from our urban hiking expeditions. Ronald joined us for a walk up to the north end of Manly Beach to investigate some caves we had learned about from some YouTube postings and were rewarded with success. The cave cuts right through the bottom of a cliff just beyond the enclosed salt water swimming pool and was a pretty neat find. We walked back into the town where we enjoyed a nice bargain steak lunch at the Ivanhoe Hotel before Ronald returned home. Afterwards, Jayne and I went to the beach where I tried “boogie boarding” on a small foam surfboard that Ronald loaned us. I finally caught a wave! It was quite an exhilarating experience, and I must have gone about fifty yards as the wave rushed me towards shore. While I tempted the sharks, Jayne worked on her tan, a much less strenuous way to enjoy a day where the wind blasted in from the ocean and kept the temperatures somewhat cool.


Today Benjamin and I returned to the New South Wales archives where we got a behind the scenes tour from one of the archivists, and I enjoyed swapping stories about practicing our profession in such different places. Ben and I got back on the train to reach Circular Quay just about lunchtime, and after sharing a sandwich he returned on the ferry and I went back to the NSW Library to delve into more musty records. This time I had a bit more success in finding what I needed, and I found the staff in the microfilm section particularly helpful. Back home, Jayne answered a call of distress from Ronald who needed some help on a carpentry project, her
specialty. She and Ronald worked on a table and got it into shape after a trip to the lumber yard and the assembly of a new electrical jigsaw. This weekend on Sunday we are planning an expedition to the Royal National Park itself, the object of my research, and I am looking forward to finally seeing the place that I have read so much about.

Ronald is keeping a blog in addition to ours, and if you wish to see more pictures of our adventures go to http://www.bluesbirds.blogspot.com

Shark Bait

Today's topic is a bit different, based partially on an incident that did not directly involve us, but was interesting nonetheless. Before I get to it, however, we have a picnic to discuss.

The voyage to Patonga was a great trip. We took the ferry from the Palm Beach wharf on Saturday morning after spending the night at Ronald's house. He suggested that we start early on Saturday to catch the nine o'clock ferry, but that didn't happen. The night before we stayed up perhaps later than we should have watching rugby football again (Friday nights are usually double headers, and I managed to make it through about a third of the second game.) As a result everyone slept in too late and we had to take the 11:00 launching.

Palm Beach is a rather exlusive area near the very end of the Barrenjoey penninsula and about a twenty minute drive from Ronald's house. The ferry is a small boat that takes about fifty passengers maximum, and it has to negotiate its way around a bunch of sailboats and yachts that are sprinkled in the waters offshore. Once it had cleared the boats we were chugging along approaching the open waters of the Tasman Sea, rounding a head of land that was mostly national park, entirely undeveloped and covered with lush vegetation. As we were rounding the head, you could see Sea Lion Island, a pretty big chunk of rock that is home to a penguin colony and strictly off limits to visitors.

Patonga is a little fishing village that has become a summer home area, surrounded by parkland and literally the "end of the road" for anyone traveling there by car. We met Cindy, Jane, and Jane's parents, John and Gwen, at a really nice picnic spot near one end of the beach. John and Gwen were pretty cool, and we had a nice visit before feasting on all the goodies they had brought. A stroll down the beach followed, with lots of shell gathering and examination of various deposits of "shark poo," a mysterious clear jelly substance that washes up on shore. When the ferry returned it was only three in the afternoon, but all the bright sunshine and fresh air seemed to have tired us out as much as if we had hiked for miles. We didn't do much on Sunday, but therein lies the tale of the title.

Have you ever heard a siren for an approaching tornado, or perhaps an air raid in an old movie? The sound is unlike those they use on contemporary police and fire vehicles and is a long, sustained wail. You can easily imagine how we all bolted from our chairs on Sunday afternoon when we heard such a siren screaming right across the street from our apartment. As we rushed to the balcony, we could see the huge weekend crowd on the beach looking out to sea, and everyone who was in the water at the time was making for shore in record time. In just moments the water was completely devoid of people except for the search rescue guys who went tear-assing out into the breakers in their speed boat. I had an idea of what was going on, but Jayne and I went outside to the crowd to confirm our suspicions. A shark had been cited just about 100 meters off shore, and they saftey guys were doing their best to harass the dangerous creature back out to sea. It was all over after a while, and people went back into the water eventually, but my sentiments were echoed by a little boy I overheard: "But mum, I don't want to go in....I hate sharks!"

The Royal Easter Show

Do you remember going to the county fair when you were a kid? Remember the midway, with all the rides that would make you queasy, and the food booths that would contribute to that feeling? Perhaps you can also remember going into a smelly stock barn to look at a few scraggly pigs and cows, or entering an exhibit hall to gaze upon jars of pickled okra festooned with blue or white ribbons.

Well, you will need to multiply those memories by a thousand or more if you are ever fortunate enough to attend the Royal Easter Show of New South Wales. We too a trip to the Olympic Park on Wednesday where the Show is being held, and we were completely overwhelmed by the magnitude and class of the event. It is what we in America would call a "state fair," but considering how big New South Wales is, this state fair was huge. Acres and acres of food booths, showbag stalls, commercial exhibits, and animals, all spread over the lavish grounds that the Australian’s constructed when they hosted the Olympics in 2000.

We began our trip by taking the ferry back across the harbor to Circular Quay, the first step we take before going anywhere to the south and west from Manly. At the wary we purchased special train tickets that provided roundtrip transportation to the Show along with admission, which was a fairly good deal considering the distance. Jayne, Benjamin and Jacob had not been on the train system before and had to rely on my memory from my previous journey to get us to our destination. We got there, but not without a bit of quiet second guessing on my part as I anxiously looked at the transportation grid map and counted off the various stations we passed.
Once we arrived at the Show, we met up with Ronald, Jane, and Cindy, who began walking us past the first batch of "showbag" booths. Showbags are one of the unique customs of the show and are batches of stuff (toys, candy, magazines, ect.) that are put into a bag and sold at a discount, provided one prices all the contents individually. The bags have various themes, such as ninja, army, Barbie, or Wild West, and the contents vary from really useful items like backpacks and sunglasses to the ridiculous, like buttons, woopie cushions, and hand buzzers. Jacob found a South Park themed showbag that netted him a wallet and a haversack, and Benjamin got one that was geared for computer gamers with magazines and demonstration CDs. Jayne and I settled on one with a "Summer Heights High" theme and were pleased with our purchase. Summer Heights High is a comedy television series which Ronald and Jane introduced to us earlier in our trip hat we grown very fond of.

With showbags purchased we took in the rest of the show, or at least as much as we had stamina to see. There was a giant exhibition all dedicated to food, with mural like displays made from agricultural products that were very impressive. Vendors at this section were giving away free samples of just about anything you could imagine, and I managed to snag samples of beer, wine, roast chicken, Indian curry, salad, fruit, nuts, and even a bowl of breakfast cereal. I believe if one took the time to go twice around the hundreds of exhibitors, one would have eaten a rather substantial meal. We next went to the woodchop, a competition held in a large outdoor arena. Big beefy guys with the most polished axes on earth race each other to chop through hardwood logs placed in varying positions for each heat. One trial consisted of the men chopping notches into a vertical logs into which they placed narrow boards. Then they would get up on these narrow boards, balance themselves, and chop some more. The strength and agility were amazing. Another competition saw the men standing on a very narrow log and chopping through the thing BETWEEN THEIR FEET! One slip of that axe and a fellow’s toes would have been no more than a memory.

We then attended the Grand Opening of the Show, along with the grand entry parade. A company of Australian soldiers, sailors, and airmen stood in formation, while a brass band played the national anthem. After the Show was declared open, the soldiers marched out while the band played a marching rendition of "Waltzing Matilda" and the whole crowd stood and clapped as they passed out of the arena. What happened next was almost as impressive. A massive parade of prize cattle, pigs, goats, sheep, horses, and even dogs assembled on the field in a choreographed pattern so everyone could see them. The announcer was careful to tell the crowd not to clap or cheer until all the animals and their handlers had exited the grounds because they feared a stampede. One almost happened when an unruly cow got loose from his leader and pranced around a little, but one of the field officials managed to get a grab on his bridle and all was well.

There was so much to see and do at this fair that we couldn’t do it together. Ronald, Jane and Cindy eventually separated from us to view the animal barns on their own, and we saw just enough of the midway to convince us that getting on any of the rides would result in our saying goodbye to any junk food we had consumed. In all, we spent about six hours at the show, walked what seemed to be about twenty miles, saw perhaps a fraction of what was actually at the show, and returned home quite exhausted. It was fantastic.

Zoological Expedition

We went to the Taronga Zoo on Tuesday, a day chosen more due to weather conditions more than anything else. Skies have been overcast in Sydney on and off for the last couple of days, and since it looked as if the cloud cover would continue on Tuesday, Ronald suggested that we go and take advantage of the shade.

I started the day early by taking the ferry back into the city to investigate the possibility of changing Ben and Jake’s tickets so they could return to Montana a week or two early. The New Zealand Airlines office is just a few blocks from the ferry warf, and it was easy to walk there to see if the matter could be settled. Unfortunately, I was told that we couldn’t really do anything; the tickets could not be changed without a price increase, and that price increase could not be determined until our Montana travel agent confirmed the original reservation. However, it was an easy matter to get a one way ticket to the Taronga Zoo landing via another ferry, and I was on my way to meet Ronald, who had driven to the zoo with Jayne, Benjamin, and Jacob.

The zoo was fantastic. When I arrived at the warf, I took a cable car up the hill to the zoo proper, but Ronald and the family had taken the same cable car DOWN the hill to meet me. They yelled at me as our cars passed, and we waved at each other. All they had to do was stay on the car and come back up, and all of us were reunited.

There were beautiful grounds and exotic animals aplenty. We started with reptiles and ended with an Australian "bushwalk" that allowed us into an enclosure with wallabies and emus with no bars between us whatsoever. The wallaby was particularly cute, and some tourists posed with the little creature while they petted it. We also saw the platypus, the Tasmanian devil, tigers, lions, several different kinds of bears, Indian elephants, and other animals too numerous to mention. We must have walked miles through all kinds of canopied pathways to the various exhibits, and I am not at all sure we saw all there was to see in the hours we were there.

After leaving the zoo, we visited Ronald’s wife, Jane, at the Mosman Library, a very nice public library situated above a cricket oval in this north Sydney suburb. Jane showed us around, introducing us to all the librarians and giving us a behind the scenes tour. It was particularly interesting for me to see how our Australian colleagues do business. After our visit, Jane pointed the way to the Mosman Art Gallery where we saw some interesting works done in a variety of mediums. Nautical theme’s predominated, with a special nod to Mosman’s whaling heritage. By the time we got home, we were bushed, and all of us turned in early after a spirited family poker game. Jayne got up this morning and posted a few pics of the zoo trip for your amusement.

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Archival Angst

On Thursday before the big Easter holiday, I left the family for a solo expedition into the western Sydney suburbs and a visit to the New South Wales State Records Center (archives) in Kingswood. Getting there was half the adventure because I had to get up very early to catch the first ferry into the city at 6:40 am. It was the most beautiful crossing I have made to date, with the sun coming up over the Manly peninsula and seeing the Sydney skyline coming to life in the dawn from my vantage point in the very bow of the boat. The water was quite calm and the ride smooth.

My next stop was the Sydney train station. I knew I had to catch the line going west to the Emu Plains, and it was no more than a thirty second wait until it arrived. The trains are somewhat slow, hot, stuffy, and if I had been going in the opposite direction (INTO the city center) crowded and cramped. I realized that there would be the same conditions on my return trip later that afternoon, and I was thankful for that circumstance. As I went farther into the west, the country really flattened out, and there were not as many high rise buildings. The ethnicity of my fellow passengers changed, too, with those schoolchildren getting on and off at the stops representing several different countries and languages. The last train stop was St. Mary’s, where I was to catch a motor bus to the archives, and here I found a city core that was somewhat dilapidated and dominated by small Asian markets and tobacco stands operated by Middle Eastern proprietors. There was a preponderance of graffiti all over every vertical surface, and even the local supermarket had a security guard in the parking lot (never a good sign!)

The bus took me directly to the archives for a three buck fare that I thought a bit excessive, but then again, everything is expensive here. The New South Wales Records Center is located in a suburban area of Kingswood, just south of a sprawling and spacious college campus. The whole area around the facility looks like a golf course. The building itself is unimpressive, but then most modern architecture leaves me unimpressed. Once I was inside, a receptionist pointed me to the reading room, located on the second floor where there is a nice lounge for researchers when feeling the need to take a break. The reading room itself was pretty big, with banks of microfilm machines, a long counter where the clerks are stationed, and several large tables with comfortable chairs. I had ordered my materials ahead of time over the Internet, so they were all ready for my inspection as soon as I asked for them, but here is where I was surprised. You see, I had registered online to use the archives, providing my name, address, etc., but once I asked for the material the clerk did not even bother to ask me for ANY identification. I could have been anyone. Another surprise was their insistence that all researchers wear latex gloves to look at anything. They keep huge boxes of the damn things on the counter, just like at the doctor’s office, and everyone in the room looks like they are ready to start operating on a patient. They are uncomfortable, and completely unnecessary, in my opinion. What makes matters worse, they are absolutely angers to my health since my hand excema (which I have suffered with since my teen years) goes completely out of control when I wear such gloves for over five minutes. I had no choice, so I wore the things and tried to work quickly by using my digital camera to take notes from the manuscripts I pressed.

The discomfort of the gloves, and the lack of substantive records regarding Royal National Park’s conception and origin, convinced me to quit by about three thirty in the afternoon. I was unable to meet with any of the archivists at the place because this day, prior to the official Easter holiday long weekend, only the reading room clerks were working. I left my business card with them and requested to meet with one of the archivists after the holidays. The only difference in my trip back into the city was that the train was hotter than the hinges of hell in mid afternoon, but again, due to the direction I was going, mercifully uncrowded. My research did reveal one important clue. My next investigation will take me to the New South Wales State Library where personal manuscript collections are held.

Pics

Close Encounters of the Kangaroo Kind

Today's posting will be brief since it has to be made on a pay internet kiosk in a funky Canberra hotel. Jayne, Fred, Ronald and I have journeyed into the interior of New South Wales and Victoria by taking a road trip to Beechworth. We started out on Monday going southwest along the National Highway, crossing the Great Dividing Range and finally getting an inkling of just how big this country is. The country started to get more and more dry, but there were still trees scattered about on the hillsides just about everywhere we went. In this regard I cannot say the countryside looked like eastern Montana. There the hills would be bare, but the trees gathered along the stretches of the creeks and washes.

Beechworth is an old gold rush mining town that still has many of its 1870s vintage buildings, including the Tanswell Hotel where we stayed the night. It also has lots of sites associated with Ned Kelly, the famous outlaw bushranger, including a pretty impressive museum display. We spent the night in Beechworth and then came here to the capital state of the country, Canberra.

We looked in vain for wildlife all during the more than 500 miles we drove, and it was not until after we checked into this motel in the suburbs of the city that we finally had success. Next to this motel is an abandoned historical theme park (history is a subject of diminishing interest in this culture, too) and we finally saw kangaroos as day slowly faded into night. We were able to approach them fairly closely before they went bounding off into the woods beyond. They behave like deer in the outskirts of Bozeman, coming in to graze in the cool of the evening and to take a few jumps in front of cars at night. We also saw Australian possums in the bushes right outside our hotel window. Our inkeeper fed them some fruit. Today we return to Manly and see how the boys are doing.

A Bike Ride

Today's activity consisted of a bicycle ride to the summit of North Head, the promintory that guards the opening of Port Jackson and the Sydney Harbor. Armed with special discount coupons kindly provided by Ronald and Jane, Benjamin, Fred and I hied ourselves to the Manly Cycle shop where we rented three rather sophisticated multispeed contraptions for an exploration of areas far beyond our ability to walk. We set out first down the strand that runs along the beach and stopped at the apartment so Ben could get his sunglasses. Then it was off on a grueling hill climb, made by sticking to the sidewalks to avoid the insane traffic here. The fellow who rented the bikes told us about the route, pointing out that our proposed route would pass the hospital "in case we needed it." His prediction proved accurate, because it was the terrible climb played havoc with my lungs and Fred's legs. (Benjamin's legs and lungs are in great shape, so he obligingly waited for us periodically as we struggled along. Once at the top, we passed through the Artillery Fort, which was actually a training barracks that has since turned into a museum. Then it was on through a bizarre scrub forest to attempt to find the overlook. Some of the paths were blocked by swamp conditions that had closed the way for pedestrians. We did, however, find an old abandoned bunker that had served as an observation post duing World War II and had an exellent view of the opening of Port Jackson. We saw ships out on the horizon and enjoyed a breath of air before we turned out machines downhill. That part of the trip was a real pleasure. Once we arrived back at the apartment, Fred traded off with Jayne and together we proceeded up the beach along some really nice bike trails that run along the Manly Lagoon.

Teased by an Aboriginal!

Today’s title comes from a singularly amusing incident, although I am not prepared to tell it just yet. First I must relate the events of the last two days, which ought to be easy enough. We have done nothing. That’s not entirely accurate, we have done SOMETHING, which is eat, nap, sleep, and swim in the surf. I have settled into a pattern of going down to the beach shortly after breakfast every day. The surf seems particularly powerful during the early morning hours, and its so much fun to wade out, fight the monster waves, and try to ride atop a particularly large breaker. We have yet to do so with a "belly board" (Ronald calls them "shark biscuits") but that day is coming soon. I purchased an arm fastening lanyard for a board, and Ronald will bring us one of his to experiment with. Benjamin and Jacob have also adopted my new morning constitutional ritual and are looking forward to experimenting with a belly board. One noticeable benefit of our continued visits to the beach is the darkening pigmentation of our skin. We no longer look like beached whales, but more like beached lobsters.

We ate at an Indian restaurant on the Corso last night. I do not believe I have had hotter food in any Mexican restaurant in my life, although Jayne ordered a sensible rice dish and Fred a "medium" entree that he insisted was warm enough. My own choice of vindaloo was hot enough to cause my internal thermometer, as evidenced by perspiration atop my head, to go into overdrive.

Today’s journey was somewhat emotional, but in a good way. We took the ferry into the city where we met Jenenne Harman and her son, Wyatt. Jenenne was married to our mutual friend Mark Hartman who passed away in late 2001. She was waiting for us at the Circular Quay and we all walked back to the Botanical Gardens for a visit under a shady tree to get reacquainted. After a brief visit there, we went to "The Rocks" section of the waterfront where we met Wyatt at a pub. Jayne and I had not seen Wyatt since he was a toddler, and it was a pleasure to see what a fine young man he has become. It was also uncanny, as his mannerisms and appearance were so similar to his late father. We had a great lunch, which Wyatt "shouted" for (thanks, Wyatt) and then walked over to the Modern Art Museum where we viewed some pretty bizarre artwork by a contemporary artist who works with, among other things, Tupperware. There was also an exhibit of Aboriginal bark paintings, and I was impressed by both their fragility and their beauty. They use such unique abstract designs of dots and wavy lines.

Once we left the museum and walked back to the Manly ferry dock, I had my own Aboriginal encounter. There are several stations of Aboriginal performers in the area, all playing digereedoos and posing for pictures. As we walked past the first of these fellows, he ceased playing his instument and began to speak to the crowd, welcoming to Australia those who had just arrived and inviting anyone to come and learn how to play. Although he was painted and dressed in true native attire, his speech was in the same Aussie slang as anyone else around here, which is at first a bit unnerving. (From the looks of him you would expect Pidgin English and grunts.) As he spoke to the crowd he noticed me, mainly because I have abandoned my wide brimmed straw hat in favor of a bandanna to hold my hair in place because of the constant wind. He laughed when he saw me, gestured out to the ocean, and said, "Woodstock is that way, mate!" I gave him the thumbs up, and we walked on back to the ferry and our return home.

Today is Fred's birthday, but not where he lives! We will celebrate with home made pizza and cake.

In the Garden

On Monday we all got on the ferry again for another trip to the city. This time we really lucked out because the regular ferry was delayed and they allowed us to take the jet ferry for no extra charge. The thing moves like a bat out of hell and covers the same distance in half the time. With Ronald as our trusty guide, we headed past the Opera House to the Botanical Gardens, a fantastic public park with the widest variety of vegetation I have ever seen. There were native and non-native plants and trees, with lovely open fields and harbor views. Some of the native trees are particularly weird looking, with tangled roots and massive spreading branches that look as if they each weigh several tons. Once we got to the center of the park we stopped for a rather expensive lunch which was served at outside tables besieged by hungry ibis birds and "flying foxes" (gigantic fruit eating bats.) I always thought these animals only lived in Java or some other remote Pacific location, but apparently they have really taken to this park and they roost in the trees by the thousands.

Our next stop was the art museum of New South Wales, a short walk just beyond the gardens. The interior of the place was massive, with exhibit halls that were large enough to fit about five Museum of the Rockies! I particularly liked the nineteenth century art, including a dramatic painting of the battle of Rourke’s Drift, made famous by the movie "Zulu." Benjamin and Jayne explored the galleries dealing with modern and Aboriginal art, and Fred and Ronald wandered around all over the map. (Jacob stayed home on this trip; he wasn’t feeling well.)
One exhibit of particular beauty was a collection of Indian art, both Hindu and Moslem. At the entrance to this exhibit was a statue of Ganesh carved from volcanic rock and someone had placed a fresh lotus flower in his lap. This was pretty cool, because we had just seen a huge lotus pond in the gardens and were taken by the strange plastic-looking center of the blossom. Of course we could not do this museum justice during the hour or two we spent exploring because it was simply too big. We will be back, especially since the New South Wales library is also in the vicinity.

On the way back to the ferry we paused and watched an Aboriginal music group playing drums and the digereedoo to the accompaniment of pre-recorded instrumentals. It sounded great, and Ronald purchased their CD. One of the Abbos was in full native regalia and obligingly posed for photographs while making those strange, almost voodoo-like, hand gestures. Then it was off to the ferry for a return home where we cooked dinner, played Scrabble, and went to bed pretty darn tired.

A Trip to the City

Yesterday we took the ferry into Sydney with Ronald as our helpful guide. We are very lucky he was along, because we would have been totally lost without him. At first we did not think that we would be able to go at all since our one checked piece of luggage had yet to arrive, and when I finally got confirmation the suitcase would be delivered the guy said he might not arrive until two in the afternoon. Luckily he was early and we were able to go on into the big city. The ferry ride from Manly to Circular Quay takes about a half hour, and it was a beautiful sunny day with calm waters. We saw so many sailboats and small craft plying the waters all around us, and once we came around the bend the Opera House and Harbor Bridge could be seen. A spectacular view.

Once we were in the city we walked to Paddy’s market, a giant warehouse of junk being offered for sale in dozens of small temporary booths. The vendors were all very friendly, as you would expect from people trying to sell you stuff that you neither need nor want. I did see something I wanted and bought it: a Ned Kelly t-shirt. After that, we returned to the ferry and got home somewhat exhausted.

Today we went to the airport where we picked up Fred Pascoe, my old friend from Tucson, who has come out to join us for a couple of weeks. He held up pretty well after the lengthy flight and was game for our next adventure. Ronald picked us up to take us to the home of Ross and Kathryn, Ronald’s sister in law, and had a fantastic meal on their back deck. They live not far from our apartment and have a lovely house.
One of these pictures is from a visitor we had on our porch yesterday.

Here down under

I type these lines while comfortably settled in our Manly Beach apartment. We arrived in Sydney after a pretty arduous journey because of United Airlines and their inablity to get a connection from Denver to Los Angeles in a timely fashion. Our flight out of Denver was delayed for several hours, and when I requested an earlier flight so we could meet our overseas connection I foolishly thought I had the problem solved. Not so. The "earlier" flight did not leave until five minutes AFTER the delayed time of our original flight, which put us into the Los Angeles airport with less than thirty minutes to make our connection. If you have never been to LAX, I can assure you that it is a confusing urban complex with several different terminals, and we had no idea how to make it to the one where our New Zealand Airline flight was due to leave. Instead of trying to figure out the public transport to the correct terminal, we set offf on foot in a frenzied run of about a quarter mile, where we AGAIN had to pass through security before we could get to the proper gate. We made the flight with about two minutes to spare, and we were the last passengers allowed on board.

The flight itself was rather pleasant, and we managed to get a bit of sleep before we arrived in Sydney 16 hours later. Our friend Ronald met us at the gate, and Jayne took the attached snapshot of our meeting. Hw took us to our apartment first, and then to his home in Narrabeen where we visited the beach. Jacob soaked up a few rays with Ronald, as you can see, and Benjamin created a sandface sculpture that remained to mystified the natives.

Last Minute Musings

The flight leaves tomorrow and this last day we are spending in preparation. There are a few more bills to be paid, a few more things to be backed, and conferences with the house sitters. Willie, the world's cutest Westie, has had a bath and is ready to face seven weeks depending on the kindess of strangers. The cats are both oblivious to our plans; I'm not sure they would care anyway.

One of the more vexing questions is regarding our trak cell phone; will it work in Australia? I have been to the website and have reason to believe it will work, which means our biggest problem will be in estimating the right time of day for calling back to the U.S. It gets confusing on the other side of that International Date Line.

I hope my next entry will be made in Sydney. Until then...

This is a picture of a Hindu temple we visited last year in Omaha, Nebraska. It was absolutely beautiful, and it has absolutely nothing to do with this blog, too. I chose to post it because I am testing this blog to see if our trip pictures can be similarly accomodated once we get there. This is only a test....

A journey waiting to happen

This blog is going to be a record of our family's trip to Australia in March and April, 2008. We have been getting progressively more excited about the trip as the departure date has approached, and now that a mere week separates us from the takeoff I have been trying to tie up a lot of loose ends. One of the preparation duties I have undertaken is the founding of this travel blog, which is a first for me. I have read many blogs over the years, though, and I am not unfamiliar with the concept.

Today I spent running around trying to get Australian money, returning library books, and getting some extra digital video tapes for our camera. I have also turned my attention to this computer to research train travel down under, discovering to my dismay that trains in Oz seem to be almost as pathetic as Amtrak. (We had all the romance of train travel knocked out of us on our last trip from Montana to Michigan a few years ago; unreliable, dirty, and inconvenient, American passenger trains are really no better than taking the bus, in my opinion.)

I will try to keep these entries worth reading, but it does not appear as if I have made a very good start. Tomorrow is another day.