OK, I'll admit to being a little slack on posting lately. I'll also admit that Bob Dylan is a little prolific in terms of song writing. Odds are good it's Andy's fault (for the first one, that is).
Anyway, school has finally wrapped up. It was a torturous final month of lectures, tutorials, papers, exams, and all varieties of academic drudgery. I thought, however, that I'd share a few things I noticed about Australian uni through the course of the semester.
At the beginning of the semester, I was unsure of what to expect. Having been a prisoner of the American education system for years, I think it's fair to say that I expected my new confines to be similar to the old ones, but with a new accent.
Classes here meet less often than they do Stateside. I only had to find my way to campus six times during the course of any given week. That was cool, especially as it gave me time to explore the rest of Australia. My response of "that rules!" was tempered, however, by the realization that more is expected of students outside of class. My reading assignments were generally longer than I would see in the States, and I was expected to understand them more thoroughly than I would have to in most of the classes I took back home. Ultimately, I didn't mind this too much, as it was a particularly good way to insure that teachers were not simply presenting textbook chapters in lecture, as they all expected we had read them.
Though they were more spread out, lectures were pretty similar to lectures back home. The professor talks. The students pretend to listen. My teachers did have Australian accents, though.
One difference I did notice is that the small lecture classes don't have a special seat set aside for the teacher. All of the chairs in these rooms are the same. Being in a rather whimsical mood when I noticed this, I thought it could be attributable to the Australian sense of egalitarianism. I considered for a moment and decided that it was more likely a budget decision.
One part of Australian classrooms was exactly the same as home: the clocks. The same sorry S.O.B. who got the contract to make clocks for American classrooms must have gotten the contract for Australian classrooms, too. I wonder if he enjoys the fact that every student in both nations looks at his clocks every day. I hope he's bothered that we all doubt their veracity on a daily basis.
But now I'm done staring at clocks, either in Australia or in America. This was my last semester. I figure that's worthy of mention. It's certainly been worthy of celebration over here. Lest you fear I learned nothing in college, I decided that I would take a moment to compare something I wrote long ago to part of the paper I just turned in.
Years ago, I wrote a story called "Shiva the Wonderdog." In it, our dog did some amazing things, but the key line that left me laughing when I shared it with a group was, "We laughed so hard that milk came out of our noses."
That's pretty easy to understand, and it has a gross-out factor, so it's a pretty tough sentence to beat.
Just last week, I put the following footnote in my paper for philosophy: "Essentially, the argument here is that gold, being an element, is necessarily an element because of its composition. If gold’s composition meets the criteria to be an element, then necessarily, it is an element. Gold’s composition meets the criteria to be an element, so, by modus ponens ,it is necessarily an element. The truth of the claim that gold’s composition meets the criteria to be an element is only knowable through empirical examination, but this does not change the fact that gold is an element by necessity a priori."
No points for understandability and certainly the only gross-out factor here is that there is probably a point in the slew of italics and funny phrases. I did use some big words and some Latin, though, so clearly I learned something in college.
I hope the improvement was worth $40,000.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
On Politics
Here, the party in power gets to decide when to hold the election (within a certain range, I think). Howard has recently called the election, so all three rings of the circus have been let loose, and I have front row seats. Political blogging back home is turning into something of an industry, but I doubt I'll find many takers back home for this particular election. So instead of boring you with the pundits latest takes on federalism or feral management, I'd like to make a few comments on what I've seen about politics here.
The first thing to say is that the Australian system is different from the American system. (I'll bet you could've guessed that.) There are ministers and MPs instead of secretaries and senators. The Liberal Party is conservative. The Labor Party is liberal. A third party, The National Party, exists in more than a nominal sense. Overall, the system seems close to the English system.
Speaking of the English, the Queen of England is Australia's head of state. Apparently, it's mainly a ceremonial kind of position, but she still appears on all Australian coins and the five dollar note. This nation faces more trade barriers with England than Germany or France or any other EU nation does, but the Queen is still their head of state. I think that's screwed up.
Another quirk of the Australian system that others might consider screwed up is that the Australians do not have any formal protection for freedom of speech. There is no Bill of Rights or statute to defend it. Common law precedent is the only protection that free speech gets here.
This seems to have caused some confusion on the nature of free speech. One writer, reviewing a documentary on the Dixie Chicks, seemed particularly lacking in understanding. After chronicling the response the band received from the country music community after lead singer Natalie Maines said she was ashamed that George W. Bush was from her home state, this writer indignantly wrote, "What about that First Amendment right to freedom of speech, that revered bastion of the U.S. constitution? you might ask. Not in the Republican strongholds, apparently."
Maybe it's unfair to call such a comment painfully and obviously contradictory, seeing as this reviewer has never lived with a formal protection of the right to speech. Nonetheless, that particular view seems to afford freedom of speech to the Dixie Chicks, but not the people who disagree them. Call me crazy, but that's not freedom of speech at all.
Moreover, the point the writer obviously missed was this: Freedom of speech is the right to say something controversial, not the right to have everyone agree with it. Maybe this analysis is unfair because the Dixie Chicks received death threats and it's possible that this is what the writer was talking about. Even then, the question would be a non sequiter, as receiving death threats for saying something controversial is only related to the First Amendment insofar as the person making the threats might receive protection.
But I digress. The quirks of the Australian - not the American - system are my subject.
One practice that seems more common in Australia than in the States is government advertising. I'm not talking about political advertising that says "Vote for me" or "My opponent is quite possibly Satan," I'm talking about genuine, honest-to-God advertising by the Government. These ads can promote a national security tip hot line or the government's new environmental awareness program or any of a dozen other issues. Some of the ads seem to be quite clearly advocating government policy.
I have been assured that the volume of advertising is higher because of the impending election, but I still find it startling that the Aussies are so comfortable with the practice. Aside from Ad Council spots asking me not to become a drug addict, I can't think of any other government advertising stateside. I think the word "propaganda" would be unleashed within seconds of even the most (seemingly) innocuous spots here hitting the air in the States.
The ads do seem similar to political ads back home in one respect: They always end with the line "Authorized by the Australian Government, Canberra." Canberra, by the way, is not a place that one should visit if he is hooked on phonics. Aussies pronounce it Canbura or Canbra, not Can-bear-uh. One editorial writer ripped President Bush for pronouncing the city's name as it's spelled during his APEC visit. I take issue with this criticism on two counts:
1. It is no secret that George W. Bush's mastery of the English language is not comparable to that of Winston Churchill. I am bored with this criticism, just as I am bored with jokes about Paris Hilton's promiscuity.
2. Do not get upset at people for pronouncing a word the way it is spelled. I have the same qualm with women who spell their name Andrea but want me to call them On-dray-uh.
Of course, President Bush also managed to slip and say that he was attending an OPEC conference, so maybe he's just asking for it.
Much ado was made about the president's visit to Sydney. Depending upon who you asked, Sydney was either becoming a Brave New World in which the police have extraordinary new powers or was going to be turned into a playground for anarchists with Molotov cocktails. Certainly some of the anger was directed toward Bush. An editorial in the West Australian noted that many of the protesters expected to show up view him as a war criminal. (It also noted the irony that so many would show up to protest Bush without also protesting the Chinese president, whose human rights record is spotty, at best.)
Ultimately, the most interesting story to come out of the preparations and protests came from a prankster. After dressing like Osama bin Laden, he hopped into a convoy of black SUVs and promptly drove straight past all of the security preparations, including a 10 ft. fence around the area of the conference, without being stopped. I hope he didn't act surprised that the cops were upset with him.
That was a ridiculous moment. It was one of many I've seen here, and I wanted to share a few more of them with you. As in the States, these stories are ridiculous, silly, and totally unrepresentative of the system as a whole.
-One Australian state recently banned discriminating against women who breastfeed in public. I didn't realize they were a marginalized group.
-One man has actually seceded from Australia, creating his own kingdom. Apparently, this was a bid to get out of paying his local government fees.
-Someone in the Australian government is called the "shadow minister of sport." This is the greatest title a bureaucrat could ever hold.
-The opposition candidate for Prime Minister faced some serious questions about a trip to a New York strip club. This is so far from oval office antics that it almost seems quaint.
-Better yet, part of what he told reporters was that he was too drunk to remember his visit to the club in question. It's a sad statement that no American politician could pull off that excuse, but we will allow "that depends upon what the definition of the word 'is' is." (It's also a statement on how much of a role beer plays in Australian culture.)
The first thing to say is that the Australian system is different from the American system. (I'll bet you could've guessed that.) There are ministers and MPs instead of secretaries and senators. The Liberal Party is conservative. The Labor Party is liberal. A third party, The National Party, exists in more than a nominal sense. Overall, the system seems close to the English system.
Speaking of the English, the Queen of England is Australia's head of state. Apparently, it's mainly a ceremonial kind of position, but she still appears on all Australian coins and the five dollar note. This nation faces more trade barriers with England than Germany or France or any other EU nation does, but the Queen is still their head of state. I think that's screwed up.
Another quirk of the Australian system that others might consider screwed up is that the Australians do not have any formal protection for freedom of speech. There is no Bill of Rights or statute to defend it. Common law precedent is the only protection that free speech gets here.
This seems to have caused some confusion on the nature of free speech. One writer, reviewing a documentary on the Dixie Chicks, seemed particularly lacking in understanding. After chronicling the response the band received from the country music community after lead singer Natalie Maines said she was ashamed that George W. Bush was from her home state, this writer indignantly wrote, "What about that First Amendment right to freedom of speech, that revered bastion of the U.S. constitution? you might ask. Not in the Republican strongholds, apparently."
Maybe it's unfair to call such a comment painfully and obviously contradictory, seeing as this reviewer has never lived with a formal protection of the right to speech. Nonetheless, that particular view seems to afford freedom of speech to the Dixie Chicks, but not the people who disagree them. Call me crazy, but that's not freedom of speech at all.
Moreover, the point the writer obviously missed was this: Freedom of speech is the right to say something controversial, not the right to have everyone agree with it. Maybe this analysis is unfair because the Dixie Chicks received death threats and it's possible that this is what the writer was talking about. Even then, the question would be a non sequiter, as receiving death threats for saying something controversial is only related to the First Amendment insofar as the person making the threats might receive protection.
But I digress. The quirks of the Australian - not the American - system are my subject.
One practice that seems more common in Australia than in the States is government advertising. I'm not talking about political advertising that says "Vote for me" or "My opponent is quite possibly Satan," I'm talking about genuine, honest-to-God advertising by the Government. These ads can promote a national security tip hot line or the government's new environmental awareness program or any of a dozen other issues. Some of the ads seem to be quite clearly advocating government policy.
I have been assured that the volume of advertising is higher because of the impending election, but I still find it startling that the Aussies are so comfortable with the practice. Aside from Ad Council spots asking me not to become a drug addict, I can't think of any other government advertising stateside. I think the word "propaganda" would be unleashed within seconds of even the most (seemingly) innocuous spots here hitting the air in the States.
The ads do seem similar to political ads back home in one respect: They always end with the line "Authorized by the Australian Government, Canberra." Canberra, by the way, is not a place that one should visit if he is hooked on phonics. Aussies pronounce it Canbura or Canbra, not Can-bear-uh. One editorial writer ripped President Bush for pronouncing the city's name as it's spelled during his APEC visit. I take issue with this criticism on two counts:
1. It is no secret that George W. Bush's mastery of the English language is not comparable to that of Winston Churchill. I am bored with this criticism, just as I am bored with jokes about Paris Hilton's promiscuity.
2. Do not get upset at people for pronouncing a word the way it is spelled. I have the same qualm with women who spell their name Andrea but want me to call them On-dray-uh.
Of course, President Bush also managed to slip and say that he was attending an OPEC conference, so maybe he's just asking for it.
Much ado was made about the president's visit to Sydney. Depending upon who you asked, Sydney was either becoming a Brave New World in which the police have extraordinary new powers or was going to be turned into a playground for anarchists with Molotov cocktails. Certainly some of the anger was directed toward Bush. An editorial in the West Australian noted that many of the protesters expected to show up view him as a war criminal. (It also noted the irony that so many would show up to protest Bush without also protesting the Chinese president, whose human rights record is spotty, at best.)
Ultimately, the most interesting story to come out of the preparations and protests came from a prankster. After dressing like Osama bin Laden, he hopped into a convoy of black SUVs and promptly drove straight past all of the security preparations, including a 10 ft. fence around the area of the conference, without being stopped. I hope he didn't act surprised that the cops were upset with him.
That was a ridiculous moment. It was one of many I've seen here, and I wanted to share a few more of them with you. As in the States, these stories are ridiculous, silly, and totally unrepresentative of the system as a whole.
-One Australian state recently banned discriminating against women who breastfeed in public. I didn't realize they were a marginalized group.
-One man has actually seceded from Australia, creating his own kingdom. Apparently, this was a bid to get out of paying his local government fees.
-Someone in the Australian government is called the "shadow minister of sport." This is the greatest title a bureaucrat could ever hold.
-The opposition candidate for Prime Minister faced some serious questions about a trip to a New York strip club. This is so far from oval office antics that it almost seems quaint.
-Better yet, part of what he told reporters was that he was too drunk to remember his visit to the club in question. It's a sad statement that no American politician could pull off that excuse, but we will allow "that depends upon what the definition of the word 'is' is." (It's also a statement on how much of a role beer plays in Australian culture.)
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Going Down
After our day at Coral Bay, we drove South for the first time since leaving Perth. Our next stop was Hamelin Pool, where we would stay for two nights. We arrived to find a caravan populated by gray nomads and flies. Gray nomads are old-timers who have left the polite life and settled into a new life exploring Australia. Our tour guides warned us that this particular flavor of Australian can often be cranky when woken up late at night by loud parties. Fortunately, the caravan park was relatively spaced out so we didn't have to worry too much about waking anyone.
Hamelin Pool has gained some attention because it is home to a colony of stramatolites. Stramatolites are one of the oldest forms of life on the planet. We're told that they helped produce up to 20% of the oxygen in the atmosphere today, making it for larger life forms to evolve. These new lifeforms then outperformed the stramatolites in the competition for resources and were thought to be extinct until someone found them in Hamelin Pool. Having read this in Bryson's In a Sunburned Country, I was actually mildly excited about seeing them, which is a rare way for me to feel about cyanobacteria.
I learned that while their history may be fascinating, the stramtolites themselves are not. They are black rocks on the ocean shore. They don't do tricks, they don't walk, they don't talk. Apparently, if the water is calm, they occasionally release small bubbles that are a result of the only action they do perform: respiration. What little novelty they possessed from being mentioned in a book I had read quickly diminished. I didn't think I'd ever say this, but having a fire-and-brimstone creationist along would have made it more fun. It would have afforded me the opportunity to make Hamelin Pool a bit more exciting by asking for a picture with "my ancestors."
Our first night at Hamelin Pool, we slept on the jetty that extends over the stramatolites. This allowed us to make all the noise we liked. Our shouts and songs wouldn't travel all the way to the caravan park and the stramatolites certainly wouldn't mind. I'm not sure what possessed us to do that, but it is most certainly my fondest memory of Hamelin Pool.
The next morning, we left early. Our destination was Monkey Mia, a small resort that is famous because it is visited by wild dolphins on a daily basis. We got there just in time to see the day's second feeding. The dolphins swam up within feet of the crowd, looking very comfortable with the whole process. A couple wildlife rangers appeared from their hut to moderate the process and keep the tourists from trying to shake hands with the dolphins. After a while, buckets with fish were brought out and people from the crowd got to feed the dolphins.
It really is a hell of a thing. To see a wild dolphin so close, or any dolphin for that matter, is something this land-locked child never dreamed he would do. Unfortunately, I wasn't selected to feed the dolphins, but that was hardly reason to despair in such an awesome circumstance.
The rest of the morning was spent relaxing on the beach. Monkey Mia has a wonderful white sand beach that is made even better by the fact that it empties significantly after the dolphins make their final appearance of the day. We swam, played beach volleyball, and even napped. It was a like a massage for the soul. By lunch time, I was thoroughly relaxed and looking forward to the afternoon excursion.
In the afternoon, we climbed onto a catamaran to sail around the bay. We relaxed and lounged, then made sure to keep a look out for huge manatee-like creatures. The boat had a crew of three: the skipper, his daughter, and one Kiwi. At some point, I mentioned that I could see how someone could give up the polite life to run a boat like this. The captain heard me and offered, "$3 million is all it would take, and you could have this boat." I was tempted, but a quick count showed that the loose coin in my pocket probably wouldn't add up to enough, so I politely turned down the offer.
Most of the people working in the spots we visited seemed to have benefited from being well outside the 9 to 5 norm. The Kiwi on the catamaran said that he was getting paid to do something he'd be doing anyway. Back at Coral Bay, we bumped into the ATV guide during her afternoon break. She didn't seem the least bit bothered that she had to return to work; she was taking a tour out to watch the sun set over the Indian Ocean. Both of our drivers admitted to loving their jobs. Seeing that kind of satisfaction is something that stuck with me, especially since I'll soon be done with college and forced to decide which part of the real world to enter.
Returning to civilization was certainly on my mind. I knew that after we left Monkey Mia, we had only one more night on our trip. Returning would mean that I would once again be forced to use a watch and a razor and know the day of the week. I looked forward to none of this.
But leave we had to, so the next day, it was back to the bus and back to reality. Somewhere during one of our long bus rides, day five, I think, I had found myself amazed by the group's high spirits. We had been on the road for hours in a bus with a broken air conditioner. Australian time was proving to have no relation to clock time; our guides' estimated times of arrival were regularly two or three hours off. We were all cooped up, sore from sitting all day, and hungry for dinner. And somehow, we were barreling down the road, singing the Beatles' "Yellow Submarine" and Disney sing-alongs as a group.
Some damned fool romantic writing a novel about our trip might paint the moment like so:
Despite the conditions, they seemed in good spirits - laughing, singing. Perhaps the group had subconsciously accepted Heller's suggestion that "a long life does have to be filled with many unpleasant conditions if it's to seem long," and the joy of long life was temporarily overtaking the agony of their wait. Perhaps they knew that they were on a journey they would tell their parents and grandchildren about, boring little ones and elders alike with details of the upholstery in the bus. No broken air conditioner or two hour wait could possibly merit concern in that mindset. Or perhaps they had resolved to mutiny if they weren't there in 20 minutes and didn't want the driver to know their plan.
My plan was to somehow use that moment to segue into a conclusion, but I can't. To say something that neatly wraps up the story seems impossible. I don't think I could ever capture in a few words, even in a few sentences, what the experience meant to me: the places I saw, the people I met, the moments my heart skipped a beat, the warm beers, the cold ocean, the sunshine and red dirt... all of it. I can't compress that into a few pithy words that end the story with a wink or a hug or whatever.
I guess I'll just have to hope that my grandchildren turn out to be patient listeners.
Hamelin Pool has gained some attention because it is home to a colony of stramatolites. Stramatolites are one of the oldest forms of life on the planet. We're told that they helped produce up to 20% of the oxygen in the atmosphere today, making it for larger life forms to evolve. These new lifeforms then outperformed the stramatolites in the competition for resources and were thought to be extinct until someone found them in Hamelin Pool. Having read this in Bryson's In a Sunburned Country, I was actually mildly excited about seeing them, which is a rare way for me to feel about cyanobacteria.
I learned that while their history may be fascinating, the stramtolites themselves are not. They are black rocks on the ocean shore. They don't do tricks, they don't walk, they don't talk. Apparently, if the water is calm, they occasionally release small bubbles that are a result of the only action they do perform: respiration. What little novelty they possessed from being mentioned in a book I had read quickly diminished. I didn't think I'd ever say this, but having a fire-and-brimstone creationist along would have made it more fun. It would have afforded me the opportunity to make Hamelin Pool a bit more exciting by asking for a picture with "my ancestors."
Our first night at Hamelin Pool, we slept on the jetty that extends over the stramatolites. This allowed us to make all the noise we liked. Our shouts and songs wouldn't travel all the way to the caravan park and the stramatolites certainly wouldn't mind. I'm not sure what possessed us to do that, but it is most certainly my fondest memory of Hamelin Pool.
The next morning, we left early. Our destination was Monkey Mia, a small resort that is famous because it is visited by wild dolphins on a daily basis. We got there just in time to see the day's second feeding. The dolphins swam up within feet of the crowd, looking very comfortable with the whole process. A couple wildlife rangers appeared from their hut to moderate the process and keep the tourists from trying to shake hands with the dolphins. After a while, buckets with fish were brought out and people from the crowd got to feed the dolphins.
It really is a hell of a thing. To see a wild dolphin so close, or any dolphin for that matter, is something this land-locked child never dreamed he would do. Unfortunately, I wasn't selected to feed the dolphins, but that was hardly reason to despair in such an awesome circumstance.
The rest of the morning was spent relaxing on the beach. Monkey Mia has a wonderful white sand beach that is made even better by the fact that it empties significantly after the dolphins make their final appearance of the day. We swam, played beach volleyball, and even napped. It was a like a massage for the soul. By lunch time, I was thoroughly relaxed and looking forward to the afternoon excursion.
In the afternoon, we climbed onto a catamaran to sail around the bay. We relaxed and lounged, then made sure to keep a look out for huge manatee-like creatures. The boat had a crew of three: the skipper, his daughter, and one Kiwi. At some point, I mentioned that I could see how someone could give up the polite life to run a boat like this. The captain heard me and offered, "$3 million is all it would take, and you could have this boat." I was tempted, but a quick count showed that the loose coin in my pocket probably wouldn't add up to enough, so I politely turned down the offer.
Most of the people working in the spots we visited seemed to have benefited from being well outside the 9 to 5 norm. The Kiwi on the catamaran said that he was getting paid to do something he'd be doing anyway. Back at Coral Bay, we bumped into the ATV guide during her afternoon break. She didn't seem the least bit bothered that she had to return to work; she was taking a tour out to watch the sun set over the Indian Ocean. Both of our drivers admitted to loving their jobs. Seeing that kind of satisfaction is something that stuck with me, especially since I'll soon be done with college and forced to decide which part of the real world to enter.
Returning to civilization was certainly on my mind. I knew that after we left Monkey Mia, we had only one more night on our trip. Returning would mean that I would once again be forced to use a watch and a razor and know the day of the week. I looked forward to none of this.
But leave we had to, so the next day, it was back to the bus and back to reality. Somewhere during one of our long bus rides, day five, I think, I had found myself amazed by the group's high spirits. We had been on the road for hours in a bus with a broken air conditioner. Australian time was proving to have no relation to clock time; our guides' estimated times of arrival were regularly two or three hours off. We were all cooped up, sore from sitting all day, and hungry for dinner. And somehow, we were barreling down the road, singing the Beatles' "Yellow Submarine" and Disney sing-alongs as a group.
Some damned fool romantic writing a novel about our trip might paint the moment like so:
Despite the conditions, they seemed in good spirits - laughing, singing. Perhaps the group had subconsciously accepted Heller's suggestion that "a long life does have to be filled with many unpleasant conditions if it's to seem long," and the joy of long life was temporarily overtaking the agony of their wait. Perhaps they knew that they were on a journey they would tell their parents and grandchildren about, boring little ones and elders alike with details of the upholstery in the bus. No broken air conditioner or two hour wait could possibly merit concern in that mindset. Or perhaps they had resolved to mutiny if they weren't there in 20 minutes and didn't want the driver to know their plan.
My plan was to somehow use that moment to segue into a conclusion, but I can't. To say something that neatly wraps up the story seems impossible. I don't think I could ever capture in a few words, even in a few sentences, what the experience meant to me: the places I saw, the people I met, the moments my heart skipped a beat, the warm beers, the cold ocean, the sunshine and red dirt... all of it. I can't compress that into a few pithy words that end the story with a wink or a hug or whatever.
I guess I'll just have to hope that my grandchildren turn out to be patient listeners.
Monday, October 29, 2007
I Like Long Walks on the Beach...
I think that there are many people who picture paradise as a long white sand beach with a couple crooked palm trees and a hammock. I will admit to conjuring this image when someone uses that word. However, my recent experience shows this to be wrong. In truth, places like Karijini are paradises. I would've much rather spent the rest of our time exploring Karijini than left for the beach.
However, leave we had to, and I figured time at the beach would still be excellent. After a day's drive (during which I experienced the longest inning) and a night's sleep, we found ourselves at Coral Bay. I estimate the town at around six square blocks, but I didn't pay much attention to it. I only went into one shop, and that was to purchase sunscreen.
I was focused on the beach and the ocean. The white sand beaches of Coral Bay come up to the Indian Ocean. They are an excellent place to lie around and get sunburned. The water is chilly, but quite swimmable. As the bay's name suggests, it is home to a large reef. With the help of snorkels and masks, we explored it for most of the morning.
Between snorkeling sessions, we decided to rest on the beach. For the most part, this meant we were prone and not moving, as if we were in a Corona commercial. We also spent time juggling a soccer ball and making sand sculptures of women that one with a polite sensibility might describe as "well endowed."
Since I grew up far from the ocean, this kind of a day is something of a puzzle to me. On the one hand, I'm not really sure what to do. I cannot understand how some people can spend an entire day sitting on a beach doing nothing. I find this devastatingly boring. On the other hand, I find that exploring the ocean environment is a magical experience. My journal entry from the day at Coral Bay is telling: "I saw a sea turtle and a ray and it was so cool it turned me into a little kid."
After snorkeling in the morning, most of the group decided to take an afternoon ATV tour of the dunes south of town. We drove about 45 minutes out, snorkeled for a while, went on a bit further to a scenic overlook, then headed back for town. This was the first time I ever drove an ATV, so I wasn't quite sure what to expect. It was great fun, especially after gassing us that noisy beast. Perhaps it's hypocritical, but I can see the appeal of driving those things, even though I would scream and curse if one (much less a dozen) came tearing through my camp.
I can also see how one might get himself into trouble on an ATV. Especially if this driver, let's call him "TJ," takes a u-shaped turn too fast, jumps off the trail, plows through some bushes and back onto the trail and jumps off the trail for a second time, finally coming to a stop just short of a bush populated by two very startled looking kangaroos. If that were to happen, hypothetically speaking, it might scare the driver, his passenger, and the ATV guide. They'd probably laugh about it later, though, since no harm was done.
After the ATV tour, we still had a couple hours to explore Coral Bay before we had to leave. A group of us hiked north in the bay, having heard rumors of a shark nursery that we could see. The tour that had visited Coral Bay the day before said that if you walked far enough, a sign would eventually indicate that you should look into the water to see the dark figures of dozens of reef sharks.
The original plan was to walk over and take a look at the nursery. However, we noticed that this left little time to swim and play, so we stopped at about half way, set our towels down on the beach and climbed into the water for a swim. After only a minute in the water, Ryan evaluated the current and determined that it was heading straight toward the shark nursery. He suggested we swim there, as we would then get in plenty of swimming and get to see the shark nursery.
I agreed, going against my intuition that swimming with sharks was something only an insane person would do. I didn't come to Australia to not have a few adventure. Besides, Ryan said that reef sharks were generally calm. He knew which way the current was flowing, so I had decided to grant him 'expert' status relating to my oceanic affairs. Between the expert advice and not wanting to turn down a once-in-a-lifetime offer, I signed on. Jannis also joined us.
The swim there was surprisingly quick, courtesy of the current. We passed over dark looking corals in water that was, compared to the rest of the bay, chilly. Beneath us, little fish swam around, apparently oblivious to the fact that somewhere nearby was a shark nursery. I looked over my shoulder constantly during the swim. I didn't want to miss a shark, but I don't know how accurate it would be to say I wanted to see one.
I was unsure how we would know the nursery when we entered it, but it was plain enough once we got there. The water shallowed from about 10 feet to maybe a foot and a half and its temperature went up twenty degrees. Below us was nothing but sand. Yards away in the water, we could see dark figures: sharks. We were in their territory. Unable to see much in the murky water, we stood up and looked around. There were sharks on almost every side of our group.
As we stood there, Jannis and Ryan had an exchange that I'll never forget:
Jannis: These sharks are vegetarians, right?
Ryan: No. They're meat eaters with sharp teeth and everything.
Jannis: But one of the girls told me... They won't attack us will they?
Ryan: I can't guarantee that.
As it turns out, he probably could have made that guarantee. The sharks were incredibly meek. If we made even slight movements, they darted off. By swimming or walking in one direction, the three of us land-dwellers could herd these cartilaginous killing machines like watered-down cattle. Apparently, baby reef sharks are like bears: they're more scared of us than we are of them. (Except for me. I was terrified. Even people on shore could tell.)
While I had my doubts, swimming with the sharks proved to be a highlight in a day already filled with highlights. In the following days, we had more beach time coming, and Coral Bay had made me confident that I would be able to thoroughly enjoy it.
However, leave we had to, and I figured time at the beach would still be excellent. After a day's drive (during which I experienced the longest inning) and a night's sleep, we found ourselves at Coral Bay. I estimate the town at around six square blocks, but I didn't pay much attention to it. I only went into one shop, and that was to purchase sunscreen.
I was focused on the beach and the ocean. The white sand beaches of Coral Bay come up to the Indian Ocean. They are an excellent place to lie around and get sunburned. The water is chilly, but quite swimmable. As the bay's name suggests, it is home to a large reef. With the help of snorkels and masks, we explored it for most of the morning.
Between snorkeling sessions, we decided to rest on the beach. For the most part, this meant we were prone and not moving, as if we were in a Corona commercial. We also spent time juggling a soccer ball and making sand sculptures of women that one with a polite sensibility might describe as "well endowed."
Since I grew up far from the ocean, this kind of a day is something of a puzzle to me. On the one hand, I'm not really sure what to do. I cannot understand how some people can spend an entire day sitting on a beach doing nothing. I find this devastatingly boring. On the other hand, I find that exploring the ocean environment is a magical experience. My journal entry from the day at Coral Bay is telling: "I saw a sea turtle and a ray and it was so cool it turned me into a little kid."
After snorkeling in the morning, most of the group decided to take an afternoon ATV tour of the dunes south of town. We drove about 45 minutes out, snorkeled for a while, went on a bit further to a scenic overlook, then headed back for town. This was the first time I ever drove an ATV, so I wasn't quite sure what to expect. It was great fun, especially after gassing us that noisy beast. Perhaps it's hypocritical, but I can see the appeal of driving those things, even though I would scream and curse if one (much less a dozen) came tearing through my camp.
I can also see how one might get himself into trouble on an ATV. Especially if this driver, let's call him "TJ," takes a u-shaped turn too fast, jumps off the trail, plows through some bushes and back onto the trail and jumps off the trail for a second time, finally coming to a stop just short of a bush populated by two very startled looking kangaroos. If that were to happen, hypothetically speaking, it might scare the driver, his passenger, and the ATV guide. They'd probably laugh about it later, though, since no harm was done.
After the ATV tour, we still had a couple hours to explore Coral Bay before we had to leave. A group of us hiked north in the bay, having heard rumors of a shark nursery that we could see. The tour that had visited Coral Bay the day before said that if you walked far enough, a sign would eventually indicate that you should look into the water to see the dark figures of dozens of reef sharks.
The original plan was to walk over and take a look at the nursery. However, we noticed that this left little time to swim and play, so we stopped at about half way, set our towels down on the beach and climbed into the water for a swim. After only a minute in the water, Ryan evaluated the current and determined that it was heading straight toward the shark nursery. He suggested we swim there, as we would then get in plenty of swimming and get to see the shark nursery.
I agreed, going against my intuition that swimming with sharks was something only an insane person would do. I didn't come to Australia to not have a few adventure. Besides, Ryan said that reef sharks were generally calm. He knew which way the current was flowing, so I had decided to grant him 'expert' status relating to my oceanic affairs. Between the expert advice and not wanting to turn down a once-in-a-lifetime offer, I signed on. Jannis also joined us.
The swim there was surprisingly quick, courtesy of the current. We passed over dark looking corals in water that was, compared to the rest of the bay, chilly. Beneath us, little fish swam around, apparently oblivious to the fact that somewhere nearby was a shark nursery. I looked over my shoulder constantly during the swim. I didn't want to miss a shark, but I don't know how accurate it would be to say I wanted to see one.
I was unsure how we would know the nursery when we entered it, but it was plain enough once we got there. The water shallowed from about 10 feet to maybe a foot and a half and its temperature went up twenty degrees. Below us was nothing but sand. Yards away in the water, we could see dark figures: sharks. We were in their territory. Unable to see much in the murky water, we stood up and looked around. There were sharks on almost every side of our group.
As we stood there, Jannis and Ryan had an exchange that I'll never forget:
Jannis: These sharks are vegetarians, right?
Ryan: No. They're meat eaters with sharp teeth and everything.
Jannis: But one of the girls told me... They won't attack us will they?
Ryan: I can't guarantee that.
As it turns out, he probably could have made that guarantee. The sharks were incredibly meek. If we made even slight movements, they darted off. By swimming or walking in one direction, the three of us land-dwellers could herd these cartilaginous killing machines like watered-down cattle. Apparently, baby reef sharks are like bears: they're more scared of us than we are of them. (Except for me. I was terrified. Even people on shore could tell.)
While I had my doubts, swimming with the sharks proved to be a highlight in a day already filled with highlights. In the following days, we had more beach time coming, and Coral Bay had made me confident that I would be able to thoroughly enjoy it.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Karijini is Australian for "Off the Hook" (Which is a Colloquialism for "Cool")
I'm not sure why our tour guides were so certain that we would need our rest for the second day. It, too, was spent entirely in the bus.
At the end of the day, we ended up in Newman, Western Australia. For those who have never been to Newman, there is good reason to keep it that way. The place is small, isolated, and worst of all, the liquor store doesn't sell cheap boxed wine. (This is the most affordable drink to buy in Australia. It is referred to as "goon.")
We were staying in a caravan park, which was, as caravan parks tend to be, a place not fit for those who appreciate the outdoors. Aside from being inside city limits, polluted by generator noise, and populated by drunk miners, the proprietors of the place made it even worse with their rules. Do this, don't do that, blah, blah, blah. The signs didn't just block out the scenery, they practically propped the place up. While I'll admit this is a complaint I have about most trailer parks, I felt particularly offended to find that it is also the case in the land of no worries.
Aside from ranting about the caravan park, nothing is interesting about Newman. Fortunately, we were up at 6 a.m. to pack and get the hell out of Dodge. We piled onto the bus and pulled out of town, with nary a member of the group regretting that we left. It was to be the first, last, and only place we stayed about which I can say much of anything to the negative.
We drove for a few hours to arrive in Karijini National Park. Without having done the research that a good travel writer would have, I cannot tell you about the history or the heritage of the park. I can't give you its area, the name of its founder, or even an anecdote about some of the strange things that happened there before it was tamed. I will admit that this is a rookie mistake and offer this site as a concession to those who need that kind of information.
The first thing I noticed upon entering Karijini is that it's not immediately obvious why the area should be protected. At some parks, it's obvious miles before you enter that the area possesses scenic value. (See: Tetons, Grand) At other parks, there is at least a hint that you will see something amazing, like the first small fumaroles you notice along the side of the road in Yellowstone. Karijini, on the other hand, looks just like the last 1,000 km you've just driven. There is a small self-pay station and a single road sign, and those are the only indications that you've entered an area that might merit further examination.
Karijini's treasure is hidden below ground level in gorges. Wait, that's not quite right - the gorges are the treasure. We spent most of our time exploring these gorges, and that time was the highlight of the Northwest trip for me. Everything about the gorges is right. They are beautiful. They are nowhere near the city. They are rugged and rusty and ridiculous. Paradoxically, they were an entirely new environment to explore, but they reminded me of my favorite environments in the canyon country.
Best of all, the gorges were unregulated. We got to hike, climb, swim, and lounge in the gorges. Sure, there were a couple warning signs. But that was it. There was no ranger to discourage jumping from the cliffs. No razor wire to discourage climbing the cliffs. No waivers, no regulations, no queues, no restricted areas. Just a giant playground for big kids.
The gorges have red walls - a result of their high iron content. The iron also makes the rocks very hard - something you need discover only once. There are plants of many types. Near the top, it is typical dry vegetation and brush. Especially predominant is spinnifex, a brittle, sharp grass that made me itch insanely every time it stabbed me. I quickly took to calling it "asshole grass." Going from the rim into the gorge transported you from the desert ecosystem into another entirely. It is a world like Christmas - red (rock) and green (plants). Trees, ferns, and all score of other green things grow inside the gorges.
This change is the result of the presence of water. Each of the gorges we went down had running water at the bottom. Sometimes it was only a trickle, other times, wide and deep enough that those inclined could swim instead of hike. The best water features, however, were the pools. Because it was near 90o
This place ruined swimming pools for me. Forget concrete - give me red rock. Forget indoors - give me overhangs. Forget the crowded puddles of suburbia - give me the pools of Karijini.
Give me Kermit Pool, hidden deep in Hancock Gorge. Instead of paying someone and passing through a locker room, we hiked through the Spider Walk, a part of the gorge so narrow one can spread-eagle and walk along both walls.
Give me the pool at the base of Fortescue Falls. Looking around here was as refreshing as swimming. On two sides, we had giant red walls. If we looked down the gorge, we could see vegetation and plant life growing as the gorge stretched on, inviting us to explore. If we looked up the gorge, we were looking right up the waterfall. We weren't in Kansas anymore.
Give me Fern Pool. Upstream from the waterfall, buried in a jungle completely out of place in the Outback, this pool was the best. It was surrounded on all sides by lush vegetation (lots of ferns, not surprisingly). An overhang about twice my height was at one end of the pool. I sat under it and let the water tumbling off massage my back.
After days full of hiking and swimming, it was back to camp. I will always remember this time as the source of one of the best moments I've had in Australia:
I was standing with a warm Emu Export in my left hand, manning the barbee with my right hand. I was covered in red dust and tired to the bone. A night under the stars awaited me after a dinner of sausages and lamb. Everything about the moment was right. The beer had to be warm, and I had to be dirty. We were, after all, in the wilderness. The grill had to be hot, and I had to be behind it. I am, after all, a bloke. I had worked hard in so many ways, and now I was getting my reward in a million senses. I would describe the way I felt as deeply content, but I was much too excited to be simply content. I was thrilled, vindicated, and just plain happy. It was joy, pure ecstasy.
It was why I came to Australia.
At the end of the day, we ended up in Newman, Western Australia. For those who have never been to Newman, there is good reason to keep it that way. The place is small, isolated, and worst of all, the liquor store doesn't sell cheap boxed wine. (This is the most affordable drink to buy in Australia. It is referred to as "goon.")
We were staying in a caravan park, which was, as caravan parks tend to be, a place not fit for those who appreciate the outdoors. Aside from being inside city limits, polluted by generator noise, and populated by drunk miners, the proprietors of the place made it even worse with their rules. Do this, don't do that, blah, blah, blah. The signs didn't just block out the scenery, they practically propped the place up. While I'll admit this is a complaint I have about most trailer parks, I felt particularly offended to find that it is also the case in the land of no worries.
Aside from ranting about the caravan park, nothing is interesting about Newman. Fortunately, we were up at 6 a.m. to pack and get the hell out of Dodge. We piled onto the bus and pulled out of town, with nary a member of the group regretting that we left. It was to be the first, last, and only place we stayed about which I can say much of anything to the negative.
We drove for a few hours to arrive in Karijini National Park. Without having done the research that a good travel writer would have, I cannot tell you about the history or the heritage of the park. I can't give you its area, the name of its founder, or even an anecdote about some of the strange things that happened there before it was tamed. I will admit that this is a rookie mistake and offer this site as a concession to those who need that kind of information.
The first thing I noticed upon entering Karijini is that it's not immediately obvious why the area should be protected. At some parks, it's obvious miles before you enter that the area possesses scenic value. (See: Tetons, Grand) At other parks, there is at least a hint that you will see something amazing, like the first small fumaroles you notice along the side of the road in Yellowstone. Karijini, on the other hand, looks just like the last 1,000 km you've just driven. There is a small self-pay station and a single road sign, and those are the only indications that you've entered an area that might merit further examination.
Karijini's treasure is hidden below ground level in gorges. Wait, that's not quite right - the gorges are the treasure. We spent most of our time exploring these gorges, and that time was the highlight of the Northwest trip for me. Everything about the gorges is right. They are beautiful. They are nowhere near the city. They are rugged and rusty and ridiculous. Paradoxically, they were an entirely new environment to explore, but they reminded me of my favorite environments in the canyon country.
Best of all, the gorges were unregulated. We got to hike, climb, swim, and lounge in the gorges. Sure, there were a couple warning signs. But that was it. There was no ranger to discourage jumping from the cliffs. No razor wire to discourage climbing the cliffs. No waivers, no regulations, no queues, no restricted areas. Just a giant playground for big kids.
The gorges have red walls - a result of their high iron content. The iron also makes the rocks very hard - something you need discover only once. There are plants of many types. Near the top, it is typical dry vegetation and brush. Especially predominant is spinnifex, a brittle, sharp grass that made me itch insanely every time it stabbed me. I quickly took to calling it "asshole grass." Going from the rim into the gorge transported you from the desert ecosystem into another entirely. It is a world like Christmas - red (rock) and green (plants). Trees, ferns, and all score of other green things grow inside the gorges.
This change is the result of the presence of water. Each of the gorges we went down had running water at the bottom. Sometimes it was only a trickle, other times, wide and deep enough that those inclined could swim instead of hike. The best water features, however, were the pools. Because it was near 90o
This place ruined swimming pools for me. Forget concrete - give me red rock. Forget indoors - give me overhangs. Forget the crowded puddles of suburbia - give me the pools of Karijini.
Give me Kermit Pool, hidden deep in Hancock Gorge. Instead of paying someone and passing through a locker room, we hiked through the Spider Walk, a part of the gorge so narrow one can spread-eagle and walk along both walls.
Give me the pool at the base of Fortescue Falls. Looking around here was as refreshing as swimming. On two sides, we had giant red walls. If we looked down the gorge, we could see vegetation and plant life growing as the gorge stretched on, inviting us to explore. If we looked up the gorge, we were looking right up the waterfall. We weren't in Kansas anymore.
Give me Fern Pool. Upstream from the waterfall, buried in a jungle completely out of place in the Outback, this pool was the best. It was surrounded on all sides by lush vegetation (lots of ferns, not surprisingly). An overhang about twice my height was at one end of the pool. I sat under it and let the water tumbling off massage my back.
After days full of hiking and swimming, it was back to camp. I will always remember this time as the source of one of the best moments I've had in Australia:
I was standing with a warm Emu Export in my left hand, manning the barbee with my right hand. I was covered in red dust and tired to the bone. A night under the stars awaited me after a dinner of sausages and lamb. Everything about the moment was right. The beer had to be warm, and I had to be dirty. We were, after all, in the wilderness. The grill had to be hot, and I had to be behind it. I am, after all, a bloke. I had worked hard in so many ways, and now I was getting my reward in a million senses. I would describe the way I felt as deeply content, but I was much too excited to be simply content. I was thrilled, vindicated, and just plain happy. It was joy, pure ecstasy.
It was why I came to Australia.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
North by North-West
The longest inning finally ended. The Rockies won. They decided to take Denver for a ride while I was riding around the Outback. You know something about their exploits, so I'll tell you a little something about mine. I'll start at the beginning:
After 3 weeks of working holiday, it was time for a real holiday. (And I'm not talking about Matt Holliday - it's always time for him.) I was burned out on class, so I relished the departing for a trip that I had been eagerly anticipating all semester.
This excitement was unusual for me, as I have tried to avoid creating high expectations for things out of my control - it can lead to disappointment. This time however, the bar was set high for me. The international staff here had told us that most people consider the trip a highlight of their time at Murdoch. The students who went during the first study break came back with nothing but praise and remarkable pictures. I hoped they were right.
We left early on Friday morning. The weather was looking to continue as it had been for the past week or so: cloudy and irritating. As one of my friends on the trip put it: "Perth was the sunniest city in Australia until I got here." I was glad to be getting out of the city for a while: Between school and the routine I had developed for the rest of the week, normalcy was beginning to permeate my existence. Normalcy is all and well, but it was beginning to drive me insane.
So, we loaded onto the bus for a two day drive. We knew beforehand that we'd be in for a long haul the first couple days, but I don't think that being told to sit down and do nothing for two days will ever prepare one for that kind of boredom. It was bad enough that it would be a long drive, but there was worse news to come: We would have exactly one view for the entire time. Of course, compared to discussion of the primary sector of Australia's economy, this was heaven.
The long bus ride did have a couple advantages. First, it wasn't school. Second, it gave the group a chance to interact a bit. Notice, I didn't say "get to know" each other. We didn't do that the first couple days. The pool from which we were drawn was small enough that everyone on the bus knew at least a couple other people. Thus, instead of being forced to meet one another to stave off the boredom, we could chat with the people we did know to pass the time. This wasn't bad, but it did end up causing us to wait a few days to get to know the entire group.
Before we left, I suspected that the group would be a good one. I already knew:
Jan and Jannis, two close friends from Parabonn, Germany. On the trip, Jannis told the first fart joke in a foreign language that I've ever understood. Jan made what seemed like an outlandish weather forecast as we left Perth: 40o
Robin and Göksun, a couple from Parabonn . Between his soft-spoken humor and her willingness to keep up with the boys, I doubted these two would be a boring pair to travel with.
Ryan, a CIEE student from TCU. A month before, he and I had discussed writing a microbrewery guide of the U.S., an idea I am still quite enamored with.
A few others, most of whom I doubt will be offended by the exclusion of their names from this list.
All told, I knew, or had been introduced to, about 2/3 of the group. I was somewhat surprised by the homogeneity of the group. Despite Murdoch Uni having around 2,000 students from every corner of the globe, our group managed to have representatives from four nations: 10 Americans, 10 Germans, three Swedes, and our two Aussie tour guides.
Regardless of our group's familiarity or diversity, this was the group we would be traveling with. So, after our first day on the bus, we ended up at a sheep station, pitched our tents, and got ready for dinner around the campfire.
Over the course of the trip, we stayed at three sheep stations. All were wonderfully removed from anything else. I guess when you're shearing sheep that's some kind of bonus. They had been turned into low-cost accommodations for travelers looking to save on lodging by staying where few dare venture. One can either set up tents in a common area or sleep in small dormitories. Overall, the sheep stations were nice but for one small problem: they smelled like sheep shit and wet wool.
After getting used to the smell, Ryan and I set up our tent, then stashed our gear in it. We discussed briefly and decided that sleeping outside seemed like a good idea since Jan's cloud forecast looked like it would hold for the night. We laid our pads next to the fire and drifted off as the embers burned down.
"Rest up," our guides had told us, "You're going to need it."
After 3 weeks of working holiday, it was time for a real holiday. (And I'm not talking about Matt Holliday - it's always time for him.) I was burned out on class, so I relished the departing for a trip that I had been eagerly anticipating all semester.
This excitement was unusual for me, as I have tried to avoid creating high expectations for things out of my control - it can lead to disappointment. This time however, the bar was set high for me. The international staff here had told us that most people consider the trip a highlight of their time at Murdoch. The students who went during the first study break came back with nothing but praise and remarkable pictures. I hoped they were right.
We left early on Friday morning. The weather was looking to continue as it had been for the past week or so: cloudy and irritating. As one of my friends on the trip put it: "Perth was the sunniest city in Australia until I got here." I was glad to be getting out of the city for a while: Between school and the routine I had developed for the rest of the week, normalcy was beginning to permeate my existence. Normalcy is all and well, but it was beginning to drive me insane.
So, we loaded onto the bus for a two day drive. We knew beforehand that we'd be in for a long haul the first couple days, but I don't think that being told to sit down and do nothing for two days will ever prepare one for that kind of boredom. It was bad enough that it would be a long drive, but there was worse news to come: We would have exactly one view for the entire time. Of course, compared to discussion of the primary sector of Australia's economy, this was heaven.
The long bus ride did have a couple advantages. First, it wasn't school. Second, it gave the group a chance to interact a bit. Notice, I didn't say "get to know" each other. We didn't do that the first couple days. The pool from which we were drawn was small enough that everyone on the bus knew at least a couple other people. Thus, instead of being forced to meet one another to stave off the boredom, we could chat with the people we did know to pass the time. This wasn't bad, but it did end up causing us to wait a few days to get to know the entire group.
Before we left, I suspected that the group would be a good one. I already knew:
Jan and Jannis, two close friends from Parabonn, Germany. On the trip, Jannis told the first fart joke in a foreign language that I've ever understood. Jan made what seemed like an outlandish weather forecast as we left Perth: 40o
Robin and Göksun, a couple from Parabonn . Between his soft-spoken humor and her willingness to keep up with the boys, I doubted these two would be a boring pair to travel with.
Ryan, a CIEE student from TCU. A month before, he and I had discussed writing a microbrewery guide of the U.S., an idea I am still quite enamored with.
A few others, most of whom I doubt will be offended by the exclusion of their names from this list.
All told, I knew, or had been introduced to, about 2/3 of the group. I was somewhat surprised by the homogeneity of the group. Despite Murdoch Uni having around 2,000 students from every corner of the globe, our group managed to have representatives from four nations: 10 Americans, 10 Germans, three Swedes, and our two Aussie tour guides.
Regardless of our group's familiarity or diversity, this was the group we would be traveling with. So, after our first day on the bus, we ended up at a sheep station, pitched our tents, and got ready for dinner around the campfire.
Over the course of the trip, we stayed at three sheep stations. All were wonderfully removed from anything else. I guess when you're shearing sheep that's some kind of bonus. They had been turned into low-cost accommodations for travelers looking to save on lodging by staying where few dare venture. One can either set up tents in a common area or sleep in small dormitories. Overall, the sheep stations were nice but for one small problem: they smelled like sheep shit and wet wool.
After getting used to the smell, Ryan and I set up our tent, then stashed our gear in it. We discussed briefly and decided that sleeping outside seemed like a good idea since Jan's cloud forecast looked like it would hold for the night. We laid our pads next to the fire and drifted off as the embers burned down.
"Rest up," our guides had told us, "You're going to need it."
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Tomato Sauce, or "Ketchup!"
Well, it's back to work, back to school, and back to being a responsible blogger for this naughty boy. I've managed to neglect this for too long, so I'll naturally throw myself into another bout of productivity in the next few days, trying to put up a few posts to defend the statement that I am not apathetic, I am simply lazy. (I'm not entirely convinced that's the lesser of the two evils, but it's my vice and I've got to stick with it.)
I'll start with school. I had three weeks of school between the first and the second study breaks. Unless you have an unhealthy fascination with the primary sector of the Australian economy, I cannot tell you anything about school that will leave you on the edge of your seat.
One thing I can tell you is that I am struggling in the motivation department of my academic life. Dragging my rear out of bed at the ungodly hour of 11:30 has always been a struggle, but the malaise I have been feeling lately makes that kind of sluggish behavior look motivated. Worse than attending (which, I must say to ease my parents' escalating blood pressure, I have been doing) is doing my homework. Assignments stand like hurdles between me and anything else I could be doing. For each one, I am forced to tell myself that it's just one of a few small remaining steps to earn my degree. But one can only get so much mileage out of such sentiments. I hope it'll be enough.
So, school is a struggle right now, unlike the relative pleasures of blogging or going to the pub. (Guess which I've done more of since 14 September.) Work, on the other hand, has been fairly easy to attend. I think this is the result of an aggregate of receiving tangible benefits ($) from going, working with a bunch of cute girls, and the fact that no one at work is interested in discussing the primary sector of Australia's economy.
Outside work and school, baseball spring training started in Australia between the two study breaks, and somehow, I ended up training. As it happened, my buddy Jason plays for a team and asked if I was keen to play. Being nostalgic for little league, loving the game, and even more excited because the Rockies were looking like they would finish above .500, I immediately agreed. (I will get to their current situation in a few minutes. One must remember this happened three weeks ago.)
Admittedly, I'm rusty. I've been trying to get back into the habit of putting myself in front of the ball. I haven't watched pitches for balls or strikes since before middle school. The coach has to explain most of the drills to me. However, I'm American, so people who haven't watched me play think I have a leg up over these guys, some of whom are considerably better than I am. Of all the stereotypes about Americans that I've run into, this is by far my favorite. Especially because I can tell someone who hasn't seen me play that I was brought in as a ringer. (For the scouts reading, I went 0 for 2 with a walk, reached base on a fielder's choice, and had 1 RBI in our first game.)
Speaking of baseball, I'd like to make a few points:
First, I have crow to eat. In April, I wrote that the first six weeks of the MLB season are the best six weeks because the Rockies have not been eliminated from the playoffs. I am sorry I said something so hurtful. Just because everyone else was saying it, that does not make it right. I acknowledge that my comments were hurtful, insensitive, and wrong. I have never been happier to eat crow in my life. Ever.
Second, following the race and playoffs from here is an insane process. Generally, I have been reading box scores and columns, trying to get a feel for the intangibles you can only get from watching each game. I have spent countless hours hunched over my laptop, reliving hours old replays and analysis, looking quite strange to my roommates as I scream out in joy or agony. It bears mention that I'm not the only one blogging about the Rockies: Todd Helton has been keeping a playoff blog - check it out.
Third, one of the most miserable bus rides in my entire life was a result of the Rockies, cheap international calling, and bad timing. The situation was this in Denver: Top of the 10th, scored tied at 6, the Rockies and the Padres battling it out in a single game playoff for the wild card. The scene was this in Puraburdoo (I dare you to find this place on a map): Me, on tour on the Northwest Trip (about which I will be writing profusely later). I am on a payphone, learning the situation in Denver just before jumping on the bus. There will not be another telephone for 250 km.
It was the longest inning.
I'll start with school. I had three weeks of school between the first and the second study breaks. Unless you have an unhealthy fascination with the primary sector of the Australian economy, I cannot tell you anything about school that will leave you on the edge of your seat.
One thing I can tell you is that I am struggling in the motivation department of my academic life. Dragging my rear out of bed at the ungodly hour of 11:30 has always been a struggle, but the malaise I have been feeling lately makes that kind of sluggish behavior look motivated. Worse than attending (which, I must say to ease my parents' escalating blood pressure, I have been doing) is doing my homework. Assignments stand like hurdles between me and anything else I could be doing. For each one, I am forced to tell myself that it's just one of a few small remaining steps to earn my degree. But one can only get so much mileage out of such sentiments. I hope it'll be enough.
So, school is a struggle right now, unlike the relative pleasures of blogging or going to the pub. (Guess which I've done more of since 14 September.) Work, on the other hand, has been fairly easy to attend. I think this is the result of an aggregate of receiving tangible benefits ($) from going, working with a bunch of cute girls, and the fact that no one at work is interested in discussing the primary sector of Australia's economy.
Outside work and school, baseball spring training started in Australia between the two study breaks, and somehow, I ended up training. As it happened, my buddy Jason plays for a team and asked if I was keen to play. Being nostalgic for little league, loving the game, and even more excited because the Rockies were looking like they would finish above .500, I immediately agreed. (I will get to their current situation in a few minutes. One must remember this happened three weeks ago.)
Admittedly, I'm rusty. I've been trying to get back into the habit of putting myself in front of the ball. I haven't watched pitches for balls or strikes since before middle school. The coach has to explain most of the drills to me. However, I'm American, so people who haven't watched me play think I have a leg up over these guys, some of whom are considerably better than I am. Of all the stereotypes about Americans that I've run into, this is by far my favorite. Especially because I can tell someone who hasn't seen me play that I was brought in as a ringer. (For the scouts reading, I went 0 for 2 with a walk, reached base on a fielder's choice, and had 1 RBI in our first game.)
Speaking of baseball, I'd like to make a few points:
First, I have crow to eat. In April, I wrote that the first six weeks of the MLB season are the best six weeks because the Rockies have not been eliminated from the playoffs. I am sorry I said something so hurtful. Just because everyone else was saying it, that does not make it right. I acknowledge that my comments were hurtful, insensitive, and wrong. I have never been happier to eat crow in my life. Ever.
Second, following the race and playoffs from here is an insane process. Generally, I have been reading box scores and columns, trying to get a feel for the intangibles you can only get from watching each game. I have spent countless hours hunched over my laptop, reliving hours old replays and analysis, looking quite strange to my roommates as I scream out in joy or agony. It bears mention that I'm not the only one blogging about the Rockies: Todd Helton has been keeping a playoff blog - check it out.
Third, one of the most miserable bus rides in my entire life was a result of the Rockies, cheap international calling, and bad timing. The situation was this in Denver: Top of the 10th, scored tied at 6, the Rockies and the Padres battling it out in a single game playoff for the wild card. The scene was this in Puraburdoo (I dare you to find this place on a map): Me, on tour on the Northwest Trip (about which I will be writing profusely later). I am on a payphone, learning the situation in Denver just before jumping on the bus. There will not be another telephone for 250 km.
It was the longest inning.
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