The Plunge Down Under

North Into the Tropics

Airports, (or is it the airlines?), can have a way of draining one's enthusiasm before a trip gets underway, and this we experienced first-hand last Friday.  The realization that there was a problem hit the minute we attempted to enter the Qantas terminal doors and found ourselves face to face with the best visual definition of chock-a-block we have encountered thus far in Australia. We somehow managed to squeeze the six of us and all of our bags in the door so we could join the nearest queue. 

One hour later we were still waiting.  By this time we had learned of the failure of the automated baggage system.  The luggage belt would periodically start running, only to shut down almost immediately.  Various Qantas workers could be seen standing helplessly by, or attempting to thread their way through the crowds, but there was little they could do.  Eventually they recommended that travelers leave their bags behind and head for their gates ("She'll be all right, mate!"), a decision that some would later regret.

Since Ross was in charge of our schedule, we arrived at the airport with plenty of time to spare, enough even for the failure of the baggage system.  We eventually saw our bags disappear as they were meant to do.  Why we didn't anticipate that they would all end up in one massive heap mixed hopelessly in with the bags of the thousands of others traveling that day, I do not know.  We easily could have rearranged things in the ninety minutes that we waited and carried the essentials on board with us. We did not, however, a lack of foresight we would later regret.

 First glimpses of Far North Queensland, a dramatic change from the red outback over which we spent much of the four hour flight:

It didn't take very long after our arrival at the Cairns (rhymes with bans) airport, to realize there was a problem.  Approximately eleven or so suitcases appeared on the belt, none of which seemed to belong to the weary passengers with whom we had flown.  After they had circled through three or four times, an announcement was made that no more luggage would be forthcoming.  I didn't actually understand more than one out of ten words that came over the loudspeaker, but I headed for the luggage counter where the agent confirmed with a rueful smile that our luggage had not yet left Melbourne.

There were promises made that the missing bags would arrive later that day, but I think most realized that it would be impossible for all of them to make it on the one remaining flight.  We filled out the forms, however, and refused to be bothered by it.  We were, after all, in the beautiful warm tropics with the Great Barrier Reef ahead of us.  I sympathized with the ten or so travelers who had flown to Cairns for a wedding, and then realized that none of us had the swimming gear required to snorkel the following day on our arranged tour.

The scenery on the one hour drive from Cairns to Port Douglas was stunning.  We focused on the sugar cane fields and the shoreline, but couldn't help but notice that all stores were closed.

Sugarcane performs a vital role in the economy of Queensland, with many coastal communities dependent upon it.  Australia is a leading exporter worldwide of raw sugar, with about 80 to 85% coming from the state of Queensland.  Cyclone Yasi wreaked havoc upon the sugarcane crop in February of 2011, but most of the damage was south of the area that we visited.

Upon arrival at our villa, our helpful landlord attempted to reschedule our snorkeling tour when we explained that we were without luggage.  This proved to be impossible given that it was a holiday weekend, but she did confirm that a few boutiques were open on the main street in town.  We headed there next, having nothing to unpack anyway, and attempted to find the least expensive one.  Two hours later, we finally had what we felt we needed.  I signed the credit card receipt in spite of my shock over the total, and the kids headed to the swimming pool before a late dinner.  Unsurprisingly, Ross received word that our luggage would not be arriving until the following day.   We were fortunate that at least our bags had been located.  A couple who sailed with us on Saturday were told late that afternoon that their bags were still missing.

Our first trip to the Reef was all that we hoped it would be, but that story I will save for a future post.

James Masters the Monkey Bars

I am indulging in this post for the sake of the grandparents, or so I have myself convinced.  Since they can't be here to physically watch him do something he has been working at diligently for months, I thought I would post just a few photos of a new accomplishment from start to finish.  I watched him dangle and drop to the ground yesterday afternoon for several minutes, and noticed that for the first time he didn't request my assistance.  Convinced he was not in imminent danger of breaking a limb, I returned to reading, and thus missed his first time across.  The second time I captured the finish with my camera phone, and by the third round, I had the big camera ready.

I love all of his expressions, but especially the joy of victory at the end.

We Swam with Sharks and Lived to Tell the Tale

Cameron composed the title for today's blog, and I think the folks from Tropical North Queensland that acted as our tour guides over the past few days would have approved.  To hear them tell the story, it is a wonder that so many tourists make it out of the region relatively unscathed.  They all seemed to take a great deal of pleasure in describing the dangers that lurk around every watery bend, and although more than one threw out a comment along the lines of "Well, you do have the grizzly bear,"' it was clear that they take a great deal of pride in the peculiarly horrifying ways that humans have met their end in the far north.

Many of the stories we had the privilege of hearing I will share in coming posts.  For now I will leave you with a few pictures of the sharks to which Cameron referred, the Black-tipped reef  shark.  Our guides assured us that this type of shark is completely harmless to humans due to its small size and its preference for crustaceans and bony fish over human flesh. In the end we chose to believe them, and into the water jumped Cameron and Sophie.

Here is Sophie shortly before swimming with the sharks:

And Cameron just afterward:

Much remains to be shared of the few days we enjoyed up north.  I haven't yet decided which superlatives I will use to describe them.  I feel as if I have already employed the majority of them previously (marvelous, wonderful, amazing, incredible).  Had I know what awaited us, I would have kept a  few in reserve.

Sand Sculptures at Frankston

We are savoring another beautiful autumn afternoon as we prepare for our first ever trip in Australia outside of the state of Victoria.  The resort town of Port Douglas in FNQ (Far North Queensland) is our destination for this adventure, and excitement is running high as we plan to visit both the Daintree Forest and the Great Barrier Reef.  In the meantime I will leave you with pictures from our excursion over the past weekend to the town of Frankston, located about an hours' drive south of Melbourne.  Our faithful friends the Kellers invited us to share in what has become an annual tradition for them, a visit to the Frankston sand sculptures.

We had a laugh over this one: it expresses perfectly how we feel about Vegemite!

The best part, hands down, for the kids, was the opportunity to play in the special "brickies' foam" and attempt a sculpture of their own. The sculpting sand differs from beach sand in its shape:  It is square, rather than round, and therefore packs together better.

The wetter-than-normal weather conditions this past summer meant that the sand sculptures never hardened properly, creating a challenge for the resident sculptor in charge of maintaining them.  We saw several in various states of disrepair.

The sculptures duly admired, we opted to take advantage of the sun to enjoy the Frankston beach.  A walk out on the pier allowed us to admire the sailboats on the water in one direction, and then turn around, as Kent pointed out, and take in thirty million dollars of real estate in another.

We finished up the afternoon with a short nature lesson, thanks to Crystal, watching both the Rainbow Lorikeet and the Little Wattlebird feast on the flowers of one of the many species of the Banksia plant, named after the famous English botanist Sir Joseph Banks.  The Banksia is a heavy producer of nectar, and is best known for its elongated flower spike, each of which contains hundreds, and sometimes thousands, of flowers.

The Lorikeets seemed especially brilliant on this autumn afternoon, and provided a most pleasant finish to the day's outing.

 

 

Easter Charity Market

Yesterday was Palm Sunday.  As we sang the appropriate hymns in church on a glorious autumn morning, the sun and the brilliant hues of leaves outdoors seemed almost fitting.  It was certainly a change from what we are used to in the Pittsburgh area, namely rain and chilling wind with just a promise of new life to come. The pews were unusually full, and the number counted was soon buzzing over the tea cups afterward. Eighty-two, I think it was, in a church that once held seven hundred on a Sunday.  It gave cause for reflection over just how secular Australia has become since the second world war.

Our relocation agent prepared us a year ago last February for the reality that very few Australians attend church, with the exception of Christmas and Easter.  We remembered this to be the case when we lived in the U.K., as it is in Canada and other western nations.  The United States has been slower in following this trend, as the mega churches of the suburbs have in part compensated for the closing of church doors in many mainline denominations.  Knowing all this, we were still surprised in many ways by how far Australia has traveled along the post-Christianity timeline.  Our cultural trainer last September cautioned me against referring to my faith.  She recommended, for example, that if I happened to mention attending church, I should immediately follow it up by saying, "But we rarely go."  She explained that identifying oneself as a Christian would likely be at best a turn-off, and at worst offensive in a way that it rarely is in the middle section of the U.S.  While not all with whom I have spoken since have completely agreed with her, I haven't found anyone yet who has denied the substance of her statements.

From my limited observation thus far, I would say that the religious observances associated with Easter, including Ash Wednesday, Lent, Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, and Good Friday seem similar to those in America.  One day that was new to us is Shrove Tuesday.  I found the following on the Australian government's cultural website:

"Shrove Tuesday is the last day before Lent. In earlier days there were many foods that observant Christians would not eat during Lent such as meat and fish, eggs, and milky foods. So that no food was wasted, families would have a feast on the shriving Tuesday, and eat up all the foods that wouldn't last the forty days of Lent without going off.

Pancakes became associated with Shrove Tuesday because they were a dish that could use up perishable foodstuffs such as eggs, fats and milk, with just the addition of flour. Pancake races are thought to have begun in 1445. A woman who was busy cooking pancakes in her kitchen lost track of the time on Shrove Tuesday and when she heard the church bell ringing, she woman raced out of her house and ran all the way to church; still holding her frying pan and wearing her apron.

Many Australian groups and communities make and share pancakes on Shrove Tuesday. Selling pancakes to raise money for charity is also a popular activity."

Although we did not participate in Shrove Tuesday, we did have the privilege this past Saturday of participating in an Easter Charity Market held at our local church.  The goal was to raise money for Mukti, a Christian mission in India that provides shelter for destitute women and children.  While I am happy to report that we did meet and even exceed our monetary goal, I think we experienced several other benefits as well, not the least of which was the joy of fellowship and camaraderie that flowed naturally from working together. 

The term working should perhaps be applied rather loosely to the children who helped us set up and serve our patrons, but we enjoyed their participation and were glad to see them having fun.  Katie (behind Sophie below) helped to sell sausages at the food stall, and I'm told she participated in an ice fight that broke out.  All of our kids spent liberal amounts of the money they recently received from their grandparents.

Ross did not have any official duties, but he provided back up and general support, primarily in the form of purchasing from and talking to those in charge of the various stalls.

James begged for one of the reversible crowns in the table below.  I finally relented when only one remained.  It is perfect for the dress up box.  Sophie wanted me to add that both she and Katie went home with two of the teddy bears from the basket.

The cakes at the baked goods table were especially popular.  When you consider that purchasing one cake from the bakeries around the corner can leave you fifty dollars poorer, ours were a bargain at $15.

I was given charge of the children's corner, the highlight of which was to be the lucky dip basket, a new concept to me.  The idea is that for a dollar or two children pick a wrapped gift that holds a surprise. 

The word fete was bandied about several times, and what with the plant stall, the children's corner, the bric-a-brac stall, and our matching striped aprons, I felt at one point that I was living out a scene from one of Shirley Hughes' Alfie books.  We went home with a brand-new deluxe citrus juicer that had been donated, and Ross lost no time putting it together and trying it out. We were all rewarded with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice the next morning for breakfast.  Life doesn't get much better than that.

House Athletics Day for Sophie

The last day of Term One dawned upon an excited Sophie, all set for her first House Athletics Day.  Keen to earn points for her house Woolhara, concerned that she might not win a single race, and fretting over the normally-banned yellow ribbon in her hair, Sophie left the house in a quiver of nerves and emotions.  James and I sent her off with our faithful fellow carpoolers, promising that we would be on hand to cheer her on later in the day.

We had some trouble finding her amidst the blur of blue and white on the large oval, but we did manage to see her come in first in her heat for the the 100 meter race.  It was a pleasure to watch the giant smile spread across her face as she received her ribbon.   I had assured her that her long legs would be an advantage on the track, and so they were.

In between races, I watched the parents set up the sausage sizzle for lunch.  I had to take a picture of the ever-present espresso machine for the adults.  There were also muffins to accompany the coffee, as well as icy poles (popsicles) and Freddos (chocolate frogs) for the children. 

With the exception of one neon pink wig and a few colored t-shirts, the girls primarily demonstrated support for their respective houses through hair ribbons.

Sophie's second race was the hurdles, something she had been practicing in prior weeks during P.E.  The practice (or the long legs) paid off with another first place ribbon.

The third event for Year 2 students was the shuttle relay.  I missed most of it (too much chatting and coffee drinking!) but managed to get a picture at the very end.

After a lunch break, the Year 2s conquered their most challenging race, the 200 meters.  I positioned myself at the end, where many of them needed some encouragement to finish.

James and I had to leave after Sophie finished second in the 200 meters, but we were on hand later to welcome her home.  She was pleased with the ribbons she had collected, but disappointed that her house had come in last.  She and her fellow Woolhara members were convinced that they were the victims of injustice, but further questioning revealed that they merely did not understand why they were staggered on the track for the 200 meter race.  It took some time for me to explain to her that all girls ran the same distance even though some started further back.  Eventually she conceded that they had lost fair and square, ("sadly"), but she is already looking forward to a better outcome next year.

Easter in October

It takes every single chocolate egg out there, and in my suburb there must be thousands upon thousands of them in the shops, to convince me that Easter is truly around the corner. As the leaves continue to change and fall with the shortening of the days, the proximity of Easter seems as incongruous as celebrating Christmas  in the midst of summer.  As a friend back home recently pointed out, however, Easter in autumn leads one to reflect more naturally upon Good Friday, and much as we prefer to celebrate new life and the resurrection, the death that preceded it is what makes new life possible.

There do appear to be several differences in the Easter holiday compared to North America beyond it falling in the opposite season.  It is to shopping in Australia what the Thanksgiving weekend is in America, namely the weekend that the most money is spent in stores.  The only Easter egg hunt I have seen advertised thus far is the one put on by the American Women's Association, but vast amount of chocolate eggs have already been consumed.  My kids began complaining several weeks ago that they were the only children without chocolate Easter candy in their school lunches.  I was inclined to not believe them at first, but I have since come to realize that they were likely not exaggerating very much.

For the most part I have ignored the piles of candy and wrapped eggs in the stores.  They started appearing the moment the Christmas decorations came down, and have caused multiple opportunities for James to be disappointed whilst out shopping with me.  Recently, however, a grandmother mentioned to me that this was the last Easter that she would purchase bilbies for her nearly grown grandchildren.  I wondered at first if she meant actual living animals, but she was referring to the Australian version of the chocolate bunny.  Bilbies are preferred especially by those who consider themselves green in protest of the devastating destruction caused by the introduction of the rabbit in the 19th Century.

Rabbits were brought to Australia in 1859 by an avid hunter from England.  Once released into wild, the rabbit population skyrocketed, leading to the fastest spread ever recorded of a mammal in the world.  Within a decade they had overrun the country, causing untold damage to vegetation and wildlife.  The green areas that they destroyed throughout the country will never be recovered.  Attempting to control them has proven extremely difficult, and they currently remain a threat to several species of wildlife, as well as a bane to farmers.

The bilby began to be promoted as an alternative to the chocolate bunny several decades ago, and has appeared in several children's books about Easter.  It is one of Australia's cutest marsupials, and also, unfortunately, one of the most endangered.  We have enjoyed watching it scurry around in the nocturnal section of our local wildlife sanctuary but will unlikely ever encounter one ourselves in the bush as it is exceptionally shy.  The male Greater Bilby is about the same size as a male rabbit, and competes with the rabbit for food. Bilbies are excellent diggers, and spend most of their time underground in tunnels.  For this reason, the female's pouch faces backward, preventing dirt from getting into it as she burrows.

Having been thus alerted to the existence of chocolate bilbies, I made an exception today at the grocery store and carefully examined the candy on offer.  Sophie spotted them right away, and successfully convinced me to allow her to place four in our trolley. Appropriately, the bunnies we found have happy, almost gleeful expressions, while the bilbies look rather mournful.

Here is an image provided by the Australian Bilby Appreciation Society:

Having purchased our weekly groceries at the cost of more money than I can bear to include in this blog, we had one last stop to make.  We must walk by a bakery after leaving the grocery store, and it is not very often that I manage to push the trolley past without stopping.  Today I intended to purchase only half a dozen scones, but Sophie spotted the Choc Chip Hot Cross Buns, and I figured that since I had already given in once, I may as well do so again.

Hot cross buns began appearing prominently in bakeries around the same time as the chocolate eggs. Traditionally eaten hot or toasted on Good Friday in Christian countries, they are now sold nearly year round. In Australia a chocolate version,  in which the chocolate chips replace the currants, has become quite popular.  The same mixture of spices is used, leading to a unique combination that the Wilkin crew agrees is quite nice.

There is more to be said on the subject of Easter down under, particularly with respect to the religious observances, but I will save that for a future post.  As I look out the window at the cold rain falling, I can almost imagine that I am looking out at springtime in Pittsburgh.

 

Flying Foxes

A few nights ago Ross and Cameron returned jubilant from an evening walk.  They had discovered that dozens of flying foxes were roosting in trees just down the street from us.  Ross has since dragged me out twice to witness the spectacle, which I own to be a bit creepy.  Tonight, we not only viewed them hanging upside down just over our heads from power lines and tree branches, we heard them screeching to one another, something they apparently do frequently as they defend their roosting trees.  The sound reminded me somewhat of seagulls, yet it did not sound quite like any noise we have heard coming from birds. 

Flying foxes are not foxes, of course.  They are so named because their heads bear a distinct resemblance to their eponymous fellow mammal.  The ones we saw tonight I take to be the Grey-headed Flying Fox based on the descriptions I read online.  They appeared to be attracted to the fruit of a few trees in the front garden of a nearby house as well as to the blossoms of the eucalypts lining the street.  Curious, I read a bit about them tonight and learned that unlike the smaller microbats, flying foxes eat fruit and nectar rather than insects.  Their night vision is excellent, and thus they do not need to rely upon echo-location.

Credits for this photo can be found here.

Flying foxes are not terribly popular in Australia, especially with fruit farmers.  In addition to inflicting significant damage to fruit crops, they are both noisy and smelly.  We thought we could detect the same unpleasant odor when we were out last night that we remember from zoos.  Unfortunately they have lost much of their coastal habitat in eastern Australia, and for this reason have been seen in increasing numbers in the state of Victoria.  It is believed that their numbers may have declined by as much as thirty percent in the last decade alone.

I have no doubt that I will be seeing more of these creatures swooping amongst the trees in the nights to come.  That is one advantage, or disadvantage depending on one's perspective, of the earlier nightfall.  We also could clearly see a ring-tailed possum in the tree just outside our bedroom window as we returned tonight, something we have not noticed for several months. Ross brought James out to have a look, but unlike his father, James had no desire to remain outdoors watching it. 

Indian Summer

Five absolutely glorious days of perfect weather deserve a post of their own I think.  Crisp nights, clear days, daily highs around 75 degrees F, not a cloud in the sky, and nothing to regret except the increasing signs that although it feels like summer, winter is on its way.  I did wonder about the term "Indian summer," and whether it is used down under, but I have heard it in conversation at least twice, so I feel moderately safe in applying it to this past week.

The sunshine has inspired me to get the camera back out for daily walks and drives around our suburb.  Some of the colors are the ones I associate with autumn, but there are other flowering trees and bushes that seem somewhat out of place.  Our azaleas bloomed a second time, for example, and there are many other blossoms I would have associated with spring.  Not that I am complaining of course.  I think it would be difficult to live here for many years without picking up the gardening bug.

According to the weather report, tomorrow will bring a change for the worse.  For several weeks now we have been hearing that "this could well be the last nice day for a long time," a prediction usually accompanied by a sigh and a slight shake of the head.   Fortunately this has not been the case, and instead we have enjoyed what may well be our most beautiful week in Australia thus far.

Outdoor Education at Camp Jungai

The first thing I noticed in our first born when we  met her bus after camp was her pure delight upon catching a glimpse of our faces. As she sprinted toward my open arms, I  honestly couldn't remember a time when she had been more happy to see me.  It was a good feeling, I must say.  I soon discovered one possible reason for her elation over being back home again.  It turns out she had eaten next to nothing over the past four days and was very much looking forward to a home cooked meal.  She was sure she had lost several pounds.

Having finished her complaint about the lack of food, or at least of food she felt was fit for consumption, Katie moved quickly on to the second mini-disaster.  About fifteen minutes before before boarding the bus for the return journey, she was bitten by a venomous ant, known variously as the jumping jack, jack jumper, or hopper ant.  All I can say is that I am extremely thankful that (1) Katie was not allergic to it and (2) I was not aware of the existence of these lethal insects before she left for camp.

Here is what I learned, after the incident, from wikipedia:

Jack jumper ants are carnivores and scavengers. They sting their victims with venom that is similar to stings of wasps, bees, and fire ants. Their venom is one of the most powerful in the insect world.

The symptoms of the stings of the ants are similar to stings of the fire ants. The reaction is local swelling and reddening, and fever, followed by formation of a blister. The heart rate increases, and blood pressure falls rapidly. In individuals allergic to the venom (about 3% of cases), a sting sometimes causes anaphylactic shock. Although 3% may seem small, jack jumper ants cause more deaths in Tasmania than spiders, snakes, wasps, and sharks combined.

Ouch, ouch, and ouch.  Here is a picture of the leg where she was bitten.  Katie reports that she experienced a stabbing pain for one hour that lessened to an ache for the next twenty-four.  After that point it felt like a normal mozzie bite.  She should know, as she has always been the child in our family afflicted by bites of all kinds, especially from mosquitos. 

Apart from the lack of palatable food and the jumping jack, Katie had a wonderful time at camp.  On her first night, her group loaded up backpacks with lots of gear and headed out into the bush to camp overnight.  They climbed straight up something very steep (neither a hill nor a mountain, she says) that required a rope for rappelling.  They then set up camp, and made dinner with what supplies they had.  In the haste to be off, half of their food had been inadvertantly left behind.    What they did have were rice noodles, chili sauce, pine nuts, and enough vegetables for one sixth of the girls.  Breakfast the next morning was milk and Wheet-bix (think shredded wheat) with no sugar.

After breakfast, the girls broke camp and loaded up all of their gear including tents, sleeping mats, cooking gear, clothes, and sleeping bags, into large backpacks.  These they carried on their backs for three to four kilometers with only a moderate level of complaining, where they were met by a bus and driven back to camp.

Their next task was to build a raft using wooden planks, plastic barrels, and rope.  According to Katie this required a great deal of cooperation.  The girls then climbed on for testing in a nearby lake.  They managed to make it nearly 50 meters before it fell apart, soaking nearly all of the girls.

On the second night, the girls again set up their tents on the camp's oval.  Fortunately for them, the weather remained dry.  When I spoke to Katie's form teacher a few days later, she had been one of the unlucky ones to be camping outdoors during a later night of pouring rain.  As I sympathized with her, she affirmed with a laugh that the school could not possibly pay her enough for this ordeal.

Part of the camp experience included learning about indigenous culture.  The name Jungai means meeting place in the Taungurung language, and according to the camp's official website, it was established in 1972 "in order to promote race reconciliation, teach indigenous culture and offer a meeting and teaching place for indigenous and non-indigenous groups."  Katie had assumed this bit would be rather boring, but she was pleasantly surprised to find it interesting.  They first learned how to blow on a didgeridoo, next how to throw a boomerang, and then about various edible and healing plants found in the bush. 

On their last full day before returning home, Katie went white water rafting with her group.  This she found to be "hard work but fun."  Her favorite meal was called a "bucket lunch."  This included tortilla chips, kidney bean, tomatoes, and numerous other vegetables that were placed in a wrap and rolled up.  For morning tea they were given granola bars or apples, and for supper (to be distinguished from dinner, the evening meal), dessert.  The last two nights were spent in proper cabins, and although Katie had assumed the cabins would be preferable to the tents, she slept much better in the tents due to the availability of fresh air.

I sent one of my older cameras with Katie with instructions to take lots of photos, but it returned with an empty card. I have had no choice but to be content with her verbal descriptions.  While she has been fairly enthusiastic about all the she experienced, Katie is not at all upset that she will not be going on camp again for another twelve (now eleven) months.