Australia Week 3

I'm going to do something a bit out of character with this post: write in reverse chronological order. Well, not entirely, but just a bit so I can share with you the more memorable, less disheartening experience first rather than depress or bore you with my complaints about Noosa to start. If anything, I'm just following journalists' inverted pyramid organization that puts the most important information at the beginning of the article. Might as well write in accordance with the guidelines of my future career, right?

When Brianna and I were planning our route, I let her for the most part grab hold of the reigns since this trip is primarily her post-graduation escape before entering the real world (I thankfully still have three more in the la-la-land of college). So, when we skypyed to choose which hostels to stay at, and she said she wanted to plan the entire itinerary around a farm stay at a cattle ranch called Myella in Barelaba, Queensland, I shrugged and happily agreed. Animals are fun and I could never turn down fresh beef.

Myella proved to be much more than just a rural area used to raise animals for sale and slaughter. Yes, the have 300 cattle grazing their 1,068 hectare ranch, and, yes, all the sausage, steaks and beef patties I ate were once the wide-eyed, curious cattle whose grey tongues would curl around the stalks of grass I held out. But, just as Lyn Eather intended when they converted part of her family's business into a farmstay in 1993, Myella shows its visitors truly the way of life of a small-scale, Australian cattle farm. For the first four of five days of our stay, Brianna and I were the only lodgers there solely for the farmstay, so Lyn and another employee, Shane, divided most of the labor between the two of us. We were responsible for collecting the horses in their stalls from their grazing area to feed them a mixture of buckwheat and medicated meal, milk the cows, collect chicken eggs, and feed the rehabilitated cockatoo. 

Brianna and my most important responsibility, though, concerned a baby kangaroo named Bendy. Bendy was found by a family on the side of the road after a car had killed his mother. The car also ran over, broke and bent his foot, hence the name Bendy. He is about two feet tall with grey fur with brown highlights and dark brown eyes barely discernible from his seemingly dilated pupils. He spends his time gently hopping around the farmyard next to the chicken coop and the dairy cow paddock nibbling on grass, laying pressed hard into the rectangular, metal gate around the fire pit, or standing fully erect sucking on his fingers like a baby with its thumb constantly twisting his ears forward and back to catch every sound passing through. Within a day of staying there, we practically adopted him, feeding him kanagroo milk formula three times a day from a bottle. He'd follow us around everywhere, whether we were lying on the grass reading or walking through the cattle paddocks. He even let us scoop him up under his tail and craddle him on his back. No matter if we scratched his back or his stomach, carried him or let him bound by our side, he always resorted to his perfect, upright posture with his fingers in his mouth. If it weren't for customs, Brianna and I no doubt would've taken him home to raise half the year in upstate New York with her and half in Colorado with me. Who knows, maybe he'd be the first kangaroo to learn to ski!

During the day when we weren't tending to our animals, we spent most of our time riding horses and dirt bikes. I've only ridden a horse about five times, and the last time I did was when I was probably eight years old in Colorado. When my family and I were waiting for the ranch owners to give us our horses, I whispered to my mom, “I hope I don't get that horse.” That horse was cement colored with dark brown spots splattered around its shoulders, and only had one eye. Of course, which horse do I get? The one without both of its eyes. Every rocky slope we went down, my horse's hooves would slip uncontrollably and jerk me to the edge of the saddle. Eventually, I started crying and continued until we finished our loop around the farm. Although I never had qualms about riding a horse afterwards, my last experience to say the least was not ideal.

Good news, I didn't end up in tears this time. In fact, if anything, my experience on my speckled shell white horse, Atlantic, bolstered greatly the respect I have for ranchers herding their cattle by horse. When I watched Shane on his horse, he conveyed assertively and smoothly to his horse where exactly he wanted to be, how slow he wanted to walk or how fast to trot, and whether or not it was the proper time to stop for grass, all while recounting Australian military history, farming practices and personal tales without a single hesitant glance at his reigns. Meanwhile, Brianna and my passivity from lack of experience forced us to accept inferiority to our horses. They'd ignore our steering commands and led us into a dense patch of leaves, launch into a trot as if racing with each other, and pull harder down on the reigns if we tried to deny their snack time. Part of me feels a bit ashamed for not trying harder to gain respect form this horse, but even just from the off-beat rhythm by which I bounced on and off Atlantic when he trotted, the horse could read lucidly my inexperience. Regardless of my competency, just watching the relationship grounded in mutual respect of a serious rider and a competent horse is an inspiring example of mutualism between humans and an intelligent, strong animal that has been the basis for most of the early advances in our civilization.

My dirt bike, I think, liked me a bit more than the horse even though I dropped it while walking it down a hill before even learning how to ride it. As the rain steadily pitter-pattered on the tin roof of the garage (for the first time there since April, might I add), Shane taught us the basic functions and controls of the motor bikes. The bikes were manual, which wasn't an issue for me since I drive manual at home, but added yet another layer of confusion for Brianna. We didn't need to use the clutch to shift to any gear except for first from neutral, which of course is the most sensitive switch. I can't count how many times Brianna stalled during that shift. I don't blame her, since when I learned stick shift at home, my dad and I spent an hour in the middle school parking lot shifting from neutral to first, afterwhich I swore I would never drive stick again. I had my occasional stall too, but only when I came to a full stop and didn't down shift all the way.

At dinner the night we first rode, the contractors who stayed at the farm (who all saw me drop the bike) asked with a snicker how our lesson was, expecting us to recount tales of falling face first into the mud on the slick, dirt driveway on which we spent the afternoon doing laps. Granted the shins of our jeans were died completely orange from the clay-colored gravel, so they did have reason to believe our afternoon was spent deflecting scolds of disappointment from Shane. Instead, though, we simply smiled and replied, “Neither of us fell.” 

The contractors all shook their heads and blink hard in disbelief that these two, relatively small American girls, one of which dropped the bike within two minutes of touching it, had mastered the bikes. The next night, when they asked us what we had done that day, we told them, again, with pride that we had graduated from laps on the driveway in 3^rd and 4^th gear to the 7 km dirt bike track that ran through the cattle paddock in 5^th (the highest) gear. I wish they could've witnessed us standing up tall with our shoulders parallel to the handlebars as the bike cruised at 40 km/hr over the dried mud holes and convexities of the track. We even surprised the cows on the track, who would skittishly gallop away from these mysterious figures whose identity was indiscernible because of bulky, yellow race helmets. 

Despite their low expectations of our dirt biking abilities, Brianna and I made friends the contractors, three in particular, who Lyn would cook breakfast for at five in the morning and would return at night for dinner. They'd tease us about not nursing Bendy properly, remind us of the proper Australian slang words used to replace normal English words (ie. Thongs not flip-flops, State of Union not rugby), and chastise us for 'taking all of the food' even though their plates looked more like volcanoes. Brianna and I matched their sarcasm and threw all their jokes right back at them. I guess they appreciated it since on the last night, two of them taught (well, tried to) us to crack a whip (I ended the night with a couple quiet cracks and a red ear). 

In addition to the contractors, a group of local aboriginals were part of a workshop-documentary about becoming teaching aids in aboriginal towns. For Brianna and I, these conversations allowed us to see the white-aboriginal relationship and compare it to the white-Native American relationship in the United States. I found that the Australian government, on paper, tries to support and advance the aboriginals but has lost a bit of hope in their ability to change (not to say the should or should not, I'm merely recording inferences). For the aboriginals and the Australians working with them, we were able to debunk countless American stereotypes, like the famous notion that everyone in New Jersey is like Snooki and J-Wow and that all arrests are like those in Cops. 

All these experiences wouldn't have been possible without the hospitality and warmth of both Shane and Lyn. Shane not once faltered in patience with us, no matter how obvious of a question I asked or how large of a dent Brianna made in the motor bike when she crashed into a barb wire fence. No matter what, he had a story to tell from his service in the military, from the ignorance of a guest (one girl arrived to her motor bike lesson in a bikini), or from his interactions with the farm animals. If it weren't for the lure of adrenaline from the motor bikes Sunday and Monday when Shane had his days off, we probably would've wandered into the bull's paddock and broken a couple of ribs.

 Of course I have to thank Lyn as well, who cooked us incredible meals night after night, from homemade sausages with a sweet and regular potato bake to bacon meatloaf with string bean casserole. She even tolerated 10 km of running and listening to me blabber about whatever entered my stream of consciousness. I guess I shouldn't say tolerated since by the end, she could call her brother-in-law bragging about her accomplishment and I could walk away with an invaluable life-lesson to add to my collection from yet another corner of the world. Plus, she may have gotten us on the Youth Hostel of Australia website with a photoshoot with Brianna, Bendy, the orange YHA sign and I. Because of them and the rest of the Eather family, Brianna and I experienced five-star quality hospitality, gained a new furry family member, became double the bad-asses by learning to dirt bike, and may become famous among backpackers, when all we asked for was a bed to sleep in and a cow to milk. Oh, and they stretched this signature smile wide across my face. Thank you Myella. 

Just to confuse you (maybe even more), back track nine days to June 7^th. Please? For me? K thanks.

With our minds mellowed by the peace and love reverberating throughout Nimbin, Brianna and I were ready to drift into a long sleep for our 14 hour bus ride to Noosa. Even hippie vibes as strong as those straight from the spirits hiding in the Nimbin museum couldn't repel the momentous frustration thrust upon us by multiple sections of the Australian transit system the next 12 hours. We took the hour and a half bus ride from Nimbin to Byron Bay, then the four hour ride to Brisbane. We knew we had a layover in Brisbane, so we hopped off the bus at 7:25 PM, and gathered our bags. I noticed that the Greyhound Australia ticket desk was closed, so I asked our driver how we knew which gate the bus to Noosa would depart from. “Oh, well that bus doesn't leave until 7:30 AM tomorrow morning. There are some hostels about 500 meters up the hill from here that you can stay at,” the driver said. We didn't move, and I dropped my backpack and cooler of food without even thinking.

There was no way we were wasting twelve hours at a hostel we had already stayed at just to wake up early the next morning to drive three hours to Noosa, especially since the 500 m hill was more like a Colorado 14er with our packs on. I would have slept in the transit station before wasting my money and energy on that hostel. We needed an alternative: the train. So, we went up to the train ticket desk and told the employee we needed to get to Noosa. He handed us tickets to Nambor, and told us we would have to take a cab from there to Noosa which inevitably would be expensive. Fine. Don't care. Just get me to Noosa. As soon as we got on the train, though, the conductor told us we had to get off two stops later because there was track construction. Seriously? We hadn't even gotten to Nambor and were already diverted to yet another bus. And, of course, when we finally arrive in Nambor at 10:30 PM, there isn't a taxi in sight and the bus driver is snickering at us in the corner for our 'ignorance.' I wanted to throw my pack at him and yell, “I'm a stupid American, okay I know!” I restrained myself, though, knowing he was our ticket of information out of here. He gave us the number for a taxi that cost over $100, but at least we made it to our hostel.

Not so fast. Our hostel room was canceled since we had expected to arrive the next morning. I was ready to flop on the couch in their TV room or set up my hammock in a train next to their parking lot at this point. For the first time on this trip, nothing had gone as planned. Thankfully, even after overbooking this particular night, someone had given up their room last minute, so we, for the next two nights in Noosa, slept in a private, double room 100 m from the beach. The next morning when my parents answered my Facetime, I told them what had happened, and my mom's response was, “Well, you look pretty awful.” Thanks Mom. I never would've guessed I'd have bags under my squinty eyes after 8 hours of torturous travel.

To say the least, Noosa didn't start well, nor did it continue well. It rained the next day at the beach, and we hid in our room with Breaking Bad and ravioli from the Byron Bay farmer's market that night. Oh, and the next day, when we were kayaking through the Noosa Everglades, it not only poured the entire day, but the wind was also howling and the waves were unbearable choppy. We managed to kayak for four hours, three of which were spent charging against the wind, current and rain to retreat to the parking lot two hours before we expected to be picked up. Although we laughed away the rain drops pelting us in the face with a lengthy photo shoot, Noosa was still not our friend. 

Our next stop was Hervey Bay, which we realized was mostly used as a gateway to the famous Great Barrier Reef site, Fraiser Island, not a destination itself. We managed to make it a destination, though, after meandering cluelessly around the marina before finding a...er...beach. This beach had neither waves nor people. Seriously. I don't know whether it was because it was winter or weekdays, but we were alone on the beach all three days. It was truly wonderful, though. I could read my mountaineering book, Epic, without having to reread a sentence four times over because I instinctively started to eavesdrop on a conversation between a couple or a fight between a mother and her child. I could fall asleep without fear of my Australian lover that Brianna and I have been searching for seeing me drool onto my towel. And I could take selfies with pelicans as I wanted without a surf boarder scaring them away as the rode a wave onto the shore. Especially with our cruiser bikes we rented to bike to the beach every day, we returned to our zen contentness with the simplicity of a calm life we had captured in Nimbin. 

I learned a couple things this week. First of all that I will never, no matter how many people tell me how wonderful the beaches are and even though I saw a wild koala, return to Noosa. Noosa is cursed, and that's that. I also learned that non-tourist towns can either be a relaxing treat or a frightening burden. Hervey Bay and Rockhampton, I'm talking about you here. And lastly, I have added Myella to my forever growing list of places home to strikingly amiable people that have welcomed me into their world so different from my own. I'm just surprised I made it back to the Greyhound Station in Rockhampton after staying at Myella with Brianna at my side and without our kangaroo friend, Bendy, tucked away in one of our packs. 

For more information on Myella, check out their website at http://myella.weebly.com/

Australia Week 2

We arrived in Byron Bay late the night of June 2nd, slept off our Greyhound Bus grogginess and headed for the beach early the next morning. As we walked towards the Main Beach with towels, sunscreen and books stuffedin our hemp bag, I immediately was able to gauge the type of people living in and the culture of Byron Bay. It is the quintessential surfer town. The streets are lined with shops selling Quiksilver, Billabong, and the like; Cars with as many surf boards as possible stacked on the racks occupy every parking space; and, of course, few people bother to wear shoes so as to not fill them with sand. I can definitely fit in here, I thought, except one thing must change: I need to learn to surf.

 

This sense of urgency exponentially increased as Brianna and I laid on the beach watching locals and out-of-towners surf on the eastern side f the Main Beach. By no means were any of these surfers of professional quality, nor would the size of the waves permit any sort of exhibition of professional talents. There was something so gracious about their calm intensity, though, that drew my mind beyond simply wanting to live the Jack Johnson-esque surfer life. My appreciation could only extend as far as what I like to call the "I wish" phase. I wish I had a board of my own to carry atop my head across the parking lot to the beach. I wish I knew how to crouch low inside a curling wave with my hand brushing the water beside me. I wish I could just live this life. 

For the morning, the dream of surfing would have to be postponed, but something else just as wonderful compensated for the delay. Many of my summer childhood memories are from the days my family spent at Bethany Beach in Delaware, but my opinion of the beach was greatly tainted in my middle school years by a distaste for the rough crunch of sand between my toes. My trip to Greece last summer, though, reignited that childish love for salt water and sand. When I dove into the water at the Main Beach in Byron, that flame began to burn with an even greater intensity. I tread in the water, cupping my hands so as to collect as much of it as possible. When I wave neared, I'd launch myself upwards over its crest, or dive below the gurgling foam. I'd wait until the roar above me silenced, and I no longer felt the rush of the current dragging me backwards before coming up again for air. I'd sweep my hair from my face, close my eyes, and once again find comfort in the full body embrace of the water. 

I looked over at Brianna reading on the beach after about a half an hour playing games with the waves, and was instantly drawn to the heat radiating from the spaces between each grain of sand the sun could successfully penetrate. I swam towards the shore, letting the velocity of each wave drive me further inland. I laid down on my towel, clutched a fist-full of sand, and let the sparkling remains of the ocean water evaporate from my skin. I could've stayed in the water for hours, but my tired legs happily accepted the rest and clung to the sand as I gradually fell asleep.

I knew Byron had to be the place to surpass this phase and enter a reality. It started, of course, with surf lessons. Later in the afternoon, Brianna and I hopped in a van with two Germans, one French, two Australians and our instructor to drive to Lennox Beach in Lennox Head where we would have our lesson. As we drove there, our instructor told us that the winner of The Quiksilver Pro surfing competition in New York, the first of its kind on the east coast that gave the winner an unprecedented $1 million cash prize, grew up surfing on Lennox Beach. In my mind, I pictured myself standing up on my first try, then riding my first real wave, and finally stepping onto a first place podium with a trophy and oversized check in my hands. For a moment, I could feel the rush of glory from such a lifestyle. 

But, alas, I did not stand up my first try. I did my second, but out of pure luck, not due to mastery of technique. Even though the ride on what I hesitate to call a wave since it wasn't even a foot high, I couldn't wait for the next wave to come for another attempt. I'd fail a bunch of times, then succeed, then fail again. With each repetition, my subconscious technique to-do list grew longer and longer until, eventually, my only preoccupation was not to try to recollect all of what our instructor had taught us, but rather to translate such thoughts into actions. Wait for a wave curling with white foam, then mount your board with your hands shoulder-width apart, chest upon, and the underside of your left toes pressed onto the board. Ride the wave longer than you feel comfortable so as to feel any of the choppiness and unevenness. Then finally, push off your left foot, drive your right foot about 10 inches forward, and plant your left two feet in front of your right. But don't rush, and keep your eyes forward, not down. Towards the end of the day, these instructions flowed from my brain down through my arms and into my toes. My muscles finally began to retain the memories I shot at them. 

After about two and a half hours of falling and cheering, we jumped in the tea tree lake on the other side of the dirt parking lot. The roots of the tea trees, which are native to Queensland, surrounding the lake excrete their oils into the water, turning it a dark red sort of like the color of certain liquid iodine solutions. The oil is considered an essential oil, and is really good for hair and skin. While the other people in our group reluctantly unzipped their wetsuits in fear of a rush of shivers (for this is Australian winter, and they seem to think even 65 degrees F is cold), Brianna and I continually dunked under the dark water embracing the refreshing chill. We drove back and celebrated our (few) successes with blonde ales from a local brewery. 

Little did I know that this was just the start of the weaving of this new lifestyle into my own. The next morning, I had planned on going to a yoga class at 6:30 AM on the beach. I jogged (barefoot of course!) from our hostel to the beach and waited for the teacher to arrive. I sat on the grass just above the start of the sand, and watched the sky transform from color to color as the sun rose. When it was low, its deep pink rays reflected off the ripples far off shore and illuminated the sky. And as I watched these ripples grow into waves, I suddenly saw a grey triangle dip out of and back into the water about 20 feet off shore. It can't be, I thought. But then I saw it again, and again. It was two dolphins. They played in the reflection of the sun, not once exposing the heads. A girl from Byron Bay sitting next to me said this was the closest she had ever seen dolphins to the shore on this beach. Maybe they were repaying me for waking up at 6:00 AM instead of sleeping until 10 AM as my roommates planned to do.

As the sun raised higher, this pink diffused into a burnt orange, and eventually a near-blinding yellow filtered by a thin layer of clouds. By this point it was already 6:40, and I had little hopes the teacher would arrive anytime soon. I valued indefinitely this early morning glow, don't get me wrong, but sleeping also has its perks. So I went on what I like to call an angry run. Basically, the best outlet for me for frustration is exercise, either in the form of weight-lifting or running. Since I had zero resources for the former, I settled for the latter. I threw my shoes and bag in a bush near the entrance to the beach, and took off down the shore with wet sand as my only means of foot support. 

In the beginning, I noticed only the occasional arm of a swimmer paddle through the water. As I ran farther east and up the stairs of the promontory marking the eastern most point in Australia, I saw more and more surfers paddling out towards the waves adjacent to a band of rocks. They floated tranquilly, ignoring the violent crashes of the waves on the jagged rocks beside them and assessing each wave as it curled towards them. They'd glide over six or seven waves before turning around and paddling towards the shore. As soon as the first one stood up, I was able to connect instantly and ride the wave vicariously through their energies. I felt the temptation to stand up early, and had to thwart my anxious impatience. The little muscles in my ankles fired on and off as the surfers transferred their weight from their heels to their toes to carve into the water. I wanted to jump off the promontory, over the rocks and 50 feet down into the water to join them, whether to surf or to just witness their craft closer up. With the salt in the water calling to me, I reluctantly left my perfect viewing spot and the surfers that made me value infinitely more the playful, yet calmly intense surfer culture that makes up Byron Bay. I no longer said I wish I could live here, but rather I can live here.

The next morning, we grazed through the local farmer's market for groceries and breakfast and bid goodbye to our beloved Byron Bay. We uprooted for the next stop on our Australian adventure, Nimbin, which was an hour and a half bus ride west from Byron Bay. I had read about Nimbin in the Lonely Planet Australia book, and could only piece together ambiguous fragments of what we should expect. Even now when I asked Brianna how she would describe Nimbin, she said, "I don't really think there is really a way to describe it." So, I'll try my best, but you'll all probably be left with as many questions as I had before experiencing it first hand.

Nimbin has a population of only 350 people, but a culture contained within its main street alone that is rich enough to serve thousands. All the locals told us that our first stop on the main street had to be the Nimbin History Museum. Neither Brianna nor I are all that enamored by museums and usually leave those trips to when we are with our moms; but, just as with the rest of the town, no one could aptly describe the museum except by saying, “It's not like any museum you've ever been to or will ever go to.” As soon as we saw the wooden sign with the museum name painted in white hanging from the awning outside the entrance, we knew this museum would be more of an adventure than an educational experience. 

When we walked in, the lights were dimmed, and we were greeted by a sign that read “Please walk the Mseum Rainbow Serpent's path thru 8 rooms of history. Go left at the 3^rd Kombi, following the timeline...It's a living museum and you are now part of it.” It continued in small letters with “parental guidance may be needed for occasional coarse language and offensive behavior largely 'cos of the STUPID american war on pain relieving HERBS.” Brianna and I looked disconcertingly at each other and then at the plethora of quotations, voo-doo-like dolls, paintings, relics, Volkswagons, and other miscellaneous items representing Nimbin's history. Where the heck were we and why have we never been here before?

The museum is no doubt ridiculous and cluttered, but such a description only encompasses the surface of what the museum is trying to accomplish. After reading all the quotes from Rastafarian and peace historical figures, watching short videos on Western infiltration of native Australian's lands, and learning about how the native population used for hundreds of years plants like marijuana and mushrooms for medicinal purposes, it was clear the museum was juxtaposing the Western and native Australian worlds in the context of the drug war. Yes, Nimbin's history, according to this museum, is heavily influenced by the use of herbs generally considered illegal drugs by Western standards, but they emphasize that this use is by no means analogous to the cartels in South America, the deaths and addictions spurring from non-herbal drugs like heroin or methamphetamine, and the stigma that drugs equate to a lack of productivity and ambition. Especially since I live in Colorado where marijuana is legal and these associations are gradually disappearing, I quickly familiarized myself with the type of culture such acceptance breeds.

After the museum, we went to the Rainbow Cafe, which was the first cafe opened in Nimbin. Immediately, the culture I had pieced together from the contents of the museum displayed itself. The walls were streaked with blue, green, red, orange, yellow and purple, and behind the cafe was a garden filled with tables and chairs where it seemed like most everyone in the community gathered around coffees, salads and rolling papers. The cashier sparked conversations with local souvenir shop owners, barefoot moms with dreadlocks, children riding in on skateboards wearing hemp sweaters, and even with us. For the first time, I felt preppy even in , but no one there seemed to care. To use a language fitting of Nimbin, they were just stoked they had more people with whom they could share their community and beliefs.

We strolled through the shops, trying on crazy hats, smelling all the herbal soaps and oil extracts, and filing through the intricate designs at the Nimbin Candle Factory. Most every one was burning incense, so each time I walked in and out the door, I inhaled deeply so as to hold the calming scent in my nose until the next shop. The signature store in Nimbin, though, is the Hemp Embassy. The Hemp Embassy is the only hemp advocate in all of Australia. Their building is divided between a shop selling everything hemp from bags and clothes, to how-to-grow books and bags of seeds, and a hemp cafe. They even have fake certificates from Colorado authorizing the holder to grow x number of hemp and/or marijuana plants. 

 

Our hostel was tucked away behind a cattle farm in the middle of the rainforest. In accordance with the Nimbin theme, we didn't sleep in a dorm room or even beds, but rather on a mattress on the floor inside a tee-pee with three other people. It sat at the edge of the fence indicating the confines of the hostel's property, and was right next to chair hammocks that looked out on the lush green mountains of the eastern Australian rainforest. The best part about the tee-pee: it was lit by green and red Christmas lights that changed between different flashing patterns. It was the perfect ambiance for our late night Breaking Bad marathons.

To no surprise, the sense of community at this hostel exceeded that of all the hostels we have stayed at and probably any of our future ones. Both nights we were there, a guy staying there bought an enormous amount of meat and fish to throw a free Aussie barbeque for everyone at the hostel. As he and some of the hostel employees grilled pork chops, chicken kebabs, T-bones, lamb chops, prawns, sausages, and corn, most everyone staying at the hostel sat drinking beers and ciders watching the rounds of pool games. When I told the others that I was originally from Connecticut but lived in Colorado, their jaws dropped and eyes widened. Within seconds, I was bombarded with questions about the politics, economics, public opinion and availability of marijuana in Colorado. Many times when I have this conversation in the United States, it centers around availability; but here, it focused on the change in both political and economic atmosphere in Colorado. These people weren't just ignorant stoners, but rather people with a vested interest and educated opinion on a substance rising as a formidable good in markets of all sizes. Of course, the conversation ventured beyond this topic, but not once veered away from complete genuinity and openness. It truly exemplified one of the driving reasons for why I started this blog: it showed how food fosters dialogue of all sorts between family members and strangers alike. There's no material good that can replace nor any camera that can capture such moments.

We hated to tell everyone at the barbeque that we were leaving the next day, but our journey is far from over. Who knows, maybe when I come back, Nimbin will legally be the Colorado of Australia.

Australia Week 1

Now, normally with this blog, I recap an entire trip or event in one post. It's always a challenge for me to do so, because I struggle to force myself to omit certain details so that my post isn't rambling on and on until I suddenly reach a staggering 5,000 words. Then you all just get bored and stop reading. That's definitely not my goal. Just like with a good meal, I want every bite of what I right to be something new and interesting, a taste so surprising that my diners want to keep reaching back for another bite until all of a sudden, the plate is completely empty of any meat, grain, vegetable or sauce.

I don't think I could confine this trip to Australia with my friend from Boston, Brianna, to even an eleven-course meal at the famous fish restaurant in NYC, Per Se, in one sitting. It is longer than any trip I have ever been on, and, more importantly, not like anything I have ever done before. As I talked over with my parents how I could document it properly, the conclusion I always reverted back to was a weekly post as opposed to one giant one in which my readers grow so intimidated by the length of the piece that all the events of the second half of the trip would get wash away in the details of the first. I like to think I take advantage of every moment, particularly in an adventure such as this, and would feel ashamed if I allowed certain parts to aggressively dominate my story. So, here's part one.

After months of telling friends who planned to spend their summers working of my plans, after weeks of convincing my mom that we didn't necessarily need a day-by-day schedule and after what felt like days of packing miscellaneous items in my 75 liter Osprey pack, I'm finally here. My long-time family friend from Boston, Brianna, also managed to arrive despite a delayed flight to New York and a lopsided, near-explosive pack stuffed with all the clothes and medical supplies necessary for any situation that towered at least eight inches over her head. We teetered in and out of the train, down the street and to our first hostel, exhausted from over 25 hours of traveling and a fourteen hour time change. Neither of us knew what day it was nor how many meals we had missed on the plane while we were sleeping. Despite our mental haze, we knew one thing for sure: we had made it to Australia.

The backpacker hostel system in Australia, particularly on the east coast where we would be traveling for the next five weeks, is extremely accessible to foreigners, so we planned to rely solely on the YHAs until meeting with our parents the fourth week of our trip in Cairns. We spent the first three nights of our trip in the Railway Square Youth Hostel in Sydney. Upon arrival at 11:00 am, we threw our packs in the corner of the room next to our bunk beds. The dorms in this particular YHA are actually renovated railway cars from the mid 1800s that were painted maroon, and are adjacent to the current Central Railway Station. We shared our cart with six other backpackers, one of whom disrupted our already disturbed sleep cycle with some of the most aggressive snoring I have ever heard. 

With only a map as our tour guide, we walked through what I would call Asia-town. To our surprise, Australia, especially Sydney, has a large Asian population due to its proximity to, well, Asia. Their Chinatown is quite similar to that of New York, except with fewer knock-off shops and more authentic Asian restaurants and food stalls. We were lured into a restaurant by a neon green sign that read “Emperor Palace.” By USA standards, it looked like a C-grade restaurant, but the cries of our stomachs overtook any mental hesitation. 

We were led upstairs by the hostess, and entered the magical world of dim sung, of which both of us had yet to experience. Asian women push silver carts stacked with bamboo steamer pots and plates of fried fish. We said yes to practically everything until our table was full, since we had no idea what any of it was. Before we could fully comprehend what had just happened those past thirty seconds of bombardment, we had already dove into golden fried wontons filled with pork, rice paper rolls filled with plump prawns bathing in a pool of soy sauce, toasted sesame rolls filled with prawns, green beans, and, of course, steamed pork buns. The buns always have been and always will be my personal favorite. The exterior of these was a thick layer of dough that was airy enough inside to not sit heavily in my stomach. The pork inside was cared for so well by the steam circulating in the bun that they reach a perfect level of melting tenderness, while the browned bottoms provided the perfect textural balance. I wanted to say yes to more of the dishes, but we were so full and not at all willing to push a bill over $50 since there were no prices on anything.

After lunch, we wandered into a market that sold the usual Chinatown junk and knockoffs, but also a plethora of Asian spice blends, local mushrooms, whole fish, and exotic fruits and vegetables. I was in heaven picking through curry powders, oyster mushrooms, and durian. I wanted to buy, and even more so cook, it all.

We continued through Chinatown until we reached the steps up to the bridge at Darling Bay. Darling Bay is home to the National Martime Museum, Hyde Park Walkway, a boardwalk lined with upscale cafes and restaurants, and the day-cruise ships. We walked down the boardwalk, shaking our heads at all the entrees and beers over $20 that we in no way could afford at the time but would convince our parents to share with us when we were all in Sydney at the end of June. From the end of the boardwalk, we had a spectacular view of the small, residential islands dotted with giant houses owned by celebrities, government officials, and big businessmen. The pairing of the new skyscrapers built entirely out of windows with the ocean and the mansions removed from the main land reminded me so much of South Beach in Miami. 

 

I noticed this similarity even more so as Brianna and I passed by the bars bustling with the youthful corporate culture dressed in pencil skirts and blazers later that night. Unlike in New York City, where people in their mid-20s are the minority in the urban, corporate environment due to the aftermath of the economic recession, in Sydney, this age group seems to dominate both during the morning hours and in the nightlife scene. Many of them, us included, had ventured to Circular Bay downtown to watch the Vivid Sydney exhibition. 

The exhibition was produced by Australian, German, and Japanese artists, and sought to utilize bright colors projected onto different sights throughout the city to blend an environment generally dominated by greys with vivacity. We squatted on the boardwalk in Circular Bay directly across from the Syndey Opera House until, at 6 PM, a set of lights projected from the Sydney Harbor Bridge onto the Opera House. For the next twenty minutes, the projections morphed into different designs while the speakers on the dock played Ratatat and Explosions in the Sky. As I watched the Opera House transform from its natural state to yet another artistic piece, the reality that I was finally in Australia finally hit me. Maybe it was the jet lag temporarily fading, but I like to attribute it to the contrast of two very opposite components of Sydney culture: the iconic, historic Opera House,and the very modernist, abstract medium of art displayed through Vivid that is starkly reflective of the youthful, hip business class emerging in this city. I closed my eyes and let the autumn breeze detach me for a moment from the bustle of Circular Bay. I could not for even a split second deny the blossoming happiness that always flowers just at the right moments whenever I travel. 

The next morning was our real introduction to jet lag beyond just not knowing what day of the week it was. I woke up at 12 AM when I heard the whistle of the train just outside our train car. My first delusional conclusion was that the hostel had a breakfast bell or something at 8 AM. Besides the bell, our other cart-mates were rummaging around and whispering to each other. When I looked at my clock though, 12:00 AM blinded me. I couldn't believe it. First of all, it felt like I had been asleep for hours, even though it had only been two. Secondly, I swear it was the morning. Thankfully I fell back asleep, but only until 3 AM when the infamous snorer shook the room with his symphony of guttural instruments. I sleep on and (mostly) off until 6:30 AM when I got the sudden urge to run.

Running turned out to be one of the best decisions of our first two days. It was lightly drizzling when I started, and just warm enough for it to be comfortable. I ran towards Darling Bay the same route we had traveled the day before, hoping it would take at least 20 minutes to get to the end of the boardwalk. The streets were vacant; barely a soul dared to challenge the hangover from their Friday nights at the bar to enjoy the overcast chill. That emptiness was by no means eerie, but rather quite soothing. The boats adjacent to the boardwalk rocked gently in the waves as they waited for their captains to steer them into the ocean for the day; and the seagulls perched themselves on the signs for the dock numbers to watch the pigeons below peck at the air. I ran with ease, breathing in the salted air without the slightest strain to my lungs or my legs. Just like in Belgrade, my run soon turned into an exploration of the areas I had yet to see.

I followed the pattern of the stop-lights. When I thought it time to head back to the hostel, I caught sight of a statue of a medieval soldier on a horse with its back legs on the ground and front legs billowing at its chest in the air and set that as my turning point. Behind it was the Convict Building, which I later learned was where prisoners from other countries would be locked away. The Irish used to intentionally break the law so they would be sent to this prison for seven years, then granted their green cards to live in Australia to escape the corruption in Ireland. I continued parallel to George Street and passed by the Cathedral, the Hospital of Sydney, the Australian Rotary House, the World War I Memorial and other government buildings. Never before had I seen an area so concentrated with historical buildings.They were all gated, made out of smooth, elegant stone, and adorned with white trimmed windows and pillars. I was particularly impressed by the Hospital which looked more like the ornate US Embassy buildings in foreign countries than a city hospital. In fact, many of the buildings throughout Sydney resembled such a style that was not necessarily old looking, but rather held an air of prestige and sophistication over the contemporary glass sky scrapers.

After a day at the Taronga Zoo, where we caught our first glimpse of kangaroos and koalas, as well as a snow leopard, lions, elephants, exotic bird, zebras and mountain goats, we were determined to quell our jet lag and go out to dinner and a bar. For dinner, we returned to Chinatown where we tried our luck at one of the “Food Arcades.” We walked downstairs until a basement filled with yells of order numbers, walls cluttered with pictures of meat and race plates, and an endless supply of chopsticks. We began our lap around the arcade, and as soon as I saw pho, I knew I wouldn't need to scan through the pictures of food either from the 1980s, from Google, or both. I order a bowl of chicken pho and the local 'piss' beer as I would call it at home, and drowned my face in pho noodles spiced aggressively with the chili flake-chili oil paste the old woman working the stove made herself. I got a bit nervous when I spooned up a grey hunk of what I think was supposed to be some type of meat with the bean sprouts and onions, but I figured I shouldn't expect much more from an underground food arcade and should just avoid the mystery meat all together. 

Just a warning, this is a little gross but so hilarious that Brianna and I knew I had to include it in my post. At one point, I rubbed my now tearing eyes from the heat of the chili paste, and my contact fell out. Instinctively, I tried to put it back in, forgetting that my fingers had repeatedly touched the firey, chili-soaked broth I had been slurping for the past 15 minutes. The edge hit my eyeball, and poof! my eyeball was bloodshot and burning more than my throat. I tried again a couple minutes later and blinked to secure my contact in place, only to hear “Holy shit...” and a burst of laughter from across the table. “Your contact just fell in your pho.” “No way. It's in my eye.” I shut my left eye, and everything was blurry. “Oh my god it did...” Brianna and I kneeled down to the level of the broth and searched for the light blue piece of plastic. There it was, resting on a single chili-flake. No way was I sticking that piece of hazardous material anywhere near my eye. Oh, and that's not the worst of it. Somehow, my contact managed to float from the napkin on the side of my plate into Brianna's rice. Thankfully, neither Brianna nor I extracted anything but pure humor from the situation, and laughed of the vulgarity as we finished our meals. We paid $15 for each. Why waste it?

The receptionist at our hostel had told us about a stand owned by the Emperor Palace restaurant that sold these magnificent mini cream puffs for 25 cents a piece. He said the line would inevitably be long, but the wait would be well worth it. So, we acted against all our normal, impatient inhibitions and waited for what we would learn to be little puff balls of lightly lemony goodness. They looked and tasted somewhat like a Boston Creme doughnut without the chocolate glaze and with a sprtiz of lemon. We got 7 for $2 (which is a steal for Sydney) and gobbled them down as we watched two girls in sequin skirts and black shirts model in front of the Emperor Palace restaurant. Somehow, we made it to the Sidebar backpackers bar, but only lasted until about 8:30 before we accepted the control of jet lag and nearly crawled back to our hostel.

The next day, Sunday June 1^st, we flew from Sydney to Brisbane. After seeing a chain food stall called Pie Face, that sells hand pies stuffed with various meats and vegetables that are a staple in Australia, we finally stopped there for breakfast in the airport. The pies are made out of croissant dough and finished with a brown, pie face smile. We grabbed forks and knives from the Pie Face stall. They proved to be useless since the pies come wrapped in a brown paper bag with quote bubbles reading “I'm pie faced.” Needless to say the only time my fork came in handy was to scrape the thick, salty chicken and mushroom filling that had squeezed out of the back of the pie from the inside of the bag.

When we arrived at the Brisbane City hostel, we figured we should ask the reception desk about bus tickets to Byron Bay, bus passes for the rest of the trip and tickets to the Lone Pine Animal Sanctuary for the next day. The receptionist and our new friend, Nick, not only booked all three sets of tickets on one bill, but also explained the different beer sizes (jub is two pints, a schooner is a ½ a pint, and a pot is a 1/3 of a pint for areas that get really hot), clarified why everything is so god damn expensive in Australia (the minimum wage is $18!), convinced us to try the Australian wafer cookies called Tim-Tams, corrected our “vulgur” use of liquor store instead of bottle shop, and recommended an amazing burger place called FAB- fish and burgers- where we could get a late lunch before the Brisbane Broncos-Manly Sea Hawks rugby game we had tickets for later that afternoon.

I savored as quickly as I could a chicken burger with an avocado-pesto spread on sourdough (one of the best burgers I've ever had) and a Summer Ale beer from Queensland so that we wouldn't miss the crowd of maroon and gold Broncos jerseys walking to Suncorp Stadium. First order of business: jerseys. We knew we stood out because of our style of dress in all areas of Australia, so we figured we would fit in at least at the game if we wore the home jerseys. We wandered around the stadium searching for a merchandise table to buy jerseys until we convinced ourselves they didn't sell any inside the standium, and pushed one another towards one of the stadium employees to ask. Brianna stepped towards her, anticipating a condescending scoff that said, “You stupid Americans...We don't sell inside the stadium!” Much to our relief, though, she happily pointed out the stand (next to the beloved beer counter) that sold the...wait for it...$170 jerseys. Now, Brianna and I both agreed we'd spluge on jerseys, but $170 for one item on one day in a five week trip was asking a bit much. In my beer-buzzed haze, I pointed to the cheapest t-shirt, handed over $25, and threw it on over my shirt. Finally I looked the slightest bit Australian. 

We got to our seats just as the game started, and for the next eighty minutes, devoured every tackle, every sprint, and every pass made by each team. The stands roared with cheers as the Broncos slid by the Sea Hawks, and exploded with “F*** you, ref” and “Manly sucks!” when a play favored the opposition. The Broncos managed to minimize the belligerent banter, and crushed the Sea Hawks 36-10. Part of me would've loved a closer, more competitive game, but, regardless, I'm a sucker for fast-pace, high-intensity sports (just look at my obsession with hockey), especially if a beer or two is involved.

Then we experienced the infamous Tim-Tams Nick had felt insulted that we hadn't tried yet. All I can say is that they are a whole lot of chocolate, as in a chocolate filled chocolate wafer covered in a chocolate ganache glaze. As someone who doesn't eat a lot of chocolate, I gobbled down three and still wanted more. 

The next morning, we grabbed the bus to the Lone Pine Sanctuary, where both of our Australian dreams would come true. We immediately flocked to the koala center with our passes in hand, and ooo-ed and aww-ed at the koalas sleeping in the trees adjacent to the photo area. When our time came, the trainer introduced the koala I was to hold as Kai Kai, and told me to hold my hands one on top of the other next to my belly. I smiled and laughed giddily as he placed Kai-Kai in my hands. He immediately latched his claws onto my shoulders and looked up into my eyes. His fur was nearly as soft as I had imagined, and was coarse and slightly dry. His nose looked like an enormous black, oval button, and his ears were like tiny half moons with white rays spewing outwards. Brianna and the photographers snapped plenty of pictures until Kai-Kai turned around towards the trainer with wide eyes that longer for his adoptive father. Needless to say, my life ambition to hold a koala was complete. I mean, it was Facebook official within two hours.

Next was Brianna's dream. We pushed the grey fence open with bags of food pellets in our hands, and entered a world of kangaroos and wallabies. All the kangaroos laid on their sides quite blasé and indifferent to the parades of humans, pigeons and ducks passing by; that is until someone held out a palm full of food in front of their faces. The red and grey kangaroos would lick the food slowly out of our hands, then turn away to gaze into the open space of their enclosure until we produced more. The younger kangaroos and the wallabies, though, would hop towards us and paw at our hands with their short, scrawny arms. One even held onto my hand with both of his as he ate, hoping I would never leave. Brianna was in heaven, especially when she managed to (half) hug one of the younger kangaroos that followed her for at least ten minutes. Her smile in the picture may seem posed and exaggerated, but was really candid and only a fraction of her true, explosive excitement at her new friends.

The rest of the day we saw more koalas, exotic birds, dingos (which we learned are identical to dogs but are actually Australia's largest carnivore!), lizards, Tasmanian devils and a platypus (which are in fact very, very small and love to constantly swim without a break in pace). We hopped on the bus back to our hostel in Brisbane, hauled our packs onto our backs, and trekked to the Greyhound Station for the bus to Byron Bay. After only four days in cities, we were ready for swimsuits, sand and surf.