Day 84: Transport troubles, Aboriginal workshop, Eating Croc

Saturday 27th February

Early morning train and bakery 

Planetera aboriginal workshop-Tully

Bus broke down

Cairns

Croc burger

Distance:

Total Distance:

Alarm set for 3:50am. Woken at 3:30am. Out by 4:10am. Bus slightly late, on at 4:30am. Get to train station. Check in luggage. Train late by 20 minutes. Bus driver takes us all to the local bakery. 

He may have done this to spend more time chatting up to young Germans. And to give them a history lesson about their own country. And a geography lesson. And tell them all about what he wanted to do when he finally got to go to Germany-first up was going to Concentration Camps...interesting guy...

The train was cool. Like a plane but with leg room. TV, movies, music, tea and coffee, air con, great views. Well, mostly air con. Once we got far enough north, about 4 hours in, it was getting too hot outside. Components were starting to fail. There was a limit put on speed- making us increasingly late. The air con failed. Noooo!!!

Finally we got to roasting hot Tully. 37C. 

We were here due to a charity that G adventures, our tour company, is in partnership with. They run community projects for local people's wherever they take tours. These give an opportunity for traveller to see more of local life, culture, history, and people. They also offer employment and finance to those who would otherwise be struggling. This is the case for many of the Australian Aboriginal. Not through lack of experience, understanding, or training, it can be made impossible for them to get any jobs. Australia does have something of a racist shadow to its international reputation. This is that shadow brought into the light.

That's the purpose of the cafe at Tully train station. To give local people a chance to run a business for themselves. Have a job and make it a success. They provided a lunch of sandwiches, fruit and cake, with juice, tea, and coffee. Then it was time for our lesson in history and art.

We learnt the story of how fire was brought to earth.

(I'm presently on a bus so I'll try fill you in on exact species another time.)

A giant snake held all of the fire. He was asked by a small black and white bird for some fire. He refused.

The small bird asked each of the birds which had fire-red in their plumage .

First the casawery (I can't spell) and the bush turkey went to get fire. They failed.

Then the red tailed black cockatoo and red shouldered black bird went. They failed.

The King Parrot was then asked. He has a red body and green wings.

He asked a white bird to help, covering him in ash so white would become a black-blue colour (without fire where did they get the ash from? I wasn't enough of a pedant to ask) and made him practice flying techniques like swooping.

The darkened bird crept in and managed to steal a hot coal. As it flew away the snake was enraged. He lashed out, splitting a local hill into two, and embedding one fang in a local river.

The bird, however, wasn't good enough at frying so as not to hit a few trees as he fled. Each of the trees that he hit became the sort of wood that is used in fire making equipment.

Each of us was given a boomerang. We did our best to paint in aboriginal style the story, as the natives did to remember their traditions in place of having a written language. 

Here's my effort!

And Sid 2

I'd love to tell you that afterwards we just went into Cairns, had dinner and went to bed. But that would be boring.

We left on a minibus, waving goodbye to our hosts. It shouldn't have taken too long to get to Cairns. 

Suddenly the bus slowed and came to a stop. We parked up by a beaten up old Holden car with peeling paint and an ominous look, between a field of sugar cane and a creek. As we did so two motocross bikes and an old ute crash off the road and down along an informal track at the edge of the field. 

The radiator was broken, th engine over heated. Another vehicle would be coming to pick us up. Just a little while, wait it out.

We had a little explore. The disregarded look of the abandoned car increased as we found three bullet holes in the rear drivers side door. There was insurance paperwork on the drivers seat. Windows were cracked, but not broken. Someone was stupid enough to try a door. It was open. "Who want to check the boot for a dead body?"

Let's have a look at the sugar cane instead.

We'd been driving and taking trains past sugar cane fields since the day after Sydeny. Imagine how your lawn grass looks to an ant. That's what sugar cane looks like. The central stem in about the thickness of a broom handle. When ripe it can be snapped and the core is a fibrous sweet stick. I tried this 10 years ago when I was in Tanzania (10 years, where does the time go?!)

All this sugar cane is why Aussies eat Vegemite instead of Marmite. Marmite is made from the yeast filtered out during the making of beer. Whereas Vegemite is made from a mold that comes off the sugar canes. Weird Aussie ways.

New bus, trip to Cairns, out to hostel, slight mix up with out dinners but I got it eventually.

Crocodile meat!!!

It was a croc burger. Really nice. Flaky texture of fish but tasted like sweetened chicken. Couldn't eat a lot of it, but lovely as a burger.

Day 41-43: Stewart Island 3 day hike

Friday 15th-Sunday 17th January

My three days (well, nearly, didn't take that long) around the forests of Stewart Island with some really weird, annoying, people.

Distance: 42km

Total Distance: 5175km

Ok, what's that racket? How can you all be such terrible people? It wasn't so bad in the morning or the evening when you were all just grumpy and unsociable. But now...

Is that ticking? Who TICKS in their sleep. Seriously. Ooh, they've stopped. No they've started again. They're like a human metronome. It would be impressive if it wasn't so F!@£?ing annoying.

And not one but two snorers? One normal, rhythmic, quieter snorer, the other an occasional hippo impression thrown in for good measure.

Then there's someone whispering in their sleep. Some how load enough to hear, but not enough to understand.

And evidently you can't sleep through this either, eh? The man apparently sleeping under 3 sleeping bags, made of alternating layers of tin foil and crepe paper who insists in turning over every 5 minutes.

Add screams and gnashing of teeth and this would be a soundscape for an Hieronymus Bosch painting. I'm tempted to complete that ensemble...

Sod it, I'm going to the toilet. Maybe the cool breeze outside will refresh me.

Stewart Island's a lovely place. There are plenty of birds here- many that are rare in the rest of New Zealand. The terrain and forests aren't all that so different from many other parts of the country though- maybe muddier in places, but that's about it. Hence, if we're honest, I'd suggest not doing the long 3 day "Great Walk" here and instead staying in the lovely hostels and hotels of Oban and doing some day walks, or going out fishing on a boat. Two older ladies just came into the hostel having caught 20 blue cod and a shark between them in an afternoon!

But I'm probably biased. Here's my "Great Walk" experience.

Day one was cold, slightly windy, and pretty wet. I wasn't really in the mood, but the walk was due to be short so I could wait until lunch time, when the worst of the weather would be gone. 

As I started out from Oban the skies were grey and dull. Over roads and along beaches I headed for Lee Bay where I'd start the true walk.

From here it was just all forests, small hills, and coast line. Plus sand flies. I hate sand flies.

Not much to report, I'm afraid. 

Tired and wet I was glad to get to the first hut, Port William. Up on the white board there were reports of Kiwi sightings nearby- this is the real reason to come here. There are supposedly a few that appear around the hut, as well as on a beach 20 minutes north. 

A few small groups were sat around the communal tables as I entered. I smiled, said hello, made a joke about how grateful I was to get away from the sand flies... And was met with stoney faces or grumpy boringness. What a crowd. I miss the hostel.

I read for a little while, wrote a little, ate some bread and cheese, then went to bed. Not much else to do.

At midnight I awoke and went out to brush my teeth. On the higher land where the grass met the sand 4 young Germans sat in the dark, waiting for Kiwis to appear.

"Seen anything yet?", I whispered.

"Just Possums", they moaned.

As I made my way to the sink I realised what they meant, damn things are everywhere, right by your feet. Doubting I'd see any kiwis I went back to bed.

The next morning I had less than 6 hours of walking to do. Thus, unlike everyone else, and unlike my usual morning, I had a long lie in. It didn't matter when I left.

As the rest exited I began breakfast (bread, cheese, nutty cereal bar), repacked everything, filled water bottles. Once set I ran outside, slammed on my boots and gaiters as the sandflies descended, then took off before they began to bleed me dry.

A simple muddy stumble over a hill into the forest today.

I do like walking at these times. When one learns to let go of trying to control everything, realising one can't think it all through- my spinal cord kicks in and my legs tell me that they work better on auto pilot. They create a rhythm of their own, I don't have to think about it. I'm orchestrating events, but not controlling them. A rider, not the steed. The world goes by as my legs pound along and my mind is free to think about other things.

By 4 o'clock I was at the second hut, having passed a few groups on the way, climbed a fallen tree, done a little sunbathing, taken photos, seen old timber mill sights, watched the birds, and eaten the last of my jelly babies.

Hmmm...6 hours until bed time. What to do?

I finished my present book, read two more short ones, and started another, whilst finishing my cheese and most of the bread. There were a few less grumpy and boring people around, a mature family having joined us, but it wasn't much of a change.

Eventually I went to bed.

Hut beds are just two large platforms between three walls, one above another, with mattresses for each person, most usually with each having their head closest to the edge.

I'd secured a spot next to the wall, so I'd only have another person on one side, leaving me near to the well insulated wall and ceiling, as well as giving space by the wall for my necessities- light, kindle, phone, Walter Knitty.

Here I slept in my thermals, too warm to need my sleeping bag, listening to the cacophony that was my neighbours. 

In the morning there was only "5 hours" to do back to Oban. Again I was the last to leave the hut, but I passed many groups as I ranked up the gears on the flatter ground, heading towards lunch, a shower, and clean clothes.

Then I stopped.

Kiwi!!!

As documented in my previous post, I stumbled, with every bit of luck I could conjure, upon a kiwi. Well done me.

So in the end it was all worth it. I'd been hoping to see more of the island's birds, and whilst this wasn't true for much of the trip in the end I got my kiwi.

Some say it's the journey, not the destination that's important.

This weekend the journey wasn't fun, but the destination was worth it. 

I've seen a kiwi that lives wild and free.

That's good enough for me.

Day 31: Hostelling

Tuesday 5th January 

Hostel Life

Distance: ~0km

Total Distance: 4385km

Get up, get dressed, go back to bed, pass out so far you forget how to walk, realise you're late, grab what you need, find out that the Post Shop hasn't been open in over a week, so there's a queue out of the door and down the street, rationalise that it's now or never and the queue is moving, slowly, pack presents, organise box, stand in queue, get a shock at the cost (again), send box, realise there's a few small things I've forgotten, will have to send later, get back, find lunch, want to climb the mountain. Want to climb the mountain. Want to climb the...

So this morning didn't go so well. I'd been determined to get the package of presents sent home the day before, but it was a bank holiday here ("Stat Day" in Kiwi) so no post.

Desperation breeds danger. I was desperate to climb Roy's Peak that looks over Wanaka, giving great views at over 1500m above sea level. But it was lunch time, a scorching hot day, my right ankles not 100%, and I wasn't in the mood, even though this was my last day in Wanaka. No. I'm not letting you. Sit down, have tea, listen to Radio 4.

The problem with writing this blog is that I never want to say "I did nothing today". But that's what I do at home, some weekends (where ever home is at the time). Chill out, hide away, do things for me. Most of the "doing nothing" time so far this trip has actually been spent talking to friends and strangers. You meet some great, fascinating, and terrifying people here, as well as staying in some of the best and worst hostels.

The hostel in Wanaka is owned by an old man who was an extra in The Hobbit. He has a pretty rough sense of humour, like many farmers I know, which most people laughed off, but made on German woman very upset. Cheer up luv, don't get your knickers in a twist.

There were a lot of German backpackers, of course, but we also had an old American gentleman staying with us. In his retirement he had decided to make a habit of spending three months a year living in sunny Wanaka, away from the harsh northern winter. He was living in the hostel, but had found a small job working a few hours a day as a house keeper and we soon to move moving in with a family, occupying their spare room. He was enjoying hostel life, learning a little German, learning about where each visitor came from, watching his few DVDs on European history, which he was very interested in, practicing the piano at the local church, taking the short walk to the supmarket where they have free wifi, having an afternoon nap in his leopard print silk pyjama suit with eye cover.

In Rotorua I loved that the budget hostel there has its own geothermaly heated hot tub. I spent an evening talking to an Irish nurse who was out here to work on the fruit farms. Years ago they'd needed tourists to come in to do the picking, paying a reasonable wage for a few hours and the government giving a visa extension. Now, however, she was finding that farms could easily fill their labour force with people on gap years. Quite upset about it all she was struggling to get the money together to buy a car and travel elsewhere for work. There was a sheep farm she knew of that might employ her for a while.

Where did I mention the Swedish firefighter? He was funny fella. Working his way south he had a job offer as an oper (how do you spell it? Oh-Pear. Nanny. He was Macho Poppins), for a British couple on the South Island. Two boys, a multitude of sports to keep them busy, and now a firefighter to get them there. He was full of stupid funny stories of living in a fire station, with all the practical jokes that where played and wild nights had.

I love BBH. Budget Backpackers and Hostels. A New Zealand scheme collecting all the budget hostels  in one system, with a handy website, useful information, and a discount card. Most of the places I've stayed in have been effectively a large home, with only a few beds, a fully equipped kitchen, and lovely travellers. If not organised there's usually impromptu film nights or games, or someone suggests a local event to go to. Perhaps you make new friends, or meet people you've seen before in this small country. People find work, sell and buy cars, discover new experiences, and one can always ask the staff for local info.

Beats hell out of some of the larger hostels. Kiwi Experience (woo, yeh, *whistle*) and Stray (boo, hiss) are the two biggest hop on hop off tour coach operators in NZ. They both offer accommodation for your first night at every place they stop- still have to pay for it, but they've got it prebooked. So they need places that will have 55 beds available every night for them, and that the hostel can afford for these beds to be occasionally empty. Hence we stay in the largest hostels, with hundreds of beds, or purpose built accommodation. Some of these are great, but some are...not bad. For one night. But annoying. Why aren't there any proper tin openers? Or enough pots and pans? Why are the beds so soft they screw up my back? You've spent huge money on this place and I can't find a tea cup. I couldn't stay in these big places for long. They're OK. But a nice homely place is better. 20 guests instead of 200. People you can talk to and get to know.

On the other hand I've just walked into the kitchen at Nomads hostel in Queenstown and bumped into the Danish guys from Westport and a Dutch girl from the North Island. Travelling with the Kiwi Bus does mean that you bump into the same people time and again. Even if you don't chat much you get to know one another over time, travelling he same route, doing the same activities. It's a small country.