School's Out (Forever?)

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.

On Politics

Politics here is infinitely fun for me to watch. In addition to the unfamiliar faces and strange twists on usual issues, I have little stake in the process. Sure, Australian policy toward America or Iraq or some other issue might shift, but it will likely have little affect on my day-to-day life. This means that every bit of coverage can be watched with the detached amusement of a true spectator. Especially since no matter who gets elected, he won't be raising my taxes.

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.)

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.

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.

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 90^o, jumping in for a swim after hiking to the pool was the greatest form of reward for our efforts.

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.

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: 40^o C (104^o F) and no clouds for the entire trip. (He was surprisingly close.)

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."

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.

Proposed Route Home

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

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.

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.

"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.

"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.

Comings and Goings. Mostly Goings.

Phew. My computer has finally arrived. That's a good thing because now I don't have to yell at a customs official. The Aussies have a COPS-style reality show about customs officers, and I imagine that such an encounter would make for more interesting television than their usual cavity searches. However, I get the feeling I wouldn't come out of it looking like a very nice guy - handcuffs have that effect for some reason.

That aside, those who look at the dates on these posts will notice a conspicuous gap between my last post and this one. Sorry, but it just wouldn't be the TJ experience without a couple gaps of motivation.

Last week, in a great act of motivation, I got hired at a Gloria Jean's coffee shop in Fremantle. I've only worked one shift because of the study break, but it was enough for me to get a good idea of what work will be like. I think my official title is "barista," but I don't yet know how to use the espresso machine. This is particularly discouraging because it's really the only piece of equipment in the place.

I had a very hard time understanding what people said to me at work. The problem came from thick accents, barely being able to hear over steaming milk, and a product line I'm unfamiliar with. (What the hell is a flat white?) It's like people are pouring a jig-saw puzzle into my ear. Occasionally, I see a piece that makes sense, but the overall picture is completely jumbled. The worst part is that I know there's a picture in there somewhere.

The rest of the week was spent on what I can probably describe as the norm: Class, a bit of light studying, gentle preparation for a presentation on Friday, and heavy socialization. One evening, in need of a little time to myself, I went to the shore in Fremantle and watched the sun set behind a lighthouse. It was picturesque, to say the least. (Naturally, I didn't have my camera with me.) It was also a strange exercise in juxtaposition: The beach, lighthouse, and the sun setting at the wrong angle were all very foreign and in front of me. A McDonalds, so familiar and greasy, was behind me.

By week's end, I was desperately ready for the study break. I had no concrete plans, but that took care of itself. After another round of Scottish soccer on Saturday, I barbecued with the guys. One of their roommates was taking a trip to Southwest Australia, and he invited myself and my German friend Chris to go with him. We accepted and went along for a ride. But that's a story for tomorrow.

Government (Grrrr...)

"We hang the petty thieves and appoint the great ones to public office." -Aesop

After my passport experience, I was noticeably frustrated. To put it politely, I was driven to profanity and, eventually, to insanity. However, the document arrived and I was able to move on with my life, free from the shackles of bureaucracy. Or so I thought.

Sadly, I have fallen back into the twisted web that is dealing with government. My laptop, which was sent to the US for repairs, is having difficulties clearing customs. It is not a nefarious device. It most certainly is not contraband. The problem isn't with the computer at all. The problem is that the Australian government, in order to get its cut, wants to know how much the repair was worth, and I can't have it until they know. To compound the problem, the shipping company has a policy of returning, at the expense of the sender, items that can't clear customs within 5 days. Now, I must rely upon the company that made repairs under warranty to slap a value on the repairs and inform myself and the shipping company so that we, in turn, can inform customs. In hindsight, "twisted web" doesn't seem nearly confusing enough to capture all the subtleties of this charlie foxtrot of a process.

Now, the difficulty and the difficulties in understanding the difficulty are bad enough. However, there is always salt for a wound, and governments have a great way of finding it. Some context is needed to understand what I mean.

As I arrived in Australia, a major story in the news concerned a man named Dr Mohammed Haneef. Haneef, it seems, is the second cousin of one of the terrorists who decided to drive a flaming jeep into Glasgow's airport. After the attack, he made a sudden decision to leave Australia. He had a string of conversations with his brother that aroused enough suspicion in Australian authorities that they decided to revoke his work visa. Controversy ensued over the decision, with bleeding hearts siding with Haneef and hawks calling for his head. A judge has recently overturned the decision to revoke Haneef's visa.

Now, propriety of the decision to revoke Haneef's visa aside, consider this whole spectacle from my shoes. Here, a judge has just said that a man who government officials know has links to terrorists is welcome in Australia. (In fairness to Haneef, I must say that links here are familial relations. I do not know if Haneef is a terrorist, if he supports terrorists, or if he is as dodgy his actions have made him seem. I do know that the police consider him suspicious, which leads to my point.) My computer, on the other hand, can't enter the country.

The sheer lunacy of it makes me want to grab a customs official by the collar and scream: "What the hell is wrong with you? My computer can't enter the country without an invoice for repairs, but this guy can correspond with terrorists and just waltz right in? If my computer tries to leave the country suddenly, can I have it? Or does it have to give material support to some radicals before it's allowed?"

Government...

Culinary Notes

As is often the case with a growing boy, I am frequently hungry. This means I've eaten plenty of Australian cuisine, and I thought I'd share a bit about it.

The first thing to note is that there really is no such thing as "Australian" food. They have a couple dishes that I understand are local, but for the most part, food here is a smorgasbord from around the world. There are an excess of Thai, Chinese, and Japanese places, along with a smattering of Italian joints, some fine cuisine, and even occasional Mexican places. Some of it is done well, especially the Asian and Italian food, as those places are often run by immigrants from those areas.

In truth, I've had little at restaurants. They're expensive, and, true to my starving student form, I'm not buying it. So, it's fair to say that what I've just written is based mainly on impressions from the outside and from smelling the places. I've tried pizza, but the Aussies have managed to foul that up. A couple New Yorkers need to come down here and set these people straight on what a pizza is. Consequently, like much of the nicer food, I won't be eating much pizza.

The main exception to this rule is kebabs. Here, kebab joints are similar, both in frequency and style, to burrito places like Chipotle back home. They tend to have more of a hole-in-the-wall feel than they do quick casual, but you still get to watch the folks make your kebab and can find a place almost anywhere. The best kebab place in town is Nick's Place. It's about 3 doors down from the Newport bar and open after the bar closes, which is already a recipe for success. The hours and location, however, pale in comparison to the fare. Their kebabs drip with grease and generous servings of whatever sauces you fancy.

As I am apt to do with food back home, my kebab order is always the same, regardless of where I'm ordering it. (This habit lead me to consume far too many Bacon Turkey Bravos back home. Faaaar too many.) Every time I come to the counter, whether at Absolutely Kebabulous on campus, Nick's in Freo, or the Kardy Fish 'n Chips joint, I order a beef kebab with lettuce, tomatoes, sweet chili, and sour cream. Yum.

Other than kebabs and Little Creatures (which I've previously mentioned), I rarely eat out. This has meant cooking. Cooking has meant discovering just how little I know how to cook. As it turns out, I can prepare pasta, brown meat, heat sauce, scramble eggs, slice bread, and that's about it. Various combinations of these have kept me from getting bored, but the time at which I'll have to figure out how to turn on our oven is rapidly approaching.

To give you an idea of what I'm preparing, I thought I would share a couple recipes. The first is one of the many items I've created to keep my limited cooking ability interesting enough to eat. The second is a story in itself, so I'll come back to that after I share what my roommate dubbed "Bootleg Sloppy Joe's."

Bootleg Sloppy Joe's
Ingredients:
2 slices bread
1 pan ground beef
1 slice Kraft fake cheese
1 serving Newman's Own Light Balsamic Vinaigrette

Brown mean in frying pan. Put bread into toaster. Retrieve toast from toaster. Put cheese on one slice of toast. Put meat on cheese. Pour salad dressing over meat. Top with other slice of toast. Eat and pretend to enjoy.

While I can't pretend to love that sandwich, I can admit to eating a few. The next recipe was invented by me; my Aussie friend Jace, who works building ships; and Neil, one of the other CIEE students. Jace, on a whim, had come over to our house with 5.5 kilos (12.1 lbs) of gummy bears. After eating our fill, we had barely made a discernible dent in the gummy bears. So, wondering what we could make with all those gummy bears, we brainstormed:

"A gummy bear army?"
"A gummy bear gondola?"
"Gummy bear gumbo?"

At that suggestion, all of our eyes lit up, we began scouring through the cupboards for ingredients, and the most legendary desert down under was born. Despite what you might think from reading the recipe, it wasn't that bad. Granted, more than one serving immediately results in diabetes, but one must learn the virtues of moderation somehow.

Gummy Bear Gumbo
Ingredients:
1 cup cheap white wine
1/8 cup raspberry cordial mix
1 red apple
1 teaspoon Apricot Jam
1 lemon
1 pot full of gummy bears

Mix white wine, cordial mix, and jam in empty pot. Heat lightly until jam/wine mixture is no longer chunky. Chop apple into little bits. Slice lemon into wheels. Remove mixture from heat. Add apples. Squeeze in two wheels of lemon. Throw away rest of lemon due to bad planning. Add gummy bears. Serve by the spoonful.

After we all tried a little, Jace made the pointed observation that "your lawn will be painted rainbow by morning." He was proved wrong, but none of us is sure why, as some sort of intestinal distress was most certainly warranted.

They Don't Call it 'Oz' without Reason

Yesterday, I injured my thumb while playing soccer with a bunch of Scots in Western Australia. That sentence contains so many absurdities that I felt compelled to share it. After all, why am I hurting my thumb while playing soccer? Why are there enough Scots for a soccer game here? What the hell is my fat American bottom doing playing soccer in the first place? I guess there's always a little touch of the surreal when one is south of the equator.

Speaking of being on the other side of the globe, I've been asked to examine the truth behind the Coriolis effect and toilet bowls. Theory holds that being in the Southern hemisphere should cause the water to proceed through its draining procedure in the opposite direction it does in the Northern hemisphere. I've endeavored to try the experiment, but Australian toilets are ill suited for such observations.

The problem is that the Aussies are not used to a quiet, subtle flush that drains away inoffensively. Rather, they prefer a method more like God used when he grew displeased with the world. When you flush the toilet (which, by the way is accomplished with a button instead of a lever), a torrent of water comes from the tank and into the bowl, eradicating any evidence of what has occurred. It's a shockingly violent process, which is especially startling the first time you flush a toilet.

Urinals, here, are different, too. Rather than the individual, stand-alone, bidet look-alikes we prefer back in the States, the Aussies prefer troughs. They'll simply cut a wall back six inches, make it out of aluminum, and drill a drain hole. Viola! One urinal. I'm unclear on the etiquette of use, but it seems that those big enough for two are only used by one. Those big enough to hold three or more are almost always used by an odd number of people. Three, five, or seven to the urinal. Don't ask me why.

As if the difference in fixtures wasn't already enough, the Aussies don't even call it a restroom. They say "toilet," "wash room," or "dunnee." The CIEE residential director, Paul, has wondered why we call it the restroom. "After all," he asks, "you aren't really resting when you're in there, are you?"

Learning those little cultural differences makes me grin, especially when I'm able to apply the lesson. With that in mind, I've accustomed myself to using the words "mate" and "cheers." My accent makes me feel like a tourist awkwardly (and unsuccesfully) adopting a local custom when I say "Cheers, mate" (American translation: "Thanks for the beer"). Bartenders don't bat an eye though, so I think I'm getting it right.

I've also discovered that Australians don't have the first clue what the word "sweater" means. They call a sweater a "jumper," and the guys I was talking with couldn't fathom why one might ever use the word "sweater."

Mind you, this means I am changing my vocabulary, not my accent. I fully intend to keep my accent because I'm American and I'm proud of it, I'm too obstinate to change just because almost everyone around me speaks with one, and I'm told that an American accent is an advantage with Australian women. Don't think you're too clever for knowing which of those is most important to me.

The Australian accent is, however, strangely endearing. Maybe it's because it's different from what I'm used to. Maybe it's because it is representative of the opportunity I have here. Maybe it's because it reminds me of Paul Hogan. For whatever reason, I feel like the Aussies intone in a warmer and more upbeat fashion than we do back home.

Oh, back home. I already dread leaving Australia.

Nothing is Rotten in Denmark

I must begin by apologizing for my failure to relate this sooner. I am currently without my computer, so any kind of prolonged internet use involves begging, borrowing, or stealing.

Last weekend, I went to the south coast with half of my exchange group. We drove about four hours to get to the small town of Denmark. On the way, we got to pass through lots of small-town Australia. Having driven through many a small American town, I can confidently report that small-town America and small-town Australia are very similar. There are truck stops with old proprietors, restaurants, and quirky rules on handwritten signs.

In Denmark, we stayed at a small resort called The Cove. The Cove is a 60 acre spread that comes right up to Wilson Inlet. It is largely forested, as it is owned and operated to be just that. the accommodations are all hand-built with wood milled by the owners. It gives the entire place a kind of hippie log cabin feel. The owners make renovations and maintain the property almost entirely by themselves, which is the kind of life style I can admire and pretend I would be cut out for. However, I'm far too lazy to be that self-reliant. Hell, yesterday I drank milk from a bowl so I wouldn't have to clean any glasses.

Our time was spent exploring the region, which I get the feeling few people do.

We saw a museum with aboriginal and early 20th century farm artifacts. Our tour guide was the real highlight, though. He would simply point to something and say what it was, then point to the next item and say what it was. Between pointing out items, he would tell stories about the crazy questions some guests to the museum had asked and the complete lies he would tell them in response. The man should never have become a tour guide - he should have been a story teller.

We swam in Green's Pool. It's a scenic little spot with enough rocks around it to make the water very calm. In the summer, the pool is used for children's swimming lessons. Alas, it is winter here, so the water was not just calm, it was downright cold. I found out today that Thomas, my younger brother (I say "younger" instead of "little" because he could rock my world in a fight.) will be shipping out for the Navy in September. Swimming in the cold water gave me a taste of what he's about to begin, and I can say without reservation that I don't envy the swimming he'll be doing.

We went on a hike in the bush. The Aussies call the wilderness the "bush." I don't know why.

Perhaps the most touristy moment of the trip was our visit to the petting zoo. We were all given a bag of feed and unleashed onto crowds of animals that had little interest in being petted, but loved being fed. There were kangaroos, a koala, a camel, alpacas, goats (total jerks, by the way), a donkey that made noises fit for only the most horrible and twisted bowels of hell, and a couple emu. The roos were fairly happy to be fed and were fairly well-mannered. The emu shared their appetite, but not their sophistication. The ridiculous big birds would peck the feed out of our hands in such a way as to make it very clear that they had little interest in how we felt so long as we kept the food coming.

Another highlight (yes, the touristy parts have been highlights) was eating kangaroo. That's right, eating kangaroo. We went to the butcher, bought some kangaroo steaks, grilled them, and ate them. The meat is fairly tasty, but must be kept on the rare side to avoid it becoming too tough, which reminds me of trying to cook buffalo. I had the good fortune to be on the duty roster to cook dinner that evening, so I was in charge of the kangaroo grilling. It was a double blessing because not only did I get to say I cooked kangaroo, but everyone wanted to say they helped cook kangaroo, so I had all the willing help I could ever want.

Sadly, the weekend had to end, and we had to return to Murdoch and go to school the next day. School, I should mention, has been strange for me. I've easily overcome the accents of the teachers, as they speak fairly clearly. However, my classmates often leave me dumbfounded when they ask questions.

I've already had to give a presentation in my class on the Australian economy. In what has become a rarity for me, my heart rate rose and I began to sweat bullets. It wasn't that I was nervous about public speaking, per se, but my particular situation was so absurd that I couldn't help but be nervous. My assignment was to provide a brief overview of the Australian economy. So there I am in front of a room full of Aussie students and my Aussie professor. I've only been in the country for two weeks. By all accounts, my American accent is thick. And I have to tell these guys about their own economy? Anyone who could make it through that without at least a moment of pause is damaged goods.

Last night, we went to Newport, a bar in Freo. Half the time they played strange house music, and the other half of the time a local band covered pop-rock hits. It was fun to hear American songs sung badly with a funny accent. The place was crowded ($2 beers have that effect), but there was still enough room that one could dance or mingle. The age to drink here is 18, so sometimes kids would walk past me and I would wonder "How the hell did he get in here?"

The bar scene here seems to be lively, but Perth is rather sprawled out, so getting back home means taking a cab since the buses stop running at 9 p.m. Beer, I'm sad to report, is not as good as back home. The Coors Light types are of about equal quality (These include Carlton, VB, and Toohey's) to those back home. As those are cheapest, they're what we drink the most. However, finding good microbrews is tough. Even when you do find good beer, drinking it is cost prohibitive. There is hope, though, as there's a brew pub in Freo called Little Creatures. Their Pale Ale is top-shelf, their food is a perfect match, and one need not drop his life savings to buy a pint. I predict many an hour will be spent there.

This place makes me wish I were a poet. The place and the people can't be done justice in prose. To illustrate, the fireplace at the Cove was made with the casing of a decommissioned sea mine. Instead of floating in cold water waiting to end lives, it warms an entire building, both in temperature and spirit. Now, I'm no Ginsberg, but I'd love to give that one a whirl.

The Cast

Going by standard convention, I have established the setting and must now introduce you to the cast.

First is me. You know me. That's why you're reading this.

Next is the flatmates, of whom there are three: Andrew, Lindsey and Sinead. We have a good group dynamic going. Whether it's walking home from the grocery store with two carts full of food, cooking hamburgers on charcoal that doesn't want to light, or inviting over Germans to hang out in our living room, we've split up tasks, cleaned, and kept each other company in the process. Within 20 minutes of my arrival (I was the last of the flatmates to move in), we had gotten out a bottle of wine and the guitar.

Outside our house, most of the American students are living on campus. We have spent many an evening trying to convince them to drop by. Many of the international students also live in the Student Village. Their flats seem nicer than the shoe box CU sardined me into my freshman year, but still possess the cold and institutional feel that dormitories are apt to. Other international students have been looking for places to live. Watching them struggle makes me ever more grateful for the way CIEE handles lodging.

All of the international students speak English to varying degrees. Most can carry on full conversations (I read somewhere that a vocabulary need have only 500-1,000 words to be functional, and I imagine many are in this range.) about the days events or rock 'n roll or where to find an inexpensive six pack. Their courses of study range from microbiology to computer science to English.

For this group of people, it can truly be said that the world is their playground. There is a vibrancy and energy to the group that I've never seen back home. The circumstances that brought us here dictate that common interests are the rule rather than the exception. I imagine a similar atmosphere at base camp on K2 or Everest. To bring together so many people with similar interests, tastes, goals, and experiences in a place far from home makes for one hell of a group.

Where, I think you must be wondering, do the Aussies fit in all of this? I myself have asked and am certain that we will find similarly minded Australians. As of yet, the only Australians I have met have been either teaching me or bringing me my dinner. The start of classes affords a great opportunity to start meeting some who are out for a good time. The Australians I've seen around town have been friendly enough that I'm certain I will soon be able to report all manner of awesome Australians.

I'm guessing I'll have to write about people again, but this is at least a good primer on the company I keep. What I'm about to say is a total aside, but I have to get it off my chest and I'm scraping for the kind of open-ended, optimistic, and (most importantly) corny ending of which I'm fond, so this will have to suffice:

The wildlife here is bizarre. I am in a place where birds sound like billy goats.

A Week is Worth a Thousand Words

It would be impossible for me to sum up the week in one sitting, so what I'll do over the next few days is try to write out some of what I've done and couple it with descriptions of those I'm with. For today, though, I want to start with the setting.

Perth is a hell of a place. I've been here a week and I can already tell that it's the kind of town I enjoy. The house I'm in (46 Gratwick Tce Murdoch, WA 5160) is similar to some I remember from Walnut Creek. It's a ranch house built to stay cool in the summer. The front door has a major overhang to avoid direct sunlight heating the house's walls. It's made of yellow brick that has just enough iron in it to cause stains that look a little like burn marks.

Inside is spacious - each of the four housemates has his or her own bedroom. We have three living rooms, a kitchen, and a covered back patio. It's more space than we need or deserve, but I'm not complaining. We have gone grocery shopping so the pantry and fridge are not empty. It's a particularly guilty pleasure for me to sit on the patio and play my guitar since it's warm during the day.

The problem with our house is that it's built to stay cool, and right now, it's downright cold at night. Even at 10 a.m., the house is a good ten degrees colder than it is outside. This means that even at noon time, I can be found wearing my fleece vest if I'm sitting inside, but must shed it immediately if I am to go outside.

Aside from temperature though, the house creates no complaints. It is as close to campus as many houses on The Hill are in Boulder. We are about a two minute walk from a bus stop that can take us 20 minutes to the cool part of town (Fremantle, or simply 'Freo') or 30 minutes up to Perth itself.

The campus of Murdoch Uni (as Aussies are prone to abbreviating 'University') is much smaller than that of CU Boulder, from whence I came. The school only has about half the enrollment, so that makes sense. Bush Court is the center of campus. It's surrounded by concrete buildings housing various student services like banks, the bookshop, and a food court with a restaurant named "Absolutely Kebabulous." No, I didn't make that up.

Wandering campus right now is a strange experience, as only international students, who make up 2000 or Murdoch's 17000 strong student body, are here. Germans, Swedes, Japanese, Chinese... You name it, we've met 'em. Except Australians. Since classes haven't started yet, there are very few Australians around. What's more, since they aren't directly involved in the international student activities, we've had little chance to interact with them. The irony of traveling however many thousand miles I flew to Australia to meet largely Germans is not lost on me.

Our weather has been, to this point, somewhat of a mixed bag. Our first five days were constantly rainy, gray, and generally crummy. But in the last few days, it has become sunny, and the days are very nice. Nights are still cold, and I wake up with cold toes each morning. I know the obvious solution is to wear socks, but I would much rather have cold toes than deal with that odor.

There is Perth (Well, mainly the suburb of Murdoch) in a nutshell. Soon I'll crack it...

Here at last!

I'm in Australia. Internet is a pain to use at present, so I'll be brief:
1. I hate long flights, but it was sooooooooooo worth it.
2. I'm alive and well. Much better than working.
3. The house rules, as do its occupants. Come visit and you'll see.

Holy Internet Outbursts, Batman!

Thank God that's over. Some time around July 4, 2017 will be the next time I have to deal with the State Department, and thank God for that. I finally received my passport, a scant 16 weeks after I applied for it. But now the crippling rage (and corresponding increase in blood pressure) have subsided. What was to be a brilliant letter to the right honorable Tom Tancredo will remain forever as an unfinished draft on my desktop. Whatever. I have the document and that's all that counts.

My student visa arrived within 36 hours of when I applied. I guess the Aussies have their process worked out a little better than our State Department.

Finally receiving my two reticent documents was a welcome relief, much as taking a piano off of one's shoulders tends to be. This relief did have one startling side-effect: it completely de-motivated me at work. Since I realized that my departure is imminent and no longer imperiled by the State Department, it's been very, very hard to focus on bread and bagels.

My motivation has shifted to preparing for the trip. Now, paperwork and projects (like packing) that I should have taken care of prior to now are coming to the forefront of my attention. At times, it feels like there are too many items to handle. I'm not worried. This is how I work best. This is how I live. I am a dealine creature, whether by nature or nurture, and it brings out my A-Game. So, in the immortal words of Wayne Campbell, let me say just this:

Game on.

"Customers" Beware

I have been struggling with the State Department for the last week, trying to get them to expedite my passport. I have been told to hurry up and wait.

I have been told that an e-mail will be sent. I have been told that, at best, some people get lucky. I have been told that, despite having applied more than 15 weeks ago and still needing my passport to apply for a visa, that it is my choice to apply for an appointment at the local passport processing center and pay all my fees again so that I will have a paltry 13 days to apply for my visa.

What's worse, I've been told all of this by State Department "Customer Service Representatives." I want to make something very clear right now:

I am not a "customer" of the State Department. Far from it, I am a tax-paying citizen of the United States of America.

Customers have choices about where their money goes. That's why customers get good service from businesses. There is only one agency from which to get a United States passport. It feels no obligation to be quick or even competent becuase it will not lose a single tax dollar if it fails to accomplish its stated goal.

Customers know that they will be assisted because the wellfare of a business relies upon earning money through good service. The State Department will likely be requesting increased funding as a result of its failure, and tax-payers will likely agree to provide it.

Customers may request refunds if they receive products or services that are not up to par. I'm going to pay for this twice, and that's before taxes are increased to try (and fail) to fix this problem.

I am not a customer - I am a citizen held hostage by tax dollars and incompetence.

Reality Check

As the dates listed on my posts will likely betray, writing here has been a low priority lately. In the meanwhile, this post's brevity will likely betray how little has occurred that has been worth posting about in regards to my trip abroad.

I am still waiting for my passport to arrive. I've waited the 10 weeks suggested by the State Department, checked their website, and even called. Each time, the message seems clear: Wait Loooooooonger. I guess I shouldn't be too surprised - it is the government. Surprise notwithstanding, I am still frustrated that I need to have my passport to complete my CIEE application, my CU application, and, most importantly, the application for my student visa. So, I guess my point here is to say, "Thanks, State Department. You beautifully illustrate the strong correlation between inefficiency and government."

On the opposite side of the coin, of course, is business. I've spent a lot of time at work since school got out. Every minute has translated into some accoutrement or another. For the first couple weeks, each time the clock ticked, I was working on paying for another meal in Australia. After that, it was drinks and whatnot. With luck, I'm working on a wetsuit and surfboard now.

That aside, my departure is approaching very quickly and in a manner that I can only describe as unreal. In two months (eight weeks!) I will be in Perth. But who's counting? I am yet to do any packing. I certainly haven't begun moving out of my house in Boulder. All I know is that my departure is coming up much, much sooner than I can really fathom. Holy cow...