Advertisement
Published: January 8th 2010
Edit Blog Post
My flight to Darwin was an unsociable over-nighter, leaving just before midnight and arriving at 3am. I was lucky enough to be the only person in my row, so I stretched out and had a little sleep. Remarkably there was no big fanfare of a welcome home to Australia - did Darwin not realize who I was? After being away from Australia for so long, and travelling such a long a circuitous route to return, I thought I could have expected at least a brass band and a speech from the mayor. The weather did not forget me, however, for there was a tremendous rain storm soon after I arrived; a huge tropical downpour that seemed to come from nowhere, and disappeared just as quickly. The heat too was impressive, as was the all-pervading, comforting smell of eucalyptus.
I killed some time by napping at the airport, until it was a reasonable hour and I could catch a bus into the centre of the city to find a hostel. I say ‘city’, which it is, but Darwin appeared to me to be so compact, that ‘small country town’ may be a better description. I was surprised at its size, but
liked it. To me Darwin had a comfortable, manageable air about it. It was right on an impressive coast/harbor, and had some surprisingly green parkland. What stood out for me, though, were the Australians.
If you are Australian, and easily offended, please either do not read this paragraph, or do not take it too seriously - it is merely the first impressions of an ex-pat uncertain about returning to his native soil. All the Australians I encountered seemed coarse: everyone swore and was covered in colourful tattoos, the men all had non-ironic moustaches and walked about with their mouths open, the women walked like they had just fallen off a horse (yet no horses were to be seen). I know I risked danger by ordering a glass of Sauvignon Blanc at the bar. It was a huge culture shock, and I did not feel at all at home. It was a shock, but as I later moved south into less tropical climes, I became more assured that it was merely the way people are up north, rather than being truly indicative of all Australians. Or was it…? No, it was. I hope. Another problem with entering yet another
new country on my travels was that I felt really confused with my money calculations. How much was $23 worth? Did they mean 23,000, which in Indonesia would have been UK 1.50, and about the same in Iran, or what was it in $US - but hang on a minute: there was no need to convert, because this was the currency I was brought up with. I was back in Australia, remember. $23 meant $23 (although I was really spending hard-earned pounds, and the exchange rate would have been much better if I had been spending dollars in the UK).
When I tried to check in at a hostel I encountered an usual situation. The rule was that they did not accept Australian backpackers. This was technically what I was, despite my feelings at the time of Australia being a foreign country. I didn’t ask, but I assumed the rule was to prevent undesirable Aussies taking over. Eventually I convinced them to accept me as an honorary foreigner, and I promised not to trash the place. Fortunately, as a nominal alien, I felt safe in sharing a room with a Japanese student and a French backpacker. And there were
very nice Canadians in the pool, who had a lovely way of saying ‘outback’.
I walked through the main park at sunset. The park was immaculately groomed, with green, green grass, thriving palm trees and attending honey-coloured stone houses. There were gorgeous views of a calm bay with loitering ships. I walked down to the ‘beach’ - some rocks where the water gently lapped under overhanging trees. I was surprised to spot people sitting alone, hidden in among the rocks, silently staring out to the sun setting over the sparkling sea. Perhaps they were croc spotting? I saw the newly developed waterfront area from a distance, and, as it was getting dark, I resolved to return the next day as it looked promising. I walked through the main mall, a pedestrianised street, which lived up to the expectations I gained from the Canadians, who described it as just souvenir shops.
Next morning I woke up feeling sick - at first I assumed it was malaria. I had stopped taking my pills, as in the end I had not passed through any significant malarial regions. But most likely it was a combination of too much sun over the last
couple of days, too little regular sleep over the past two months (Sri Lanka was the exception) and too much pizza the evening before. I spent a slow morning blogging at the Roma Café, across the road from the hostel. I ordered a short black, and felt reassured that Australia must be a good country to make such a coffee consistently well, even in this little country town in the tropics. A short black is an espresso, by the way.
I was also trying to plan my exit from Darwin, to travel the X thousand kms to the east coast, the next-nearest place of civilization. But how should I travel? Buses? Three days journey - bearable, after my experiences, but it would cost an incredible $500 just to get to the next nearest city, so it was out of my budget. Getting a ride from a fellow traveller? Yes, possible, but there did not seem to be any travelling at the moment. The cards on the notice board of the hostel were either well out of date, or the people had just left. The internet notice boards were similarly not promising. Buy a car? Hmmm … no, I don’t think so.
Reluctantly I looked at flights, realizing that my preference for surface travel had become compromised by limited funds. On the positive side, it meant I would see my family sooner, get some decent sleep and food, and experience some sort of stability that in time would take away that moment every morning when I firstly wonder, “Where in the world am I?” And soon after, “Why?” And of course there was the little matter of getting going on my next career - writing music. This in desire in particular has been growing stronger at such a rate that I fear putting if off much longer would do me irreparable harm.
I did find a flight for a reasonable price, leaving Darwin a day-and-a-half later at the unsociable hour of 1.30am and arriving in Brisbane about four hours later. Before I booked it I had a swim in the hostel pool to mull over the importance of my decision to fly, and decided of course to do it and get on with my life. Going back to the website I found that the price for that flight has literally doubled - a message for me to rethink flying? If it was I didn’t heed it, and booked the same flight, but a day later, but still at an inflated price.
I made the short walk to the waterfront, feeling lees malarial. Past the pocket-sized Anglican Cathedral, with its solid and friendly-looking stone entrance, and over the quiet and clean lines of the wooden bridge at the end of Smith Street. Down the five levels in the speedy glass lift, with the great views over the huge swimming lagoon and the amazing wave pool - that pool with extraordinarily clear blue water, which was churned into two-metre waves for the enjoyment all who can pay $5 to splash about in it.
I bought a pair of swimming goggles, a rubber-band thing to put on my head to keep my hair out of my eyes, and some zinc cream for my burnt nose (I feel very Australian - or “Strain”, as Chris from Singapore would have said - when I put that on). I went down to the lagoon for some proper swimming, that I hadn’t done since lunchtime on my last day of work in July, in long-forgotten East Ham (what a world away from an London East End council swimming pool this open air, salt water lagoon was, where I warned to look out for ‘stingers’ instead of terrorist bombs).
Later, in an attempt to save money, now I realized just how strong the Aussie dollar was against the pound, I bought some food at the supermarket and make my own supper. I blogged by the pool - with that glass of white wine I ordered safely.
Advertisement
Tot: 0.133s; Tpl: 0.012s; cc: 10; qc: 46; dbt: 0.0906s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.1mb