Down Under
I might be Continental Airlines' worst
customer. Not only do I suck up
the maximum benefits while paying minimal fares, my frequent flyer award
tickets cost them twice. Last
summer it took 2+ hours at the check-in with the counter agent and her help
desk to work through the computer snafu. This time it only took 40 minutes - the computer wants me to ride in
back, but that's not where I want to be. Eventually the right override codes get entered and my first class
boarding passes emerge. Then I
notice that the last two flight coupons are not part of my ticket. She spends another 40 minutes working
until the flight is boarding. I
will have to revisit the issue later.
On arrival at LAX, the purser announces that the
captain is retiring. There is a
military tradition that on a pilot's final flight he is given a water
salute. The crash trucks
line up on both sides of the ramp and turn on their water cannons, creating an
arch through which we taxi. I
would have congratulated him but the cockpit was crowded with family members.
I transfer to Qantas, where I have an upstairs
seat on a 747-400. I am looking
forward to their much-touted Skybeds which recline 180É, but I read the fine
print - it's only on the Sydney and Melbourne routes. This flight goes first to Auckland and then on to
Brisbane. That's OK, there are plenty
of movies I want to watch. The
business class seats are similar to the Air France seats on which I logged
60,000 miles a year ago, but Qantas has a better selection of movies (although
an inferior selection of cheeses). Guess which one I favor? But
I still have a complaint: the movies I want to see are on the eastbound
flights.
The flight time to Auckland is 12 hours, where
they make everybody get out while the cabin is cleaned and catered. Had I known this was the routing, I
would have gotten off here and not already have bought a ticket to fly back to
New Zealand in two days.
For all you who think New Zealand and Australia
are almost touching, it's 3 hours and 3 time zones. (2 + daylight savings time.) Brisbane airport is crowded with groups of Japanese
schoolgirls in uniform, but the arrival formalities are quick and
friendly. Once through, it takes
about 15 seconds to get my car. Avis has done me a favor and upgraded me to a big car, which is no favor
at all since it's harder to park and maneuver. Plus, it's harder to re-acclimate to wrong-side
driving. Speaking of wrong, it
seems like all the streets in Brisbane are one-way in the wrong direction and
keep turning - you need to make 90É turns to stay on the same street because if
you go straight you will be on a different street.
Australia is a big, sparsely-settled continent, so
there ought to be plenty of room to park, right? Not in Brisbane. I leave the car at the motel (selected because it has parking) and walk
the short distance to the center. The first stop is just across the street: a
windmill that is the oldest building in the city. It was built in 1828 to grind grain for the Mooreton Bay
penal colony. It's the right
shape, but the arms (which once doubled as gallows) are gone and the glazed
concrete surface looks like it was poured yesterday. The area is called Spring
Hill, not nearly as colorful a name as nearby Kangaroo Point or Wooloongabba
(not to be confused with Woolloomoolo, which is in Sydney.
I happen on someplace not in the guidebooks: the
MacArthur Museum. After his
"daring escape" from the Philippines (leaving his men behind), Mac
made his way to Brisbane where he commandeered the best office building for his
headquarters. A small part of it
has been converted into a museum (the rest is luxury flats and retail), as
hagiographic as the MacArthur Memorial in Norfolk, VA. The best bit is the display of Brisbane
at war when, after, the fall of Singapore, the bombing of Darwin, and the
submarine attacks in Sydney harbor, the city prepared for imminent Jap
invasion.
This place isn't cheap. It is much more expensive
here than in the U.S. The Australian
dollar used to be worth 55¢; its value has risen (to 80¢) but its purchasing
power hasn't. Some items are still a bargain: only $15 for a change purse made
from a kangaroo scrotum. If you
already have one, there is a bottle opener made from a kangaroo paw.
It's St. Patrick's Day. The Queensland Irish Association headquarters is oddly
quiet. The parade took place last
Saturday. I spot one, lone
celebrant.
Damn jetlag! Much of the afternoon is wasted on a nap.
In the early evening a coffee wagon pulls up in
City Hall Plaza to dispense free hot beverages and cookies, attracting every
bum within walking distance. I
don't see the point unless it is to drop a net on them.
Yesterday it was overcast. Today, Friday, it's raining, so I visit
the Queensland Museum. There are
good animatronic extinct animals such as a marsupial lion and a dino-size
lizard. A display on life in the outback has a pedal-powered radio. The current feel-good,
multicultural-crapola exposition is about Lithuanian immigrants to
Queensland. There is a good
section on the whaling era, which in Queensland was the 1950's. Stuff like whale products and videos
from before whales were people too. Watching the elderly Jap tourists, I wonder if they are viewing the
pictures and thinking "yum-yum, whale meat." Facts learned: Queensland is where
macadamia nuts originate; and it is home to the world's the largest
cockroaches.
I drive south 50 miles on a 10-lane freeway to the
Gold Coast, where the sun shines 300 days a year. This isn't one of them. I swing through Surfer's Paradise: a broad beach lined by
miles of high rises, a few shopping malls, and little else except a dearth of
parking. It's connected to
Brisbane by.
On the way back I stop at the Daisy Hill Koala
Center, which is noncommercial and free. At 2 PM I am the first visitor of the day. (But I count ten cars in the staff parking lot.) There are plenty of koalas in the
surrounding woods, but none to be seen from the observation deck. (I do spot a kookaburra.) I leave without spotting a koala but
with a valuable tip: I should keep a knotted rope in my swimming pool should
any koalas fall in and need to climb out.
Discouraged, I visit the commercial koala
sanctuary, where there are heaps of the little buggers about. (I guess socialism doesn't work for
marsupials, either.) My timing is
right: they are just waking up from their 19 hours/day nap.
My flight out is in the early morning on
Saturday. On the way to the
airport, the sun is shining and the sky clear. Oh well, maybe next time.
At the airport, there are just as many Japanese
tourists leaving as were coming. (Jumbo jets fly directly to Tokyo and Osaka.) My ticket is on the all coach class Pacific Blue, so I suffer
the indignity of having to wait in line with the hoi polloi.
I am back to New Zealand, this time the South Island. It is the last weekend of summer. (Exactly one year ago I was in Auckland finishing up my North Island circuit.) At the Christchurch airport there a festive south seas welcome. Today Pacific Blue begins service to Roratonga in the Cook Islands and has brought in drummers and grass-skirted dancers. Leis for all the island-bound passengers, but not for me.
I pick up my rental car. There are no expressways here, just wide uncongested streets
with an occasional traffic light. The sky is clear and the temperature is 75É and dry. (Brisbane was humid.) What a pleasant place!
New Zealand is more English than England, and
Christchurch even more so. A very
attractive core city with well preserved and restored buildings. Through the central business district
flows the Avon River, landscaped like a country stream. The only problem is that the motels all
have "no vacancy" signs. (Last year, Auckland on Saturday was full up by noon.) The only place I can find is an upscale
backpackers/downscale B&B called "Shalom." "Oh no," I think, "Israelis." But it turns out to be run by Japanese,
who also comprise the other guests. Very quiet and very clean. Christchurch lives on Japanese tourism If you like Jap food, you won't go hungry in this town.
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Monday. It's Race Relations Day! Gosh, I forget to send cards! If I run into a wog I will be sure to be nice to him. I am driving to Mt. Cook, the tallest
peak in New Zealand. Because it's
overcast I consider rerouting to Queenstown, where the forecast is sunny, but
decide it would involve too much backtracking. It's a 2 1/2 hour drive, very scenic. Unfortunately, at the end of the road
the mountain is clouded over. There is a brief peek at the glacier, but overall a disappointment. I turn around and drive back.
Heading south, the weather worsens. By the time I reach Dunedin in early
evening it is miserable. A stop to
see the Moeraki boulders, giant round volcanic rocks on the beach.
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I start with the train station, a 1906 Edwardian
showpiece.
Then, the Otago (the
name of the region) Settlers Museum. The displays near the entrance suggest to me that they should change its
name to the "Maori Grievance Museum," but that comes to an end and
they get on to the very well-presented story of immigration and the pioneer
life along with a fine collection of Victorian stuff. Next door, an art deco bus terminal has been restored and
houses a transportation museum.
Across the street is a large monument to the Great
War. "To The Glorious Dead
1914-1918" is inscribed between two fasces. On
the other side are two more fasces
with the add-on dates 1939-1945. No sense of irony here.
Next, the Otago Museum, the oldest, and, in many
ways, the best in New Zealand. Founded during the age of collecting, it had wealthy
benefactors and became the ultimate repository for the acquisitions of New
Zealand's adventurers and administrators in the far corners of empire. Its 1.7 million objects include large
collections of classical antiquities (including 4000 Egyptian pieces),
ethnographic items from the world over, and natural history. The stuff is not
heaped about in dusty piles; the displays are modern and thematic (but a bit
politically correct). There are
moa skeletons and stuffed kiwis along with displays of recently extinct
species.
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Wednesday. A long day's driving. I
start out by going to the Otago Peninsula, at the end of which is a penguin,
albatross, and seal colony. Also
an abandoned fort with a (then) state-of-the-art "disappearing gun"
installed in 1885 in response to the newly-launched Russian Pacific fleet
launched from Vladivostok.
Then, a bit further south and across to the west
coast, past green, rolling hills full of grazing sheep stretching to the
horizon. Too bad there is no
right-wing talk radio - the choice is either pop or Radio New Zealand, the
latter being a southern version of NPR. It, too, has only one theme: ours is a terrible, racist, sexist,
homophobic society and the Aborigones, Maori, Indians, and assorted savages and
third-worlders are better than you. They need some Rush Limbaugh down here.
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The southeast corner of the island is comprised
mostly of Fjordland National Park. I drive as far as Milford Sound, where the road ends. After stopping
to find a place to stay at Lake Te Anau, I continue to Milford Sound, a
postcard-pretty fjord. The road runs alongside a lake, a river, then through a
canyon, a tunnel, and another canyon to emerge at the Sound. It's nice, but it would have been
better without the overcast and low clouds which give everything a grayish
cast. Once there, if you are not
hiking, taking a boat ride or boarding a sightseeing flight, there is nothing
to do but turn around and drive out, which is what I do.
Thursday. Another day on the road. Before leaving Lake Te Anau I stop at the wildlife center and witness
the welfare state in action. There
are some rare native birds - they look like giant blue chickens with red heads
- in an open pen. When I arrive
dozens of common birds are hanging around outside. In a few minutes a keeper comes by and dumps a pail of food
inside the pen. As soon as she
leaves, the freeloaders fly over the fence to help themselves to a free
meal.
I start north. The roads swings inland, through Queenstown, a lakeside
boomtown resort teeming with shoppes and tourists, but little parking. It is the center for "adrenaline
tourism," offering bungee jumping, parasailing, jet boats, rafting,
helicopter and fixed-wing flightseeing - none of which I am inclined to do (or
pay the big bucks prerequisite). Then I pass through Arrowtown, a gold mining town preserved as a tourist
shopping village. Its photographic
appeal has been ruined by modern signage and both sides of the street being
lined by cars (including mine.)
It is the first clear day since I started. The scenery is excellent, as are the
place names, including Mt. Aspiring and the Remarkable Mountains. I take care to keep my speed up - the
newspaper this morning had the headline "Easter Weekend Speed
Crackdown" alongside a picture of a cop with a radar gun. The twist is that they will be going
after slow drivers who are holding up traffic.
The road runs through the Southern Alps along
rushing rivers, mountain lakes, and steep gorges. It takes all day to emerge again on the west coast at
Haast. It's pretty remote out. It
doesn't matter much that the remote control in my motel room is missing because
the only choice in TV programming is channel 1 or channel 2. The small population of New
Zealand means there are not enough preternaturally attractive people to
populate the TV screen; instead they take normal-looking people and try to glam
them up.
Good Friday. It rains here 180 days a year, and
this is one of them. Today's journey will take me up the west coast, stopping at
two glaciers. The drive goes
quickly - there is no reason to stop at the viewpoints when I can barely see
the road. It's very atmospheric, but not photogenic.
The rain pauses when I reach Fox Glacier. The signs showing where the glacier
used to are meant to alarm you about global warming, but it is obvious that the
greatest recession occurred between 1750 and 1935, before
industrialization. (And the other
glacier has been advancing since 1970.) Although there is a good view of the glacier from the parking lot, I do
the one hour (round trip) hike to its face. The blue color of the ice is visible, but not intense due to
low clouds. One is not allowed on
the ice unless part of an organized tour, a regulation probably instigated by
the guide's union.
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The balance of the afternoon is taken with the
remainder of the drive north. Eventually, the land flattens out and the road opens up. The kilometers fly by as I speed
towards Greymouth, my destination for the night.
There's not much to see here. Greymouth is a gold rush town that
turned into an export port when the ore ran out but coal discovered. The downtown contains a number of old,
preserved buildings, including my hotel.
Late afternoon is almost sunny. The morning looks pretty clear,
too. It doesn't last - as I turn
inland through the mountains the wipers go on and stay on all day. My woefully underpowered Hyundai
(pronounced with three syllables here) can barely make it over the pass. Another supposed-to-be-scenic drive
impaired by inclement weather. I
am driving back to Christchurch (road sign abbreviation: Ch-Ch).
I still haven't seen a live kiwi. There is one
downtown at the visitors' center, but, having just been ripped off for $20 at
the Antarctic Center, I draw the line at another $12 to see a dimly lit fowl
that probably not significantly more animated than the stuffed ones in the
museums.
Sunday. Easter. The sun is shining as I drive for the airport.
It's a long flight to Perth - 8 hours, four time
zones. I am in cattle class on Air
New Zealand, but I survive. The
whole day is spent traveling, and I arrive at night.
Who woulda thunk? Easter Monday is a holiday here. That's OK - no traffic and plentiful parking.
As the guidebook observes, there is less here than
meets the eye. Perth has some old
buildings - some preserved only as facades - and lots of new ones. No urban grime, but not a whole lot to
see. The Jap tourists that aren't
in Auckland are here.
The Western Australia gold rush in the 1890's lead
to the establishment of a mint, now reopened as a tourist attraction. These days it produces commemorative
and collectable coins, such as for Chinese New Year and Hello Kitty. In the smelt room, where even the soot
on the walls has value from the gold deposited over the years, there is a
demonstration pour of molten gold from an incandescent crucible to make a 200
oz. ingot. There are lots of gold
displays but no free samples, although you are allowed to heft a 400 oz.
bar. There is a scale which tells
me that today my corpulent self would be worth $1,406,750 (Australian) in
gold. Call for King Midas!
The Western Australia Museum has a large hall
devoted to inducing guilt over the Abo's. At the entrance is a large WARNING that some of the images are of people
since deceased and that if you are "concerned" you should speak with
a member of the anthropology staff. It gets worse. Piercing
questions such as "how would you feel if your house and food were taken
away from you?" (Why not ask
the prisoners who were transported to Australia?) We are gravely informed that Abo's are "overrepresented
in the criminal justice system." My solution: let them have casinos; that'll cheer 'em right up. Too bad I won't be here for Sorry Day,
when we can all wring our hands over our horrid selves.
Tuesday. All of the day trips are way too far for too little for my liking. Instead, I drive to Freemantle at the
mouth of the Swan River downstream from Perth. Formerly a faded, somewhat tatty port city, it has been
lately gentrified. Many fine buildings have been restored and adapted. Architecturally and visually much
better than expected.
Both north and south of Freemantle sandy beaches
face the Indian Ocean. Lunch is at
Coogee Beach.
I spend the afternoon at the Perth Zoo, where the
animals are mostly free to wonder about the visitor paths.. Plenty of wombats, numbats, and
quokkas, but no platypi.
Wednesday. Time to commence the long train ride. I am taking the Indian-Pacific to Adelaide, a 41-hour
journey. And here's the insane
part: I don't have a cabin. First
class is absurdly expensive (about 6 times the cost of flying), and economy
sleeper is very basic but still expensive. So I am going to tough it out in the "day-nighter"
coach. On display at the Perth
station is antique rail car: second class has just wooden benches and first
class features padded benches; I hope the comfort level has improved.
The train stretches for half a mile. First class is comprised of geriatrics,
economy sleeper is empty, and steerage is full of pensioners, backpackers, and
a few nuts like me. The ticket
states: "because of the close proximity of guests during rail travel, you
are requested to board the train suitably attired with an acceptable standard
of cleanliness and personal hygiene."
The first stop isn't until Kalgoorlie, in the
heart of the gold fields. It's a
4-hour stop (why? I don't know); the problem is that it's from 9:30 PM to 1:30
AM. Everything is closed. There are some very attractive and
ornate buildings from the gold rush, but it's too dark for photography. The bars are - there are a lot of them
- still open, but quiet because this is mid-week; on weekends they stay open 24
hrs. The Abo's don't need bars -
they are out drinking in the streets. Kalgoorlie is also famed for its brothels. (Judging from Brisbane and
Perth, I would say all the girls in Australia dress like hookers.) One gal comes up to me and asks me if I
have the time; I give her what she doesn't want: a chronographic report from my
wristwatch.
Along the way, we stop to water at
Cook, a modern ghost town. The
next stop isn't until Port Augusta, again in the middle of the night.
Friday morning we reach Adelaide. The train is going on to Sydney, another
20 hours, but I'm getting off. Overall evaluation: it sucked. I didn't suffer inordinately, but I wouldn't recommend it.
The best that can be said for the South Australia
Museum is that it is air-conditioned. The first section is on Abo culture and so dimly lit that I can hardly
barely see my feet much less the exhibits. (A cynic might make an acerbic comment about a benighted
race or an unenlightened culture.) School groups are being trooped through for indoctrination in lieu of
education. Say, did you know that
the Abo's knew how to make fire by rubbing two sticks together? At least some of them had cool names,
like Alligator Ned, Buggy-Buggy, and Hungry Jack.
Next door is the former Destitute Asylum. A perfectly good building and use is
now the Migration Museum. Do you
think it is about people who left various hell-holes on earth to make a new
life in a new land? Of course
not! It's all about how terrible
the Germans were treated during WWI and Australia's horrible policy of favoring
European over Asian immigration. (The result of which policy is that the signs in the museum are in
English, not Chinese.) Their
multicultural approach is illustrated by the self-awarded bronze plaques at the
museum entrance: there is one from the poor Croatians, next to it is another
from the suffering Slovenes, and right next to that is one dedicated to the innocent
Serbs. Everyone is a victim: The
Lats, the Letts, the Estonians (they get on well enough to share a single
plaque); the Hungarians; the Poles; the Ukrainians; and the Jews. And don't forget the Tatar-Bashkurts,
presented by the Tatar-Bashkurts Association of Australia. This is the mindset that has produced
1000 years of tranquility in the Balkans. But their is work is never done: a comment card left by a visitor
accuses the museum of ignoring the Arabs who migrated here.
Dinner is in Chinatown, and the best Vietnamese
food since Saigon. This is my kind
of food court: Chinese, Thai, Malay, Korean, Vietnamese, and several of
each.
Adelaide is really a one-day city. I would like to go to Kangaroo Island,
but it's too grueling a day trip and I don't have an overnight organized (plus
there's not enough time). So I
spend the morning at the zoo. A
couple more animals, but still no platypi. In the afternoon I ride the old wooden tramline to Glenelg,
the nearest beach and the place where the founders landed.
My hotel is in the (rather tame) adult
entertainment district. Across the
street is the Resistance Activist Bureau, where, among other worthy
revolutionary activities, they are organizing an international brigade to
Venezuela. In addition to PLO posters you can buy "Make Love, Not
War" stickers. Wonder if they sell many to the PLO?
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Trip date: March-April, 2005