Big news:
My mate Andy will be flying out from the States in November to join me for an Aussie adventure. After a couple weeks of exploiting opportunities here, we're going to fly to Adelaide, then drive from there to Sydney. More to come on that later.
For now, I'll show you the basic proposed route:
View Larger Map
Monday, September 24, 2007
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Potpourri
This post will be a narrative abomination. There is no beginning, no middle, no end, just a string of observations that lacks transitions from one point to the next. Common sense (and decency) dictate that I don't do this, but I have to get these off my chest and won't be able to do so elsewhere.
First and foremost: Australians do not throw shrimp on the barbee. They eat prawns, and they boil them. My Aussie mate Jason has asked me to relay this back to civilization. He said, "I don't care who you've heard it from or how many times. We don't do that."
Second: If New Orleans is the Big Easy, Western Australia is the Big Empty. Once you get outside Perth, there ain't nothin' but a whole lotta nothin'.
Third: In our trip to the Southwest, we saw signs warning us that regions had been aerially baited with poisoned meat. The Australians developed a poison from peas that grow here. Native animals are immune because they eat the stuff on a regular basis and have for generations upon generations. Feral animals, in the meantime, die when they consume it. (Dogs, cats, and humans are also prone to this particular effect of the poison, which is why warning signs were present.) The Aussies call it 1080 poison.
Fourth: 1080 Poison sounds like a tax form to me. Well, it's April again. Guess I'd best make my way to the library, pick up my 1080 poison and give Uncle Sam his due.
Fifth: Women in Australia occasionally say "ta," to mean "thank you," much in the same way the word "cheers" is used. Men almost never say this. I can't think of a single word back in the States that is used by one gender but not the other.
Sixth: I have struggled, when speaking, to differentiate American football, football (a.k.a. soccer), and Aussie rules football. Last night, an Aussie helped me devise a system:
Soccer is just "soccer." Europeans may snub the word, but they'll know what I'm talking about. Aussie rules football is simply "footy." Australians shorten almost every word that consists of more than a few letters, and football was not immune to this effect. Most ingeniously (and I wish I could take credit for this), American football is "gridiron."
I am very happy that this was finally worked out - it was really beginning to bother me.
Last: Because Perth is 14 hours ahead of Denver, Yankees don't watch Monday Night Gridiron. We watch Tuesday Morning Gridiron.
That's it.
First and foremost: Australians do not throw shrimp on the barbee. They eat prawns, and they boil them. My Aussie mate Jason has asked me to relay this back to civilization. He said, "I don't care who you've heard it from or how many times. We don't do that."
Second: If New Orleans is the Big Easy, Western Australia is the Big Empty. Once you get outside Perth, there ain't nothin' but a whole lotta nothin'.
Third: In our trip to the Southwest, we saw signs warning us that regions had been aerially baited with poisoned meat. The Australians developed a poison from peas that grow here. Native animals are immune because they eat the stuff on a regular basis and have for generations upon generations. Feral animals, in the meantime, die when they consume it. (Dogs, cats, and humans are also prone to this particular effect of the poison, which is why warning signs were present.) The Aussies call it 1080 poison.
Fourth: 1080 Poison sounds like a tax form to me. Well, it's April again. Guess I'd best make my way to the library, pick up my 1080 poison and give Uncle Sam his due.
Fifth: Women in Australia occasionally say "ta," to mean "thank you," much in the same way the word "cheers" is used. Men almost never say this. I can't think of a single word back in the States that is used by one gender but not the other.
Sixth: I have struggled, when speaking, to differentiate American football, football (a.k.a. soccer), and Aussie rules football. Last night, an Aussie helped me devise a system:
Soccer is just "soccer." Europeans may snub the word, but they'll know what I'm talking about. Aussie rules football is simply "footy." Australians shorten almost every word that consists of more than a few letters, and football was not immune to this effect. Most ingeniously (and I wish I could take credit for this), American football is "gridiron."
I am very happy that this was finally worked out - it was really beginning to bother me.
Last: Because Perth is 14 hours ahead of Denver, Yankees don't watch Monday Night Gridiron. We watch Tuesday Morning Gridiron.
That's it.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Back to Reality
"Coming down is the hardest thing."
-Tom Petty
After the joy of my trip (and a two day TimTam fueled TV binge), it was back to business. I had an editorial due for my journalism class on Friday. So, I was obliged to both research and write this editorial in a blaze of productivity on Thursday night and Friday morning. The paper turned out well enough, but there's nothing like a hard deadline in the middle of a break to remind you that you haven't yet escaped the clutches of higher education.
Another paper was due on Monday. This one was about a subject that I can comfortably tell you is neither near nor dear to my heart: The effects of 1980s microeconomic reforms on Australia's 1990s productivity boom. Just writing that sentence left me feeling uncompelled. Imagine trying for 1,500 words on the subject.
Fortunately, I was not to spend the day Sunday working on the paper. I went to the library early, checked out some books that seemed to contain suitable information, and returned home to start on my paper. Before I even managed to open Word, I heard a knock at the door; a couple of our Aussie buddies had come over in their swim trunks. Studying would have to wait.
We went cliff-diving into the Swan River (I didn't actually dive, but calling it cliff-jumping seems silly and confusing) and then drove to a beach where we jumped off of a jetty into the Indian Ocean. Now, I'm a stranger to having a lot of water around. I don't really know what to do with bodies of water. But the locals say jumping into them from heights is fun, so I gave it a shot. Turns out they're right. It's fun.
And terrifying. At the jetty, a couple young Aussie kids actually had to talk me into jumping. I was standing on the edge of the jetty with a 5-year-old and a 7-year-old, having just watched my buddy Jase do a flip over the rail and into the water. They looked over to me and said, "You should do that."
My two word response was not polite enough to print here, nor was it suitable for the company I was keeping at the time. Upon realizing this, I regathered myself, told the kids, "I will not be doing any flips" and jumped off the jetty.
After this, though, I finally had to bite the bullet. I wrote my paper. (The microeconomic reforms likely contributed significantly to the productivity boom, if you were wondering.) The next morning, I went to class. Tuesday was more class. Today, I went to work. Tomorrow, I have work and class. Reality, it turns out, is a harsh maiden. But good news and a great weekend are right around the corner, so I'll take this quick foray into reality knowing full well that I won't be staying long.
-Tom Petty
After the joy of my trip (and a two day TimTam fueled TV binge), it was back to business. I had an editorial due for my journalism class on Friday. So, I was obliged to both research and write this editorial in a blaze of productivity on Thursday night and Friday morning. The paper turned out well enough, but there's nothing like a hard deadline in the middle of a break to remind you that you haven't yet escaped the clutches of higher education.
Another paper was due on Monday. This one was about a subject that I can comfortably tell you is neither near nor dear to my heart: The effects of 1980s microeconomic reforms on Australia's 1990s productivity boom. Just writing that sentence left me feeling uncompelled. Imagine trying for 1,500 words on the subject.
Fortunately, I was not to spend the day Sunday working on the paper. I went to the library early, checked out some books that seemed to contain suitable information, and returned home to start on my paper. Before I even managed to open Word, I heard a knock at the door; a couple of our Aussie buddies had come over in their swim trunks. Studying would have to wait.
We went cliff-diving into the Swan River (I didn't actually dive, but calling it cliff-jumping seems silly and confusing) and then drove to a beach where we jumped off of a jetty into the Indian Ocean. Now, I'm a stranger to having a lot of water around. I don't really know what to do with bodies of water. But the locals say jumping into them from heights is fun, so I gave it a shot. Turns out they're right. It's fun.
And terrifying. At the jetty, a couple young Aussie kids actually had to talk me into jumping. I was standing on the edge of the jetty with a 5-year-old and a 7-year-old, having just watched my buddy Jase do a flip over the rail and into the water. They looked over to me and said, "You should do that."
My two word response was not polite enough to print here, nor was it suitable for the company I was keeping at the time. Upon realizing this, I regathered myself, told the kids, "I will not be doing any flips" and jumped off the jetty.
After this, though, I finally had to bite the bullet. I wrote my paper. (The microeconomic reforms likely contributed significantly to the productivity boom, if you were wondering.) The next morning, I went to class. Tuesday was more class. Today, I went to work. Tomorrow, I have work and class. Reality, it turns out, is a harsh maiden. But good news and a great weekend are right around the corner, so I'll take this quick foray into reality knowing full well that I won't be staying long.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
"Study" Break, pt. 2
After our night in Walpole, we headed toward the bigger and better-known town of Margaret River. The town's stories are of wine and surfing. It's surrounded by vineyards, so the sophisticate can spend his days touring from winery to winery, taking a bus so he may sample at every stop. Just outside town is Surfer's Point. Every year, a major surfing competition is held there.
I'd love to be in town for that, if just to watch the surfer dudes interacting with the wine lovers:
SOMMELIER: This is a sophisticated red with fruity overtones and an earthy finish.
SURFER: Does that mean it'll get me drunk?
Alas, neither wine nor wipe-outs were on our schedule. I tried to arrange a surf lesson, but apparently most teachers migrate to warmer waters up north during the winter. None of us was a wine connoisseur, so the tours didn't hold much appeal. So, rather than having what one might call a normal Margaret River experience, we spent time at the backpackers, shooting pool and hanging out with some of the other guests.
For dinner, we went to a little spot called Settler's Tavern. The food was amazing. Everything was an American-sized portion. And I don't mean over sized to the point of absurdity. I mean that these dishes were the size of our continent.
The best looking dish was reef and beef. (Perhaps they think that serving surf and turn in a surf town is too cheesy to be a good idea.) There was a steak, prawn, fish, and maybe even some calamari. A little salad was thrown on the plate, looking like an out-of-place afterthought, too. I would go to Margaret River again just so I could order a reef and beef. Especially since I ended up getting a hamburger instead of that monstrosity. Few of the decisions I've made in Australia haunt me, but that burger is one of them.
Settler's is also the first Australian tavern I've been to that has a jukebox. I'm a sucker for jukeboxes. They're like black holes that suck up my spare change and play music. I was very excited to find one. That its selection of classic rock was limited was a disappointment easily overcome by the simple fact that it was there. So, that was Margaret River for me. Not wine or surfing, but a jukebox.
To me, the real story of Margaret River was how we got there. Our trip from Walpole to this fabled little town was considerably more memorable and exciting than Margaret River proved to be.
It began after we woke up in Walpole. The proprietor of the backpackers there suggested that, instead of taking the main road, we take a side road to Margaret River that would take us past a waterfall. Turns out, this side road was a little dirt road that went through the middle of the forest. Quite quickly after turning onto the road, one got the feeling that it was rarely traveled. This feeling was cemented when two and a half hours driving on the road saw only a single other vehicle.
The waterfall we stopped at was unimpressive. The water was dirty, the falls weren't of a particularly imposing height, and someone had decided to name the river the Deep River, which it clearly wasn't. Despite this, it had the endearing quality of being well off the beaten path. Thinking that you may be some of the only people in a week or month to see a waterfall can make even the sickliest little trickle into something special.
Other attractions, however, don't need to be isolated to be worth visiting. Case in point: Diamond Lookout Tree. It's on a main road. It's labeled clearly. It's in guidebooks. And it is amazing.
In the States, we know that wildfires are a problem. So, we build a big tower, have someone sit in it and look for smoke. In Australia, bushfires are a problem. So, they found a big tree, built a cabin on top of it and had someone sit in it and watch for smoke. This is how Diamond Lookout Tree came to be more interesting than your average 50 meter tall Karri tree.
Of course, a glorified tree house isn't all that exciting unless you can play in it. And you can. There is a little warning sign at the base of the tree that warns visitors that falling might be adverse to their health. No one is there to supervise. No one is there to try and dissuade those who look reluctant or encourage those who look eager. There is just the warning sign, and another warning half way up the tree, letting climbers know that what they just did was "the easy bit."
It's a nerve-wracking climb. The spikes are far enough apart that there is no question that a misstep would quickly lead to a predictably ugly end. It had rained earlier, so the spikes were wet and cold. The wind was up, which the sign said was a bad thing. Once you're up top in the 8' by 8' observation deck, you can feel the entire tree sway back and forth with the breeze. And you still have to climb back down.
Back home, they'd never let you up a tree like that. Especially since the way up is only guarded by a little chicken wire that I suspect is there to give the impression that preventing falls was a priority when the ladder was constructed rather than provide any real protection. Even if you could go up, the stack of waivers and insurance forms required would, by its very length, defend itself against the risk of being filled out. (Thank you, Winston Churchill, for putting it better than I ever could.)
The experiences on the empty road, at the secluded waterfall, and up the tree were what made getting to Margaret River so much better than being in Margaret River.
After our night in Margaret River, we swung by a beach in Yallingup, passed through Bumbury, and found our way back to Perth. I love the names of the places I've been. Walpole. Yallingup. Bumbury. They sound, for lack of a better way to put it, funny. Syllables that shouldn't go together have been conjoined and used as labels for places. This naming scheme adds another layer of charm to a place one could explore for a lifetime without ever becoming jaded or bored (especially when talking about the towns he's visited). I only got three days there, but I'll be talking about it for the rest of my life.
I'd love to be in town for that, if just to watch the surfer dudes interacting with the wine lovers:
SOMMELIER: This is a sophisticated red with fruity overtones and an earthy finish.
SURFER: Does that mean it'll get me drunk?
Alas, neither wine nor wipe-outs were on our schedule. I tried to arrange a surf lesson, but apparently most teachers migrate to warmer waters up north during the winter. None of us was a wine connoisseur, so the tours didn't hold much appeal. So, rather than having what one might call a normal Margaret River experience, we spent time at the backpackers, shooting pool and hanging out with some of the other guests.
For dinner, we went to a little spot called Settler's Tavern. The food was amazing. Everything was an American-sized portion. And I don't mean over sized to the point of absurdity. I mean that these dishes were the size of our continent.
The best looking dish was reef and beef. (Perhaps they think that serving surf and turn in a surf town is too cheesy to be a good idea.) There was a steak, prawn, fish, and maybe even some calamari. A little salad was thrown on the plate, looking like an out-of-place afterthought, too. I would go to Margaret River again just so I could order a reef and beef. Especially since I ended up getting a hamburger instead of that monstrosity. Few of the decisions I've made in Australia haunt me, but that burger is one of them.
Settler's is also the first Australian tavern I've been to that has a jukebox. I'm a sucker for jukeboxes. They're like black holes that suck up my spare change and play music. I was very excited to find one. That its selection of classic rock was limited was a disappointment easily overcome by the simple fact that it was there. So, that was Margaret River for me. Not wine or surfing, but a jukebox.
To me, the real story of Margaret River was how we got there. Our trip from Walpole to this fabled little town was considerably more memorable and exciting than Margaret River proved to be.
It began after we woke up in Walpole. The proprietor of the backpackers there suggested that, instead of taking the main road, we take a side road to Margaret River that would take us past a waterfall. Turns out, this side road was a little dirt road that went through the middle of the forest. Quite quickly after turning onto the road, one got the feeling that it was rarely traveled. This feeling was cemented when two and a half hours driving on the road saw only a single other vehicle.
The waterfall we stopped at was unimpressive. The water was dirty, the falls weren't of a particularly imposing height, and someone had decided to name the river the Deep River, which it clearly wasn't. Despite this, it had the endearing quality of being well off the beaten path. Thinking that you may be some of the only people in a week or month to see a waterfall can make even the sickliest little trickle into something special.
Other attractions, however, don't need to be isolated to be worth visiting. Case in point: Diamond Lookout Tree. It's on a main road. It's labeled clearly. It's in guidebooks. And it is amazing.
In the States, we know that wildfires are a problem. So, we build a big tower, have someone sit in it and look for smoke. In Australia, bushfires are a problem. So, they found a big tree, built a cabin on top of it and had someone sit in it and watch for smoke. This is how Diamond Lookout Tree came to be more interesting than your average 50 meter tall Karri tree.
Of course, a glorified tree house isn't all that exciting unless you can play in it. And you can. There is a little warning sign at the base of the tree that warns visitors that falling might be adverse to their health. No one is there to supervise. No one is there to try and dissuade those who look reluctant or encourage those who look eager. There is just the warning sign, and another warning half way up the tree, letting climbers know that what they just did was "the easy bit."
It's a nerve-wracking climb. The spikes are far enough apart that there is no question that a misstep would quickly lead to a predictably ugly end. It had rained earlier, so the spikes were wet and cold. The wind was up, which the sign said was a bad thing. Once you're up top in the 8' by 8' observation deck, you can feel the entire tree sway back and forth with the breeze. And you still have to climb back down.
Back home, they'd never let you up a tree like that. Especially since the way up is only guarded by a little chicken wire that I suspect is there to give the impression that preventing falls was a priority when the ladder was constructed rather than provide any real protection. Even if you could go up, the stack of waivers and insurance forms required would, by its very length, defend itself against the risk of being filled out. (Thank you, Winston Churchill, for putting it better than I ever could.)
The experiences on the empty road, at the secluded waterfall, and up the tree were what made getting to Margaret River so much better than being in Margaret River.
After our night in Margaret River, we swung by a beach in Yallingup, passed through Bumbury, and found our way back to Perth. I love the names of the places I've been. Walpole. Yallingup. Bumbury. They sound, for lack of a better way to put it, funny. Syllables that shouldn't go together have been conjoined and used as labels for places. This naming scheme adds another layer of charm to a place one could explore for a lifetime without ever becoming jaded or bored (especially when talking about the towns he's visited). I only got three days there, but I'll be talking about it for the rest of my life.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
"Study" Break, pt. I
After a scant four weeks of school, the Uni thinks that we deserve a break. One of my professors felt it was a bit early, but I was none too ready to agree with him. Another of my professors thought that Friday during the break was a great time to have an assignment due. The third felt that the day we returned from break was an appropriate due date for a paper. Now, I knew when I left that this would be a working vacation, but I didn't think there would be so much emphasis on the working side of the equation.
I knew I should spend at least a part of the break working on these assignments, but I threw caution to the wind when I left on Sunday, figuring that I could get everything done when I got back. (Thus far, I've been proven at least half right - I got the assignment due Friday turned in on time, but I haven't started the paper for Monday yet.)
We left in the morning for Albany, which is on the Southwest shore of this great big island-continent. We drove down the rather uncreatively named Albany Highway, which turned out to be the same road I took to Denmark with CIEE. On that trip, though, we left in a rainstorm during pre-dawn darkness. I slept through almost the entire drive. So, this was like driving down the road for the first time.
Outside Perth, the landscape turns to a strange forest. The trees seem like they're straight out of Scooby-Doo. These eucalypts create a very different atmosphere than do the pine trees of the Rockies. I imagine the lack of major contours in the landscape lends to this difference as well. As we came out of the forest, we found ourselves in rural Australia, looking at its main denizens - sheep. Lots and lots and lots of sheep.
We pulled into Albany after about six or seven hours on the road. The sun was still up, but not for long. So, we got beds at the backpackers, had a cup of coffee, and decided to go find ourselves a place for dinner. The plan was flawed, though, because it was Sunday. This entire country closes early. If, by 5 p.m. you haven't bought your wares, you better be able to make it through to the next day. If it's Saturday, you better be able to last until Monday because almost nothing is open on Sundays. Even in the big city of Perth it can be tough to find places open 7 days, so I'm not really sure what we expected.
Fortunately, we found a couple places. We had Chinese for dinner. It was unremarkable, except for the fact that Sesame Chicken was not to be found on the menu and our vegetable rolls were no bigger than my pinkie finger. From dinner, we proceeded to a spot that looked more satisfying: Tangle Head, the local brew-pub. The beer was cold, the place was comfortable, the people were nice, and they even played the blues on the speakers. It turned out to be quite a success, Sunday notwithstanding.
Albany is on the shore of the Southern Ocean. Our CIEE liaison, Paul, tells me that they don't teach Americans about this ocean. For those (like myself) who were never taught, the Southern Ocean is the body of water between Australia and Antarctica. I learned that it exists the cold way: by swimming in it.
Lately, I've tried to decide whether I should be disappointed that my education overlooked an entire ocean. I've come to this conclusion: While it is sad that I was never told of the existence of an ocean, I can find America on a map and have never said:
"I personally believe that U.S. Americans are unable to do so because, ummm, some people out there in our nation don’t have maps ... our education over here in the US should help the US, uh, should help South Africa, it should help the Iraq and the Asian countries so we will be able to build up our future, for us."
We'll call it a wash.
The next morning, at the suggestion of our barmaid, we checked out a few natural features before we moved along the road. Coastline is always a fun experience for me, so seeing coastline that excites people who live on the coast is a special treat. In this case, we were looking at The Gap and Natural Bridge. Both are named so that one can imagine what they are. Just picture the ocean coming into the Gap and under Natural Bridge. Presto! One effortless description. (Natural Bridge, while it was the wrong color and surrounded by more water than one would normally see in the desert, reminded me of Arches National Park.)
There were signs in the area warning us to mind the edges of the cliffs. Apparently, between sudden gusts of winds and freak waves, they've lost a few tourists at the Gap. The area is in an Australian National Park, but I get the feeling this spot is prime for corporate sponsorship. I can already picture the revamped warning signs: "Don't Fall into the Gap Here! Fall into the Gap at Your Local Mall!" If I could have found a comment card, I would have suggested it.
From there, we drove to Walpole. You've probably never heard of Walpole. I doubt most Australians have ever heard of Walpole. I'm not convinced that Walpole knows where it is, though, so don't feel bad. The three square blocks that make up Walpole are situated on the edge of an inlet and in the middle of nowhere.
This proved to be a great advantage, though. The pace of life was relaxed. We were the only people in the backpackers, so we got to use the barbee at our own pace and choose music that suited our tastes. The greatest advantage, though, came during the night. Three square blocks don't create much in the way of light pollution, so I finally got a chance to look at the Southern sky.
The sky is one of those sights that one can describe for years and never capture all its subtleties or beauty. Even more so when it's full of foreign stars in strange patterns and backed by the Milky Way looking like you never see it North of the equator. This feeling was only compounded by being on a jetty in the middle of the inlet in the middle of the night. So, rather than try to adequately capture the feeling, I'm going to have to settle for Keanu Reeves-esque understatement by simply saying, "Whoa."
I only recognize one constellation - the Southern Cross. As far as they go, it's good one to know, but before my Outback trip I'm going to have to buy and study a star map. The constellations make for better conversation than the far-out topics like Hawking radiation that I have read about.
On the way from the jetty back to the lodge, we saw a bright shooting star. After a day of travel and sights, an evening of barbecue and relaxation and a night of star-gazing, I couldn't dream up, make up, or write a better ending.
I knew I should spend at least a part of the break working on these assignments, but I threw caution to the wind when I left on Sunday, figuring that I could get everything done when I got back. (Thus far, I've been proven at least half right - I got the assignment due Friday turned in on time, but I haven't started the paper for Monday yet.)
We left in the morning for Albany, which is on the Southwest shore of this great big island-continent. We drove down the rather uncreatively named Albany Highway, which turned out to be the same road I took to Denmark with CIEE. On that trip, though, we left in a rainstorm during pre-dawn darkness. I slept through almost the entire drive. So, this was like driving down the road for the first time.
Outside Perth, the landscape turns to a strange forest. The trees seem like they're straight out of Scooby-Doo. These eucalypts create a very different atmosphere than do the pine trees of the Rockies. I imagine the lack of major contours in the landscape lends to this difference as well. As we came out of the forest, we found ourselves in rural Australia, looking at its main denizens - sheep. Lots and lots and lots of sheep.
We pulled into Albany after about six or seven hours on the road. The sun was still up, but not for long. So, we got beds at the backpackers, had a cup of coffee, and decided to go find ourselves a place for dinner. The plan was flawed, though, because it was Sunday. This entire country closes early. If, by 5 p.m. you haven't bought your wares, you better be able to make it through to the next day. If it's Saturday, you better be able to last until Monday because almost nothing is open on Sundays. Even in the big city of Perth it can be tough to find places open 7 days, so I'm not really sure what we expected.
Fortunately, we found a couple places. We had Chinese for dinner. It was unremarkable, except for the fact that Sesame Chicken was not to be found on the menu and our vegetable rolls were no bigger than my pinkie finger. From dinner, we proceeded to a spot that looked more satisfying: Tangle Head, the local brew-pub. The beer was cold, the place was comfortable, the people were nice, and they even played the blues on the speakers. It turned out to be quite a success, Sunday notwithstanding.
Albany is on the shore of the Southern Ocean. Our CIEE liaison, Paul, tells me that they don't teach Americans about this ocean. For those (like myself) who were never taught, the Southern Ocean is the body of water between Australia and Antarctica. I learned that it exists the cold way: by swimming in it.
Lately, I've tried to decide whether I should be disappointed that my education overlooked an entire ocean. I've come to this conclusion: While it is sad that I was never told of the existence of an ocean, I can find America on a map and have never said:
"I personally believe that U.S. Americans are unable to do so because, ummm, some people out there in our nation don’t have maps ... our education over here in the US should help the US, uh, should help South Africa, it should help the Iraq and the Asian countries so we will be able to build up our future, for us."
We'll call it a wash.
The next morning, at the suggestion of our barmaid, we checked out a few natural features before we moved along the road. Coastline is always a fun experience for me, so seeing coastline that excites people who live on the coast is a special treat. In this case, we were looking at The Gap and Natural Bridge. Both are named so that one can imagine what they are. Just picture the ocean coming into the Gap and under Natural Bridge. Presto! One effortless description. (Natural Bridge, while it was the wrong color and surrounded by more water than one would normally see in the desert, reminded me of Arches National Park.)
There were signs in the area warning us to mind the edges of the cliffs. Apparently, between sudden gusts of winds and freak waves, they've lost a few tourists at the Gap. The area is in an Australian National Park, but I get the feeling this spot is prime for corporate sponsorship. I can already picture the revamped warning signs: "Don't Fall into the Gap Here! Fall into the Gap at Your Local Mall!" If I could have found a comment card, I would have suggested it.
From there, we drove to Walpole. You've probably never heard of Walpole. I doubt most Australians have ever heard of Walpole. I'm not convinced that Walpole knows where it is, though, so don't feel bad. The three square blocks that make up Walpole are situated on the edge of an inlet and in the middle of nowhere.
This proved to be a great advantage, though. The pace of life was relaxed. We were the only people in the backpackers, so we got to use the barbee at our own pace and choose music that suited our tastes. The greatest advantage, though, came during the night. Three square blocks don't create much in the way of light pollution, so I finally got a chance to look at the Southern sky.
The sky is one of those sights that one can describe for years and never capture all its subtleties or beauty. Even more so when it's full of foreign stars in strange patterns and backed by the Milky Way looking like you never see it North of the equator. This feeling was only compounded by being on a jetty in the middle of the inlet in the middle of the night. So, rather than try to adequately capture the feeling, I'm going to have to settle for Keanu Reeves-esque understatement by simply saying, "Whoa."
I only recognize one constellation - the Southern Cross. As far as they go, it's good one to know, but before my Outback trip I'm going to have to buy and study a star map. The constellations make for better conversation than the far-out topics like Hawking radiation that I have read about.
On the way from the jetty back to the lodge, we saw a bright shooting star. After a day of travel and sights, an evening of barbecue and relaxation and a night of star-gazing, I couldn't dream up, make up, or write a better ending.
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