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.