Adventures in Oz and the Land of the Kiwis

Banks Peninsula [Slide Show]

2007-11-15T13:53:00.003-05:00

Here's an embedded Picasa slideshow re: my trip to & from, and my second homestay and work as a WWOOFer on Banks Peninsula on the eastern coast of New Zealand's South Island:

Hoofing & WWOOFing It, Kiwi-style

2007-03-03T03:00:00.001-05:00

I'd been hustling as a pay-my-own-way eco-volunteer and traveling throughout New Zealand for roughly eight weeks when I totally ran out of money.

As in, broke-as-hell and not-a-pot-to-piss-in. A full month remained before my flight out of Auckland. Hitching rides and begging for food started to loom as a real possibility.

Now, it's hard enough being a pauper in the States when times get rough. Imagine being in a foreign country, halfway 'round the globe, where basic things like shelter, food and the like are suddenly your number one priority, and resources are scanty.

I'd left my two-month-long volunteer post with GVN when it came to its natural conclusion at the end of April. Now, I was on my own. Thankfully, resourcefulness had become one of my strong suits, and soon an idea sparked in my head. Back in Australia, on my second CVA assignment on a massive sheep ranch in New South Wales, I'd remembered hearing about this volunteer network where, in exchange for working on organinc farms and such, you received room and board.

Jackpot. I would be saved after all.

So, it was settled; I'd proactively indenture myself for the last three weeks of my stay in NZ. Work my way completely around the South Island, and somehow end up back in Auckland in time for my flight home at the end of May. I didn't worry about the logistics in between. I had been trusting in things to just work out for a good while, now, and this brand of gentle "allowing" proved to be magic time and time again.

Long story short, I joined an organization called "World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms", or "WWOOF." With my few remaining NZ bucks, I had to pay for the host listing book, but it was well worth it. I started making dozens of calls that second Friday in May, but I soon found out that because much of this kind of work is seasonal - and we were entering winter, down there - there wasn't much demand for help.

Good fortune ultimately prevailed. I got in touch with a terrific family in the Otago region who agreed to take me on, despite the downturn. It was a very pleasant 90-minute bus ride from Queenstown to their farmstead in Cromwell. I got there on a Friday evening and started my homestay right away.

Sunshine Farm, my new base of operations, was in the heart of the Central Otago - a mountainous, picturesque, and bountiful fruit- and wine-growing region in the southeast corner of the South Island.

When I arrived, the owners were in the midst of ramping up a number of small business farm-based operations. These ventures had become critical as they had recently been forced out of the fruit growing industry - like many other Kiwis - by increasing trade restrictions. They had activated their own resourcefulness and ingenuity in pulling themselves out of subsistence living. Miranda, a bright, wry, rugged woman, left a very successful career in education in order to devote herself fully to being a central force on this organic farm, alongside of the entrepreneurial and genius-savant Sandy, who could repair any mechanical device under the sun and carried a dozen inventions around in his head at all times. These were colorful, engaging folk, to say the least.

As we walked the property that first afternoon, Sandy recounted how they had practically stumbled into running, of all things, a goldfish farm. A small natural lake had formed on their property, and they soon discovered that once someone had slipped a rogue fish or two in there on a whim, certain species were thriving in that pond, somehow naturally bred to be super-disease-resistant. Seeing an opportunity where most wouldn't, within months Sandy had constructed a massive complex, complete with heated masonry tanks and an elaborate drainage~filtration system. I asked how many fish he'd guess were on the farm. "Oh, I'd say....maybe, half a mil'." As in, million. I was impressed. Some of those fish would bring a serious payday when buyers at national pet stores came calling. Which they did. In fact, we made a relatively lucrative run on my last day--cold, sloshing buckets filled to the brim with bubbling goldfish gold, as Sandy and I hauled them to Dunedin (where I'd later catch a bus to my next WWOOF family farm up the coast).

The most charming part of my week at Sunshine Farm was most certainly the four lovely gals that endlessly entertained me while I worked and relaxed on that farm. Sandy and Miranda Anderson have four daughters: Lily, Rosalie, April, and Grace. I was the 196th WWOOFer to stay with them, so they were quite used to strange folk just showing up, and joining them in their lives for a spell. I was made very much a part of the family....once my chores were done, and I'd split and stacked my firewood for the evening, Rosalie or Lily would come bounding down the dirt road to my caravan to beckon me to dinner. Which they called "tea," interestingly enough.

My second dinner with them was one of the more memorable ones. As Miranda placed a steaming plate of goodness in front of me, my nose guessed that we'd be enjoying mutton that evening. But not just any 3-year-old sheep meat, I soon discovered. Rosalie turned and looked at me with her seven-year-old soberly constructed face, and matter-of-factly informed me that we'd be "having Jack and Jill tonight." "Huh?" I asked her. "Well....", she paused for emphasis, "Jack was hit by a car, you see. And Jill--" "ROSALIE!" interrupted Miranda. "Now, that's ENOUGH!" It appears that we were devouring two of the family's pets that night, and Miranda wanted to spare the guest from details of the presumably unpalatable mechanics of how they actually came to arrive on our plates. I loved how...'pragmatically' the girls had taken this turn of events as they chomped away spiritedly on Jack. And Jill.

Sandy, the patriarch, was easily one of the most three-dimensional characters that I'd encountered in all of my time in NZ. He had this jolly, gratitude-laced way of addressing each moment, eyes twinkling, and a dirty joke issued from his smirking mouth at every opportunity, no matter how inopportune. We'd spend evenings knocking back his brew of choice, Ranfurly (see the beer's mug shot, above), and as he puffed away thoughtfully on his smokes, he'd good-naturedly interrogate me on all of the perceived paradoxes and presumed goofiness of living in America. On our insurance and legal system. Or why it was that Detroit was secretly burying the technology for automobiles that'd last a century and get 300 miles to the gallon (the proof for which they claimed they had on good authority). Or how we knowingly elected a bona fide clown to a second term of the highest office in the land. "Well, you see....I guess it's because most of us didn't vote, probably, thinking that there was no way on earth he could win," I tried to explain. But, in truth, I was losing my taste for political discussions altogether during my time abroad. I was more interested in having my hosts experience a quality Americano one-on-one, a guy who might defy for them some of their conventional ideas of what kind of people we Yankees must be.

Shortly before I left, they exhorted me to forget my chores for the day (it was about zero Celsius outside, at that) and give them some legal advice instead. Sandy and Miranda were starting a paving company, they revealed to me, and they had dozens of intellectual property and general business law questions. Which I was happy to field. After all, I hadn't used that slice of my brain for quite some time, and I appreciated the chance to dust off those mental cobwebs. They were convinced that they had a multi-million dollar proprietary process for making flawless paving materials, and once I saw it in action, I was on board, too. I was delighted that they'd let me in on their trade secrets, once I explained the whole attorney-client-privilege concept.

I will always remember, with great fondness, the idyllic time that I spent with those six wonderful people. They revealed to me more of that renowned, trademark Kiwi spirit and character than had any other experience in all of my days there. They're missed, and I still write to them occasionally. When I got back to the States, I headed to a department store, filled a box full of all of the little things that girls of their ages might like, and shipped it off to them with a big smile, a full heart, and a small, colorful card that read, simply,

"Thanks-- Enjoy.
Love,
Dave the WWOOFer." [|-|]

Below: Sandy explains the virtues of a great Kiwi brew

To See That Sound

2006-11-14T10:01:00.001-05:00

IT WAS EARLY MAY, and I was traveling with ten people around the lower third of New Zealand's South Island. Four of us conspired on a Monday night to splinter off for a day. We plotted to leave the Stray tour, rent a car, and drive the two+ hours south down to Milford Sound, to that icon of natural icons: Mitre Peak.

You couldn't very well come this far down the Southern Alps and skip over this attraction, even though its remoteness made getting there somewhat of a trial.

And, hey: we liked trials. Off to Fjordland National Park, then.

Above: Lake Matheson (a.k.a. "Mirror Lake"), en route to Milford Sound.
Right: Suspension bridge, with Marc and Susan trying to shake it from its moorings.

Susan, Madeleine, Marc and I rose at the crack of dawn to pick up an overpriced rental car in Queenstown where we were lodged. The views were spectacular from our dorm room's window, but, more lay beyond The Remarkables. My Fulfillment Quotient for the day required equal parts of adventure and mystery, some risk-taking and some recklessness. I'd get it all, in the end.

We floored it and broke through fog to round corners ringed by the ranges...imposing sheer walls of rock with craggy, snow-blanketed tops. Marc was just getting the hang of this whole left-hand-side-of-the-road thing when the local fuzz raced past us and whipped around to bestow our speechless driver with a thoughtful handmade gift in the form of a speeding ticket. Wow. Is that any way to ingratiate yourself with well-meaning visitors?

Susan jumped behind the wheel next. Someone remarked how they'd seen neither hide nor woolly hair of one solitary sheep since we'd started our tour a week earlier. All agreed.

No sooner was this uttered...To our astonishment, we crested a hill to descend upon seven to eight thousand sheep, being herded down the road to fresher pastures. The cars in front of us thought nothing of surging forth into the throng (albeit slowly), and so we cautiously followed suit.

Within seconds, we were engulfed in a sea of bleating beasts and made deaf by the staccato drumming of hooves on the roadway. Each of them wore the same expression: Why are we running, exactly? Where's the fire? Their annoyance was palpable, and their cooperation wasn't easily extracted. With a mere 4.5 million humans sharing the country with more than 38 million sheep, it sometimes wasn't clear who was running the place.

We then invented a game called Japanese Tourist (with pardons here to any offenses taken). We had a map that we'd swiped from the cruise ticket sales office, on which was listed 16 landmarks on the drive down. We vowed to stop at each one of them and still try to make our 1 pm departure time.

This, we calculated, would allow for about 3-4 minutes per stop. No, this wouldn't be some laid-back saunter along occasional tourist traps. This was a purposeful blitzkrieg with masterful efficiency, one photo-op per stop, poses struck with almost mechanical precision. Scary, really, how good we got at it. We tired quickly of the same poses and composed faces, so, the new task was to ensure that each photo op featured something a bit more, erm....interesting.

Hence the preceding misuse of kung fu.
And the not-so-obligatory "Here's a mountain up my arse" shot. Yes, several days of nominal sleep and a mostly-spirits diet will do that to you.

We finally arrived at a remarkable set of whirlpools which demanded more than cursory hit-and-run visiting. Massive fissures, churning vortices, and a sound that would wake the dead, with sheets of mist shooting all around us. It was lush, and primal, and sucked the viewer in so that she was captivated in a watery trance, amazed at the forces of Ma Nature.

Soon enough, we were deep in Fiordland, and began the trek to the wharf where the massive tour boats were moored.

As the sound opened up before us, we were finally able to take in the visual prize of the day: Mitre Peak.

It was overcast with a periodic drizzle, which added to the mystique, the ominous netherworld-esque feeling of the place. It was oddly quiet, with almost zero birdlife. There was a heaviness, a rarified remoteness to the place that was unforgettable. Alien.

The massive tour ships that trolled throughout the Sound were absolutely dwarfed by the monstrous fjords that pierced the earth and sea as defiant, stately guardians of the realm.

Part of the reason for its iconic status is its location. <begin voice of geeky narrator dude> Close to the shore of Milford Sound, in the Fiordland National Park in the southwestern South Island, Mitre Peak is a stunning sight. Rising to 1692 meters from the water of the sound (technically a fjord), it is actually a closely-grouped set of five peaks, although from most easily accessible viewpoints it appears as a single point.

At any rate... It was staggering. It defies these descriptions. See for yourself...[|-|]

We've Got A Jumper...

2006-10-23T20:34:00.000-04:00

For posterity and all, here's the vid of my bungy jump from the Kawarau Bridge outside of Queenstown, NZ (finally figured out how to rip it from DVD format and post it).

Note "Eye of The Tiger," which they play for the jumpers in not-so-ironic fashion.

Those wacky kiwis!

If you look closely, you will see me holding an apple in my hand. I was thinking I'd use the clip as part of a video application to work at Apple in California. Could still happen. Just thought that the opportunity was too good to miss, if I ever did have the need for it... [-]

Nothing Risked...

2006-05-11T17:45:00.000-04:00

...nothing gained.

I'D SOMEHOW WON a pub drinking contest after the glacier hike...not, like, how many pints one can put away; no, I had to be the first among four contestants to fully swallow a hotter-than-hell, very dense slice of "cheese toast" (slathered in hot pepper sauce, with old, hardened melted cheese atop this slice of stale, thick bread) and then down the "mystery pint" (essentially stale, bitter ale, pepper, horseradish, and some other noxious shit). I figured out that the only way I might be able to win this vile contest would be to cause the thick toasty business to dissolve more quickly (while chewing) by taking small swigs of the brew.

To my astonishment, it worked. I beat the pants off of these two Brits, and a Scotsman and spiked my glass on the floor like an overzealous wide receiver in the end zone. Cheers erupted. I didn't consume any whole food for two days thereafter, but the prize: more than worth it. I'd won a US$150 bungy jump off of the Kawarau River Bridge in Queenstown, courtesy of adventure sports pioneers AJ Hackett Int'l. The beauty part was that this bridge facility was the site of the first commercial jump in the world. I'd be a small part of history.

Once I had settled my stomach and steeled my nerves to a manageable level, I went for it...on a blustery, cold-as-hell Wednesday morning. I hopped a shuttle from downtown Queenstown up to the jump site, right over the Kawarau River. As the facility opened its gates for the day, I approached the bridge along with a young couple right in front of me; we were first in line. As we traipsed over the wooden bridge, the two tourists suddenly exhibited signs of severe reservation, with one of them emptying the contents of their stomach in front of the safety crew. With a sympathetic but confident flourish, I gestured to cut in front of them, and thereby ensured that I'd be the first guy off the platform once the leg harness was affixed and tested.

"Wait -- aren't you nervous?" the shaking fellow inquired, incredulous.

"Actually--" I checked myself.

Surprisingly, any traces of apprehension had wholly, summarily vanished. I was thrilled.

"Actually, No. Not at all."

He regarded me enviously, as I smiled broadly and took my place on the wooden launch platform, my eyes riveted to the far-off canyon walls, my face stung by the sub-freezing, whipping winds.

A shuffle forward, some quick bursts of breath and setting of the jaw, and then a determined, mind-subjugating leap out into some very thin air, against the counsel of the pre-frontal cortex, and overriding any other brain parts that otherwise supply reason and urge risk-aversion. I hurled myself off of the small platform, out into space, arms aloft like a condor, back and torso ramrod straight.

Upon liftoff, an overwhelming sensation kicks in immediately... it's akin to the jolt-you-awake sensation of falling in pre-sleep, only multiplied a hundred-fold... Time seems to slow to a crawl. Then there's the waiting for one's guts to catch up with the rest of one's corpus, only it never comes... Exhilaration, defined; truly and fully... You can't help but issue a half-formed shout, or yelp, or battle-cry, as reflexes fail to remedy the forced launch of a living missile into a cold abyss. Moments later, there's the gradual but increasingly insistent pull on your bound legs, body now fully inverted and mimicking a wriggling pendulum, with growing, reassuring tension as the cords stretch to accommodate and govern their human payload. Then one's head approaches the icy water at near terminal velocity, and one wonders how the crew calculated with such precision to let you close enough to feel the air of the current rush past your face, without forcing you into the river head-first. They've got it down to a very expeditious and entertaining science, after 500,000+ jumpers.

As soon as the rescue boat reached my dangling, bat-like upside-down body, I breathlessly asked the crew when and where the next highest jump was, and how much it'd cost me.

I was hooked. This is going to be one expensive habit, I'm sure... Damn you, AJ Hackett! [-]

The Camera vs. The Mind's Eye

2006-05-10T21:46:00.000-04:00

In this post are four examples, demonstrating that the mind's eye - and its retrieval system - is the best visual recording device in existence. No invention I've ever seen can quite capture the immensity of the Remarkables, the blue brilliance of Bishop's Bay, the morning mists of Lake Matheson, or the secluded whirlpool's whirl and cerulean colors -- like that most perfect of inventions, the human eye. Those other sensory intangibles present when I took these aren't reproducible here, either.

So. Will you settle for these facsimiles, instead?

QUEENSTOWN is easily one of the most scenic spots in New Zealand...it's got breathtaking views of the Remarkables and Eyre mountain ranges and is nestled right up against super-picturesque and placid Lake Wakatipu.The area was settled by some sheep farmers in the mid 1850's, but in 1862 two very lucky shearers named Thomas Arthur and Harry Redfern discovered gold on the banks of the Shotover River.
You can imagine the relentless rush of souls to settle thereafter.
Queenstown is now the adventure resort capital of New Zealand with jet boating, white water rafting, bungy jumping, sky diving, parachuting and fly-by-wire action available to those who wish to part with some serious cash in exchange for a substantial adrenalin rush.

Bishop's Bay
West Coast of the South Island , NZ

Lake Matheson at dawn
West Coast, South Island, NZ

A memorable whirlpool in a mountain river

South of Franz Josef Glacier, en route to Queenstown

Breaking Bread

2006-05-09T23:24:00.000-04:00

I'D BEEN TRAVELING for several days with nine other people I'd met on the Stray tour network, by the time I hit the glacier outpost Franz Josef. In that time, we all got to know each other fairly well. One of the great things about traveling and constantly meeting tons of interesting, energetic new people is that one has the chance to re-create one's persona time and time again, to consciously craft that all-so-important first impression that people invariably make of one another. Every new fresh face is a chance to experience someone new, to form a rewarding bond, for however brief a time.

It's one of the things that I treasure most about both legs of my expedition.

When I first arrived in Australia, and found that I'd be working with completely new teams of people every 7-10 days or so, for months on end, I wrote to a friend back home about the disorienting "turnover", and how it was, in this sense, sort of hard to put yourself out there and get to know people, especially if you both knew that they were only going to walk out of your life in a matter of days (and most likely), never to be seen again. She replied that perhaps this was the wrong approach. "You never know whom you're going to meet, and what wonderful things you could share, even in such a short amount of time. And what about 'living in the moment'? Isn't that what you're there for? Haven't you ever seen Before Sunrise?", she asked.

I hadn't, but immediately, I more than appreciated her point. I resolved from that day forward that I'd always put myself out there 100% with every new soul I that I might encounter, no matter whom I met, or under what circumstances. It proved to be a fantastic early adjustment in my P.O.V., and I'm grateful that someone gently prodded me to re-orient my thinking on this. I'd probably have realized it anyway, and, it's not like it was difficult. I'm a pretty likable dude, I think, and the sorts of people I worked, lived, and traveled with were truly decent and dynamic people way down to their core.

It was no wonder, then, that by the time I hit NZ, I'd made tons of new friends from around the world, and managed to keep in contact with a great many of them. This particular group (below) was no exception, and yet, they were exceptional. So exceptional that I broke down and made them my exclusive, signature lasagna dish, for which they were demonstrably supremely grateful. The way that Miki's holding that serving utensil, you'd think she hadn't eaten in a month. (Hank opted out with his own pizza but suffered later regrets.) We took over the Discovery Lodge's massive kitchen in that little glacier town, and I had six pairs of helping hands pull it together in record time. I felt like a hero that night, deeply appreciated.

Any time, guys. Let's do it again-- maybe Southeast Asia, next?

[-]

L. to. R.: Henkjan (Holland); Jennifer (L.A.); Madeleine (London); Susie (Canada); Yours Truly; Miki (Tokyo); Marc (West Germany); Davina (South Africa)[out of frame: Brian (San Diego)]

Punakaiki!

2006-05-08T22:42:00.001-04:00

Punakaiki is the gateway to the dramatic limestone country of the Paparoa National Park.

It lies halfway between Greymouth and Westport, NZ, on one of the most spectacular coastal highways in New Zealand (State Highway 6).

The Pancake Rocks are a very popular tourist site at Dolomite Point. The Pancake Rocks are a heavily eroded limestone area where the sea bursts though a number of vertical blowholes during high tides.

Together with the 'pancake'-layering of the limestone (created by immense pressure on alternating hard and soft layers of marine creatures and plant sediments), these form the main attractions of the area.

Hitting the Ceiling

2006-05-07T17:34:00.000-04:00

Franz Josef Glacier, Southern Alps, South Island, NZ

From top: glacier approach entrance. View from 3 kms to base.

Davina from South Africa in a blue ice cave. Climber stuck (bummer!). Me.

I was told that one has to look suitably adventurous and devil-may-care when one ascends imposing, monstrous natural formations.

[-]

Barrytown

2006-05-06T23:59:00.001-04:00

I DECIDED TO enroll in what folks were calling a 'knifemaking boot camp' while I was in Barrytown, NZ, on our way down south with the Stray Tour. Initially, I was keen to take a bone-carving course, but, apparently Ben the Boneshaper didn't get the message from the innkeeper at the All Nations Hotel where I was lodged, and so he was unceremoniously rousted when a few of us arrived at his door, to his surprise and consternation. No matter, though. We had other options. We let Ben go back to bed, and Susie and I and about six others hoofed it down the main road to our next destination.

Barrytown - or "BazVegas" as it's sarcastically, affectionately called by locals - is this tiny little hamlet, population 200 or so, situated right at the beginning of the subtropical temperate rainforest along the West Coast. It had started, like so many other outposts in this region, as a gold mining station. Founded in the 1860s, it sits perched at the southern end of Pakiroa Beach, in the West Coast region of New Zealand's South Island. The beach is infamous for jade that washed up over the ages, and I made sure to get down there at sunrise one morning to have a go at some riches. While I found none, the scenery was phenomenal, so, it wasn't really a missed opportunity at all. I wanted some sort of neckpiece before I left the region, and I thought of how fantastic it'd be to have sourced the raw materials myself. In the end, I did find a perfectly smooth, egg-shaped stone with a set of alien-looking "eyes" on either side that was better suited as a paperweight, and so I made off with that instead, just as satisfied.

Our merry troupe arrived at the Barrytown Knifemaking compound at around nine or so, and immediately got the hardcore safety briefing. There'd be Prometheus-like plumes of fire, we were soberly advised, and 10,000 rpm belt sanders, and potentially fatal lacerations with which to contend, from clueless knifewielders walking around with these rapiers that could accidentally amputate appendages of an unfortunate participant who didn't watch her extremities. (Okay. Yes. We get it. This ain't no monkey business, this ain't no foolin' around...)

The instructor/proprietor - Steven - was an absolute, unapologetic hoot. His wit was sharper than any blade we'd turn out that day, and his moonshine was beyond description. Steven made his own liquor in a homegrown still next to the shop vac, a process that took a mere 48 hours to crank out 5 litres. He was, he confessed, still hung over from the preceding evening, and so he was anxious to produce some 'hair of the dog' to assuage his throbbing head. His demeanor for the entire day was that of a ribald court jester, though, so, you'd never know that the guy was truly hurting.

I enthusiastically grabbed a formidable-looking bar of raw, coarse steel and, over the next six hours, somehow forged it into a very sleek, lethal, Turkish-looking scimitar, of sorts, with a hefty New Zealand red pine wooden handle, with the wood taken from a lot of dead standing timber that was estimated to be around 2000-2200 years old. No kidding. During the final sanding/polishing phase, I had looked up to catch Steven making a crack about one of the participant's handiwork, when I caught the now-sharp blade tip under a fingernail. "Now, I dearly hope that none of you would be stupid enough to cut yourselves," he says, just as a healthy stream of red starts to make its way down my arm. I start laughing as his eyes widen and Madeliene next to me flinches away in sympathetic horror. (No worries. I lived. And tetanus surely wasn't a concern, as the blade was virgin and spic 'n span spotless by then.)

Madeliene braves the sky-swing

During the day, we found numerous things with which to amuse ourselves during breaks. These included axe throwing, target practice, introductory gold panning, a huge (like, 3-story high) swing, and horseback riding, and investigating all of the eclectic paraphernalia scattered about the place, including an outdoor bathtub that Steve said he regularly employed himself. In short order, I got rather good at the axe-throwing bit, which prompted mock squeals from Susie and her posse, who dashed across the veranda and out of range of this newly-trained faux axe-murderer in their midst.

At sundown, with our fully-finished shiny blades and host-provided moonshine cocktails in hand, all we could talk about was how fantastic our day was. We each felt an appreciable sense of achievement, having made something we'd never imagined, from just an assortment of raw, coarse materials.

A Tasman-Sea sunset at knifemaking camp | Barrytown, NZ

Apart from fashioning a handsome, fully-functional keepsake with our unique signature, we enjoyed relaxing in the home of warm, genuine New Zealanders, in a supremely gorgeous part of the country. We quaffed Steven's wicked, stealthy concoction while a blazing sun set over the Tasman Sea, as he regaled us with stories of how he made and lost his fortune in the ladies' undergarment industry. He was "the only homosexual knifemaker in the entire South Island," he proclaimed, his pride and twinkling mischievousness evident. I told him his new tradename should be "The Gay Blade," at which he roared his approval.

So many uses for a tub...

A more colorful kiwi I had yet to meet. Yet to meet that week, it would turn out...

Can you tell at this point that "colorful" is a national trait, evidently dominant in all of New Zealand's fair citizens?

A.T.N.P.

2006-05-05T21:48:00.002-04:00

FIRST STOP on Dave's West Coast South Island NZ Tour 2006: Hunter Winery, Marlborough Sounds. I wasn't the wine-snob type, really. But, I couldn't very well come all the way to NZ and not sample some of the local 'drops,' now, could I. No, I couldn't do that. I swigged and swished and spat, nodded approvingly, made appropriate "mmm---mm?!" sounds with arched eyebrows, but secretly trying to recall the scene in the movie Sideways where the guys are sampling a vintage and Paul Giamatti's character, holding a cocked finger to his temple, trumpets ecstatically, "Oohhhh, I detect...there's just a soupcon of grapefruit, isn't there - - or is it kiwi?" Yikes. I swear to never fake that brand of overwrought, effete sissiness to try and make some stiff steward feel a bit better about their 2003 Sauvignon Blanc. (I guess they didn't appreciate my purposeful butchering of the varietal, calling it "swahvig-non blank" with a heavy, southwestern U-S-A drawl. At least, she didn't nod approvingly, or make the "mmm-mm?!" sound.)

Back on the road. I made my way down to Abel Tasman National Park. Mr. Tasman was a 17th century Dutch explorer. After whom someone named the "Tasman Sea" (look on a map). And, hence, "Tasmania"-- the wee island off of the southern coast of Australia. Hence also that cartoony, slovenly and hyperactive "Tasmanian Devil", whom I am assured bears little resemblance to the real prairie-dog-like 'devils' native to the island. I got there on a Wednesday night and booked a 1/2 sailboat cruise for the following morning, followed by a hike through the park.

I awoke to a dazzling sunrise, sucked down some tea, chose not to brave the singularly cold water showers (for a change) and was whisked out to a waiting dual-hulled sailcraft piloted by a rastafari kiwi and his Swedish-born, but equally rasta-influenced first mate. When the sun finally warmed the frost-fringed boat, a blue sky broke open and transfixed everybody with its brilliance.

We passed Split Apple Rock, and marveled at the cormorants perched in dignified formation all along its surfaces. For several hours, we weaved our way around jettys and inlets, looking for fur seals and dolphins, the latter of which proved elusive, and the former, camera shy. No matter. It was a transcendent cruise, one that gets etched in the mind of those lucky enough to have made the voyage.

I disembarked at Coquille Bay's beach and went hiking with two of the passengers. ATNP is the smallest national park in New Zealand, but, by most standards, it's pretty sizable, nonetheless. After several hours along that one track that started from the Bay, I made it to the park entrance with Susie, an ultrasound technician from Edmonton, Canada. We'd end up traveling together with some others for about another week or so, enjoying the spectacle of that South Island with mutual admiration and joyous enthusiasm, counting ourselves lucky to have stolen away from our respective careers to enjoy this supernatural slice of the world while we were able.

We broke through the bush to be greeted by a rather curious sculpture park - "Arts Unique" - which was established by some rather talented local carvers over time. A pair of boots with flowers growing out of them were perched next to a six-ton Macrocarpa timber sculpture; a carved wooden eagle the size of a bathtub alights on a bejeweled cattle skull adorned with puka shells. These were totems of a mystical landscape, a garden of delights that instantly transports and inspires without lengthy historical explication or stuffy, verbose docents. Now, that's my kind of art gallery... [-]

Below, left: Papatuanuku, and his wife, Ranginui, sacred creators of the world according to Maori lore. Right: the archetypal whale-rider, and sea-maiden.

The Crossing

2006-05-02T20:44:00.000-04:00

ON THE SECOND DAY IN MAY, I left the North Island for the South. Time to say goodbye, for now, to Welli -- a city that'd been right good to me for 17 days or so ... I'd be leaving Kowhai House, the accomodation that I'd been sharing in Lower Hutt with 9 fantastic international volunteers, to strike out on my own for a while. It was more difficult than I thought leaving so many remarkable folks with whom I'd spent virtually every hour of the day for the past month. There's a fast, strong bond that resolutely forms itself in such circumstances. We all acknowledged that. Somehow, we all just clicked, and so breaking up the team was all the more difficult. But, time to move on, it was.

My tentative gameplan, rough as it was, was to take a run down the West Coast, along the Southern Alps, round the tip at the south end of the island, and then, maybe, work my way (literally) back up the east coast, in order to make it back up to Auckland by May 29. Again, really rough sketch. I didn't want to plan too much, finding that leaving things to chance, spontaneity, and last minute suggestion and inspiration makes for far better adventure.

I had just finished two months of wide-ranging projects with GVN - worked really hard, actually - and now I was chomping at the bit to start my 4 week tour of the more "dynamic" of the two islands...time for some laid-back fun, meeting more folks, seeing the iconic sights of this country, jumping into deeper, darker, unknown waters.

I'd been waiting for this since I'd left the States back in November, truth be told. Often, I'd considered Australia a "training ground" for this phase, and I stuck to that idea until the very end. All the images of this magic isle that I'd absorbed since I was knee high to a grasshopper were about to be brought to life.

Rather than flying, I hopped on the InterIslander ferry line, which transports passengers, autos and cargo alike several times a day across the Cook Straight, from Wellington at the southern tip of the North Island, to Picton, a quaint little harbor town at the northern tip of New Zealand's South Island.

When I arrived in Picton, I checked into this little place that got rave reviews in the Lonely Planet guide I'd been thumbing through for days to plan this leg of my expedition. It was called "The Villa." A guy named Andre picked me up in a van that smelled of one too many unwashed backpackers, but his affable demeanor and the beauty of this little jewel of a town quickly distracted me from that... I walked the quirky grounds, appointed with artwork left behind by many a traveler before me, like the sign on a second-floor level that read "Trevor's Tree House" in multicolored wood lettering, cut with care by hand. There was a jacuzzi, with people chattering away in either Danish or Norwegian, I think. The kitchen was the biggest, bestest I'd seen in my many thousands of miles on the road in all kinds of traveler accomodations... They served ice cream and homemade apple crumble at 8:30 p.m. (not to be missed), and I even had a chance to take the proprietor's dog Molly on a walk down by the pier. It was that kind of laid-back groove, like an elfin lodge where pixies and wood nymphs laid their heads to rest after a day of merry pranks and fairy-dust spreading. I wore a smile to bed, and woke with the same, to jump on a bus that'd take me far down the West Coast in the coming days... [-]

Bushy Park, Wanganui

2006-04-27T21:29:00.000-04:00

ONE OF THE MANY conservation projects that we GVN vollies undertook in the greater Wellington region included a trip to the nature sanctuaries at Bushy Park, a four-hour drive north of Wellie.

We usually end up having a blast, horsing around and somehow still avoiding serious injury. Taking an ATV into a dense forest with two 12 foot ladders strapped to it: Not generally a good idea, unless you're into wasting time, and laughing hysterically as you watch driver and occupants being ejected, as ladders crash into enormous rata trees and guys get snagged in the bush undergrowth and plentiful vines.

We were split into groups...ours was picked to build a large aviary in the forest, with 30' clearance, for the introduction of four or so endandered bird species in the coming months.

SIMON (the Brit sporting the orange headgear) was a particularly hysterical dude, with whom I played many a prank on the others on our team, and many times on the sweet but gullible Toby. Simon had started weeks back up in the Coromandel with a practical joke aimed at him, particularly...he'd emerge from some rather strenuous job we were on, crashing out of the bush, and he'd be all bloody, seemingly all gashed up, and in apparent pain. Amazingly, a similar accident happened the very next day, and then again a third time at the end of that week. After a while, we'd start to look incredulously at one another with eyebrows arched, wondering how one guy could be so woefully inept, and whether he had the shitty insurance systems like we had back in the States.

The fourth time that Simon had apparently managed to carve himself up, he grinned as he proffered his little bottle of fake blood, showing it only to a select few...but not to Mr. Safety (Toby, our Team Leader) and certainly not to the two very-self assured young Amercian medical students in our crew - - Mike (not pictured) and Brian (in the Cornell shirt). So, while sneaky Simon and I were hammering mesh into rafters three stories up, he flashed his bloodied hands quietly, nodding to me with a, "You know what do" signal. I made a commotion, and summoned Brian, the pre-med student, to swing into action.

Brian dutifully jumped in and took over the exam, settling the patient down on a pile of timber while he attempted to clean and dress the wound. Simon and I did our level best to remain stoic and concerned, but when Brian said, "Ah....yes. I see the source of the laceration...",. we almost died. The med student boy wonder was none the wiser, and the fact that the "blood" was irridescent, and that it left a deep nasty stain, still wasn't a tip off. He wrapped it in gauze after "sterilizing" the cut and applying butterfly bandages.

Back at the bunkhouse, about an hour later, Simon waited for Team Leader Toby to show up, obviously concerned over the accident. Simon pulled out his bottle, and the look on Brian and Toby's faces - and the other doctor-to-be, Mike - were all priceless. They took it pretty well, especially if you consider that the med students' pride was surely a tad bruised. All in good fun...with these jobs, you really can't take yourself too seriously, which is a great prescription for just about anyone. [-]

Holding a ladder for a guy I considered to be a half-crazy octagenarian, Rick, a brash, bony, sun-baked kiwi who insisted on getting up there instead of us, while said ladder swayed wildly and was held up only by a mangi-mangi vine. We couldn't reason with the guy, so, if he fell, I'm thinking Brian will really have his hands full, then... Poor Rick!

Serendipity

2006-04-22T08:10:00.000-04:00

Which way to my hometown mountain?

Makara Peak, overlooking Wellington, NZ

[-]

* * *

ser·en·dip·i·ty (ser-en -'di-p-t-E) - noun:

the faculty or phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for.

* * *

There's something about doing manual labor which - for some people - puts their heads in all the right places. At least, that's been the case for me. Whether it's been assuaging beach erosion in South Australia, eradicating noxious vegetation in New South Wales, checking stoat traps in Northern New Zealand, or - as here, carving an environmentally low-impact mountain bike path into Wellington's surrounding greenbelt slopes- it's all good.

We had a good crew, too (minus Clare, who'd just departed GVN to get back to her burgeoning counselling career in London). We had good weather, if you discount the occasional 40-knot gusts of wind. We had good equipment. We had a good steward on the project, a fellow named Jonathan. He was the operator of the Makara Peak Mountain Bike Park, and a member of the Otari-Wilton Trust Board, an oversight body for the expansive green belt of mostly original non-introduced vegetation that circled the city. In a move that surprised even the most cynical of ecological watchdog groups, the city council agreed that there'd be no further development of this "green zone" for either residential or commercial properties.

What our work meant - as part of the aggregate effort, of course - was that tomorrow's generations of Wellingtonians, Kiwis, and world travelers like myself could look forwad to the same unspoiled, transcendant views that ringed their fair city that I was seeing today. Land which I was happy to work, with that good-spirited, serendipity-inducing labor, to help preserve, cherish, and flourish...

[-]

A Sea Shanty

2006-04-16T15:18:00.000-04:00

THE SCENE OPENS with a wide panorama shot of the Wellington Harbour coastline, from inside a boat. Shot outside boat reveals the strapping, swashbuckling protagonist, with his trademark devil-may-care demeanor squinting through the late-afternoon glare, as the tendrils of smoke rise from his half-chewed cigar. He stands proudly in his sleek sailing craft - made entirely out of hemp - as it approaches the shore.

With a flick of the wrist, he sends the mainsail falling, and the boat slows and turns slightly in a perfect shallow-water maneuver. He tosses the anchor, then steps onto the sandbar just off his port side, a hundred yards from the beach.

As he approaches the shore, a wide distant shot gives him the appearance of a holy, glowing conquerer who seems to stride across the very water itself, majestically approaching the beach. He pauses at beach edge, and spits his cigar out. "Won't be needing that anymore." A crew of petroleum developers just up the beach, all in hardhats, is revealed. They are shown with blueprints. "Yeah, all this will go...don't worry, Mister Linepocket," one of them says, gesturing to the beautiful, untouched swath of coastline.

Just then, a voice breaks through their conversation. "Hey gentlemen!" It is our hero, aiming his L.A.W-type. rocket launcher at them from just up the beach. "I've got a present for you." They are all aghast, but have no time to react as the rocket blows them all in different directions.

The title flashes across the screen... "Coming this Summer... Conservation like you've NEVER seen it before!"

A final shot of him, lowering the smoking launcher. Crocodile Dundee steps in from out of the shot, head cocked with a wry grin. "Nice one, mate." They share a hearty, robust laugh...

+ + +

[Conceived & developed by Joel Frost of Astoria/NYC, under the obvious influence of a gallon or so of 'Bronx shiraz' and a vivid, almost hallucinogenic imagination. Cheers, sailor.]

Above: at the helm of a 40-footer in Wellie harbor, on a sublime day. Looks like I'm fighting huge swells, but Port Nicholson - as it's rarely called - was actually calmer than a bathtub. Note the ship cleverly dubbed "Clarebuoyant" and, above, the two harbor terns remarking to one another, "I'll bet you could develop a fine movie script around this location."

Welcome to Wellie

2006-04-14T15:27:00.000-04:00

THE GVN/WELLIE CREW rolled out of Coromandel, having completed ten days of projects in and around Kennedy and Waikawau Bays, and in Port Charles. We began the two day excursion down the North Island, passing the fantastic lakes and mountain scenery of the mid-island. We stayed in a "bach" (short for "bachelor") - a quaint lake- or seaside cottage - owned by Diane, the MEG executive with whom I stayed for 3 weeks up in Port Charles.

We stopped off at this geothermal national park called Craters of the Moon, outside of Lake Taupo. I chose to wear shorts and flipflops on a day that became a forty-five degree evening, but thankfully, the heat from the ground and the rising steam from the fissures kept me plenty warm. I'm pictured with several of the guys in our team, who hailed from New Jersey, Scotland, England. An international team of do-gooders.

I could sense that the 9 in our crew were awfully anxious to get back to what they were calling "home" - - the "Kowhai House", the place where GVN volunteers based in Wellington are housed. My past experiences with vollie houses in Australia were that they were typically very modest places with spare furnishings and often really run down and neglected, because- well, non-profits purchased them, and we all know that most NFPs aren't flush with cash.

Turns out that this residence - named "Kowhai House" after a regional flowering tree - was pretty posh, all things considered. There were separate, private rooms for some of us, a relief after spending many days in tents, on the floor of the Knox cottage, or in crude bunks in the DOC house. Here, we had a garden, a clothes dryer, two deluxe hot showers, and a new laundry machine...which were very welcome after roughing it. The views from the hill (we lived in Lower Hutt, a suburb of Wellington) were remarkable, and the sunsets were fantastic almost every third night.

I woke up the next morning and began to explore the city. The architectural styles, the bright, brash, funky color schemes...the breezes blowing in from the harbor, the gulls slicing through sun-splashed skies...this was idyllic seaside living.

It was quite simply a perfect little city. A city I could live in, in a heartbeat, and feel right at home, right away, and with so much beckoning in so many directions.

At one-third the size, it put its large, very ornery and competitive brother Auckland to shame, in my estimation, especially as an arts and cultural mecca.

The Te Papa national museum was astonishing...by far the best I've ever seen, save for perhaps MoMa or the Smithsonian.

There were cable cars that take riders to stunning vistas...

... a parliament building that looked like more playful beehive instead of a stodgy bastion of bureaucracy...
...libraries that didn't look like libraries at all...

... enough restaurants to satisfy the most insatiable appetites and diversity of tastes, from Malaysian bistros to authentic Irish public houses - -Wellie seemed to have just about everything.

There was so much to drink in, and share with the rest of you who may never make it down here...If you ever do, however, it's well worth it, believe me. (Just don't tell Aucklanders that...they're a very competitive bunch, those guys..always picking on little brother, the more cultural and arty Wellie.) [-]

The K-Bay Brigade

2006-04-10T02:59:00.000-04:00

IT WAS THE MORNING AFTER the GVN:Wellie crew rolled into Kennedy Bay ("K-Bay"). We'd camped out in the Marae's main building under its vast canopy of murals, amidst its imposing array of wood carvings of warriors, icons, and heroes. We were ready for some hard work.

At least, I was... I'd been bush-bashing for three and a half weeks, now. I looked forward to a daily regimen of hiking several k's up and down steep grades to do my work. I was enjoying it, to my gradual amazement...on Day 1, I wasn't sure if I was gonna make the five weeks there in the program. I soon discovered I was capable of much more than I'd imagined, and that the conditioning required by such challenges comes in time. Still, I'd wondered how I'd fare compared with others in the group.

Was I imagining how fit and able I was? Would they put this guy to shame and show me how it was really done? After all, these were volunteers from all over the world, and this wasn't some thinly-veiled party cruise or some dainty weekend trash pickup crew. These were rugged, hearty, passionate people who had already done serious work in other organizations, in other no doubt challenging places across the globe.

Not to worry. I'd do just fine - more than hold my own, really - and in time, my experience in the region, familiarity with MEG and its members, and my comfort level with the hard work involved gave me the status of a junior leader, of sorts. I reminded myself of the value of humility, though, and of not overestimating one's skills or aptitude. Cockiness or arrogance had no place here...these weren't people to put on a show or to try to impress. The main concerns were with leaving this place better than we found it, and getting the job done with a smile. Personal appearance or ability simply wasn't important. What was was why you were there, how much effort and spirit you put into it, and keeping up your 100%, grounded, positive attitude. In time, after I was immersed in the daily deep expression of these virtues, I benefitted from intensive character improvement just as much as I had my many days solo in the bush.

The terrain that day would be demanding. We were joined by two full-time DOC contract workers who were primarily responsible for maintaining the 7,000 kms of tracks that threaded through the 50,000 acre+ sanctuaries. Two Maori workers also joined in to lead us along the very tracks that they'd cut themselves. We strapped special custom hand-built stoat traps to our packs, carried additional ones in our hands, and started in on the 1.5 km hike up to the entry points high on the ridgeline off of the main access track.

IT BEGAN TO RAIN an hour into the trek. I turned around to check the temperature of the Wellie crew - - now, my crew. They were undaunted, though, spirits undiminished - - even as the winds whipped at dozens of knots per hour and the soaking downpour continued unrelentingly for over an hour. Instead of frowns and frustration, I saw smiles on their faces, wild-eyed excitement as we pushed through the dense underbrush, past luxurious ferns and around the trunks of 5 meter lush palms.

We grabbed onto one another as we slipped and slid down embankments, traps smashing into heads, hands torn by bush lawyer (a clingy, thorn-riddled vine..."once it grabs you, it doesn't let go!") and broken trunks. "Always check your wood!" I called out - -my standard battle-cry in the bush, now. It was typical that you'd reach out to brace yourself as you ascended or descended a steep grade, and grab onto what you thought was a very sturdy tree. Once weight was placed on it, however, half of them would snap and crackle, and you'd be S/O/L as it gave way and you tumble helplessly down the slope. This could be dangerous going, and I didn't want to carry anyone out of the bush if I didn't have to. I didn't have to. Most were able bodied enough to handle it, and when they weren't, we waited up, lightened their load, and helped them along in good spirit.

I quickly sensed that this was going to be a fine ten days in Coro with the crew. The two teams finished their 3 kms stoat trap laying tasks in relatively short order. The sun shone as we made the final push down the slopes and breathlessly burst out of the bush along the Tangiaro River, to an access road and a waiting transport van. We drove back to the Marae to find that the complex's entire plumbing system was screwed. Parakura, the iwi's senior elder, offered the use of facilities in the new baches he was building with his wife on the bay. ("Bach" is short for "bachelor", the name given to the kinds of diminutive, simple cottages used by vacationers on holiday in NZ.) We separated into groups to crank out a huge communal dinner for the troops, which I could clearly see was deeply appreciated. To say that we slept well that night understates things a bit. [|-|]

Te Marae

2006-04-07T02:06:00.000-04:00

THE GVN CREW FROM WELLINGTON rolled into Coromandel on the first Monday in April. Now, I'd been working as a solo international volunteer in the Coromandel's Port Charles area for the past five weeks...but the deal now was that I'd join the Wellie crew, and assist with projects in other parts of the Peninsula. When our work was done there, we'd pack it up and take the two day trip down to Wellington, home to GVN's HQs and the main volunteer house. I was looking forward to some vollie - no, human - interaction after spending a spell as a trapper in the NZ bush. Sure, I'd met, mixed it up with, and stayed with plenty of the locals, but, I was also used to working on 8-10 person crews in Australia - instead of a solo flight - and so I reckoned it'd be nice to roll back into a larger group again.

I made the trek south to Kennedy Bay, where I'd be joining the Wellie crew. GVN and DOC had prearranged a stay for us at a very special place, only the third time such a thing had been worked out. We were to stay the Māori Harataunga Marae. The Marae - essentially the name given to a sacred open meeting area - is generally situated in front of the "whare runanga" (communal meeting house)...it's the area of greatest mana - the place of greatest spirituality; the place that is said to heighten people's dignity; and the place in which Māori customs are given ultimate expression.

Our two worlds collided like this: a European (or "Pakeha") may only enter the Marae on permission from the Elders, and due respect must be shown while on the Marae. If a visiting party approaches the Marae, a special ceremony takes place first. We were advised to wait at the gate of the Marae until the occasion presented itself for us to show that we came with peaceful intentions. To honor ceremonial tradition, we visitors were told to advance into the Marae, remaining close together and plodding forward at a slow respectful pace; women were held in the center, while the males flanked to the sides and rear. The women of the Marae then began the call of welcome (the Te karanga):

"Come forward, visitors from afar. Welcome, welcome! Bring with you the spirits of your dead, that they may be greeted , that they may be mourned. Ascend onto our Marae, ascend the sacred Marae of our people. Welcome, welcome."

For the Māori, generosity and hospitality are all important.

Once the visitors are inside the Marae, greetings and speeches can begin. Parakura White, the senior elder of Harataunga, began his greetings and speeches in Māori. (Māori (or Te Reo) is the Polynesian language spoken in New Zealand, where it has official status.) The speaker moves backwards and forwards as he talks. When he was finished, our DOC representative Pim de Monchy began his reciprocal speech of acknowledgment and thanks - also in Māori -, and stated our purpose for coming onto the Marae: to assist the Harataunga iwi (tribe) with their local conservation efforts, which complement and carry forward those initiated by DOC, EW, and GVN via the Harataunga Marae Trust.

Next was the traditional greeting (powhiri) whichs consists of a "hongi." This is the gentle pressing together of the nose and forehead, one person to another. Often the men grip the left shoulder while clasping right hands. The "hongi" is the mingling of breath between the two people, and it represents unity. If the iwi's elders sense any hostility during the powhiri, they can and have asked visiting iwi to leave immediately, and battles had been fought on the very ground on which we now stood. The exchange of breath is sometimes performed three times: the first pressing is a greeting to the person; the second acknowledges ancestors; and a third pressing of nose and forehead honors life in this world.

We concluded our ceremony by offering a kowhai sapling, an important and valued indigenous tree and the namesake of our volunteer house back in Wellie. The iwi had prepared a feast for us, and we joined them in the meeting hall. We would spend the next several days preparing our meals in the massive kitchens...we pretty much had the run of the place, said Parakura.

All eleven of us slept on the floor, in the open community room. I somehow ended up in the most esteemed location - in the northeast corner - where the visiting iwi's head and counselor is always placed out of respect. I was advised I'd have to resolve any disputes within our iwi, and lead the group in our prayers and common practices.

Nothing came up which demanded any negotiating skills, but, I probably would've been plenty distracted if it had...I was too busy transfixed by the zoo-universe of all of the mammals, fish, birds and insects painted all over the entire ceiling in one continuous, grand, gorgeous mural. The room was also ringed with dozens of impressive seven-foot-tall wall carvings which represented Harataunga's esteemed male and female ancestors...I went to sleep that night and awoke the next morning feeling that I was truly privileged to have this kind of access that few Pakeha would likely ever experience. [|-|]

Parakura & me in front of the Harataunga Marae.

Straying From The Flock

2006-04-03T02:06:00.000-04:00

WEEK FOUR IN THE COROMANDEL began for me in a special place called Karuna Falls. Karuna Falls is an alternative, cooperative or "intentional" community.

It was founded in the early 1970's as communes and the ethos that spurred their establishment became more omnipresent. At its peak, it had up to 75 residents. They own the land in common, and purchase a memebership, after they're approved by the residents for acceptance into the community.

The original missions of the community have evolved into tenets that better reflect more present-day realities. However, they still believe in sustainable agriculture and subsistence living, and perpetuating a lifestyle that has minimal impact on local ecosystems. So, while some of the residents own cars and use mobile phones, they're independent from the electrical grid (solar or hydroelectric power only), and they use only composting toilets.

As a GVN vollie placed with one of their affiliates, Moehau Environment Group, I offered to help two MEG members who lived in Karuna Falls with administrative and marketing matters, and with assembling annual reports and assisting with grant applications.

March went out like a lamb and then the tempestuous April showers began. The first batch of torrential storms only lasted a couple of days, while prevailing easterly winds had their way with the Moehau range in which K. Falls is situated. Right after the skies cleared, though, I was out cutting trails for the last phase of MEG's and DOC's pest control project. You just can't keep me indoors anymore, it seems.

Above: (1) Wayne Todd's freehold estate in K. Falls. (2) Stream bridge walkway to my first homestay in Karuna Falls, a place owned by part-time residents Graham and Judy. At left: an "after" shot of the track I cut for the stoat trap lines running through K. Falls. Below: (1) Me & Wayne Todd, a MEG executive in charge of Strategic Planning. Wayne's house served as my second homestay in Karuna Falls. (2) Kathy Parr's house, designed by Graham, an Auckland architect, and constructed solely out of discarded wood and windows and recycled man-made materials.

My seven days in Karuna Falls proved to be a valuable and memorable experience. Talk about idyllic...the night air was punctuated only by sounds of the preying mop hawks, some mate-seeking kiwis, and the soothing, gently rushing waters of nearby waterfalls.

Nearly all of the homes are exclusively solar-powered; a few have hydro-electric backup systems. After a day of bush wrangling, I exercised the option of showering in an outdoor bathtub with water heated earlier that day by the sun, in a tub surrounded only by the dense, lush, subtropical bushland. I recommend it strongly. The local fauna don't seem to mind, either.

Kathy needed kindling for the "wet-back" stove (used to heat the house's water) so, I got cracking. I chopped wood for three hours one sunny Wednesday afternoon. It turned into a Zen-like exercise, as I kept splitting pieces of wood into smaller and smaller fragments, 'til they were not much larger than the axe head. Karuna Falls had a certain magic to it, which included the chance to leave the power grid and embrace instead mauri, the lifeforce of the New Zealand bush. I'm grateful for that opportunity, and better for it. [|-|]

Waikawau Bay

2006-03-22T13:58:00.000-05:00

ONE OF MY FAVORITE PLACES in the Coromandel Peninsula, on the east central coast of the Northern Island of New Zealand - and there are lots of them - is Waikawau Bay. I stayed virtually next door for parts of March and the first 10 days of April. I had the privilege of working there on two separate occasions.

It was a short walk from Terry and Dawn's house, as well as from the Department of Conservation's Knox's Cottage, where we were lodged during GVN's regional project. I'd often find myself down on the estuary at low tide, picking over shells or kayaking, where the mouth of the Tangiaro river emptied into a nearly 1 kilometer silt field, where sea tides and mangrove trees mingled.

One of the best trap lines I ever worked ran right along that beach. The place was overrun with hedgehogs (non-native pests) who found their way into traps meant instead for stoats and other mustelids. Otherwise, the runs were more than pleasant, and it was hard not to stop and suck in the surf, sand, sun, and sea at every stop. I was in no hurry, nor were my superiors. The pace of life and work had a gentle rhythm to it, and just like >that< -- stress has a funny way of melting away on you. I know there's something instructive at play, a lesson here, somewhere... [-]

Above: a rock formation that provides a framed vista down the coast...it's halfway up the climb to a precipice that allows 300-degree views of the area. Below: a serene full moon in late March, from the top of a windy lookout point on the Bay.

A Trapper's Tale

2006-03-17T01:26:00.000-05:00

I BEGAN MY CAREER AS A TRAPPER on the first Monday in March. I left Dawn & Terry's place in Waikawau Bay and made the 1/2 hour trek up to Port Charles, where I'd be working and staying in a 50,000 acre wildlife sanctuary. The house was styled as a simple, elegant modern barn, perched at the top of rolling hill country, and it fit in nicely with the surrounds.

The view from the veranda, where I had my breakfast every morning, was matchless...you could see all the way down to the beach at Little Sandy Bay, which is where some of my trap lines would terminate. Between those points was a fair amount of rugged but breathtaking territory, teeming with bird and invertebrate life. My job was to help with pest elimination, which included pretty much anything with four legs...feral goats, pigs, stoats, weasels, possums, rats, and cats. All of which cause(d) the incredible devastation to vegetation and indigenous fauna that I've chronicled in other posts. DOC, EW, and MEG are winning the war, though, and with their successes come addition national, regional, and local funds and support.

MY JOB AS A TRAPPER was to be a limited engagement, sure. But, the idea of me going hard, flying solo, spending 40+ hours a week tramping through the peninsula's appreciable mountain ranges with just a small pack around my waist was something into which I quickly became totally immersed. I had the luxury of bringing an empty water bottle, which I could fill right from the numerous pristine mountain streams that ran cool and plentiful across the ranges. When a bottle wasn't handy, I plunged my face right in there...a welcome relief, as the bush was hot & steamy, especially once you get going full blast.

I'd have some help in the bush...I was joined each day by the once - rare fantails....incredibly tame, they'd accompany you for 100 meters or so, chirping at you in an animated, almost comical manner, waiting for you to brush past trees to shake their insect lunches loose. There were mangi-mangi vines which were hidden away underfoot, until you snagged one with your boot unknowingly, strode forward, and nearly fell on your rear. However, those same vines would also come in very handy as I skirted super-steep slopes, sometimes having to hang on and holding my entire body weight up with maybe only one arm, looking around for a tree root or rock to grab onto.

Bush Insight # 152: What may look at first like an obstacle
may prove later to be a great aid.

EACH MORNING, I WAS ASSIGNED a few sets of trap lines, each of which had anywhere from 15 to 50 traps placed 25 meters apart, with the trap lines themselves spaced equidistantly on a north-south axis every 50 meters. The lines had different grades, ranging from "easy" to "nightmarish." The latter required a fair amount of ropework to ascend / descend vertical slope walls between traps. I jumped right into the task, and found out to my great delight that I was much fitter than I'd imagined, thanks to three months of engaging in manual labor across all of Australia with CVA. Good thing, as the daily work required among other things several kms of hiking up and down mountainsides.

I worked with a local gal named Leo Campbell, a native of the area who grew up in the alternative community of Karuna Falls (my next assignment). Leo was an aspiring artist, self-trained and infected with a love of the land in which we lived and worked. She spoke passionately about her craft, just as she twinkled with excitement at playing a part in the re-introduction into the Coromandel of rare, valued species. At nearly six feet tall, she was a powerhouse, and she and I would get competitive on who could complete the more difficult trap lines first. Turns out Leo also had a number of celebrities in her near and extended family, including Temura Morrison, who appeared in the most recent Star Wars movie. [Temura starred in one of my favorite movies, Once Were Warriors, a much-lauded film about Maori life in present-day New Zealand.]

I did this job for about a month's time. When it was cut short by a last-minute re-assignment, I was actuallycrestfallen...Sure, baiting traps and removing decomposing carcasses while battling overgrown mountainslopes wasn't the most glamorous of tasks, but what I gained in that time will stay with me. It was more about how I persevered and prevailed over rather challenging circumstances each day, and along with the clear, focused head needed to do such, I became connected to the land in a profound way, all the while gaining life insights and understandings, experiencing revelations, exploring deeper strengths and abilities. The scenery was remarkable...the kind of larger-than-life vistas and natural wonders that no camera beyond the mind's eye would ever do justice. I was sad to see it all go....but there were other mountains to scale & conquer. I'd be off to Kennedy Bay shortly, after a stint with MEG in Karuna Falls, so, I knew that new opportunities awaited for me down the coast ... [|-|]

A shot of Kennedy Bay on the Coromandel Peninsula's northeastern coast - - the location of my next assignment.

MEG: We Kill Stuff

2006-03-10T00:57:00.000-05:00

ON THE RIDE UP along the coast on a barely-two-lane dirt road from Coromandel town, Lettecia Williams - present chair of the Moehau Environment Group (MEG), the group with which I'd be working for the next 5 1/2 weeks - briefed me on what MEG was all about. With understandable pride and marked enthusiasm, she explained their audacious – and to date, extremely effective – plan to re-introduce no less than four very endangered species in the Coromandel Peninsula’s sanctuaries, which were started two decades ago by the NZ Department of Conservation (DOC). Environment Waikado - a regional governmental unit - has intensified its focus and monetary support of these efforts, also.

At this point in the game, MEG and DOC are happy to report that they're seeing an 80 percent survival rate for newborn kiwi chicks which, up until they started these initiatives, were seeing around 15% make it, thanks to super-heavy predation. They're creating one of the most successful programs of its kind in the country, made up of a coalition of government, council, private landowner, and Maori iwi groups -- a really unprecedented collaboration, I'm told. And the future continues to look bright for this and other species.

MEG has been working with DOC to maintain and expand these sanctuaries throughout the Coromandel, which now cover upwards of fifty thousand of acres, and which has become one of the top five most valued ecological assets in the entire country. “Conservation here is mainly about killing things,” Lettecia quipped, with an ironic smile. “Thanks to European settlers, we now have all kinds of pests and predators, which have run rampant and multiplied out of control. They have ravaged the countryside, caused soil erosion and vegetative destruction…they’ve upset the entire ecosystem, while preying upon huge numbers of now-endangered species.”

Picture two remote islands, settled by Polynesians approximately 900 years ago, which would have been teeming with meaty, flightless fowl who never needed to develop defenses, because there simply were no indigenous mammals (read: predators) on either island - - save for three species of bats. New Zealand’s isolation is partly to credit for the huge spectrum of unique species found only here, just as it is partly the cause of how those same species were unable to cope with the mass invasion of unfriendly fauna. I’m no eco-biologist, but you needn’t have the schooling to realize how out of balance it all had gotten, in the span of only 5 or 6 generations. I'm here to help get that balance back...

Bush Insight No. 327: in life, it's usually all about balance, and how to get it and keep it so.

Indoctrination

2006-03-03T00:04:00.000-05:00

AFTER THE PASSENGERS DISEMBARKED the ferry, our shuttle zipped over to the Coromandel Town information center, where I was to be dropped off to meet up with Lettecia Williams from Moehau (“moe-ee-how”) Environment Group (MEG). She was delayed or we’d somehow missed one another. No matter. Coromandel Town was so tiny, I’m sure they noticed the moment some Yank vollie blew into town, and I gambled that word would get to her as to my whereabouts in no time. Tim (one of the ferry passengers with whom I’d became acquainted) and I walked into town to grab a much-needed “all-day breakfast.” I ordered enough rashers, sausages, chips and eggs to get a family of four through a famine. As soon as I’d ordered, though, Lettecia tracked me down on Tim’s mobile, and was already on her way into town to get me. The famine-food feast would have to wait...

Lettecia - a five-foot-tall dynamo who radiated vitality - appeared in a well-used, late-model Ford Explorer, with two very good-looking German shorthair pointers in the back, Choc and Millie. I jumped in, and we started the one-hour drive north to Waikawau Bay, where I’d be staying until Monday the 6th, when my actual work duties began. I was told previously to “pack a toothbrush”, as Port Charles (where I’d be living for five weeks) was two hours from any major stores - --or, for that matter, anything major whatsoever that amounted to a business.

The Colville co-op store (30 minutes down the road from Port Charles) had your basics, but that was it. No ricotta cheese, or lithium-ion batteries, or an ATM. I know, because I’d tried hunting all of these down since arriving here. It’s fine, though. You just learn to live without, and I’d been doing just that for over three months, now.

I was to stay with two MEG group members over the next four days. We arrived at Dawn and Terry Whitehouse’s place, which was nestled in a valley and bordered by rolling paddocks (fields) in an idyllic corner of Waikawau, on the north-eastern shore of the Peninsula. Terry and I walked many acres of his property and parts of the Bay, as he gave me the history of the place and filled me in on the locals and their local color. He explained the unique geography of the Coromandel, its varied and changing land uses, the theories behind bush regeneration and species reintroduction, how MEG’s efforts have accelerated, focused, and enhanced those initiatives, and the delicate balance of allowing rugged individualism to complement - rather than conflict with – the eco groups’ initiatives, most of which depended on cooperation from all of the contiguous landowners across Coro. In time, I’d had dozens of questions, built on the foundation of what I’d already learned and experienced throughout Australia.

MY FIRST NIGHT on the peninsula was by no means quiet. A neighbor, Paul Denton, rang up Terry, and when Terry mentioned that I was staying with them, Paul asked if I might want to come along with him on a wild boar hunt that evening. Paul was a thirty-year, seasoned, expert hunter - - an affable bloke who loved to get airlifted into remote parts of the bush and dropped in, living there for a week or two while he hunted to his heart’s delight. He was a valuable part of pest eradication in Coro, as these feral pigs needed serious controlling. Two birds were to be killed with one stone in pursuing and purging them from the land; one for sport; the other, conservation. I didn’t hesitate when the invitation came, but I somehow sensed that I had little idea of what I’d be in for...

Within what seemed like minutes, we were tearing up the sides of the Moehau range. We trekked through DOC (Dept. of NZ Conservation)land leased to Paul for nine years. We had five dogs in the lead, with Paul crashing through the “rubbish bush” (as he called it) and me always two steps behind, pleased that I could keep up (I had quit smoking after 14 years only two months earlier, and so I was grateful for the extra lung capability).

Paul would occasionally stop to get a sense of where his dogs were and whether they were onto something...you couldn’t see them, only the forest floor ferns and palms shaking as they brushed past, picking up a scent here, dropping it there. He’d reach to his side and bend this weed or that bush out and away, explaining how it was noxious, or a rampant pest, and in every case, how it was something that the Europeans brought over two centuries before, in their efforts to make the land adapt to their sense of the familiar, rather than the other way around. Particularly nettlesome was the Scottish gorse, which, if you crashed headlong into it at a good clip, would stop pretty much anyone in their tracks…it was a spiny, ugly, threatening bush that grew among the other vegetation, and was hard as hell to kill, let alone keep in check in the bush.

After 80 minutes or so in hot pursuit of anxious dogs who had yet to pick up a warm trail, the sun had set, we were heading back to the truck when a large something-or-other hurtled across an open paddock about 100 yards in front of us. The dogs uniformly leapt into action, their training kicking in as they cornered a hulking black boar in a ravine. Paul broke into a broad smile and winked at me. “You’re obviously a good luck charm this evening,” he said, raising his gun and taking down the porcine beast with a single, well-placed shot. I helped as he subdued it, sticking a knife into its heart to still the boar once and for all, and within seconds, with expert dexterity and skill borne of decades of practice, he gutted it then and there, in that dark, damp corner of the bush. Once he’d finished cleaning it, we managed to swing the carcass up over an embankment, but only after several back-straining attempts. This was a big boy - - probably in the 150 kg. range.

With Mr. Piggy in the back of the 4WD, we headed home across neighbors’ paddocks through livestock gates. I jumped out and opened them, allowing the truck through and closing them behind me as it passed, then jumping back in. The first one was no problem. The second, however, found me walking the gate wide open, and I stepped right off a bridge into the pitch black night. I instinctively held on to the gate as I swung way out over the blackness below. I sensed that the ground was several meters below - -a rocky, nearly-empty stream bed. I kept my hold as I swung my weight back towards the bridge planks…in moments, I had both feet back on terra firma, laughing at that point, a mix of true bemusement and astonishment…it’d all happened so fast. I must’ve looked like Bruce Willis hanging off of the Nakatomi building in one of his Die Hard installments.

This drama-dodging would have been the third instance of good fortune to arise at the end of the same day that I was able to make a passenger ferry turn around to come and get me. It was hard to ignore the good karma that was apparently being showered upon me, and I wasn’t about to question any of it. I slept quite well that night, secure in the notion that while the road ahead would be likely challenging, my steps would be surefooted, and I’d probably (continue to) have the time of my life…[|-|]

Above: A shot of the pig...
...and a gutted, wild boar hanging from the rafters.

Horseback riding is de rigeur here. At left, Linda (l) and Lou Ann (r) saddle up my ride, Finn. At thirty-years and counting, he'd had many a rider, and he let me know it. I had to dig my boots into his sides so hard I thought he'd pass a kidney stone. We started to have an understanding by the time I was in a full gallop. My instructor, Linda, is a youth probation officer back in Manchester, UK, but comes out to Waikawau for three months each summer, where she pitches a tent next to the corral and gives lessons to neophytes like myself. She came up to Coro on holiday, and decided to stay, which is a story I'd hear many times afterwards from other residents of the area.

Kia Ora, Aotearoa

2006-03-02T02:56:00.000-05:00

So, the last shot in the most recent post should’ve been the tip-off, the answer to the cliff-hanger question as to whether I made it. If you recall, I was trying to catch this boat up north that only leaves every two days, but, I was due in to Coromandel that day, at 11:30 a.m.

As I awoke and saw my watch was still on Sydney time (two hours behind Auckland) I was too late to make the 9:00 a.m. ferry, so, I called the booking office. They informed me that, in fact, there had just been a tour cancellation, and so the ferry was returning to port. Megan said that I had “all the time in the world.” Fantastic. I guess the cabdriver thought so too, because she didn’t come for another 20 minutes. When we finally pulled up to Pier 3, I could see the delayed ferry pulling out of the harbor into open waters, about 5 minutes out. I finally made it to the counter, and Megan regarded me with sympathy when I’d asked if I’d missed the boat (I mean, it was pretty obvious, despite the busy harbor with all sorts of boats coming and going). It was now 9:30, and they’d been out to sea for a while. However. I was feeling optimistic, and spunky, and so, with a big grin on my face and a conspiratorial tone, I lowered my voice and said, “Megan, just…indulge me for a second. Would you just call out to them and ask the captain if he’d consider turning around to come and pick me up?”

Megan looked at me like I had three heads, which I expected, but all the same, she made the call. As she put down the receiver after the call, she wore a wholly different expression. “You must be the luckiest guy in Auckland right now.” Within 10 minutes, the boat came back into view, returning to the Pier, to come and get yours truly. I couldn’t believe it, but, then again, for some reason, I could…my trip up north had this great air of serendipity to it already. Although, I could see that there were easily two dozen passengers aboard a ship they probably didn't anticipate taking an extra 30 minutes for the crossing, and so I braced myself. I’d probably have some explaining to do and perhaps avoid some angry stares

The opposite occurred, however. I was amazed at how pleasant everyone was, including the first mate, Carl, who gestured with a wild smile for me to "come on!! Jump in!!", as the boat never even came to a full stop. People smiled and waved away my explanation, and so I bought coffees for the crew and went up to thank the captain, Colin. No problem, he said. Ï explained that if I tried that on the Staten Island Ferry back home, I'd have caused a near riot, for sure. He replied that I'd better get used to this kind of graciousness and these good vibrations...this was New Zealand, he said with a broad grin. He gave me a narrated tour as we navigated Auckland harbor and beyond. It was a sweet two-hour ride. I spent most of it on the back upper deck, after I’d tried to brush my teeth and get the sleep out of my eyes in a swaying lavatory.

The volcanically-formed islands in the straights were mostly exotic and uninhabited; forbidden but not foreboding; magnificent and yet very inviting. So plentiful and animated were the varied seabirds, who whipped above the waves and cried out as more joined in the nautical acrobatics show, put on for our benefit. I drank in deeply the sight of crystalline blue water and the expansive sun-drenched dome above our mist-soaked heads; the new smell of the fresh and mighty, sweet-&-salty air of pristine waters; and the sheer aura of the place, with that singular feeling one gets when you take a sea voyage to places unknown.

Arriving in Coromandel harbor was like pulling into paradise’s back yard. The island seemed to open its arms and then hugged us up to the dock with its sweeping coastline.

Much like the opening shot of Mediterraneo (one of my favorite foreign language films of all time), I spied brightly-painted, carefully tended moored boats in the harbor, bobbing cheerfully. The ridges of the spectacular mountain ranges came right to the water’s edge, draped like a verdant green velvet cloth. It was definitely like entering a surreal, magical world, and it's no wonder that Peter Jackson and his location scouts decided to film The Lord of the Rings here. I couldn’t believe my good fortune at being picked to work in this region for the next 40 days.

We boarded a small, red shuttle bus with an ancient and knowledgeable driver, to get us into Coromandel Town, 11 kms away. As we riders chatted about where we were from and our respective reasons for coming across, three of them realized they’d all come from the same small town in Scotland. The odds of that… well, you can imagine. This fairy land's magic and meaning was already beginning to seep into my consciousness, and so I reminded myself to keep my eyes peeled for unexpected miracles, mysterious congruencies, strange synchronicities, and inexplicable but joy-inducing surprises that come from extraordinary places and rare people. [-]

A forgotten/discarded boot is left on a mountain roadside near Port Charles for its owner to reclaim. These are a hardy bunch of rugged individualists, who know the value of necessary equipment, and don't understand the disposable culture of the West. I'm gonna like this place, I can already tell...

[Lost In Translation... This post's title is brought to you by the Maori; meaning, literally, "Hello, Island of the Long White Cloud." Aotearoa is generally surmised to be the native Maori's name for New Zealand, but as with many 'ambassador words,' it is unclear whether it was actually their given name for the two islands, without modification...]

Coming Full Circle...

2006-03-01T03:41:00.000-05:00

SYDNEY-TO-SYDNEY in exactly three months' time... after logging close to 12,000 kms. Hard to believe that I only touched town here a mere12 weeks ago...on December 1. On this day, I was leaving for New Zealand out of Sydney. March 1, the day my visa expires (I'm guess I'm a down-to-the-wire kinda guy on this expedition).

I took a similar shot like this (above) back in early December, although, honestly, it seems like a year has passed since that sunny afternoon in the harbor with Ali and Stephen, sitting on the Opera House steps, wondering what sorts of trouble I could get myself into in this generous, vast, live-out-loud kind of country. I found out soon enough, as you've read throughout these pages in past posts...

My last night in town had that bittersweet but satisfactory flavor to it...I thought I'd go back to the very hotel in which I stayed my first night in-country..but, they were booked solid. My contingency plan was to hop on down the road to the Crest Hotel, which was right on the border between the Kings Cross and Darlinghurst midtown neighborhoods. The Crest gladly took me in, a rare Americano amidst throngs of guests from Seoul, Shanghai, and Singapore.

Both KC and Darlinghurst have their own unique character, and so the border area was sure to have a full mix of both. It did. I spent a bit checking out the area... I walked past several 'ladies of the evening' on my way to find some sushi, and ducked into a shiatsu parlor next to the headquarters of an international auction house.

I RETURNED TO my hotel room to find a message advising me that my shuttle leaves at 5:45 in the a.m. for Sydney International. Which was in 6 hours. I finished off the complimentary bottle of red they'd sent up to my room and, realizing I'd stowed away a dozen pre-stamped postcards, and that this'd be the last time I'd be near an Aussie POST box for a while, I got busy.

* * *

MORNING CAME QUICKLY, but, my excitement wasn't dimmed, only amplified. I'd be in Auckland by 4 p.m., if all went well, after catching a connection in Christchurch, NZ.

After having to wait in the wrong line (for Inchon, South Korea, of all places) for over an hour - I wasn't fazed, as I was becoming quite the equanimous traveler of late - after another two hours, I had made it through booking, security, customs, quarantine, bird flu vaccinations, asylum declarations, and all the frisking and prodding a guy can tolerate without actually soliciting such things. I am kidding about the bird flu, though. (Someone has to, for Pete's sake...)

So. It was goodbye, Oz-- for now. I knew I'd be back one day soon...I still had places to go, acquaintances with whom to acquaint, experiences to experience. As I boarded this JetStar 737 for Christchurch, I recalled a quote attributed to the comics legend, Charles Schultz: "It's not the end of the world. It's already tomorrow in Australia."

* * *

I MADE IT into Auckland at around 5, with the usual 'unavoidable' delays. I met a geographer named Sonia on the plane, who lived in Hamilton, on the North Island. She coached me on listening for the fine distinctions between the Aussie and the Kiwi dialect. I wasn't in a terrible hurry to get to the city, but, I did want to see some of the city before jumping on a ferry the next morning, to head out to Coromandel. I booked into a bed & breakfast, run by a lovely lady from India named Sima, who helped me get a reservation at Orbit, the rotating restaurant/bar overlooking the city, up in the SkyTower. My reservation was for the last seating that night, so I had time to explore the downtown area, which was steeped in rich history, unique architecture, and southern hemisphere charm. The kind of city I could warm to, very quickly.

Orbit was truly a treat, a personal indulgence I'd attempted only because I had just been through some relative austerity up in the mountains, and I was pretty sure that more lay ahead up in the Moehau range.

That, and I couldn't say no to gourmet rack of lamb, pinot noir from the esteemed Marlborough region, and a 360-degree view of a very hip, cool city, that revolved once an hour. The restaurant, that is; not the city. I chatted with the waitstaff about the region, what it was like to grow up there, and got some fine leads on where I might explore once I came back there over a weekend or two down the line...

Auckland at night. The views from 380 m. up were worthy of a Panavision Panaflex movie camera, but, for now, we can settle for this one.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING, I awoke with a bit of a shock. I was on Sydney time, still, it turns out. My ferry was leaving in 20 minutes, and I was somewhere on the other side of the central business district, which I thought was maybe another 3 kms from Pier 3, where I was supposed to meet the boat. My goose was cooked. I was supposed to report to the M.E.G. board at my homestay that afternoon. I called a cab, but, when none showed by 9:00 a.m. - my departure time - I thought, "Well, maybe there's a reason I'm supposed to hang out here in Auckland for another 2 days." Which was when the next ferry would be arriving to head back up to Coromandel.

WOULD I MISS THE BOAT, and be held up in Auckland, or would some miracle or twist of fate unfold, to get me to where I needed to be, in time for my first assigment?

Stay tuned, and you'll find out--even if you're not fond of inapt cliffhangers.... [|-|]

No Man (is an) Island: N. Stradbroke

2006-02-27T21:58:00.000-05:00

On the day before I had to fly out of Brisbane for Sydney,
I headed out to an island, one which a great majority of people had suggested each time I'd ask,
"So, if you had only one day to spend in this entire region, where would you go?"

Getting there wouldn't be easy, but, often - and I know that you know this - it isn't the destination,
but rather, the journey that matters... I started by jumping on a shuttle bus in Southbank to the Central Transport Terminal in downtown Brisbane. Boarded a city transit train to Cleveland which sat on the eastern coast. Hopped on a bus to take me from the train station to the ferry terminal in Cleveland. Boarded a ferry for the island.

After disembarking the ferry, I boarded another island bus to get me to Point Lookout. I walked another 4 km to find a cash machine, so I could grab a ride back. A final 2 km brought me to Frenchman's beach. Again, worth the trek, just like virtually every other excursion I'd undertaken since arriving in Australia nearly 3 months earlier...

Frenchman's Beach welcomed me like a long-awaited guest, and I was afforded exclusive treatment...There wasn't a soul around; I had the place to myself for several hours. Amazing. No other beach along the 2/3rds of the Australian coast that I'd visited had ever been this devoid of vacationers, locals, backpackers, Uni students, stray dogs, feral cats, fishermen, homeless folks, errant kangaroos, prisoners on the lam, and just about any other demographic imaginable...

There were trawlers in the harbor at sunset, and a pleasure cruiser or two...

...and if you look closely, you'll see the only two people that I spied all day strolling by .

Honestly, I wasn't being anti-social (do I look anti-social to you?)...
After all, I was currently spending my four nights in town with about 40-50 independent travelers at the Backpacker's Resort in Brizzie, including rooming with three transient workers from Dublin, so, that's not it. I've been housed with, traveling with, working with, and enjoying thousands of kilometers of Australia with "heaps" of folks from here, and from around the globe. For three months, now, I'd been picking up and moving on every 5-7 days. I'd slept in dozens of beds, or facsimiles thereof... on the ground, in a train cabin, in a hammock, on top of an ant colony on the Yorke Peninsula, in a dingy caravan, in a 200-bed hostel in Melbourne, in a yurt on a sheep farm, in a bedbug-infested vollie house outside of Perth. You name it; I caught some zzzs there.
No, I was there on this lonesome beach to reflect on the expedition thus far; to take stock of my accomplishments and challenges; and to prepare myself for Phase II of this expedition.

New Zealand.

I was leaving in less than 4 days' time.

I had decided at the last minute that for my final days here, I wouldnt to head to Surfer's Paradise, or to Noosa, or even to posh Byron Bay, although I'd toyed with the notion. No; instead, I remembed a fellow I'd met on the Indian-Pacific rail line - the conductor, Jon Wicks - who'd told me about this place that he'd visited in the Blue Mountains, which was about two hours west of Sydney by train. The way he spoke glowingly about it, and the impact it'd made upon him...well, it stayed with me. I filed it away under "possible last-minute stops", something I might consider once I'd finished my very last CVA assignment.

I decided that day on North Stradbroke, seeing blue beyond the blue in ocean waves that marched in ceaselessly, that I was going to this place in the mountains. No advance planning, just...flying right into Sydney, maybe taking a country train from City Central station, and hitching a ride to my destination. What would happen once I got there is a story I'll save, to tell you in person, the next time I see each of you.
Just remember to ask me.
[|-|]

From Mountains to Rainforest

2006-02-23T20:36:00.000-05:00

A macadamia nut grove just outside of the Glass House mountain range

"The Son" (Mt. Coonowrin)

Mount Beerwah (the "Father"), Glass House Mountains, QLD

The dense canopy in Kondalilla National Park's rainforest

Our trusty guide, Rob, revealing the lair of a trap-door spider; Kondalilla Falls

About 90 minutes west of Brisbane are the Glass House Mountains...I wanted to explore them with an expert, so I booked a private independent tour with a very knowledgeable and affable guide named Rob. Rob had worked in a human resources post in Brizzie for many years, but was looking for a more fulfilling post, and so 12 years ago he resigned, and launched his own company to conduct personalized tours of natural wonders. Now, he heads out on different trips each day of the week to various scenic regions (in part to avoid repetitiveness & to keep things fresh). On this day, he took a small group of us around in a 4WD to our first stop: the majestic Glass House Mountains. We hiked all over the range, finding some great lookout points among this family of mountains. They were so named, the story goes, because Captain Cook thought they looked a lot like the glass furnaces he'd seen back in his hometown of Yorkshire...

A pair of kookaburras

The majestic bunyah tree; this one is estimated to be about 1000 years old

Goana on the forest floor

We then headed north up to Kondalilla National Park, which was comprised of vast, lush transitional- and sub-tropical rainforests (usually defined as receiving more than 800 mm of rainfall annually). Sure enough, it rained four times that afternoon (it is a rainforest, after all). We tramped several kms. down through gorges, to the waterfalls at the bottom, which were well worth the hike. The swim in that crisp, mountain stream-fed rock pool was reward enough. At day's end, we stopped at a roadside stand for fresh nuts and pineapples, which were culled from orchards and groves literally a stone's throw away. [|-|]

Heed this warning, or prepare to be chased by emboldened, starving marsupials. They'll box you for tucker, they will..

BrisVegas

2006-02-23T03:44:00.000-05:00

A view of downtown Brisbane from Southbank boardwalk

I flew into Brisbane on February 22^nd from Townsville…CVA had ended for me that past Friday, and I had several days before I was due in New Zealand. I intended to make my way down the east coast of Australia towards Sydney, and so the next major city as I aimed south was...Brizzie.

Street's Beach, Southbank, Brisbane

Queenslanders affectionately refer to the city as BrisVegas. While it is relatively glitzy compared to other cities in Oz, in truth, it lacks the utter proliferation of neon, prostitution and obsessive gambling of its namesake. There are, however, some ritzy touches that push it into the “flash” category (OzSpeak for “fancy” or “slick”)…like the Street’s beach in Southbank. Yessir, it's a man-made beach all right, complete with salt water and sandy splendor, minus shore debris, located smack-dab in the middle of the city, perched along the Brisbane River. It’s where beautifulEuro-tourists come to preen and strut, like peacocks in a trendy nature preserve...

Above: Prototypical Queensland hotel architecture - - the Transcontinental Hotel, in downtown Brisbane…often, these “hotels” aren’t really hotels at all; they were sometimes only fitted with one room, which was essentially a way to get around the strict alcohol licensing restrictions back in the day. Currently, they’re sometimes the only places allowed to sell liquor, especially in smaller towns. They’re called bottle shops in Oz, and there are drive-in ones, too, for those interested in "drink driving", as it's called here.

It’s probably codified somewhere: every Aussie city with populations over half a million must have a bridge, and it must be named “Victoria.” Her influence is pervasive… Chocolate covered macadamia nuts, campgrounds, burlesque theaters, harbor cruises…all named after her, or Elizabeth. These two monarchs saved a lot of name brainstorming sessions, it seems.

The city boasts the usual array of civic arts centers, but the city art gallery was especially above-par. I checked out a photography exhibit dating from the 30’s to the 50’s, Australian authors only. Great stuff. Another exhibit consisted of two “memory rooms" - - essentially, four-walled booths constructed of rice paper and lightweight wood, the insides lined all the way around with shelves, floor to ceiling, containing row upon row of dozens of white envelopes, a writing bench, and a cushion on which to kneel.

The artist conceived of the idea seven years ago, he explains, in a time when he was weighed down by his remembrances over his departed grandmother, wishing he’d been able to say some things to her that he never did. He created this booth, for visitors to use as well, to write their thoughts to loved ones far away or farther on…one could either place a full address on the envelope, or leave it blank. Those that couldn’t be forwarded by museum staff at the end of each week would be burned in a fire, in the Buddhist tradition. I found the whole concept moving, and I took that opportunity to put down a few words of my own, content that they’d be wisps of smoke in five days’ time, but with the intentions and message carried on, nevertheless…[|-|]

Above: trellises adorned with flowering vines ring the Southbank promenade in Brisbane city

Maggie

2006-02-22T03:33:00.000-05:00

On Monday, February 20th (my last day in Townsville) I jumped on a ferry for the off-the-coast empress of the Coral Sea, Magnetic Island (more affectionately dubbed "Maggie" by the locals). It was either now, or -- well, I won't say "never," because I'm pretty certain I'm coming back here somewhere down the line. The day was picture-perfect, and the massive storm system - which would have been visible off to the left side of this shot of the harbor - moved offshore and away from Maggie.

The Sun Ferry system whisks passengers across the harbor in a mere 25 minutes, and before I knew it, we were disembarking at the ferry terminal on the other side...

First stop was Florence Bay (below). There are 23 separate coves and bays on Maggie. There are only three left that you cannot get to other than on foot, as developers snatch up parcels of this extremely valuable (and heretofore unspoiled) coastline, persuade the council members to allow a little manipulation of the zoning codes, and haggle with the national parks people over what they're allowed to do to this little gem. They even tried to argue, so the story goes, that the place wasn't on UNESCO's World Heritage list, in order to push through unscrupulous land deals. They lost. Now, I have absolutely nothing against developers who approach the enterprise with solid ethics, full disclosure, public approval, zoning compliance, and respect for the environment. However, one of the locals told me of verifiable reports of project managers bulldozing over Aboriginal grave sites, which, as you can imagine, would cause an enormous furor if / once it leaks out. (I was only told on the condition that I wouldn't identify the source or reveal any additional details. I guess it also helped that I mentioned that I was an attorney back in the States. And interested in hearing this rather unpleasant side of the realities of commercializing paradise.)

(Above: Florence Bay, Magnetic Island, Queensland, Australia)

Maggie holds countless treasures and surprises, as I was told many times by starry-eyed visitors before me. I fed mullets and tropical fish in the harbor, and then turned right around to feed the waiting, hungry rock wallabies, who could hear the food-bearers like myself a long way away - - probably right as the ferry pulled in. This fellow seemed rather tame, as I walked right up to him to remove the broken beer bottles left by a thoughtful visitor, and he sorta stood there and blinked at me, with his arms half-cocked. Said wallaby shook my hand with his three-fingered claw-hand, waved g'day, and rocketed off into the rock walls behind him. Before he left, he reminded me to tell you that he's not a kangaroo; wallabies are in the same family, but a very different species altogether.

Above is Radical Bay. The most amazing thing is how it perfectly resembles the Platonic "ideal" that I have forever held in brain of the prototypical tropical island of paradise. What you can't see 180 degrees around are the acres of land that have been stripped of everything and leveled for a 62-unit development. At least I got to see it before the invasion. The great paradox of idyllic places like these - much like Eden in one of my first posts in December - is that their stunning, unspoiled beauty attracts visitors. People who want to come and visit. And stay. And maybe live there, even if only for part of the year. And of course, they'll need all the comforts of modern living. Like a ground-level parking lot with 62 spaces, where before there was a macadamia nut grove. And thus, the conundrum: it's no longer that pristine, untouched slice of heaven before the human exploitation began. You see where I'm going with this. {Okay. Enough soapboxing. I know you didn't come here for a lecture, and so you'll excuse any self-righteousness on my part. I bet if I were a developer, I might be able to make a few good arguments in my favor. Hey. Anything's possible...)

One of the fantastic surprises on this island was, actually, a human creation...it was the surreal, superlative experience of the Gavin Ryan art studios. Above is the signage that greets intrepid visitors, who are forewarned: The Sex, Death and Shopping themes of Gavin's work are not for those content with, say, Bob Ross's "Happy Little Trees", or Thomas Kincaid's 'Painter of Light' twaddle. No, this is passionate, opinionated, vibrant art with a penetrating and profound social voice, one of the sage critics of mass crass consumerism and toxic media culture. For those who are interested, I've got about 15 shots of Gavin's works, taken with permission, with the understanding that I wouldn't use them for my own commercial gain.

(Above: One of Gavin's less controversial works, comprised primarily of Aussie wine corks. Yes, very tame, compared to what I found inside.)

The sunset that night was sublime...we caught it on an uninhabited beach, with wine and cheese in hand, and many smiles, laughs, jokes, and reminiscences. Unparalleled natual beauty has a funny, fast way of bringing people together that way.

Finally, if you read my Townsville post again, you'll read about the fire throwers on the beach. I decided to become one myself. No license, degree, permit, training, or inhibition necessary. Supervision optional. And I managed not to start a bushfire, either... [|-|]

Eungella National Park (QLD)

2006-02-19T01:26:00.000-05:00

I'm getting to be quite a fan of the idea of setting aside vast chunks of land and seaside, keeping it pristine and safe from human intervention, and allowing us little earthlings to get a peek inside every now and then - but only if we're respectful, and if we are open to being awe-inspired at some of the things we haven't created.

Affirmative. Roger that.

With this in mind, then, I and a few mates headed over to Finch Hatton Gorge in the Eungella National Park last week. Below is evidence of that superlative trip deep into a true natural treasure.

On with the show... [-]

(Click on anyof the images below to experience them more fully.)

Wheel of Fire, Finch Hatton Gorge, 3-story freefall drop. By yours truly.

Project 6:Townsville/Mackay

2006-02-18T03:07:00.000-05:00

"Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like leaves." - John Muir

Ah....don't you feel better just reading little aphorisms like that? Especially for the snowbound. I hear that currently, blizzards in the US are this month's cruel masters; thankfully, slush, sleet and cold grey is the furthest thing from my mind right now... too much non-stop sunshine and sweet, luxurious ocean breezes...

I had to leave ol' Townsville, much to my dismay, on Monday, February 6. This CVA accomodation (above), about 3 blocks from the beach, was like staying at the Waldorf Astoria, compared to some of the more humble accoms from previous gateways (my tent in Yorke Peninsula included). I am grateful. My time in Townsville has been "magical", just as Michelle had promised.

We hopped in the troopie and headed down the coast about 5 hours to a place called Mackay, where I was stationed for two weeks. Now, you Americans speaking Standard Eastern English Dialect would say, "muh-kaye", right? I was corrected, after some chuckling. It's pronounced, "muh-KYE" here. Which figures, because, well, they pronounce my first name "DYE-vid". Aren't foreign dialects a hoot? (he said, without a trace of American condescension.)

It was a busy two weeks. Mackay's CVA projects included beach erosion restoration, building post & rail fencing in a wildlife refuge and on Black's Beach, planting and nourishing hundreds of seedlings and saplings in revegetation areas, massive noxious weed removal, and related efforts. All performed in the blazing hot and humid environs of Northern Queensland. We ate lunch each day right on the ocean in one of Mackay's many seaside parks, gazing out at the Whitsundays Islands and the rolling surf, while flocks of black and orange parrots wheeled and squawked overhead like schoolkids at recess, and the jocular magpies whistled and gurgled back at them.

I'm sure the town elders would throw a hissy at this bit here, but, in the author's humble opinion, Mackay left something to be desired. It was nowhere near as dynamic or vibrant as Townsville...it reminded me of Northern Illinois, or anywhere in Pennsylvania. So many tire shops and strip malls, Western brand names screaming for shoppers' attentions. Pretty..."beige", I'd say. Still, it was pleasant enough... subtropical... ringed with waving palms and buffeted by tropical breezes coming off of the Coral Sea. Oddly enough, the atmosphere was rather "blokey," as I like to tell people...very guy-centric, with lots of pubs on street corners barely containing their roaring patrons, shaking their fists when the North Queensland Toyota Cowboys put numbers up on the scoreboard. Everyone, it seemed, wore these flourescent yellow long-sleeve work shirts....council (local government) workers, repairmen, miners, delivery guys, you name it. Like all popular terms here in Oz, it's been truncated..."flouro", they call it. So, with a male-to-female ratio of 5- or 6-to-1, Mackay was a pretty testosterone-heavy locale. The 'wacky' (zany?) morning radio DJs (so very emulative of the US market) supplied rampant misogyny and fart jokes, while a cultural center, art gallery, or museum seemed really hard to come by. Priorities, I guess, which here seemed to be all about "sport" (it's singular). Okay, maybe I'm being a little harsh and too P.C. here. It wasn't all that bad, honest. Espesh if you're a bloke.

Our accomodation was pleasant. Pleasantly hotter than hell, that is. The average temp in the house, as evidenced by that blurry image on the left, hovered around 95-99 degrees. With 95% humidity. You pretty much melt, just sitting still.

Bacteria and all sorts of undesirables spread like an out-of-control bush fire, so, you need the appropriate weaponry...Like "Big Kev's" products (check out what he's trumpeting on that bottle).

The "vollie" house was a good distance from just about anything, which made checking emails or getting banking done more difficult than previous accoms. One makes do, though, and with a smile. Part of this expedition is learning how to unplug, to do more with less, to simplify and enjoy, and be grateful for the copious gifts and opportunities of modern living, the relatively lavish excesses of a American, middle-tier lifestyle. Humility, graciousness and grace goes a long way here, and one does learn to genuinely appreciate the little things in time The only commodity I could do with having more of is...Time itself.

In closing, rather than reveal to you proof of the callouses and blisters borne of the last two weeks' labor, I thought that a shot of some random guy with a bona fide Aussie tan might be more--palatable? Working near the beach in the tropics definitely has some big plusses. [-]

View of Flinders Street East (the nightlife district), Townsville, from across the marina.

Superb Subtropics: Townsville, QLD

2006-02-14T02:02:00.000-05:00

Welcome to Townsville.
Located smack-dab in
what they call the "dry tropics," it's Australia's largest, most vibrant tropical city...

It appears that nowhere else in the world can you find the kind of wide-ranging diversity that you can here in North Queensland. In a matter of hours - and I've done this, mind you - you can move from a lush rainforest to The Great Barrier Reef...from a resort on a tropical island to a cattle ranch in the golden Outback.
I landed in Townsville on February 3, a Wednesday. The only last-minute, reasonable access to the city that I could find was a three-leg flight: Adelaide to Melbourne to Brisbane to Townsville "international" airport. Actually, it is rather informed by other parts of the Pacific Rim...the art & architecture speaks to it, as does the food, the makeup of the populace...

The locals tell me that after the Japanese rugby team(?) - for whatever reason(s) - decided to call this their training camp, the town fathers & mothers decided that it might be best to start gearing the tourism marketing to attract a more international crowd. Sure, the locals from the southern parts of the state spend good money here, but, why stop there? So, in a matter of less than 6 years, it went from a dingy military base town to a thriving, multi-cultural port city with a helluva lot to offer - - to many international travelers, including this wayfaring, sunburned, good-natured stranger from Oklahoma.

I checked into the Wild Orchid guest house on a Wednesday night, where geckos scurried along my bedroom walls, and the sweat just infuses every part of you...it's a lush, languid, steamy environment. Romantic. Alluring. Hot as shit. I made prawns in the self-service kitchen (I bring prawns whereever I travel these days, didn't you know?) and scored a no-label bottle of cab at $5 (that's, like, $3.50 USD) and watched the stars whirl around this looming monolith behind my patio....Castle Hill.

The next morning, the rock wasn't so looming, or monolithic, but, all the same, it beckoned to me again, and this time, I wasn't going to refuse. I would climb this rock if it killed me. In the middle of the day, in 102 F. heat, with 96 percent humidity. Just try to kill this novice mountaineer, I taunted.

The views were beyond spectacular...it made the nearly-overwhelming heat/vertical climb of the trek more than worth it...I stayed up there almost as long as it took me to climb the thing. Heaven on earth, it seemed--or, rather, heaven coming right down and brushing the earth ever-so-sublimely.

Off in the distance is the slice of land affectionately called "Maggie" - - Magnetic Island. Two-thirds of it is national parks. Although it's home to over 2,000 inhabitants, tons of visitors make their way out there via a quick ferry ride. You can swim with the turtles, race the deathly irukandji, or sea kayak out of Horseshoe Bay. You can even rent these diminutive, almost comical island cars called "mokes." I'm not big on vehicular homicide so I'll take to the bike pedals instead when I visit at the end of this month. Oh, and the island's name? Cut to: Sir Captain Cook, explorer extraorindaire, 1770: sailed past it, and the landmass apparently messed with his compass. So there you go.

Part of the reason that I chose Townsville for my fourth and final CVA gateway was...well, the reasons were legion. First, by the time I'd selected it, Cairns was closed to additional vollies, so I traced my finger down the coast about 300k and bumped into T'ville. I looked at the continent, and saw that this was thousands of kilometers from any of my other gateways, so this selection would get me into a vastly different section of the country. Í also asked Michelle, my i-to-i booking contact, to give me the run-down on the place. Turns out she spent time here as well some years back. When she called it "magical," well, that did it for me. Sold. Book me in.

On both a Friday and a Saturday night, I spent time right on the Coral Sea, on this magical stretch of land called The Strand. It's part boardwalk, part outdoor art exhibit...irridescent blue lights embedded in the paths guide the way to all sorts of beachheads, piers, nighttime swimming areas, picnic spots, restaurants, water parks, bike paths...you name it. I stretched out on one of the more isolated stretches under a baleful moon, when out of the corner of my eye I caught a firey novice performance artist practicing her craft nearby. By "firey", I mean she set this huge baton-like-thingy on fire, and proceeded to toss it everywhichway until all one saw was a blurred circle of flame, illuminating the faces of the gathering crowd. Such things common sights here, I began to notice, to my great delight.

The public artwork, incidentally, is pretty terrific...something I've usually found to be an accurate barometer of the quality of life of a place--the "livability factor", if you will...

When I checked into the CVA office that Friday to get my briefing, it was impressed upon me that nearly everything here could kill a person if they weren't careful. Or if they tried with any conviction. Dehydration. Box jellyfish. The small-but-extremely-lethal irukandji (another seafaring assassin in the same order, phylum, or family). Myna birds that will fly in through your kitchen windows, pick up steak knifes, and chase you about the room.* And then there was this bacteria, apparently, that lives in the soil. Year-round. (It's so warm here that there's no cold snap to kill it off or slow its growth.) We were strongly advised not to go sticking our hands in the dirt if we had a cut or whatever. Which is laughable, because with CVA, you get cut, bruised, and sliced up. Daily. And you can't go about all prissy and prima donna and try to avoid dirt. That'd be like a symphony conductor trying to avoid sheet music or his wand-thingy. Can't be done. I'll just have to take my chances...

* No, myna birds can't really do this, unless you've been taking hallucinogens. Then, sure.

Very well then. Back to the grind for me. CVA:Townsville/Mackay is to occupy me for the next two steamy weeks. Field reports promise to be somewhat irregular, just like your trusty nomad. [-]

Big Stretch: An Indian-Pacific Rail Journey

2006-01-31T09:19:00.000-05:00

They call it the "Nullarbor" - - a thinly-veiled name for what essentially is an unending expanse of treeless Southwest Australia plains, with nothing but salt bush to dot the landscape and engage the eyeballs.

I boarded the mighty Indian-Pacific line, on Australia's privatized train company, the Great Southern Railway, on Sunday the 29th of January, in Perth. I was bound for Adelaide, and I didn't want to fly, or rent a camper van, or hitchhike.

I wanted a great train ride, and that's just what I got. I even managed to pull aside the conductor - a fantastic bloke named Jon Wicks whom I soon befriended - and we cut a side deal to get me into a sleeper car, my very own. For a pittance. I felt quite self-indulgent, let me tell you.

One of the nuggets that I unearthed on this journey was the fact that the train travels the world's longest straight stretch of railway track (478 kilometres). It certainly felt like it, as virtually nothing outside of my window changed for at least half a day, and my sleeper car barely felt like it was moving.

Sure, I saw the odd solar-panel array, or the errant magpie winging it out of the way of these bullet cars as they tore through the hot, arid land, but, that was it for quite a while. That is, until we stopped at Kalgoorlie (population 23,000), one of the richest slices of real estate in the world, thanks to the discovery of deep and abundant gold veins.

And then there was Cook, which was an oddity all unto itself...

Cook - which very nearly approixmates the very definition of "ghost town" - reportedly used to be a bustling little train town, but that was before the railway was privatized. It had a hospital that was used by the Royal Flying Doctor Service, which handled emergency care across remote parts of the continent via airplane. Today, it boasts four (4) people as its residents, down from 325. They run a souvenir shop, which is flooded twice a week by riders on the Indian-Pacific. They also put up trainmen from the scores of freight trains that pull into town on their way across the Nullarbor. Water gets brought in on the I-P, as is their grocery order, which is faxed in to a Cole's supermarket in another time zone. (One of the female residents nearly had a coronary, she said, when a hairdresser came into down with her electrician husband. She was apparently in dire need of a 'do.)

This sign posted in the only shop in town - aye, the only occupied structure in the whole shebang - was probably worth heeding, as these appeared to be rough 'n ready outback folk, hardy as the salt bush and amused by the effete European passengers who toddled in with their manicured hands and $400 sunglasses, stepping gingerly over the broken glass and barbed wire and horrifed at how there wasn't an ATM for another 1100 km.

Before I knew it, it was 7:00 a.m. Tuesday morning, and we were pulling into Adelaide, much to my disappointment. It was over far too soon. The great train rides will always remain timeless and hopelessly romantic, and this one is certainly among the world's most iconic.

I'm looking forward to the day when I can return to this continent and take the Ghan all the way up to Darwin... [-]

Nambung National Park ("The Pinnacles") (WA)

2006-01-31T08:18:00.000-05:00

These are among Western Australia's most unique finds. There plenty are plenty of surprises inland, like this odd limestone formation about 45 minutes outside of Jurien Bay (where I was stationed for a week) on the west coast. Dutch sailors reportedly saw these formations from the sea and thought that they were the remains of an ancient city...

WA is largely barren, arid, vast expanses. WA is the most immense, wild, uninhabited/itable place you can imagine, and its scattered, tiny outposts are among the most isolated towns in the world. Now, when I say "Western Australia," I'm not just trying to be geographically descriptive or accurrate (i.e, the western part of the country) - - although, yes, that's also technically correct. That's the actual name of the state, you see.

As opposed to the state of "South Australia" (SA).

There is no "East Australia", or "North Australia" state, in case you were curious.

Just, the "Northern Territory" - - which isn't a state, really.

It's a territory. Oz is a federation of six states and two territories.

Are you confused yet?

I'll spare you the long, yawn-inducing, geo-science-nerd explanation of how these odd formations were created....all that you need to understand is that the soft stuff wears away, while the strong stuff remains. Sort of like life, metaphorically speaking.

Pictured above: me + Ashleigh, a fellow vollie (from Syracuse NY, of all places). She's the first American with whom I've had the pleasure of working, and a hard worker she is. We built an extensive track down to the beach in Jurien Bay, and had it neatly lined it with boulders, all before lunchtime. She and I had camped out on the beach that week, going out late at night down to the sea to cull phosphorescent miniature creatures from the Indian Ocean, collecting them in our hands like aquatic fireflies. She's off to Ecuador next week, to work with oppresed women through GVN (the organization with which I'll be working in New Zealand, incidentally). Ashleigh's one of those rare people whom you just know is going to save the world, and you just can't help but smile and be warmed by her compassion, idealism, spunk, and radiant goodness.

Godspeed, Ash..

[-]

(The troop carrier pauses to disgorge its occupants so that they can grab some happy~snaps)

Rottnest Island

2006-01-31T00:29:00.000-05:00

A fellow vollie - Andrew from Vancouver - and I made a Saturday trek out to Rottnest Island, about 30 km off the coast of Freo. It got its name from a Dutch explorer, who when spotting hordes of the diminutive indigenous marsupials that overran the island, declared the place to be full of "rats nests"... hence, the resident quokka came to be confused with a rather less hygienic and undesirable species of a different order, and a hunk of land acquired a goofy name that stuck. Here's what the original settlers would've seen facing the south [above]...keep going, and the next slice of land is Antartica.

The island was a key strategic defense installation during WWII, with twin six-inch guns on mammoth, 360-degree turrets protecting the coast. We tramped up and down the hillsides, exploring vestiges of old armaments and bunkers that lay rusted and disintegrating on hillsides... the local historic trust chose to let these military totems weather with time and succumb to nature, "in order to show the passing of the age." Nature is indeed most durable, and the walls and roofs of once-indestructible fortresses were now shot up with sprays of hardy vines and peppered with nesting seabirds.

The approximately 20 kms we traveled that day around the island on mountain bikes was ringed with lighthouses, wind generators, raw and unspoiled beaches, rocky coves, and abandoned barracks. We snorkeled around the coral reefs on the north end, and I spotted manta rays, clown fish, and mollusks all fighting the substantial sea undercurrents along with me. I opted not to wear a wetsuit this day, which caught up with me eventually, as the water was only in the mid 60's. It was time to turn back when we rounded the southern tip, faced with 40-mile-an-hour headwinds while ascending steep inclines on rental bikes that had half their gears stripped by overzealous tourists before us. That, and the PB & J I had attempted to eat had amassed its own sand dune from the windstorms whipping up the coast on the unprotected south side. I like crunchy peanut butter every now and then, but seriously...

We headed down to the marina for some local rum, and then jumped on the ferry back to Freo for a thirty-minute, high seas ferry ride, where groups of French school children took turns leaning over the sides and getting soaked to the bone with seaspray, squealing with delight and sheer exhilaration. I remembered that feeling easily, and it looked like so much fun that I joined them myself... [-]

Projects 4 & 5: Black Adder Creek / Jurien Bay, WA

2006-01-28T06:39:00.000-05:00

This dispatch is coming to you from Western Australia, where I've just completed two weeks on a CVA assignment. The first week was spent in the vicinity of the city of Perth, on what they call a "local" project, even though it was a good 45 minutes away. Essentially, it involved eradicating a species of grass called "love grass" that's creating a major issue for the Black Adder Creek's catchment area (the place where groundwater collects & flows into a body of water). We were featured in the local press, but the area was not up to our usual expectations in terms of jaw-dropping scenery. I opted for no snapshots. You'll be grateful, I'm sure. Who wants to look at some guy yanking weeds out of endless hectares of bushland, now, really...

Project 5 was a different venture altogether. About 260 km north of Perth is Jurien Bay, a fantastic slice of natural coastal beachfront, relatively unspoiled by human habitation. Our task was to tackle Sandy Cape and create walking trails, block other unwanted access tracks, build maintenance features like bollards, and remove concrete, rubbish, and undesirable non-native vegetation, etc. etc. Here, the scenery tended to be a bit more sublime.

For instance, here's my office commute each day that week;

...and here's my office:

Here's my crew from that week's project...

...and here's team leader Allen Bennet, a Shell-Oil-exective-turned-boheme, originally from jolly ol' England, who had this hilarious prank he'd play on unsuspecting folks...He'd tuck his St. Nicholas-style beard up under his spectacles, jam a hand-rolled cigarrette in there, puff away, and stick his face into someone else's, real slow-like. It freaked them out every time...

[-]

I wouldn't expect too many people to know this (I certainly didn't), but, January 26th is Australia Day...it's somewhat analogous to July 4 in the States, Bastille Day in France, et cetera. In that spirit, I changed the zinc oxide that day to cerulean blue, joined the grateful citizens of Jurien Bay for an outdoor breakfast celebration at 7 a.m. (complete with Waltzing Matilda blaring from the p.a. system), watched the big cricket match and the Australia Open in the pubs with the local blokes, and picked out the Southern Cross constellation in the skies that evening. I drank no Foster's. It's not distributed here. (It's like that same deal with Corona cervesa & Mexico, I'm guessing.)

More when I next get to a computer that isn't so ancient...I'm off to Adelaide by train, Sunday 1.29.06, to Tues., 1.31.06, via the Great Southern Rail's Indian Pacific line, then, from there, off to Townsville - - my next CVA gateway. Oh, and I'll have spanking new happysnaps for you from Rottnest Island and The Pinnacles, if you clean your plate..

See you back here soon. [-]

Western Australia: Fremantle/Perth

2006-01-14T03:18:00.000-05:00

[Pictured right: An inscription especially appropos for this week (from the entry foyer, WA Maritime Museum).]

Welcome to Western Australia.

Perth. "The most isolated city in the world," or so said Dennis Conner, the famed America's Cup winner. This week's recipe includes a handful of sand, a bucket of seawater, some huge prawns, and - hands down - the best sunsets I've seen to date.

Above, downtown Perth. Shot from King's Park, in the southern end of town. At 1.2 million persons, though, I suppose it's not a "town", now, is it. For that shot, I used no color filters or effects, either pre- or post-shooting, which is important to remember for this next sequence, which I snapped that same evening...

No kidding on these shots: they're raw images right from the memory card. At this same time, a rather nasty cyclone was approaching from the northwest, which might account for these brilliant light shows. Now, I know that for some, endless pictures of sunsets are rather ho-hum common fare for photoblogs, but, this one, I thought, was in a class by itself. And I've watched scores of them, believe me. If I'm wrong, well, let's call it practice. Even the locals here scratched their heads at this one, when I asked them whether this was standard operating procedure for their slice of the sky. "Nnn-eye," they'd say (which I took to mean, "nope."). Whereupon I and said local would both nod our heads with a knowing eye and say, almost in unison (and facetiously), "Mm. Yes. Global warming, y'know.." G. W. (and yes, he, also) seems to be catching the blame for just about everything wacky that goes on in the atmosphere, now, doesn't it. (Dear US of A: it'd probably be a great idea about now to join - and fully comply with - the Kyoto Accord. Before this next generation of children starts to collectively mutate.)

On the main strip leading into King's Park (I think it's called Fitzgerald, or Fitzhenry, or some other flavor of fitz-), the City of Perth has planted these massive fruit gum trees up & down the east and west sides (it was the third attempt at such an organized planting; the first two were stricken and wiped out by blight). The City illuminates these majestic gums with huge multi-coloured uplighting, which makes for a very wizard-of-oz-like effect (below).

Families pour into the park at sundown, with folks from all walks of life, from 9 months to 99 years. There was champagne being popped on one side of the park; 100 feet from that party was a dude who I think was a Buddhist Master or something (which could explain how he managed to levitate above his prayer mat). On the east side of King's Park, along the Swan River, visitors stood in somber reverence at one of the several war memorials ringing the park's perimeter. In the palm trees above, you hear the frenzied, almost comical mating calls of wildly-colored macaws. And, you're also very likely to hear the many gasps from throngs of Asian sightseers, trusty cameras and hi-def vidcams snapped to their eyeballs, waving at their group to "squeeze closer together!" while they strike poses with the city lights behind them, all of them wearing genuine ear-to-ear smiles on their faces. King's Park'll do that to you, in any language.

I also played my first game of cricket there, incidentally.

As for accomodations, this was my week off; no tents for me. I bunked at a very cool, laid-back, cheap-as-dirt, seems-like-home hostel called, appropriate to the nautical flavor of the region, Pirates Backpackers. You'll be glad to know that whilst in the mode of truly chilling out, I chose not to ask about odd, indiscriminate uses / non-uses of apostrophes. And yes, they do say "whilst" here - -which makes one wonder if a portion of the lexicon failed to advance, in line with all of the other now-modernized words in the Aussie~English dialect.

'Pirates' was quite the, er, experience. On Tuesday night, for example, one of the managers named Trevor made what he called, simply enough, Trevor's Famous Chocolate Cake. I know it's famous, because my friend Louise warned/told me about it a month ago, while we were in Eden, all the way on the other side of the continent. I'd call that a pretty darn notorious cake. Trevor himself is notorious for attending certain sporting events minus all of his clothing, save for the odd stuffed animal strategically placed over 'the secret triangle.' I've seen the news article and the photo, which he proudly had laminated. It ain't pretty--especially because he chose to proudly bedeck himself with a plush toy giraffe. Such are the characters one meets here on a daily basis.

What ultimately held even more notoriety - besides myself, who managed to get a room with three hot 'n crazy 20-year-old lasses from Sheffield, England - was the "punch" that accompanied said Famous Cake. That afternoon in the communal kitchen, I recall seeing over a dozen bottles of every kind of hardcore spirit imaginable, a mess of fresh melons & mangoes, and a 30 gallon bucket. All of which made for two dozen very rowdy guests later on that eve, once all was consumed. I also faintly recall a cockatoo or some otherwise mouthy bird crowing by the time I rolled into bed. Below is a crime scene photo of the scene of the crime, sans revelers, in an attempt to protect both their identities, and their collective reputations...

I finished my stay in "Freo" at South Beach, after trekking around Victoria Quay and checking out the Maritime Museum and the myriad harbor ships, frigates, cruisers, sloops, subs, dingys, and whatever else they're calling them these days. Lots to see and do, much of which I just couldn't get to in a mere six days. I plan on coming back here, however, and bringing more folks with me - -even if it takes another lifetime.

See you next week. [-]

(Above: View north) - - The Roundhouse on Victoria Quay, Fremantle.

(Above:) The working seaport, inner harbor, Fremantle.

(Above:) Northern view of the inner harbour, east of WA Maritime Museum.

(Below:) Five o'clock sun over the Indian Ocean--South Beach, Fremantle. Yes, the water's sublime.... 75 degrees f. No 'jellies' or hammerheads, this week. No one on the beach. Perfect.

(Below:) View of the Marina, adjacent to Bather's Beach. Water = not so surreal. Many homeless folks call it home, one of whom scared the sh*t out of me one dark night whilst I was padding barefoot arond the jetty. Too much crap washes ashore, also, and it's far too rocky, for any decent bodysurfing (which I discovered the hard way).

(Below:) Southern view of the WA Maritime Museum, Fremantle.

(Above:) View north of Bather's Beach from inside the whaler's tunnel, The Roundhouse, Victoria Quay, Fremantle.

Project 3: Yorke Peninsula

2006-01-05T01:53:00.000-05:00

G'day.

There. I said it.

I know you've been dying to hear me say it.
Admit it.

I'm not trying to be a poseur about it, though... trying to put on Aussie airs, tossing off native slang or regional colloquialisms, just to appear...hip. Or fully assimilated. Or fair dinkum. So. I promise to post zero slang this week.

CVA has assigned me to Yorke Peninsula - in the state of South Australia - where I'm busy with community projects up through January 6. Thus far, we've tackled projects in Minlaton, Port Rickaby, Port Julia, Port Vincent, Maitland, and just about every other major outpost on this slice of land.

The transport vehicle of choice out here is the "troopie," better known as the Toyota Land Cruiser. The one pictured here includes the 'roo bar (a front-mounted reinforced tube steel grille to deflect-- well, kangaroos), a custom stereo speaker system to feed team leader Dale's 60s music obsession, runner boards, roof rack, trailer, two spares, and this week, nine vollies. (I mean volunteers.)

To be honest, I've been so busy with the work in each of these towns, I forgot / didn't have time to take some snapshots. You'll just have to take my word for it. These are very pleasant, small seaside towns with tiny populations...happy and proud people (at the risk of generalizing) who are competitive, in that they work year-round to become the "Tidiest Town" in the state of South Australia. Port Vincent won the national deal recently...their council threw us a huge barbecue last night, and I yakked with some of the town fathers who wanted to know a bit more about the States. To say that the people are friendly in Oz would be gross understatement. I've been invited over for more dinners, by strangers who become friends in an afternoon, than I can recount. And I've only been in-country for about 5 weeks.

The YP is almost constantly buffeted by a light breeze, with gullas and terns and all sorts of avian creatures making such a racket (beginning around five a.m.) that sleep is no longer an option - - if you're bunking outside.

Which I am, and have been, for the better part of two weeks. Sleeping under the stars. By the time I get to Perth this weekend, a mattress thicker than 3 cm will seem like paradise, I'm sure. However, you quickly forget the sore muscles of the day or sleeping on the ground when you gaze up into the most incredible starfields I've ever seen.

The brilliant southern sun down undah is hotter and more luminous than your body & eyes can handle. They have Burn Indices that go up to at least 11...which means that with one good sunburn, you could be a candidate for deadly skin cancer here. No kidding. It strikes about 1 in 5 males, and of those, I think, 1 in 7 is fatal.

Why?

There's no ozone layer down here.

You can thank years of chloroflurocarbons being pumped into the air, among other agents. It's like Humpty Dumpty: there's no repairing it.

There's a sense I'd get in Oklahoma, looking off into its wide-open spaces with far horizons, up into the vast heavens...some call it "big" sky. Seemed immense. So much more vast than back East. Down here, though, you have to multiply that by 50. The sky seems so much...I dunno, bigger. Flatter. Goes-on-forever-er. Immense-er. Constellations that come right down to you, in full technicolor 3-D. And I'm not even on hallucinogens. It's that good.

So, "ground floor accomodations" (as I'm fond of calling them) are a fair trade any day, in my book, for some of the best celestial scenery you could ever imagine... [-]
___________________________________________________________________
P.S.: Several of you have asked me about the origin of what I'll call the "Kids in the Fountain" snapshot from the Melbourne post, below. Yes, I'm the accidental author. I snapped it on the Yarra River in downtown Melbourne. And yes, for those of you who've asked me for prints, Peter, my brother - who's a professional photographer & school teacher in North Carolina - can make prints for you. Custom matting, framing, etc...you name it--he can do it. Beautifully, and inexpensively. Check out his eBaY store for more: http://stores.ebay.com/petersprints.

Melbourne to Adelaide

2005-12-25T03:37:00.000-05:00

(l) "Fountain of Youth"
Downtown Melbourne, Dec. 2005
Published in the International Library of Photography, February 2007. (c) D. Iandiorio

Welcome back.

Since last week's post, I continued my stay for another three days in Melbourne, the Greatest City in the World, as they humbly call it (they didn't get much argument from me).

I couldn't help it, but, like a bona fide tourist, I did the museum thing, of which there were a great many (the city's own; the AMCI film museum; the Sports Hall of Fame; and so on).

I strolled through the funky neighborhoods of St. Kilda, Fitzroy, and Lygone Street. Savored the incredible fare from around the globe and struck up conversations with similar travelers seeking the city's best experiences. Took a dinnertime cruise on the Yarra River, and watched the crew teams from U of Melbourne being put through their paces, while picknickers assembled round 'barbies' wearing fake antlers whooped and waved at them, and at us.

I can't wait to return. [-]

I was looking for a sort of non-traditional way of getting from Melbourne to my next CVA gateway city, Adelaide. What I found was Adventure Tours, a very affordable transport company that specializes in off-the-beaten-track side excursions into the southern coast's appreciable natural assets. I was sold. What follows are shots ("happysnaps" as our tour guide Average Andy called them) taken this week over the three day trip along the Great Ocean Road and in the Grampian Mountains National Park.

Along portions of Australia's southern coastline are dramatic sandstone and limestone formations. The ones pictured behind me, and from my aerial shot, are several of the group collectively called The Twelve Apostles. (One of the apostles actually collapsed in on itself in September, much to the chagrin of the national parks service (Let's call that one "Thomas")). I splurged and purchased a helicopter ride tour of the coast, which was money well spent, let me tell you.

30-second video of the helicopter ride over the Bay of Islands,
12 Apostles National Park, Victoria, Australia

The obligatory koala happysnap appears here for those of you who think the whole deal is a hoax, that I'm really up in Vancouver this whole time...

Spectacular doesn't begin to describe what we witnessed. It was also to be a very interactive trip, I discovered. Day One we hiked through Otway National Park, and traversed through a temperate subtropic rainforest on one of the two highest steel canopy walks in the country, 75 meters or so off the ground. (You needn't learn the metric system...just understand that it was damn high up.)

Day Two took us deep into the Southern Grampians, along the fantastic limestone stacks on the coast, and down into huge gorges surrounded by waterfalls. Below is a shot of one of travelers' favorites, MacKenzie Falls. What it lacks in overall height, it makes up for in splendor.

Day Three - Christmas Eve - proved to be the most demanding excursion: a three hour steep mountainside climb (6 hours total) to the top of the range, dubbed The Pinnacle. Aptly named, we could see for 100 kilometres in all directions (are you sick of this metric business already?). The wind was gale force, but upon reaching the summit, we were charged with that unique feeling one gets after such a hike, and had the presence mind (or lack thereof) to recreate the Nativity Scene in a grotto formation. (Scott, a former accountant from the U.K., debuts as the baby saviour thumbsucker. I was supposed to be Joseph, so, disregard all I'm wearing, etc. etc.) This is just a slice of what I experienced over three days, and each day it became more apparent to me that this is what life holds in store for those that take the path less traveled with adventurous hearts.

So. That's the latest from the Country of No Worries, the land of The Most Dangerous (Australia has, like, the top five most dangerous of every plant, animal and mineral on the planet...go figure).

Be happy, be well, and enjoy the New Year...I wish the very best things in it for each of you. [-]

Project 2: Goulburn Yurt Works, NSW

2005-12-17T18:47:00.000-05:00

The first question on your lips, I'm betting, is "what the heck is a yurt?"
I asked the very same, and during this week of December 12, I became intimately acquainted with this strange beast.

The yurt originated in Mongolia...it's essentially a circular, domed structure that's made up of animal skins stretched over lattice framing. One fellow who started his own yurt-building enterprise is a sheep farmer from Goulburn, NSW named, as luck would have it, Mike Shepherd. He explained to me how he was exposed to the idea of building them for profit by Bonnie Raitt's (the recording artist) father at a conference in Big Sur, CA back in 1981, was given the plans, took the plans back to his languishing sheep farm in Australia, and started building the first yurts on that continent for interested customers. In time, as his business flourished, he'd built a whole village of them on his farm, and today, he entertains and educates groups of kids, teachers, and eco-conscious adults on subsistence & sustainable agriculture and simplified, organic living...

My CVA team for this project (the members of which vary from week to week) consisted of Team Leader Ken from Canberra, and vollies from the U.K., South Korea, and the U.S. We were invited by Mike's partner Judit, who manages the farming operations of their 1200 acre property. For the next five days, we donned our suffocating uniforms (heavy chem suits) and ran some extensive plays, like 'special teams' in American football, to tackle the significant vegetation issues that plagued the Goulburn farm. For the most part, this included exterminating one x one undesirable plants, unruly weeds, parasitic bushes and various other whatnots that were - as is nearly all the undesirable green stuff across Oz - introduced by clueless European settlers two centuries ago. The vegetation that we were charged with eradicating included certain abundant grasses called serrated tussock that have zero nutritional value, so livestock that feast on the same were dying of malnutrition. The NSW government had allocated funds to private farmers like Mike and Judit to assist with land care efforts of the type we undertook.

Yes, saving a slice of the planet isn't always glamourous work, to be truthful. I didn't expect it to be. Add to this week's quasi-menial labor the fact that our respective modest accomodations (such as The Teacher's Yurt [image, above] - - my digs last week) lacked power, water, and bathrooms. In order to shower, one needed to light a fire (an hour or so in advance) under the "donkey boiler" - - a huge metal drum lying on its side, filled with water, with water lines leading to a shower head. When the windmill stopped its rotation, the pumps and gravity water lines ceased normal operation, and so we literally ran out of water - - twice. Then we ran out of propane, and so I had to rely on my survival skills and fire up the stone oven outside our quarters for our 'tucker.' I'm happy to report that we didn't go to bed hungry that night, and to offset this meager meal, when propane was again available, I prepared a four course Italian feast for our team the following night, the first of its kind in this remote part of the bush, I'm guessing.

When I returned to civilization late Friday on the 16th, you can understand why I had a deeper appreciation for the instant hot showers and a plentitude of power outlets. I'm sure this regular variance between relative 'luxury' and humble resting points will continue, as I make my way around this continent, sleeping under the stars and finding my supper in the bush, and then on weekends travelling and staying in busy metropoli like Melbourne, where I am currently and will be until December 22, when I take off for a road tour of the iconic southern Australian coastline, via The Great Ocean Road.

I hope you're all enjoying (or is it surviving?) that last-minute, crazed, overly-commercialised consumer frenzy they're calling "Christmas" these days. . . .'Til next time.

Project 1: Eden

2005-12-10T23:26:00.000-05:00

Since my last post a week ago Sunday from Newtown (a hipster neighborhood in Sydney), I've done and seen quite a bit of New South Wales, the southeast portion of the country. We set out for the Eden State Forest on Monday, and the trip through the mountains was unbelievable. We volunteers ("vollies") packed into a Toyota Land Cruiser and made the 3 hour trek from Canberra (they hate it here when you say "can-BER-ah"; it's CAN-ber-ra) down to Eden, on the coast.

We were stationed at a place called Edrom Lodge (above), which was built by a whaling industry tycoon around 1910. Our work that week involved assisting with renovations and maintaining the grounds. The lodge is used as an educational facility for environmental and conservation efforts in the region. It's currently owned by the NSW Forestry Service. Compared to the more, er, "humble" accomodations we've occupied, this place was a castle.

Here's a view from the great veranda, where we had morning tea, lunch, and dinner every day:

Here are some of the members of my NSW CVA team last week, enjoying a fine curry meal prepared by team leader David (the guy with the the thumbs-up sign):

We monitored / took environmental surveys of koalas in the Eden Forest on Wednesday, but because they're very rare in that region, I don't have a photo for you. Maybe next time out.

Off to Goulburn in NSW this week...heard there's no power (by choice)...Should be interesting. I'll post again next weekend, hopefully. Til then, stay warm there in the U.S....I hear the cold is unbearable!

[-]

Canberra

2005-12-03T19:44:00.000-05:00

"What is a 'canberra'?", you might be asking yourself... A new strain of the notorious bird flu? A type of hat worn by youths in New Guinea?

It's actually the capital down here in New South Wales. It was a fight between Sydney and Melbourne, so I'm told, and so the compromise and consolation prize was Canberra, about 3 hrs. south of here by van. It's where I'm bound this evening. It's a jumping off point to the Eden National Forest, where I'll be based Monday-Friday of this week, December 5-9. I'm back in the capital city next weekend, where I'll have access to washing machines, civilization, et cetera.

More on that tour of duty when details arise...

[-]

Touchdown in SydneyTown

2005-12-02T02:26:00.000-05:00

Dateline: Sydney, 2 December 2005. Landed 8:00 yesterday morning, to enter a beautiful, semi-tropical paradise. Mid 70's, warm ocean breezes, and the friendliest folks on the planet. Next to Tulsans, of course. Snapped some fantastic shots of Darling Harbour, just to the west of the famed Opera House on Sydney Harbour. And the famed Sydney Harbour Bridge.

Dined and wined and soaked up as much of the north part of the city as I could, before I had to report for duty this a.m. at the Conservation Volunteers Australia regional office here in Sydney.

On Sunday, I pack it up and head off to the capital, Canberra, where I'm to spend the night...in the morning, we're off to join a team already in place in the Eden National Forest. I'll be there for five days or so, and then... the next placement will be revealed to me. So it goes.

I'm presently staying at the volunteer house in the southwest part of Sydney... we've got "vollies" from Korea, Sweden, Denmark, Germany, France, Ireland, and, yours truly, from the States. The language barriers are coming down slowly, as I gesticulate wildly, and do a mix of pantomime, charades, and ambiguous gestures. I'm doing my best to assimilate not only into Aussie culture, but, to bridge the cultural divides between the US and the rest of the world.

I'll be going, now, as I'm in a cyber cafe in the grungier part of town, and there's a line out the door. Let's hope my trusty Canon can upload a shot or two for your viewing pleasure.

'Til next time. [-]

Departure Day

2005-11-26T01:19:00.000-05:00

All packed, as you can see. (Evidently, it appears I might be a tad overpacked.)

Ready to roll.

Off to NYC. Then, upstate. Final prep, batteries charged, maps and layout: check. Cultivate intrepid spirit: roger that.

Then: JFK, to LAX, to...
The Great Beyond.
The Great Below.

Down Undah.

Thanks to all of you technicians who gallantly assisted your captain with his crazed launch sequence. I know the timeline was rather, um, "aggressive."

Thanks, moreover, to all of you who gave me the best series of send-offs a guy could hope for. I felt the love. I carry each of you with me. The burden ain't heavy whatsoever.

Thank you.

Stay tuned...

Adventures in Oz and the Land of the Kiwis

Banks Peninsula [Slide Show]

Hoofing & WWOOFing It, Kiwi-style

To See That Sound

We've Got A Jumper...

Nothing Risked...

The Camera vs. The Mind's Eye

Breaking Bread

Punakaiki!

Hitting the Ceiling

Barrytown

A.T.N.P.

The Crossing

Bushy Park, Wanganui

Serendipity

A Sea Shanty

Welcome to Wellie

The K-Bay Brigade

Te Marae

Straying From The Flock

Waikawau Bay

A Trapper's Tale

MEG: We Kill Stuff

Indoctrination

Kia Ora, Aotearoa

Coming Full Circle...

No Man (is an) Island: N. Stradbroke

From Mountains to Rainforest

**BrisVegas**

Maggie

Eungella National Park (QLD)

Project 6:Townsville/Mackay

Superb Subtropics: Townsville, QLD

Big Stretch: An Indian-Pacific Rail Journey

Nambung National Park ("The Pinnacles") (WA)

Rottnest Island

Projects 4 & 5: Black Adder Creek / Jurien Bay, WA

Western Australia: Fremantle/Perth

Project 3: Yorke Peninsula

Melbourne to Adelaide

Project 2: Goulburn Yurt Works, NSW

Project 1: Eden

Canberra

Touchdown in SydneyTown

Departure Day

BrisVegas