Homeless Hans

The narrow roads through the Otway ranges were spectacular, twisting through the fern tree forest along narrow ridges barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass. This is cool temperate rainforest; mosses and lichen coat every surface, rock and tree. Birds and other wildlife were hidden and even the call of parrots was muffled by the dense, sodden undergrowth. I encountered few vehicles as I wound through this strange landscape. It felt as though I was in a different country, not having seen this kind of forest before. I camped along an overgrown grassy track deep in the forest. The only sound I heard was the chatter of a little stream in the ferny valley below.

A land not his own

A little fox cub crept into the clearing,
Sharp nose twitching
Furry ears pricked
Daisy padding, grasshopping

Soon chasing butterflies
Soft tail floating
Learning to hunt and be smart
Clever but innocent

Born in a land not his own
He is not loved here
But beautiful vermin
And will be destroyed.

The Great South Road was not particularly great. I have seen much greater roads than that I can tell you! Anyway, the cliffs and rocks were a pretty golden colour and the ocean blue. It was also packed with tourists and in some places hard to get to the viewing spots.


Via Geelong to Melbourne airport.

Changing places can mean changing yourself

The long term car park at Melbourne airport is the most boring place in the world to spend the night. No toilets, so I had to catch the shuttle bus before I went to bed in order not to get caught short in the middle of the night. I suppose it helped me find the quickest route to the terminal for an early start the next morning. I was on my way to see good friends, including my ex-wife, in WA.
I never sleep well before a flight and this was no exception, especially when a sudden heatwave made the night most uncomfortable. On top of that, my house battery seemed to have stopped functioning, going from 15 down to 9 volts in half an hour. 15 volts whilst charging on the solar panel is too high, indicating that the battery is not absorbing the charge.
The airport has also got to be the ugliest in the world; Australian dysfunctional, which is saying something. There is absolutely no chance of walking around outside through the endless traffic; no footpaths. Inside there are all the usual crappy shops and crappy fast food places you see around the world. It would be hard to find a healthy meal here, I thought, as I wandered through the haze of frying oil and coffee fumes.

From my journal
Why have people become so addicted to coffee? Every other stall is coffee. All varieties of coffee; hot, cold, strong, weak, milky, with flavours added and so on... When real coffee became trendy everyone wanted to be cool, beautiful, exclusive people and in the way of all trends and fashions they have become the norm. Mr and Mrs Mediocrity. Even the coffees have downgraded to the lowest common denominator. Let them go to franchised places and drink coffee flavoured slush out of polystyrene cups; served up by gum chewing 16year olds who do not look at you when you place your order.

Even people watching was not much fun; mostly Chinese people peering at the departure screens through thick lenses, or Aussies on their way to Bali with boardies, t-shirts and thongs. Perhaps I’m being a little un-fair; it is probably due to tiredness.
The flight was tedious too, the only excitement taking off and landing when there was something to see. The back of my chair * was being kicked * by a hyperactive one year * old for most of the * trip, arms and * legs flailing, intermittent * wailing.
No entertainment centre, no free beverages, and only 3 radio channels. Virgin would have rated very badly if I had still been doing those telephone surveys in Switzerland. Bah! Grump. Grump. Grump. Grump...

As we fly across Esperance I can see once again the wide spaces of WA and have mixed emotions. It kinda feels like home but I wonder if I could come back to live here? I’ll see how I feel after this week. Taking off from Melbourne was very different. There are lots of towns dotted about and the farms are smaller; generally more signs of Humanity. But I had a strange feeling; something like the land is worn out by too many people, the same sensation I had when I first came back to southern Australia from the vast desert. Somehow in WA I don’t feel that; as if the landscape is still more pristine and untainted. As if there is a huge reservoir of Nature waiting in the wings for Armageddon.
Coming back to Albany was initially a nice experience. Jean, my ex-wife and I were showing our good friends from Switzerland the nicest spots on the coast and the weather was sunny so everything looked particularly beautiful. More beautiful than most of the places I had seen on my travels; I wondered why I had ever left. Magnificent scenery, cliffs and beaches. Clean and clear blue water, white sand and the unique biodiversity of parks and reserves along the coast. The south west region really does offer the best of everything Australia can provide.
But then the weather changed; it became very windy, not uncommon in Albany. I remembered one of the main reasons I had left. Even in mid January it is hard to find a warm spot on the beach to swim and laze about. Little grey clouds move in off the ocean when the cold sea breeze blows from the south.
The practicalities of living here would manifest themselves after a while. Finding a job would probably not be too difficult, but in an environment I already know so well and therefore not very exciting or offering a new direction to follow. It would be all too easy to slip into my old skin; not an attractive proposition. Changing location can mean changing yourself.

At the Perth check-in counter I first heard about the floods in Brisbane. The guy behind me was in a hurry to check on his home there to see if it was in danger. I was not really surprised by the news. I had heard all about the floods in central Australia and the Murray River before. La Nina was still hanging around. I confess I was not much consolation to the poor fellow.

A brush with La Nina

So here I am, back in Victoria. Still on the road. Still looking for “home” and still undecided.
I wasted no time getting out of the Melbourne long term car park. The night came early in the gloomy weather. Soon I was camped deep in the state forest at Lederberg listening to reports of heavy rain moving this way. At 9 am the rain started. This was no shower. It soon changed from light drizzle to torrential downpour. I got out of there fast, not wishing to be stuck in this remote forest. If anything happened I would have no phone signal to call for help.
Taking a road to a caravan park I had visited a week before, I passed through the Macedon Ranges not far from Melbourne. The road got narrower as the ranges closed in. Just by guesswork [as the signposts were awful as usual, I turned right and ended up on a gravel road heading up into the hills. There was no way I could continue up here in this weather, although I was glad I had seen this beautiful hidden valley with wooded slopes. The tops of the hills were shrouded in clouds and racehorses stood shining under the black cypress trees to avoid the downpour. A large horse stud with many stables was nestled amongst the trees. The place reminded me of the Ardennes in Belgium.
Trying the left junction this time I found my way onto the correct road but had not been prepared for the endless steep climb that followed. I could not see a thing as I climbed through the dense clouds and rain. Damn! These adventures just seem to happen without warning. But then, I suppose that’s what makes it an adventure. There was an inch of water on the road as I twisted my way through S bends, but the little bus coped well.
From what I could glimpse here and there, these hills were for wealthy Melburnians. Large mansions behind imposing gates and landscaped gardens were the norm and had been here since the early twentieth century, I would hazard a guess. Later, the manager of the caravan park told me it was where the rich of Melbourne came for the summer when it got too hot in the city. They were mere summerhouses. Nowadays most middle class families have at least a shack on the coast or a second home. I’m always amazed by that; I wouldn’t mind a shack as my first home!

The caravan park I had chosen was one of the few not flooded in the days that followed. I holed up and caught the drips off the ceiling but was cosy enough whilst I heard about the chaos further north. Virginia, a couchsurfing friend, had invited me to stay at her house but she e-mailed me to say that it would not be a good idea to camp on her lawn, which had turned into a swamp. Her veranda was already underwater and she had moved her car to higher ground for a quick getaway should the water rise further. In the meantime she was preparing emergency food for the flood victims who had been accommodated in local village halls. Another example of a community pulling together to overcome adversity. Bravo, these unsung heroes!

What would happen if communities no longer existed? Everyone for themselves? Isolation? A deterioration of civil behaviour and consideration for others? It is already evident in today’s world. Communities step in when authorities cannot cope. Already much of the most vital work is being done by local volunteers. Centralisation and larger authorities may well benefit financially due to economies of scale but the savings are made only within the administration of the Authority, whilst remote communities, or what is left of them, suffer the consequences. I believe that a better future lies in localisation. Who was it said; “Small is beautiful”?

I waited out the floods then made my way to Melbourne in order to catch the ferry to Tasmania.

A change is in the air

I’m on the ferry to Tasmania. It really feels like proper travel again. I remember such feelings from other passages on ships. Even ferries within Greece were like I was heading towards a different country. Not like air travel where you endure many hours of sleepless cramp and then arrive with a shock.
Ships are slow. You have time to say goodbye to the world you are leaving behind. Time to adjust, relax, reflect, dream and anticipate. There is an atmosphere that affects everyone. Passengers come on deck and watch hawsers being taken on board. The engines rumble; a hoot and the space between ship and shore widens with white foam. Little children wave even though there is no one to respond. Cameras click and blokes watch tugs and freighters play their game of push and pull between the buoys. Seagulls swoop in the hope of a churned up fishy meal.
It takes us an hour to cross Philip Bay and head out into the Tasman Strait where the first swells are felt. The journey becomes the experience. Slow travel.

The wind is up to 30 knots, not unusual in the Strait and the crossing rough. Three girls in their late teens get up from their seats and waddle like ducklings in line towards the stern of the ship. Two steps forward, one to the right, two forward, one to the left. Forward, right, forward, left. All perfectly synchronised, as though they have been practicing for hours.
A white-faced girl leans heavily against the counter in front of my seat. She looks miserable and meeting my eyes says in a weak voice; “I feel terrible; think I’m gonna throw up.”
[Not anywhere near me, you’re not.] “Try getting some fresh air. On that side,” I say, pointing to the leeward side of the ship [for her sake, not mine].
Four hours later I see her again. She asks me whether I’ve thrown up yet. “No.” She has not either and I tell her not to give in to it. “It’s a good sign you have lasted so long. Well done.” She looks relieved and better already. We are halfway and people are getting used to the motion.
The ship’s company falls into a sleepy siesta mode. Trying to stop myself from falling asleep on my book, I go outside onto the top deck. It sure is brisk up here; the fine spray stinging my face. It seems rougher than the forecast had predicted. Three metre, wind streaked swells with a mass of whitecaps on top. Every so often a wave crashes into the windward side, the ship shudders and spray comes over the bridge, clattering onto the deck like hail.
I am awake again and hungry. Found me a coffee and am eating the rest of my fruit [which the quarantine man had allowed me to take; as long as I consume it during the voyage].

Arrival at Devonport was rapid, I missed the call for disembarkation whilst I was on deck enjoying the prospect of a new adventure and chatting to a young German. His girlfriend came out and told us everyone had gone down to their vehicle. Someone said; “decks 3 and 5 are getting ready to leave”, and I suddenly realised I had not made a note of which one the bus was on. At least I did know on which side of the ship to look...hold on... did I drive in through the bow or the stern?
“Have you got any vegetables or fruit on your vehicle?” asked the quarantine officer; “plants or soil, compost or any plant material?”
“Not a thing” I replied confidently, “I got rid of all that at the other end.”
“Can I look inside your cool box please sir?”
“Sure.” I opened the lid and there, staring out at us was a large Cos lettuce. He thrust an accusing finger right into the lettuce and frowned at me. I cringed.
“Oh, yes! Forgot all about that.” I scrabbled to quickly remove the offending vegetable and also the cucumber underneath. He had his plastic Ziploc bag ready, shoved them inside and said sternly, “if this was WA, you would have been given a hefty fine, do you realise that?”

Tassiemania

The evening of my arrival in Devonport I made my way to Port Sorell. The rolling countryside was reminiscent of England’s West Country; Devon, or Cornwall, a region I love. The evening light warmed vegetable fields and horse paddocks. In the distance higher, forested hills were deepening to purple in the haze. Sheep cropped velvety grass carpeted the bumps and creases surrounding little weatherboard houses from another time. Dry stone walls and Hawthorn hedgerows. Willow and Bramble lined brooks babble through rocky grey gulleys. [OK, I know they are weeds but they look pretty and tug at my heartstrings.]
Port Sorell is on a river mouth; sandbanks and salt marsh; old wooden boats left high and dry on the mud of a tidal creek. Rickety weathered grey wooden jetties jut out at odd angles. They don’t seem strong enough to tether a boat in a breeze, let alone support the weight of a person. A Marsh Harrier flies low and fast, startling Lapwings and ducks paddling in the mud for food. There are happy sounds of children playing games around the campsite and occasionally the clop clop clopping of another nail being hammered into a jetty needing to be shored up for the umpteenth time.
The tranquillity is deceptive though; 21st century Australia has arrived here too. Estates of macmansions and holiday homes are springing up right behind the beach. Powerboats zoom up and down the estuary with water skiers swinging behind. Now a helicopter is constantly taking off and landing with groups of kids from the youth camp. How to build a bonfire and learning to cook is no longer entertainment enough for the low attention span of the modern child. Helicopter trips around the estuary are where it’s at.
“It is becoming just like the rest of Australia” said the female half of the elderly couple wistfully. After 40 years living in this village, they still have their bit of exercise every day, rain or shine, to take in the air and gaze fondly at the vista of low mountains and golden sands. Arm in arm they turn slowly back towards their spotless and well tended Home.
On the other side of the same estuary is Narawpantu National Park. Reached by a circuitous route through more wonderful scenery, I became more and more impressed with Tasmania. The National Park is renowned for the density of its wildlife and it did not disappoint. I saw no less than four large marsupials I had never or rarely seen in the wild. Pademelon, Wombat, Bennett’s Wallaby and Forester Kangaroo. The animals totally ignored me and I was able to photograph them with ease. I guess they were used to the many tourists.

These initial impressions of Tasmania were delightful and have been supplemented many times over in the months that I have been here. I have seen vast wild rainforests, alpine landscapes on rugged mountains, placid lakes and stormy coastlines. I have seen snow in the summer and swum in icy rivers. I have kayaked on remote lakes with mirror perfect reflections of the surrounding ranges. I have sailed through scenic Hobart on a wooden gaff cutter which has been left in my care by the trust of a stranger. I have driven to many corners of this small state and lingered in mining towns and rural villages, harbours and fjords, cities without stress. Places with much culture, history and Art. I have been charmed by this island.
But, most of all I have been charmed by the people, and one in particular.

Nell

We had agreed to meet at the pub in Georgetown at the start of the Tamar Folk Festival. I felt surprisingly calm as I wandered around looking for her. Years ago, I would have been nervous meeting a single woman, not sleeping well the night before. But I had changed, especially in the last few years. There was no stress, no urgency, and no expectation. I was simply meeting someone I had got on well with before, someone to enjoy the festival with.
Dark hair, I think. Looks about 50. Glasses? I could only vaguely remember what she looked like. Our previous meeting had been more than six months before and a lot had happened to me in that time, many impressions of people and places to blur the memory.
Ah! There she is. Nell walked straight towards me and smiled. We kissed politely or shook hands, I cannot remember and it was not significant at the time. The main concert was about to start and we headed off towards music.
The next few days have now blended into a dreamlike impression of music, song, laughter, tears, emotion and romance.
Nell was in her element at the festival. She had been involved in the music scene for most of her life and knew many of the performers personally. So for me it was a wonderful experience to meet the artists and become deeply immersed in the music at a personal level. I was welcomed into their circle and even participated in a choir. All of which were very new experiences for me.

Nell and I were immediately attracted to one another. At first we were not sure whether it was just that we seemed to have a lot in common, such as our Dutch upbringing or the way we felt about nature, the environment, life’s priorities and all kinds of issues. In fact we seemed to have nothing much to disagree about. But after a short while, we realised it was more than just intellectual compatibility; we felt other connections. [Do 60 year olds still exude pheromones?]

I could tell you that we rushed to Nell’s bedroom, ripped each others’ clothes off and made mad, passionate love that first night, but that would be a lie... It was the second night.

No, not strictly true either, what we really wanted to do was hug, kiss and be close to one another after some years of sleeping on our own. It felt good, we fitted together very well.
Both Nell and I have a fair bit of experience of partnerships but have also felt the pleasures of personal freedom and have therefore decided to follow a middle path. We will not live together but will spend good times doing all kinds of fun things; travelling, kayaking, sailing, the Arts, eating, making love... Although Nell works, it is in the tourist industry and seasonal, so she has plenty of free time in the off season. As for me, well; I may get a little job, if anyone will have me, but if that does not eventuate, never mind. I will just spend my savings; while I still can.

So have I found a Home? This is probably as near as I will get. Nell has made it so; she has tipped the balance in favour of Tasmania.
Without her, I may possibly have made this island my home anyway for it has so much to offer me personally. But undoubtedly, without her, I would first have continued my journey in my rusty dusty trusty bus. Back to Victoria on the ferry and up the east coast to Queensland; just to see if elsewhere was just as nice as here.

Just to see if HOME IS REALLY WHERE YOUR HEART IS.
Testing the concept.

Just to see...

The Christmas break brings out the best and worst in Australians. It is the first holiday of the year when the city dwellers [80% of all Australians] are unleashed on the countryside. There is a kind of spring fever in the air, schools are out, and it is party time. The tradition is to go camping and the campsites are packed. All of them. In National Parks, in forests, on the coast, in the hills, you name it.
They resemble refugee camps; a sea of cheap canvas and humanity, together with their kids and clutter. If you ignore the inhabitants [who are mostly too well fed], the only difference to refugee camps is the smell of sausages cooking which is noticeable from kilometres away. More reminiscent of say Africa, is the smell of “long drops” [field toilets, no more than a pit with a toilet seat] where the contents were piling up in blowfly topped pyramids approaching the rim. It seems ironic that people leave the city in order to find the great outdoors and end up crammed together in these conditions.
I was reduced to camping along remote country roads for much of the time.

In this part of Victoria there is a little village called Dartmoor, well away from the coastal chaos. I liked the name, as I had spent some happy times on the original Dartmoor in England in a previous life, so headed that way. There was still some room at the free campsite, although the noisy kids and dogs were a nuisance, especially when they had parties where the teenyboppers played the most inane pop music imaginable for hours and hours and the adults pretended to enjoy themselves in order to be the “coolest” mums and dads.

But ultimately I did not mind, it was good to see Australians enjoying the great outdoors, a family tradition continued through generations. A time to have fun with your parents, brothers and sisters. I saw very few glum faces on both grown-ups and kids and it often put a smile on my face too, when I saw them playing together. They have a go at most things; fishing, swimming, playing cricket, lighting campfires, hammering in tent pegs, chopping vegetables, baking potatoes, taking the dogs for a walk or just watching the other campers, like me.

The seaside towns of Victoria have suddenly come alive. I watched daddies launch their shiny new powerboats; boat trailers littering the foreshore. Opalescent squid were being sliced up at the fish cleaning stations. A group of young children looked on in amazement as the large male fur seal balanced on a rocky shelf to catch some scraps, blinking in the bright sunlight. The elegant female twists and turns in the water seductively, hoping for a few crumbs from the fat fella’s jaws. These wild creatures have become tamed by regular feeding and you will find them in most towns on the southern Australian coast. Even the Pied Cormorants are within arms’ reach in holiday season; whereas they are usually quite shy.

It may be holiday season but it is still not warm for me, having recently arrived from South Australia. The banners and Christmas decorations flap in the stiff, cold sea breeze. It seemed to me that this, the southernmost part of mainland Australia seldom gets really hot, for the countryside is very reminiscent of Europe. The flat bits are like Holland, with long windbreaks of poplars and farms located at regular intervals along straight roads. The hilly bits are more like England’s rolling downland. Paddocks are green and dotted with black and white Friesian dairy cows. I drove past several dairies and cheese factories. Even the weeds are European; Dandelions, brambles, thistles and hawthorns everywhere.

Port Fairy must be the most popular destination in the whole of Victoria. It is a pretty, historical village once the second largest port in the state apparently. The harbour is located in the mouth of the river Moyne and I really wanted to have a good look at this place so tried my luck at one of the four caravan parks.
It was like moving into an inner Melbourne ghetto. There must have been a thousand sites and the other campgrounds are of a similar size, so the locals, if they’re not extinct, are outnumbered by ten to one at this time of the year. Strangely the town itself was not overly full, the families with small kids preferring to laze about in and around the campsites.
There was a festive air about the place and I enjoyed the atmosphere immensely. They were proud of their Irish heritage in this town and I watched a Gaelic band playing in the park. Some children were showing off their Irish dancing skills. After a day exploring on my bike I sipped my pint of Guinness outside an old pub in the evening sun and transported myself to a little place in Ireland...

It was New Years Eve and everybody had been talking about resolutions all day. On the radio, on social networking sites, snippets of conversations around campfires. I began to think about mine; what would it be? It became a process of elimination as the clock ticked towards midnight. I listened to others or read them online. No, I did not need to lose weight or put some on; give up smoking or drinking. I did not feel as though I needed to give anything up or start anything new; perhaps a little tweaking here or there, but not so much that I needed to make a resolution about it.
I was baffled by the notion that resolutions should be made at this particular time of year. I make resolutions nearly every day, sometimes breaking them or modifying them to suit the changing circumstances. Why not make that a resolution; to reflect and make a resolution every day? Also it struck me that resolutions were in most cases about self improvement, which is good but why not turn it around and think about ways to improve other peoples’ lives?
It was nowhere near midnight but I could think of nothing better than an idea which had evolved from the week before, when I was feeling rather down. I had been reflecting about my failures in life and needed something to bring me out of depression. The resolution became almost absurdly simple and not particularly revolutionary; you all know about it:

TO MAKE OTHER PEOPLE HAPPY.
Making other people happy, makes me happy.

If I’m lucky and live until 85, I have only got another 24 years. That makes every year, month, week and day precious to me. The realisation of how transient our lives are [whether someone believes in an afterlife or rebirth is irrelevant to me, because I do not] gives me the impetus to make their day, and will consequently make mine.
It will shape my behaviour when I communicate and interact with people. I’ll smile at them and engage them in friendly, meaningful conversation. A conversation like that can lift peoples’ mood in itself and can lead to further ways of bringing joy. Even those that show initial surprise at my actions may benefit from a little determined happiness. Obviously I will know when not to press those happy vibes too far; it can be inappropriate and even provocative in the wrong situation. I will not be a martyr to the cause. [Sometimes it makes people happy when I leave]
The value of a resolution is in its sincerity and I have tried to apply it to everyone I have met since the New Year. Of course I am in the fortunate position of living a stress free life, which makes it easier. It has led to very positive developments including much less depression for me. Try it!

From my journal
As I was walking to the bush dunny looking left and right at the families enjoying themselves. I heard a shout and saw a man raking in his winnings from a blue plastic groundsheet, which served as a card table for his family. A woman was sitting amongst the players and she was looking straight at me with interest and curiosity. She was about 30 metres away so I was surprised she had even noticed me amongst the crowd, from that distance.
I gave her my first full-on, genuine, resolution smile of the year and she immediately responded with one of her own. Her face lit up and we connected intimately for a brief moment. She looked so beautiful in a timeless motherly way, as though sharing with me her pride and joy in the wonderful family surrounding her. The warmth of that smile will stay with me for a long time and this small incident had a profound effect on me; heralding in the New Year and the rest of my life.

Volcanoes and caves. That seemed to be the main theme for the rest of South Australia. Perhaps they stuck in my mind because they were a bit different. I mean; volcanoes in Australia?

I had seen sand dunes and magnificent endless beaches before; I had seen little touristy seaside towns like Robe before. Lighthouses, fishermen’s cottages, yachts, boat ramps, fish and chip shops, Norfolk Pines and seagulls.

I had even seen lots of caves before, similar to the ones at Naracoorte. Stalactites, stalagmites, collapsed roofs and chambers that run for hundreds of meters. But these were different for two reasons.
The first [and the reason I had come to see them], was that they contained fossils of Megafauna, giant marsupials and other large animals that roamed Australia recently enough to be depicted on Aboriginal rock art. In fact there are speculations that the Indigenous tribes may have contributed to their disappearance.

These animals would fall down into the caves through sink holes hidden by the dense bush, or they would live in the caves, leaving the remains of their prey scattered around for little intense palaeontologists to scratch their heads about. The fossils and remains revealed much more than animal species. They were also indicators of climate and habitat changes over a long period of time. Imagine the Petrushka doll like stomach contents of a predator-prey food chain. The different ages were revealed as the floors of the caves were excavated.
There were no large fossils to see in the caves I visited; a tour for these would have to be booked in advance, but I amused myself by scrutinising some diggings and visiting the Megafauna display which was fun although geared perhaps towards children or the average tourist. [Snob, you say?]

The caves held another interesting surprise; a colony of endangered Southern Bent-winged Bats which was being intensively studied by scientists to try and save them from extinction. A group of us were led into a study centre where we could watch the bats by means of infrared video cameras. It was truly delightful to learn so much about them from Carole the enthusiastic ranger while we watched the pups being fed by their mums [they seemed to be able to pick their own young from a heaving cluster of hundreds of bald minibats].

Hyperboles and cones

Down through the Coonawarra region, through Penola “Home of the first Australian Saint” Mary McKilloch, officially voted “in” by the Vatican only a week previously. Already the tourist industry is cashing in on her renown. This is another huge wine producing region. No wonder there is a wine glut; half of South Australia is planted with vines.
I was pleasantly shocked when the Blue Lake in Mount Gambier really did turn out to be bright blue. Tourist literature often gets a bit carried away with hype so I am becoming very sceptical about it. Large glossy brochures are produced with descriptions of every little town. Here is a sample:
Today, M.... is the perfect spot to unwind. Fishing, boating, skiing, relaxing, strolls along the foreshore and fabulous sunsets are just a handful of the treats awaiting visitors to this idyllic country town.
I have learned to steer clear of towns like this because translated that means there is nothing to see here but you can go out on the lake if you have a boat and if there is water in the lake. [In this case not for the last 5 years].
The brochures are full of it; sure there is something nice about relaxing in a sleepy country town. Simple pleasures; ‘nuff said. And when a town is the “Home of the big lobster”, avoid it unless you feel sorry for the place. Why do you think they built it?

But really; the Blue Lake and a couple of limestone sink holes were all there was to see in Mount Gambier and they were somewhat tourist worn. Enough to merit a visit and bike ride around the craters.

I fitted in a couple of movies as I nearly always miss new releases around Christmas. Harry Potter and the....whatever” was only half a movie. “The Voyage of the Dawn Treader” was much better and although obviously for children, it did have deeper messages about courage, duty, self belief and religion. I must admit I was emotionally manipulated by the mouse’s final journey and had to avoid people’s knowing smiles on the way out. In my embarrassment I had forgotten that my bladder was bursting during the final scene and had to run the gauntlet for a second time on my way to the loo. My eyes were horribly red when I looked in the mirror.
Best performance goes to... Eustace [the nuisance].

Mount Schanck, south of Mount Gambier is another volcanic cone. This one, being in the middle of flat farmland was more impressive, a perfect volcano in miniature; Australia’s own cuddly cone.

It was Christmas Eve and I could have driven 400 km to a friend’s house where I had been invited for dinner but it was just too far. Thousands of Australians would not have bentwing batted an eyelid at such a trip and were packing the roads to get to their loved ones. I was almost on my own, camping at the base of the volcano. The others were some young Europeans in a whizz-bang, engaged in serious drinking well into the wee hours of Christmas Day.

The Europeans were still asleep, so I went for a snorkel in a limestone pond.
The water that is collected on the limestone plateau of South Australia soon sinks below the surface and forms a series of underground streams which emerge near the coast. The water is crystal clear and bubbles up through springs in the bottom of sink holes then runs a few kilometres to the ocean.

From my journal
I don wetsuit and flippers and lower myself into the icy cold water. My hands soon become numb and I clasp them behind my back where they can benefit from the heat of the sun. A rippling carpet of bright green weed and delicate, tiny plants unfold beneath me as I head downstream gently borne on the current. I pass through a channel between rushes to the next pool and then the next and cannot believe my eyes when a large freshwater crayfish waves his antennae at me, stands to attention and raises his claws ready to fend off this large intruder.

I could have plucked him from the gravelly bed and had a wonderful Christmas feast but did the right thing; this is a nature reserve and taking anything from here would be illegal. Besides he looked great in his own element, much better than in my billycan. Later I learn that these large crayfish are becoming quite rare.
The whole snorkel took about 15 minutes but by then my head was achingly cold and I suffered pain for days afterwards. This sunny day was not over and I drove across the border into Victoria stopping briefly at Nelson, a quiet hamlet on the Glenelg River mouth.

That evening I camped by the river and had a Christmas dinner of sorts after all. There were five of us drifters, all without family or friends nearby and we shared a simple meal in front of a campfire. I had bought a small Christmas cake, some-one opened a bottle of sparkly and we clicked our plastic cups together for a toast; “To new adventures on the road.”
But this season always makes me feel depressed and the following day when I moved on I felt really bad. Anxious, with heart palpitations and panic. My self esteem very low. Sure, I’ve felt like this before but this was the first time I was really aware of it and took note of the physical and mental manifestations.

How little I have achieved in my life. Failed marriages, failed relationships, failed careers, failed at just about everything I have attempted. Paintings, writings, keeping in touch with friends and family. I’m not determined enough, too lazy, always taking the easy way out.
The anxiety has gone, the physical depression; but the vision of myself has lingered. It will not go away. Do I accept it and continue the rest of my life without being able to say I achieved something; that there was a purpose?

I could make excuses, like a therapist trying to prop up my ego but the vision will not go away. I still feel it is my fault and I’m too weak to remedy it. I know what I could and should do but I don’t. My marriages and relationships could have been saved if I had been more sensitive to my partners’ feelings and acted accordingly. If I had pursued a career I would have been in a more secure position now. If I had been more prolific and dedicated to my Art I would have been happier about my creative legacy. Even in my writing I’m not trying hard enough, I know I could do better. Just cannot be bothered, it’s easier writing blogs like this; taking the easy way out; will never be good enough anyway. Nobody will want to read it; friends are just being nice.

To those few of you who are reading this, I wish you a happy life without regrets; although that may not exist.

Feeling blue? Take a good look at yourself.

The Coorong; a space to reflect

The Coorong is flat, like all good river deltas should be. The River Murray terminates in a couple of large freshwater lakes and then a long strip of water and marsh separated from the ocean by dunes.
Because the river has been much reduced in recent years due to drought and extensive irrigation upstream this fragile ecosystem has suffered a great deal of damage. Normally, every year there would seasonally be enough fresh water to flush out the Coorong and sustain the flora and fishy fauna which relies on this rhythmic cycle to breed and survive.
The prevailing westerlies have built up the enormous natural barrage of dunes but due to the lack of flushing, sand has built up across the outlet to the ocean and water levels have dropped causing increasing stagnation. Dredging the channel was started to keep some kind of tidal flow which keeps salinity levels reasonably correct in the lagoons. Interestingly the highest levels of salt are actually furthest away from the river outlet due to the shallowness of the lagoons and the rapid evaporation rate. I believe the salinity can be up to eight times that of seawater.

Good news this year! A couple of days ago they were able to stop the dredging.

The Coorong is now functioning the way it should and I suspect that recovery will be rapid; as is nature’s way, although I’m aware that these good times will not last.

I tasted the water, it is almost fresh here; might go for a swim at noon when the water is warmer.

It is one of those minimalist landscapes with wide horizons and mostly sky. The wind never stops, often strong and sometimes not quite as strong. Reed beds rustle and waders call from the purple saltbush flats. The few hardy trees are flattened to the ground, bending away from the wind with arthritic deformities. Carpets of pink and white flowers bob in the breeze. Kangaroos peer at me from between the flowery clumps looking cute and flicking their fluffy ears.

This is large scale nature; nothing is small in Australia. 47000 hectares of national park which is an internationally important wetland under the RAMSAR Convention.

After my daily walk, cycle ride and swim I have time to reflect on what I am doing and how I’m feeling. The peace and lack of visual distraction are conducive to it.
During my seven months on the road I have passed through different stages.
The first was kind of therapeutic in the sense of leaving a life behind. Grieving for a lost relationship and the environmentally sustainable lifestyle I was working towards. Although it still causes me pain at times it has become less now. Travelling was pleasurable in itself and helped to distract me from painful memories. Even after only a couple of months I began to wonder what I was trying to achieve.
New spaces needed to be filled in order to lead a more fulfilling life. I began to have other ideas and tried to formulate plans in order to carry them out.
I had seen so much empty space it was becoming boring and I headed to Darwin to become involved with some Environmental activists. Unfortunately they were even further behind than the people I had known in WA so that was not the answer for me. After the fun of the Darwin Festival the city returned to its quiet provinciality.
The trip on the sailboat from Darwin earlier in the year only served to confirm that life on the ocean waves was no longer what I needed.

As I travel, I always imagine what it would be like to live in the places I pass through. I think it is an urge to find my true home; a place that I will always come back to; a community in which I will feel content and happy. My Shangri La.
Something that I have learned over the years is that such a place does not exist except in the heart and mind of the searcher. So I visualise the hum drum side of life in these places and realise that settling down does not quite do it for me either. Darwin in the suburbs; in the centre of town? Broome in tourist land? Alice in the middle of an empty continent? Adelaide? The Riverland on a houseboat?
So do I just carry on travelling until the money runs out?

From time to time I remind myself of how lucky I am; other people remark on it too, but there is always this niggling feeling that there are other things I need. Finding a partner is one of the lesser priorities. Perhaps more engagement with the World is what’s required; travelling is kind of skimming over the surface, a series of impressions which stick in the mind. Quick encounters with people who you will probably never see again; places you will never visit again.
My need, I believe, [even at my age; I was always a late developer] is more engagement, greater penetration and involvement in something that will make this a better world.
Recently I have participated in a social network for travellers called couchsurfing, a great idea for sure, but it falls short of my expectations. As does this website on which I am blogging now. I have some people reading my blog, OK, but need more feedback. It is like launching your words into outer space. Most readers probably land in my blog accidentally whilst looking for something they are really interested in. Like stepping in dog poo on the way to the opera. The internet is great but it is virtual; there is no real involvement; you can make comments all you like but who will listen? Like newspapers the most popular websites are trivial or sensationalist.

I am a practical kind of person and want to see some tangible results from my being alive. Even only small projects or creations are not enough. I have left behind some paintings, and am now engaged in a bit of writing, but it has not satisfied that curious hollow feeling, like hunger, to make a mark; scratch "Hans was here"; to justify my existence.
No doubt you religious readers would interpret this feeling as a search for spiritual fulfilment, and that may be true, but I cannot convince myself that there is a God, there is too much evidence against it. For me.
I can see the temptation to believe in an afterlife or reincarnation for that matter; gives you something to work towards, doesn’t it? But I don’t, so that leaves me with my few years left on this earth; to make of it the best I can.

As I said before; travelling is great; I love it and am addicted to it. So I come back to a compromise; where my head is at now [not a fixed plan] is to find a community which is open enough to accept a strange, creative, restless Dutchman who wants to change the world. A community which is working toward living in an environmentally sustainable way. A community in which I can play a role and make my contribution. Somewhere to live, a small corner to park my bus and some space to make Art. It would be good to grow my own veggies too. The climate must be warm [I hate the cold], and close enough to a city to enjoy the Arts and culture.
But I must be free enough to travel when I feel like it, in my bus or abroad until I become feeble or broke. No ties. Greater engagement but without a schedule to meet.
Too much to ask? I hope not.

Walking to the water’s edge for a swim in the nude I felt such joy to be alive. I was on my own in this magnificent spot overlooking the lagoon and dunes. A kangaroo grazed nearby. Deeply breathing in the cool tangy air I exclaimed aloud; “I AM SO LUCKY; TO HAVE THE CHOICE!”

The loneliness of a long distance traveller

The following is an approximation of a conversation I had with myself whilst driving 200 Kilometres through the most boring landscape of the wheat belt, from the Riverland to the Coorong in South Australia. I was speaking out loud, over the top of the noise from engine and road. Each utterance was punctuated by a space for silent thought.

“I am aware that my behaviour is becoming a little eccentric. I speak to myself an awful lot. So much, that on some days I’ve got a sore throat at the end of the day. It is already hurting now.

I’ve had a tendency to do this since before my separation. I believe it is due to a kind of restlessness; anxiety perhaps, which is messing with my thought processes. I’m sure the stress induced by our troubled relationship contributed to it a lot.

Oh, the loneliness you can have even in a relationship. She went to work at night, I stayed at home to look after the house and dogs, then went to bed alone. The following day she would be asleep. Even on days off there was loneliness. On both sides, I’m sure she felt it too; in fact she complained about it. The arguments put a big space between us; we were on opposite sides of the fence.

Then I lived on my own in that isolated place. It was a beautiful spot, but lonely.

I reason with myself, trying to sort out the myriad thoughts bouncing around inside my head. I think it works.”

Incidentally, I notice that I don’t talk to myself when I write; well not much anyway; only when there is a particularly difficult concept to unravel.

“I think I have taught myself a lot since I started doing it. About the Environment, about how people relate to climate change, about my relationship with my wife, about my previous lives, and so on...

Talking to myself helps me focus. A kind of meditation? Verbal reflection makes it clearer.

If I spoke all the thoughts in my head it would be garbled; mixed with all kinds of rubbish. I pick out the thread and speak as though I am presenting it to someone else.”
In this case visualising Cadence, or Sus, or John in Turkey; friends on the internet, sitting right next to me here in the bus.
“Someone I respect as having a lot of common sense, wisdom or knowledge. And someone I can confide in. I have never met Sus or Cadence; and John such a long time ago I have forgotten what he was like.

In real life I’m not good at talking. I am not quick enough to keep peoples’ attention. I have often had people yawn when I’m speaking, or look somewhere else as though that was more interesting.
Whilst I’m speaking I am trying to focus on the issue, trying to keep to the point; saying it as clearly as I can to progress the conversation; to get deeper into the subject. Too deep probably. Too boring.

Often conversations are too shallow for me, lightly touching on a subject then changing to another almost immediately. Are these responses truly deeply thought out, or merely something they have heard somewhere; a kind of consensus of opinion; a cliché. That’s my problem. I don’t accept any conventions without questioning them.

Too deep! Could lead to eccentric behaviour! There; I’ve gone full circle...

I CAN leave gaps in conversations with myself, which would be awkward in company. It doesn’t matter; nobody here to yawn or turn away.

Could write a blog about what I’ve just been saying to myself. Yes! Why not; it is all part of travelling; the musings that go through your mind as you bounce along this boring, bumpy road. The confession that I talk to myself constantly.
I could call it; “The loneliness of the long distance traveller”.

Because it IS due to loneliness. Travelling on your own is lonely quite a lot of the time. Some of the single travellers on 50+ Travellers [www.couchsurfing.net] would perhaps not admit it. They say they don’t get lonely much. Perhaps that is because they are involved with other people more. They have enough social intercourse. [Hah, what a word to use! What am I, some sort of councillor?]
But I doubt whether many of them are constantly on the move like me. The bus is a kind of shell, not like public transport where other people are sitting around in the same boat as you. [Especially in a boat! That is different, exciting and slow moving].

I do meet plenty of people though and have nice conversations with them. Shallow ones! They don’t seem to think I’m eccentric; so that reassures me.
But after the conversation, what then? Back to the bus. The next day, I move on; a smile and a wave. I will probably never see them again.

I don’t really mind if I am eccentric. Does it really matter? I remember Mum was the same; she spoke to herself too; and that was while we were around! It was just a way of concentrating.
I am quite like her really, with the same shock of white hair. That does not help; it makes you look more eccentric than you already are.”

I smiled a little at memories and myself as I drove on through a cloud of locusts which had begun to fly due to the hot weather. They left a yellow green vomit splat on the windscreen, with a wing or leg still attached.
I took a break from talking. My throat hurt and I had a drink of water. The silence did not last for long:

“That chat took me about 70 Kilometres. The trip is passing quickly. Nice! Talking to yourself is entertaining; I’m enjoying it.

You know, if I wrote this down as a blog, I wonder how long it would take to read? Almost an hour has passed for me, but I doubt whether it would take that long to read. This trip will take me two and a half hours to do, so I would have to write a blog that takes two and a half hours to read? Too long! No way; I’m not doing that!”

My mind drifts over to the subject of my friends’ son, Leo, who might be travelling with me next year. I imagine him sitting next to me and begin to speak to him, in a rather schoolmasterish way:

“This is Mallee country. Before it was cleared, it was covered with trees like these.” I indicated the trees alongside the road with a sweep of my hand.

I decided to carry on in French, in case he could not understand. I told him in my imagination, without speaking out loud, that it was to practice my French.

“Ce champs la, il sont tous couverte avec des arbres, comme cela...
...

I’M NOT ECCENTRIC, I AM GOING NUTS!"

This is a pictorial record of a ten kilometre trip around Moorook on my bike. The little town is very typical of this region and illustrates what is happening here after a five year drought. Businesses going bust; houses and houseboats up for sale; people moving out; orchards and vineyards reverting back to scrubland and weeds. The wealthier landowners are still surviving, perhaps with large debts? Everything relies on irrigation for the natural rainfall of this area is minimal and sporadic.
Water metering has been introduced.[the little wheels on sticks are the valves and the metres are solar powered.] In the future water will be rationed more strictly so it is uncertain what farming will survive in the future. Tourism is also centered around the river and this industry will suffer if the water is not there to float a boat.
The modifications to the natural flow and fluctuation of the river since locks, reservoirs and barrages have been introduced have created a very complex system of environmental water management, but when the water simply is not there after a long drought these systems become redundant and environmental damage is inevitable. Conversely when increased flooding occurs due to climatic changes further damage results.

Mannum

I’m watching a Swamphen pecking vigorously at little yellow flowers on the edge of the reed beds. She is followed by a chick; quite large already, almost the same size as her. Spring is well advanced here. She runs to and fro with a beak full of titbits and feeds her youngster.
Suddenly another tiny chick no more than a few days old appears from between the reeds and trots towards mum. But mum does not like this baby to be exposed to danger out in the open. She ushers it back into the reedy hollows. This is her second brood of the season; she must be exhausted providing for them all.
There are a lot of young animals everywhere. Ducks, emus, kangaroos and, of course, pests as well; rabbits, foxes, locusts. The numbers are exploding whilst the weather is providing rain and food. But what will happen when the food dries up and the next five years will bring another drought? The ducks may be able to find water further afield but not those animals that are more sedentary.

Initial impressions of the River Murray have been very enjoyable. The ferry at Wellington was my very first sight of the river and here it was brimming with water with green lawns running down to the reed and Willow banks. Ducks, swans and many other birds frolicked in the water and amongst the trees. I drove along the back roads to Tailem Bend and Murray Bridge. On either side of the river there are narrow floodplains which are obviously very fertile and grow crops, although most of them were for dairy farming, not the most efficient way of using fertile land.
It is a pretty landscape of smallholdings with little cottages, goats, horses, barns, sheds, chooks, orchards, vineyards and the inevitable ramshackle farmyard junk so treasured by the Aussie hobby farmer. This was within easy commuting distance to Adelaide.

As soon as you drive out of the river valley over the rim, the landscape changes drastically to immense factory wheat fields; the farmhouses far apart and very few trees. Many of these wheat farms use sprinklers to irrigate; the water being pumped directly from the river. Historically this supply of water meant they could grow 2 crops per year in the warm sunny climate. Great for the farmers and the economy but not good for the river.

Already I had seen the huge irrigation booms crawling slowly across the bare landscape spraying their fine droplets into the hot air for most of the water to evaporate or blow away well before it reaches the ground. At Langhorne Creek the creek was mostly dry, even after the exceptionally good rain of this year. These are the kind of creeks which feed the Coorong and Murray River itself.

When I comment to the locals about how beautiful the river is, I invariably get the answer;”yeah, not bad, you’re lucky. Should have seen it last year at this time! Worst I have ever seen it!” There were comments about how acidic the water is or the problem of collapsing banks. [In dry times the banks shrink and crack and when it rains they erode away rapidly, especially when there are no roots to bind them together].

The Willows look lovely weeping across the water, but they are weeds. There are thickets of weeds everywhere, a destructive residue from a century of farming and gardening without regard for the local natural environment. There are many pests too, from locusts to crop diseases. The River Murray looks beautiful now, yes, but there are deep underlying environmental problems all right.

From my journal;
At night, when the light is on, a horde of tiny flies seem to find their way into the bus even with my windows closed and my curtains drawn. They must squeeze through the fly screens somehow.
This is called a “fruit fly exclusion zone”, but I wonder why nobody seems to take any notice or where exactly they are trying to keep them in or out. I had delayed my entry into this zone until I had eaten all my fruit and vegetables but when I tried to buy more fruit the owner of the shop said; “No mate, that’s not around here, the only check is at the state border”. My map indicated that it was a zone right here.
The farmers seem to spray an awful lot; there is an incessant noise of tractors and spraying equipment, reminiscent of lawnmowers in suburbia. Enjoy your fruit everyone!
A mob of ducks is chasing locusts but can’t quite get to them before they hop off. The ducks spot an insect, rush forward in an ungainly duck run, head lunges forward but they end up with a beak full of dirt and grass. Later a thunder storm brings rain, the hoppers’ wings get wet and the ducks gorge themselves. Just desserts.

The water crisis is well understood by the local citizens. Their livelihood is under threat and that is why many of them have become more aware of how their actions may have created the situation in the first place. But it appears from my observations that for the majority their awareness does not extend to a more holistic understanding of environmental impacts. Their behaviour has not changed in relation to renewable energy, organic farming or public transport improvements; to name a few.
The last five have been drought years in the Murray Darling Basin and is the cause of the present water crisis. The environmental damage this has caused is profound. The symptoms are first seen at the downstream end of the river, the Coorong lakes and marshes which, due to a lack of fresh water passing through them have become increasingly saline, so killing specialised species and changing the whole ecosystem.
Meanwhile the farmers upstream were largely unaware of this, carrying on with their usual practices until the river level around here went down so much that houseboats were stuck on the mud, they could not navigate far, tourism declined and the economic effects were felt where it hurts.

This year there has been way too much rain, causing flooding and damage to crops and harvests. At first the farmers said, “Great; the drought has gone; we will have a bumper crop.”
There had already been widespread flooding upstream in the Murray Darling Basin, a month before my arrival here in the Riverland. This surge of water is beginning to reach this area four to six weeks later. In the past week more extensive flooding has taken place upstream and locally I have experienced torrential downpours. Locks are being opened up to increase flow as the river has risen over the top of them.
I spoke to a local who said; “In 1956 the water came up to the windows of the house I live in”, pointing out his home across the road. I estimated those windows to be 3 to 4 metres above the present water level. I have been watching the water rise steadily, creeping closer up the grassy bank next to my bus. He said; “Oh well it’s the weather; nothing we can do about it anyway.” I held my tongue, but now wish I had not, it may at least have started him thinking.

For me this is just another confirmation of the extreme weather that will occur due to climate change. Small increases in temperatures overall will cause more turbulence in the fluid mantle of gases and liquids that encase the Earth. This turbulence is called the weather. Interaction between cold and warm air are the weather fronts and up welling of warm and cold currents the equivalent ocean patterns. [In my naive, psychedelic mind I always visualise those magic lamps that first appeared in the sixties. Switch on the low wattage lamp and watch the luminescent blobs move].
I don’t think many people around here realise that although the drought has broken and things are looking up for the next year or two, the drought will return with a vengeance. Are they looking further ahead to fifty years from now? I don’t think so. These events will become more extreme, both drought and torrential rain. Are they able to visualise and prepare for that?
Some members of the local environmental organisations are pleased with the rain and see this as an opportunity to restore the Coorong world heritage wetlands, flushing out the salt. Good. I’m glad, but nobody is talking about the root cause of all these troubles. [Well, no more than usual, which is obviously not nearly enough to motivate people].
Even if this year is not going to be like 1956, perhaps the next flood will be, or the one after. It won’t be long.

A comment on local radio
Agricultural scientist; “Locusts are not after your ripe grain, they only eat green stuff.”
Local farmer; “That may be so, but I’m still going to treat this problem in the usual way.”

The locusts are starting to fly; swarms are invading the towns where the lawns and playing fields are fresh and green. The schoolkids carry on playing their games as normal, insects rising in a bow wave from the ground as they run after the ball. They seem to be used to the locusts.

I’m watching the river rising. Apparently most of the campsites in the Riverland are now flooded. It won’t be long before this one will be submerged so it is probably time to move on. I have had a good look at the Murray River. Although my purpose was to see how bad the environmental situation was, it has been difficult to imagine with the river so flush. Even my plan of sailing upriver in a dingy has been thwarted by the ever increasing current now flowing at more than five knots. Earlier a houseboat took an hour to reach the next reach upstream, weaving from side to side to find the least current.

It’s time to go with the flow.

Back to Balandaland, South Australia

Balanda is a Northern Aboriginal term for all white visitors to Australia. That includes me. [Coincidentally, it was a mispronunciation of “Hollander” used by the Indonesian Trepang fishermen who frequented the northern Australian coast].

October SA 2010 089

From my journal
I am writing from a lonely spot in the Flinders Ranges, which I have wanted to explore more fully. I have seen the more accessible parts already, when Jean, my ex and I lived in Whyalla a few years ago.
Passing through Port Augusta was familiar territory. The Bluebush and Saltbush, the shallow Spencer Gulf and the cold southerly wind were still the same. It brought back memories, happy for the fun we had exploring a new country, but sad because that will never happen again.

After visiting friends from our Whyalla days in Quorn, I headed north for a bit; into arid country. But this would be the last bit of semi desert for quite some time before I travel towards a different landscape; Adelaide, the Murray River, the forests of the south and eventually Tasmania.

This is iconic “Australian” country, with its red rock ranges, creeks, River Red Gums and Settler history.
When I first came to Australia eight years ago I picked up a book about Australian Artists and the name Hans Heysen leapt out at me from the pages. Partly because of the name, of course, but also because I found his paintings of the Australian landscape most evocative. He has become one of Australia’s best loved landscape artists and his most famous paintings were of the Flinders Ranges. We have not heard of him in Europe and judging by his style, reminiscent of Corot or similar, I assumed he lived during the 19th century. Imagine my surprise when later I heard that he lived until the 1970’s. Is this an indication of the conservative tastes of the Australian public or their desperation to cultivate a cultural history? Afin, they are certainly good paintings, of the “Academic” tradition.

The history of early settlement in these parts is plain to see. Ruined homesteads and settlers’ cottages are dotted about all over the place; the landscape has suffered by clearing and overgrazing and has still not recovered after more than 150 years.
A surveyor by the name of Goyder was commissioned by the government to determine the areas that could be utilised for the Settlement program. Goyder based his analysis on reliable rainfall and drew a line on the map to indicate the limits. The government chose to ignore this line however [what’s new?] and gave parcels of land, together with other incentives, to encourage settlers well north into the Flinders Ranges. For a while all went well, the rains were sufficient to produce crops and pasture. But then, as is the norm in Australia the cycle swung towards prolonged drought. The settlers struggled for a while, but many had to give up eventually. Their land was bought up by increasingly large cattle stations and the homesteads fell into ruin.
Later, further south towards Adelaide I could almost see Goyder’s line marked onto the landscape. To the north and east a dry landscape, barely suitable for grazing and to the South and West, wheat fields and other crops were flourishing. From the evidence before me, he was amazingly accurate.

In more recent years, more Human harm has been done to the region. Ironically the area they had wanted to protect by creating the National Park has become so popular that it is worn out. Footpaths, cycle paths, roads and tracks have become eroded. Tourists will not stick to the rules and are destroying the very thing they came to enjoy. There are unofficial footpaths and shortcuts everywhere. The Emus and Kangaroos have become tame. Even at this time of the year [November], which is off season, I saw vandalism. People camping where they should not, collecting firewood where they should not, lighting fires at a time of year when they should not and driving their 4WD’s through river beds despite notices saying; PLEASE RESPECT THIS DELICATE ENVIRONMENT, THERE ARE FROGS, LIZARDS AND WATER CREATURES HERE.

It is impossible to know the Government’s true intentions, but it appears to me that they are aware of this and are gradually making it harder for people to access certain areas, perhaps by physical exclusion or by just not grading the roads into sensitive ecosystems.
A balance has to be arrived at, which stimulates people’s interest in the natural environment by allowing them to enjoy the beauty, but with education to enable them to take care of something they have grown to love.

In my view, 4WD’s hardly enter into the equation. They may be needed at times to access remote areas of great natural beauty, but in general, plenty of natural beauty can be found in accessible areas. Often the remote areas are just more of the same; gorges, sand dunes, desert, bush, and so on. The truth of the matter is that many 4 wheel drivers do it because of the challenge. They love their cars more than they do nature. It has more to do with their self image, the tough outback Australian, handling the dust and heat and flies. The intrepid desert explorers opening up new frontiers, going where few have ventured before. Just because they can.

4 wheel drive tracks seem to have become another tourist attraction and are advertised everywhere. Perhaps another attempt to regulate the “sport” by the government. Unfortunately not all participants are sticking to the rules and are driving indiscriminately through the bush. It may actually be opening up the remote wilderness to more abuse.

Going “around Australia” on the road is for old fuddy duddies. Doing the Birdsville or Strzelecki Track is where it’s at now. Every year there are increasing numbers of 4 wheel drivers, both Australians and foreigners, travelling along ever more remote tracks. Speaking to some who have done such a trip, I have reports of them meeting a number of vehicles every day, even on the most remote tracks in Australia. The Gibb River road is now busier than the main highway! That means these pristine and delicate ecosystems are now under great pressure from Human interference and damage is inevitable.
Not so long ago, Australia was one of the few countries on Earth which could claim to have such pristine wilderness areas. Because of its size and inaccessibility, Australians could be forgiven for believing that the bush was there for their pleasure, and that there was plenty to go around for everyone. Nature is resilient enough to cope. The trouble is; it has become clear that it is not.
Nature can now be “enjoyed” from the air conditioned comfort of your vehicle. Further development of the trend towards greater separation of Man from Nature and can only lead to further insensitive destruction.

I did enjoy the Flinders Ranges, despite the signs of wear and tear. The scenery in itself is spectacular, especially in the area around Wilpena Pound. I saw some rare Yellow Footed Rock Wallabies and several species of raptors I had not seen before. The valleys were covered with a carpet of blue and purple flowers which looked lovely, but I was not sure whether they were weeds or native plants.


In one area there was an interpretive trail describing the different sedimentary layers that have been exposed through erosion. They went back through 650 million years, some of the oldest rocks in Australia. At each level fossils are found, from most primitive organisms to more recent complex creatures like fish.
I even recognised one of the most primitive, those that are still living in the saline waters of Shark Bay. The Stromatolites; a kind of bacterial colony that lived hundreds of millions of years ago in a toxic environment and produced oxygen, gradually changing the atmosphere to one in which carbon based life forms could live. And that includes you and me. Thank you, kind Stromatolites.

I briefly visited the Jeff Morgan Gallery in Hawker where he has produced a circular panoramic painting of Wilpena Pound housed in a special tower. An awful lot of work to produce something which is lifeless and fairly boring. But then, I had seen the same vista in real life, standing on the rim of the Pound, with Lake Torrens quivering in the heat haze and the smell of eucalypt in the hot wind cracking the skin of my lips.

My last night was spent high on a treeless plain, the ranges dark against the setting sun. The desolate moan of the wind against the bus the only sound until the night spectacular put on its star studded show.
The next morning I received a pestilent farewell from swarms of locusts covering the road. They were still young and were building up to fly to greener pastures to the south. Luckily I was much faster.

Towards the Adelaide hills I drove through ripening fields of wheat and hay. The landscape reminded me of England and I imagined the bus rambling along the country lanes, twisting through the hills of Dorset. There were little stone villages and farmhouses everywhere. The only difference was that these had tin roofs and verandas.
On through the Barossa Valley wine region. Now I was in France with vineyards curving down to little streams and cellars at the family Chateau. Except that here the chateau was a modern building and the cellar doors were in tin sheds or “boutique” winery/showroom/restaurants.
The small villages were rustic, pretty and smelled of roses. They had names like Greenock, Bethany, Lyndoch, Mount Pleasant and Eden Valley. The larger towns had onomatopoeic names like Kapunda, Nuriootpa and Tanunda; brash, commercial and suburban.

I arrived in Kapunda the day after a horrific triple murder in that town. Father, mother and daughter had been found with multiple stab wounds. The police were everywhere and I thought it would be better not to go and gawp at the house where it had happened. A steady trickle of cars was turning into the road. I could see the junction from where I was refuelling. The town was in shock; everybody was talking about it in hushed voices and looking at me and my rusty bus with suspicion. Who is this guy with the wild white hair? What’s he doing in town?
It will be a talking point for the rest of their lives. Perhaps they will turn it into a macabre tourist attraction just like Snowtown further north, where the body parts were put into barrels and kept for years while the psychotic leader of the gang of three picked his next victim.

I had always wanted to visit the Adelaide Hills and used a forestry campsite as a base to explore. It was incredibly cheap at $3 per night and very peaceful amongst the whispering pines. In the evening the kangaroos and wallabies gathered around my bus and parrots flitted through the trees. I could have stayed for weeks but had to make an effort to go sightseeing.
Didn’t I? No, not really; I have got all the time in the world; so why am I in so much of a hurry?
These were the first feelings of malaise on my travels. I wondered what I was doing; what I wanted from this trip. It would be nice to meet some people. I felt lonely and negative. I could easily have driven back across the Nullarbor and be in Albany in a few days. These feelings did not leave me for the whole week, so whether it was my state of mind or the rainy weather, I found the Adelaide Hills disappointing.
It was like the city had come to the country. The traffic was bad, always someone pushing me to go faster down the twisty roads. The cute villages were not as cute as the brochures made out. The photos taken from flattering angles. I remember some stone cottages half hidden behind a bank of wide asphalt. The view out of their window must have been grim compared to how it was when they had been built 150 years ago. No doubt the elderly inhabitants can remember a narrow gravel road and owning a front garden which bloomed in spring. Occasionally a school bus or car would pass and be greeted with interest and a friendly wave.

The National Motor Museum was fun though and I spent a few hours reminiscing to myself and other visitors about the cars and motorbikes I have owned. They did not have the 1958 Ford Escort Estate with the flip up indicators that was my very first car. They probably never made them in this country.
I did see my first bike though, the Triumph Tiger Cub 200cc single cylinder. It looked a bit wimpy and nerdy in the museum, not at all like mine, which had a much larger bulbous tank and was painted up red and blue. “Ace” cow horn handlebars and chrome crash bars which made the bike look like its larger brother the Tiger. A high compression head and Weber carb gave it the roar. The bike was so simple I took it apart and replaced the big and little end by myself. When Dad came home from work, he had instructions to avoid all the parts laid out on newspaper on the garage floor.
I was amazed that the bike actually worked after that! I will never forget how I did a wheelie the first time I ever got on and promptly fell off the back. It left some scratches on the chrome and dented my ego. Mum must have seen me, the noise was so obvious but she never said a word. [I have seen some sepia faded pictures of her on the back of my dad’s bike.]

I felt like drinking real ale in a cosy pub [one of my few concessions to blokeness] and the Old Woollen Mill in Lobethal has a micro brewery. Unfortunately it was no more than a brick warehouse. I drove straight through the car park and out the other side, only to be confronted by the worst tourism possible “FAIRYLAND VILLAGE ” AAARGH!
Melba’s Choc Factory was almost as bad, a brick industrial building with glass partitions so you could see sweets being made. No interaction as indicated on the brochure; no explanations of the processes.
“Just these three packets sir; would you like a bag?”
There is a scrap yard across the road. In England they would pull these places down, but for me it is hard to remember that here it is “Heritage.”
The weather closed in again and I resolved to head for Adelaide. At least I could do indoor things there.

ADELAIDE

This city is popular; it was hard to find a campsite. They managed to squeeze me into an unofficial spot at Levi Park which was nice of them I thought. Then walking around the corner saw that there were plenty of spaces in the cheaper unpowered sites where the “whiz bang” kids hung out. Why had they not told me about those?
The caravan park is right next to the Linear Park which runs all the way along the Torrens River to the sea, bisecting Adelaide. The park is therefore a great way to reach the centre of the city along the bike paths. I would be getting some exercise and not have to worry about parking in the centre. It was 6 kms to there, so adding up all the bits cycled about 20kms a day whilst I was there. The worst bit was the homeward trip as it was upstream, hence uphill, and I was already tired from trudging around the museums etc.

Checking out what’s on in Adelaide on the internet I had found that I was just in time for an International 3 day event, a horse riding competition held right in a central park of the city. It was of the highest calibre [5 star] on a par with Badminton in England.
My love of horses is due largely to the enthusiasm my first wife Jane had for them. When we were becoming wealthier in Yuppie London we bought a Welsh Cob, Connemara cross of 15.2hh called Hamish McTavish who performed pretty well in local competitions, despite carrying a useless lump like me on his back. The smell of horse manure takes me back to those early mornings before work, when we mucked out the stables, fed and groomed the horses and then went for an hour’s ride in the winter woodlands of Epping Forest. The bare branches and brown grass would be rimed with frost as cold mist swirled around Hamish’s legs at the crack of dawn.
The whole horsey thing gets under your skin and you can never let it go. The steam and sweat, the smell of leather and soap, the sound of bridle, hooves on the turf and the satisfying pain of a long ride are sensations I would love to repeat at any time.

After a lovely bike ride through the greenery of the river bank, I began to see oddly dressed groups of people as I neared the CBD. Clowns, people with kilts, fairies? I had arrived at the finish line of the annual Christmas Pageant which for some reason is held in the middle of November. I would normally not be interested in such an event but as I was here, took the opportunity to photograph some people in surreal situations. In retrospect I should have taken pictures of the participants who, at the end of several hours of marching, cheering, smiling, waving, juggling and being clownish, were feeling decidedly faded. The clowns looked sad, the bands played out of tune and step, the little girls in Tutu’s waved mechanically and looked as though they were about to cry. The diesel from the trucks and tractors had poisoned the fairies walking behind and there were no more treats to be thrown into the crowd. Only the few “real” angels had warm smiles and handed out hugs to the little children lining the rails.

There was a row of buses at the finishing line and without missing a step most participants boarded these and were whisked off home. Oh well, that’s it for another year.

I guess most of the fun is in the preparation and anticipation for the event. Sometimes, however, ideas that seem so exciting in the build up, fall flat on their face on the day. Especially if your DIY effort is placed right behind a fabulous, highly sponsored float. I applauded loudest for the dapper amateurs.

I could not see any evidence of the three day event when I arrived at the park until suddenly, a horse and rider thundered past with wood chips flying. It disappeared amongst the trees on the other side of the fence and I followed on my bike hoping to find the entrance. There were no banners or flags to advertise the event.

The next horse came up from behind and I watched it jump a huge log, its hooves striking the top with a wooden thud.
I hesitated at the entrance, where I was the only customer. I could just see a smattering of people in the distance amongst a group of marquees. Crikey, Chingford Horse Show was bigger than this!
It did not seem like an internationally renowned three day event. “The only one held in the centre of a city” the brochure proclaimed. I suppose they have to market it somehow. When I looked at the list of competitors, most of them were from South Australia, a few from the rest of Australia and 2 or 3 from New Zealand. Where were all those famous names from the UK, Germany, Ireland, Belgium, Holland, Argentina and the USA?
It started to drizzle. I overheard a couple of security guards [of which there were almost as many as spectators] say; “much better than last year, when we had to stand about in the heat.” All very well for them; they get paid to do that but it costs us a fair bit to try and have a good day.
In the enclosure everybody knew everybody else and seemed to be connected to the competitors in some way. Family, grooms, stable hands or old, deeply tanned, horsey folk. At least there were no plummy accents here, as in England. They all sat on the grass like the peasants who had come to watch, and ate their chips or pizza in the same way as us.
Had these people paid to get in too, or did their connections mean they were exempted? I would imagine the total takings for this event just about covered the fee for the course designer.

Most of the spectators were concentrated [if you can call a small huddle that] at the water jumps where you could see the most action. Horses refusing, riders going for a swim and the excitement of galloping through; white water flying. The rest were planted in front of the big electronic screen, their brollies up by now. You could watch all the more remote jumps from there.
I watched too for a while and saw a rider take a bad fall, the crowd oohhing and sucking in their breath. An ambulance was there quickly and she was put in the recovery position whilst they felt for broken bones. A round of applause when she finally stood up and walked painfully and walked off towards the riders enclosure. [You would think they would have a golf cart for that.]

“They wear a harness now, you see. It is attached to the saddle and inflates when you fall; like airbags in a car” a kindly old gentleman in a Harris Tweed jacket explained. He also wore an Akubra hat and RM Williams boots. Only in Australia! This is a down to earth mob, I thought, and felt quite at home.
I stayed until the last “5 star” rider had completed the course. Traditionally this is the one who has the best score after the dressage on the previous day. In this way a bit of tension is added until the end of the competition. Despite the damp weather and low attendance I rather enjoyed the day. Towards the end I was recognised by all kinds of people, who chatted to me as though I was an old acquaintance they had not seen for a while. I must have looked like somebody famous in the horsey world. I basked in it for a while although it was probably due to them having quaffed a fair bit of wine by then. Conversation was red cheeked boisterous with a generous nose; like the wine.

The next day I was glad I had splashed out on a ticket to the grandstand. It was full when I got there. Not what you would call a huge crowd but respectable enough. The “2 star” competition was on and I found a seat at the top next to a couple of ladies.
I tried to open up a conversation but kept receiving short, non-committal, polite answers to my topic starters.
“It’s a shame there is no-one from Europe for a major event like this, don’t you think?”
She probably made a quick assessment of me and the situation, realising that I was asking an inane question and the measly prize money of a few grand and a horse rug was not a great inducement to international competitors. No doubt she thought I was making a derogatory Pom remark about it. [Never mind, I thought]
“Well, there’s a couple of New Zealanders” she replied, smiling at me with tight lips. [Maybe her lips are naturally like that and she is often perceived to be a bit annoyed. Just like the corners of my mouth which are turned down; not because of a lifetime of unhappiness but they are physically like that. Dad’s were the same as were his mother’s; part of the Sipsma-Sauer look. Pun intended.]
Anyway the brief conversation, to give the woman the benefit of the doubt, was probably a misunderstanding on both sides and after a few more tries I gave up and enjoyed the show in silence, apart from the odd gasp or oohh as poles were rocked and rolled.

It was fun, the smell of leather, manure and curry, the thunder of hooves and crack of stirrups, the thrills and the spills. A nostalgia of horses, those beautiful creatures that have served humanity so well for millenniums.

I had time to visit the state art gallery, and remembered I had been there before after half an hour of staring at strangely familiar paintings. The Dutch masters and later periods brought back memories for me from the days I roamed around the collections in Europe. I wonder now why I was drawn to gaze endlessly at paintings to see how they were made. From brushstroke to colour, composition to subject.
In those heady young days I had the urge to compete with the masters; I felt I could do it, their secrets revealed themselves to me. “Aha! That’s how it is done. Amazing those colours mixed by the eye and yet so boldly separate on close inspection. Quickly applied but with masterful precision.
Later I found out how hard it was. How on earth could they put so many colours on the brush without painting mud? I tried for many years but became increasingly dissolutioned by my mediocrity; then stopped.
I had tried to be “cool”, keep with the trends. Impressionism [Ha! Hardly modern], Abstract Impressionism, Constructivism, Pop and Hockney-ism, any-ism. The only ism I was good at was Pessimism, which led to a lack of continuity.
There were pressures from people to paint like artists of two centuries ago. Heysen-esce landscapes, impressionist pastels, delicate watercolours, sentimental and romantic scenes. That’s what people pay money for, something pretty that soothes the eye and fits in well with the colour scheme in the lounge. Oh, if only I had gazed longer and painted portraits like Rembrandt, I would have been rich and famous, applauded by those who know nothing. Full of myself in my deluded state, I would paint in my atelier with easel and palette, brush between my teeth whilst I contemplated my latest masterpiece and breathed in deeply the intoxicating vapour of linseed.
I could have been another Rolf Harris or that guy from the Rolling Stones, having documentaries made about me. Entertain the stars, while the public blindly marvels at my talent.
It does not seem to matter how well you paint, or what, but Art has become a product to be promoted. Notoriety, image, controversy or fame has more to do with success than creative talent. At least if you want to earn a living from it. Perhaps nothing has really changed.

The following days were filled with a mix of city culture and street life. It was fun just to wander through the city looking at the detail; buildings, sculpture and people. Adelaide seemed different. More cosmopolitan, busier and energetic. I had been in two minds to come back here at all, remembering a quiet, provincial city with scruffy suburbs. [We had just arrived from Hong Kong, mind you and the contrast must have been great, compared to that seething city].



There are some good restaurants, some of which use fresh local produce, which is a fine thing, but I did not eat out, struggling with my conscience and Dutch frugality. Whilst I love food generally, I feel we all have to make ethical choices in our lives, including about what we eat. What effect will using certain ingredients have on the environment? How far does it travel; how much is wasted; how much energy does it take to cook; how are the growers rewarded? It gets complicated.
But the worst part is; you don’t get tables for one; you don’t have anyone to whisper your expert opinion to; you eat quickly and are out of there feeling self indulgent and unsatisfied with the experience. As well as a wad of notes lighter and a couple of kilos heavier.
I’m beginning to see why a quality inflatable doll can be useful. Just as company you understand.

I was introduced to a website called couchsurfing a couple of months ago and have logged in regularly to check on the activities of the members. I’m quite impressed and apart from inevitable abusers of the system it appears that most are genuinely interested in fostering a world community. I urge you all to take a look.
It was time to meet a few CSers in person. I was immediately welcomed into Philip and Hugh’s home in Adelaide, to participate in a pot luck lunch. I was nervous about it and did not sleep very well, worrying about what I was going to bring along. That morning I dropped a full jerry can of fuel on my foot and was very late because the food took much longer to prepare than expected. It did not help when I went to the wrong address and had to walk back to where I had parked the bus. I placed the bag of tortillas and guacamole salad on the pavement as I opened the door and it slowly tipped over into the gutter, messing up my carefully prepared food.
Great! The tortillas had to be redone and looked a bit flat when I arrived at P&H’s house. Hugh quickly took control and had the food on the outdoor table before I had even sat down. There were about 15 guests, mostly from abroad plus a few local couchsurfing friends.
It was a wonderfully relaxed lunch, laughter and discussions rang through the warm air. I was stimulated by the company, so different from one another both culturally and in age. They were keen to talk and share their experiences on any subject. We all got on so well, a tribute to the couchsurfing ideal. The time passed all too soon and I headed back up into the Mount Lofty Range with a feeling of connection to people with good hearts and intentions.

I’m afraid Hahndorf was far from the pretty German country village it once was. Now a brash, touristy, commercial enterprise, complete with candy floss and multiple ice cream stalls. You could just detect some evidence of timbered houses and historic features behind the advertising signs, people and flashy cars lining the road.

It was a sunny Sunday so maybe I did not see the town at its best. Everyone was there; weekend trippers and shaven headed black leather boys with their chromed Harleys. Every cafe sold the best coffee in SA or the southern hemisphere. [What, better than Brazil?] There were specialist food shops everywhere catering for the new Australian trend of being a “Foodie”. Programs on TV, books, travel, restaurants, entertaining at home; it’s like the developed world has nothing better to do than eat exotic food, whilst the poorest nations starve. Here it was like a food fest; German sausage shops, cheeses and delicatessen [half of the food came from Holland], cakes, biscuits, sauerkraut, imported beers, homemade ice cream and handmade chocolates.
It beats me why people still buy the same old junk that was in tourist shops 40 or 50 years ago. Has their taste not improved? It seems not; or maybe this is what they expect when they come out of the city on a sunny Sunday afternoon. You have to buy something...it is expected. A nice glass paperweight with snow to add to the kitsch collection. But why on earth would you want to buy African wooden objects in a German village in Australia? “One needs to support the poor country artisans, they rely on our trade. It is the only way these charming villages are going to survive.”
In the meantime the villages are long since dead, invaded by outsiders; vendors in the tourist business rubbing their hands in glee and enticing the punters in.

Mount Barker was a satellite town of Adelaide and I did not stop, even on a whim because I had lived in the WA one for four years. On, into the wheat belt. Down off the ranges onto flat country near Lake Alexandria and the mouth of the Murray River. Back to the peace of rural life, camping for a couple of days near the wine growing village of Langhorne Creek.

It rained hard all day as I drove south from Alice Springs.

As in Western Australia this latitude is empty country. There are a few Aboriginal communities dotted about and widely spaced cattle stations. The scenery is boring; for although there are still flowers around, I have been looking at them for weeks now. Even beauty can become monotonous.
I hit the border of South Australia and cooked up all my fruit and vegetables rather than throw them in the quarantine bin as requested on the signs. I was prepared to put up a strong argument about the food being sterile. Nothing eventuated, of course, but it would have been “just my luck” to have been caught. The stewed mixed fruit was yummy; I’ll have to do this more often.

I did some longer stretches on the road as there really was not much to stop for; and the weather was still grim. At least fuel was getting cheaper the further south I got. The highest price had been at the turnoff to Uluru at $170 a litre. I reckon they were counting on lots of punters who thought it would be even more at the Ayers Rock Resort. I certainly fell for it, although only bought half a tank full. At the resort, fuel cost little more than in Alice Springs.

Just before Coober there were huge areas devoid of trees. Visually, the Nullarbor was nothing compared to this. I was driving on top of a kind of table land or plateau made up of small rocks and gravel. I imagine there was hardly any topsoil, having been eroded, blown and washed away into lower regions.
One or two little pyramids of white gravel were appearing in the landscape and suddenly, as I drove over a crest there were thousands of them, stretching to the horizon. A bit later open cast mines scarred the landscape. It was still 50 Kilometres before Coober and I was struck dumb by the scale of the mining that was going on.

The town itself was horribly scruffy. People took pride in making their property as ugly as possible. Rusty wrecks of old mining machinery and vehicles adorned their front yards as though to prove they were real locals. I have never seen so many scrap yards in one place in my whole life. There were some bargain old vehicles to be had for collectors of vintage cars. Some dating back to the thirties.

The most obvious status symbol for miners is to have one of those “vacuum” trucks parked in the yard. You see them everywhere; hundreds, if not thousands of them. Before these things were invented the rubble had to be winched up by hand in bucketfuls. I saw several vacuum trucks working in the field; they were difficult to miss as they blew a huge plume of white dust into the air. The rocks are collected into a large drum at the top of the boom and when full, a lever pulled and the rubble dumped on top of a neat pyramid. Hence the hundreds of thousands of pyramids. [I wonder if Dyson got his ideas from here?]

Underground it is wonderfully cool; no air-conditioning required. I was told by several locals that it is a constant 23 degrees Celsius. About 50% of people live underground and new houses are being built all the time. The central outcrops are pretty much riddled with them and people are now moving out to the rocky suburbs. Literally sub-urban.

I spoke to a miner now retired, who preferred to live on top. “There’s no way I want to spend my leisure time in the same environment as my work” he said, adding; “Anyway I have no problem keeping cool; got 3 large air conditioners.” Obviously not concerned about Climate Change, but why should he be at 70 years of age?
I visited a couple of underground houses although they were no longer lived in. They were lovely and cool but when the lights go out it is pitch black; something that unnerves me. Although there are small window piercings here and there much of the time you are living in artificial light. You have to put a timer on the lights to know when it is day or night, otherwise your body clock gets out of sync.

I’m standing in the bedroom, there are no windows. A slightly domed ceiling of rock, with drill marks still visible, supports thousands of tons overhead. I have to turn off the light when I get into bed. It is deathly, deathly quiet.

[Actually it is never quiet for me, as I have Tinnitus and I am always accompanied by whistles, clicks and hisses in my waking hours]

It took me a couple of days to see the place but could not live there. No greenery apart from a few scrawny bushes in gardens. Water is expensive since it comes from a desalination plant. There are pyramids of rubble for 50 Kilometres in any direction, so nature takes second place around here.
Besides it looks like an outlaw place to me although the locals swear it is safer than Eden. Hmm. Why do they keep finding bodies in shafts then? I know it is dangerous but it would be so easy to make murder look like an accident. Just whack somebody on the head with a rock, take their opals and dump the body in a remote shaft. They may never be found. Nor would the murder weapon. It’s like looking for a rock in a stony desert.
Out here the saying is “It’s like looking for bones in a shaft.” No, I just made that up. Fortunes have been made here but many more have been lost.
Actually there is little evidence of wealth here, the majority of people just getting by. I only saw a couple of large houses; for most people, immigrants from different countries, life is basic and means living in little more than a shack.

Coober

Endless pyramids, blinding white and pink stretch to the wide blue.
Stony plains pocked and pierced to gouge the sparkling rock.
Picked up, picked under, dug by jarred hand to feed greedy mind or hungry mouth.
Jewel of fortune shines on few who promptly leave to live elsewhere.
Those who stay burrow in to shape their homely grave or oven bake in tin.
Old time miners live on top with triple air, not for them the deathly night of Troglodyte.

Indigenerations wait until white rabble has consumed their land.
What else to do but obliviate Balanda world?
Theirs a different scale of time that counts the cost of lives.
The trashed machines remain for spears and clubs when they’re alone once more.
When glistening seams are gone and greed has blown away like dust
They will remain to tell another dream.

It was raining again when I drove further south the landscape looked like Rannoch Moor in Scotland on a driech day. I caught a wee glimpse of the great salt lakes in between the curtains of drizzle. They all had water in them.

It cleared a bit when I got to Woomera but it made no difference; there was still nothing to see. No wonder they used this area to test rockets, there’s nothing to destroy. Did they explode a nuclear device here, or what? I vaguely remembered something about Aboriginals being found wandering about where they thought there were none.

I walked into town, camera slung over my shoulder. Perhaps the Rocket Museum would be worth looking at. Empty houses stood in regimented ranks, their black windows looking like eye sockets in a catacomb. A lone, bowed figure of a man with his eyes cast down shuffled by on the other side of the road, a mongrel dog on his heels.

He did not look up to say “g’day”, but shuffled on his lonely way.
The sombre clouds loomed with rain. I turned on my heel and left.

At the roadhouse a grey stubbled old man sat in the cold wind. He had spiky greasy hair, a long threadbare overcoat, bandages on his legs and a walking stick. He asked me which way I was headed.
“I want to go north, back to Coober Pedy” he told me in a thick, mid European accent. His car had just been taken away from him by the police. Drink driving. He came from Hungary but had lived in Coober for 35 years.
Inside sat a policeman chatting to a well to do woman with heavy gold jewellery. I wondered if it was the same cop I had seen parked next to the highway as I drove into Woomera the previous night.

Uluru and Kata Tjuta

Surprisingly the brochure said that camping at the Ayers Rock Resort would be relatively cheap for one person, so I headed straight there instead of lingering some 20 kilometres away at some tatty roadside rest stop and commuting in for a few days.
This is the resort that had just been sold to the Aboriginal land Corp for $300 million. I was impressed by the immensity of it, a mini Cancun set in the desert. Several slick hotels, apartments, chalets, campsites and a large caravan park. I counted 15 restaurants & eating places, a supermarket, boutiques, art galleries, a post office, a conference centre, outdoor cinema and airport.
A bargain at $300m, and it is a monopoly!

It seems strange to watch jets fly in and out of a tourist destination which is, after all, only a bunch of rocks.
But yes, they are special. The strange shapes jutting out of the flat desert; the mysterious cheese holes; the mystique of the Aboriginal legends all add up to a unique place.

It annoyed me, after reading the many signs and notices, that people of all nationalities still insisted on climbing the rock. People with no hats or water, and thongs. Kids, and pale, overweight elderly were going up, in the middle of the day and 35 degrees centigrade. The heat radiated from the rock, you could feel it from metres away. The Anangu cannot stop them physically but advise against it, asking for respect for their sacred places. They explained that climbing was not what the rock was about; “you are missing the point” [By getting to the point. Hee Hee]. The pathway crossed a sacred dreamtime route, but they were also concerned, as joint managers of the rock, that people would come to harm.
In 1983 an agreement between the Aboriginals and the Government was made that climbing the rock would no longer be allowed. The government later changed that agreement to allow climbing, and at the same time increased the lease from 50 to 99 years, before it would be returned to the Aboriginal people.
Compare the ethics! Neat move to buy the resort; they now control the tourist trade.

There are areas you are forbidden to go, deeply sacred places for men and women. You are not allowed to photograph them because it is feared that uninitiated Aboriginals would see them in the outside World. Of course a lot of people ignored those rules too.
A lot of rocks were taken as tourist souvenirs and probably still are. The Aboriginals believe that doing so will bring great misfortune, and amazingly many rocks have been returned with letters of guilt and regret, as tragic consequences have actually taken place. [But then, people need to place blame somewhere].

On the narrow ring road, every time I reached a spot to pull up in my bus, a coach or two would pull up beside me and spew out a mob of sheep who went bleating on their way to the waterhole. I had not expected anything else.


The so-called “marvellous colours” never eventuated, as a hundred would be photographers, me included, lined up at the Sunset Viewing Area. I have seen more intensity at many other locations. Maybe it was not a good day, the conditions were not right. I do have a sneaky feeling that most of us left a bit early, thinking that the show was over when the rock turned brown at dusk. As I looked back, I could still see an eerie glow when the rest of the landscape had turned black.

The Olgas [Kata Tjuta] were more spectacular in a scenic way. I did the 8Km “Valley of the Winds” walk. Most of the time I was on my own although I knew that there were parties in front and behind me. I climbed up a sloping rock face, down which a slim waterfall splashed into a crystal clear pool. The Valley of the Winds!

This was the valley of my dreams, where I would spend some years of my life, living off nature, building a shelter; hidden away from the stressful World outside. Here was water and food, the green bush was full of life, fed by an endless spring.

Towering red sandstone domes were all around, the only way out through a narrow gap leading out to a balcony high above “Balandaland”. One of the best views ever, framed by rock walls on both sides.

I was an Aboriginal sadly surveying my tainted country, feeling the energy flow from a special sacred place; deep into my heart.