Travelogue

Hello beautifuls!

Greetings from Sydney, Australia, otherwise known as
the Land of Oz. There is no yellow brick road here
that I can see (although the inside of the country is
allegedly one large red brick.)

For those of you who whimpered and cried and wrung
your hands with us as we got rained on for 6 weeks
straight in oh-so-bonny-green New Zealand, many thanks
for the sympathy. An hour after lifting off of
Auckland Airport, the plane literally left this large
grey cloud behind and we've had days of beautiful
sunshine. (It's a good thing, too, because I was
getting ready to walk all the way to the middle of the
Australian desert and just sit on that big rock if
that's what it would take to get my socks dry!)

We are staying in the Sydney Central YHA, a flagship
hostel done up in "Chicago Style" architecture.
Unfortunately, it does not serve real Chicago-style
pizza; it does, however, have a big red-brick type
exterior which would look at home in the Lincoln Park
neighborhood in Chicago.

This YHA is industrial-size. There are magnetic
cardkeys for the rooms which they turn off if you
haven't paid by 10 am. There are two kitchens, each
with seven stainless-steel refrigerators and six
sinks. There are eight floors of dorm rooms, plus a
kitchen level and a reception level. There is a pool
and a sauna on the roof. There is a bar in the
basement with a big plastic shark on its ceiling.
There are three TV lounges, two laundry rooms, and I
wouldn't be surprised if they were hiding a partridge
in a pear tree around here somewhere. (You can see it
for yourself -- go to www.yha.com and do a hostel
search for "Sydney Central").

The Paralympics are also in town, and the German
Paralympic Team is staying at Sydney Central, with us.
We checked in on Day 1, and Day 2 about mid-day there
was a commotion on the street. This large gleaming
Mercedes-Benz chartered motor coach had pulled up
outside, and was steadily unloading all these people
in German uniforms, shouting to each other in German
as they unloaded luggage, wheelchairs, backpacks,
maps, food, crutches, white canes, more luggage, more
backpacks, more food, and finally some pretty groovy
guys in dark sunglasses who walked smack into the side
of the building. (They are the visually impaired but
rather buff German athletes. More on these treasures
later.)

More on the Paralympics later. (If you want more now,
you can see it at http://www.paralympic.org.au/).

Now, I want to tell you what it's like to share a
large youth hostel with approximately 100 members and
supports of the German Paralympic team.

* There are seven refrigerators in each kitchen. All
the refrigerators have a big sign on them in English:
"This fridge will be cleaned out THURSDAY at 9:00 pm.
All food left in it will be THROWN OUT!" Each fridge
has a different day marked as its d-day. The fridges
now have this sign in German as well.

* There is a video game lounge on the top floor. The
Germans rented it out for a party they were having.
The sign on the front of it said: "This room is
reserved exclusively for the use of the German
Paralympic Team." It was very sad, because it looked
like a really rocking party and we would have liked to
have gone and played video games too.

* There is a bar in the basement. Last night about
10:30 pm, after a lovely refined nighttime stroll by
Sydney's Opera House, Scott and I stopped by in hopes
of grabbing a few quiet beers before bedtime. There
was a line out the door and around the block.
Everybody in line was very excited and speaking very
loudly in German. On a school night!

* There is a card-key to access our room. No
card-key, no access. Late the past few nights, there
has been a knocking, rustling, knocking, thumping,
knocking at our door. It didn't exactly sound like
they wanted to break in to our room, because
eventually they went away, but it was very strange and
unusual for very late at night. This morning, I met
our neighbors. There are two rooms of neighbors, each
room containing four German athletes, all of whom
appear to be completely blind. Two of them are the
groovy fellows I saw on their first day here. They
are no longer walking into the exterior of the
building; instead, they are mistaking our doorknob for
their dorm room in the middle of the night. (Probably
after a long night in the basement bar.)

* There is a sauna on the top floor. Outside the
sauna, on the pool deck, in full view of everybody, is
a shower nozzle to rinse yourself off with. Big sign
in front of it: "Please Keep Your Bathing Suit On As
You Shower. Thank You." One night there was this
athletic-looking guy showering outside the sauna, with
a "Deutschland" warm-up jersey nearby. No wheelchair
anywhere, no amputated limbs, but he was an athlete --
he did not look like a
spare-tire-mother-duck-support-staff creature. We're
talking muscles here. He was quite naked and showing
off all angles of himself with pretty joyful abandon.
At first, I thought he was maybe blind and didn't see
the sign requesting him to wear his swimsuit. But
then I realized, no, it's probably just that he is
German!

* * * * *

That's all for now! Tomorrow we leave Sydney and
begin driving up the coast to Cairns, home of the
Great Barrier Reef and Sir Bites-a-Lot (aka Mr.
Shark!)

Hope all is well with you folks back home -- enjoy
Halloween and put on a costume for us!

Love,
Carrie
(and Scott, who is currently all warm and fuzzy
after another wonderful trip to the sauna and trying
to grab a few z's before our midnight knockers come
rap-tap-tapping at our door!)

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October 22, 2000 - A Day at the Paralympics

Hello all.

A few days ago Scott and I went to the Paralympics,
the Parallel Olympics held for people with physical or
mental disabilities here in Sydney. They are at
Olympic Park, using all the Olympic facilities
(including the BART-type train, which is free if you
have a ticket!) The tix were $8 US apiece, and we
went for a full day of cheering and wheeling and
dealing.

All the athletes have some sort of disability --
visual impairment, cerebral palsy, intellectual
disability, wheelchair, amputee, and "les autres"
(French for 'the others,' which would be anybody who
is clearly disabled but doesn't fit neatly into any of
the other categories, such as a dwarf.)

Some events, like the judo, separate people out by
weight class. Others, such as the wheelchair races,
run separate events for different degrees of
impairment. A Level 1 wheely racer would have minimal
upper arm functionality and little ability to sit up
unassisted; a Level 5 wheely racer has full upper body
and trunk functionality. The Level 5's race against
other Level 5's; the 1's against other level 1's.

                     * * * * *

First on our agenda was track and field. We saw the
wheelchair races at 400m, 800m, and 1600m at Levels 4
and 5. The wheelchair athletes for L5 were these
hugely muscled guys with these teeny weeny little feet
tucked up beneath or behind them in a very aerodynamic
fashion. These were the bad boys of wheelchair
racing, often with swank Lycra racing jerseys,
fierce-looking shaved heads, and the occasional tattoo
on these gargantuan biceps. I have never seen such
muscle definition in the bicep, tricep, and neck.
(The winner in fact had no neck. He was one large
muscle from his belly button to the top of his shaved
head!)

                    * * * * *

Another event -- also incredible: Imagine yourself
dressed in immaculate khaki pants and a crisp white
cowboy-type hat standing with two other blokes/sheilas
at one end of a field. You are a referee for the
javelin throw. At the other end stands this guy from
Sweden. He's big, really big -- 6'4", 200 lbs of pure
muscle. He's blond, really white-blond. And he's
blind, completely blind. And he's using all his body
weight to hurl this really sharp javelin in your
direction. The athletes got a running start and had
to throw the javelin before their foot crossed a white
starting line. This line was about 6" wide and
against a dark green background, but the blind
athletes had to pace off the distance and just throw
by feel. It was really incredible. And the referees
paid quite a lot of attention to the event while it
was going on!

                 * * * * *

We saw the finals for womens' wheelchair fencing. The
wheelchairs are fixed into the floor at a certain
distance from each other with the contestants facing
each other. Then the referee says (in French!) "Get
ready, get set, go!" and each contestant tries to
touch her epee point to the chest of the other player.
It was much faster than regular fencing, because the
fencers couldn't retreat -- there was nowhere to go,
because the fencers were strapped into their
wheelchairs and the wheelchairs were strapped to the
floor. Each point was over within three seconds or
so. THere was an electronic scoring system used to
keep track of who had touched first, and they were
scoring a fair number of points by touching their
opponents' backs. They would feint forward, get hte
opponent to lunge forward, and then wham! ping on the
back.

                 * * * * *

The contest which really impressed me the most was the
judo. This one was for visually impaired contestants
-- ya gotta be legally blind (20/200 vision or worse)
in order to play. Some of them were merely legally
blind, but a number of them were completely blind, as
in no light perception whatsoever -- somebody is home,
but the lights are definitely out. A few contestants
were also completely deaf and had a blue circle on
their backs to signify this. These guys all had the
physiques of Bruce Lee -- lithe, fast, quick, and of
course each with his six-pack of abs -- and my
favorite guy, a blind-deaf athlete from Canada called
Pierre Morton, also had the Welcome-Back-Kotter hairdo
with handlebar moustache.

The referees would walk the contestants to the edge of
the judo arena and tell each when it was time to bow.
Then they would walk them to the middle of the judo
arena and put them one arm-length apart. Then the
referee would say "Go!" and give the deaf ones a tap
so signify the contest was on. There would then be an
enormous scuffle as each athlete tried to throw and
pin the other guy. If the players went out of bounds,
the referee would halt the action (and tap the deaf
ones to let him know it was halted) and move them back
to the center. Penalties and scores were spelled out
into the blind-deaf guys' hands and they would nod to
signify they understood. A throw or a pin or a
surrender would end the match. And then the referees
would walk the players to the edge of the arena, have
them bow again, and walk backwards out of the dojo,
bowing again, before handing them over to their
coaches, who would walk them to the dressing room.

                  * * * * *

I must say, I am so glad we went to see the
Paralympics that day. It really opened my eyes to the
range of human strength, endurance, and emotion. I
felt really humbled, in awe of these people's
dedication and spirit. (Additionally, after seeing
the judo competition, I know who I definitely do NOT
want to meet in a dark alleyway after hours!)

Love,
Carrie and Scott
(today off to try to learn to surf in the foamy Ozzy
waters off of Byron Bay!)

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October 22, 2000 - Byron Bay

Hey guys,

We finally have gotten out of the hussel and bussle of
Sydney and have arrived in Paradise.....Byron Bay
(about 6 hours north of Sydney). The weather is warm,
the white sand beaches are inviting, we will be going
surfing later this afternoon. Byron is a hippy dippy
like town with a ton a character. We will probably
end up spending a couple of days here before heading
north again. On our trip we have seen some very
interesting roadkill:

1 Kangaroo
1 Huge Lizard
1 Fat Motorcyclist (hopefully just road-stunned)
15 Birds of various types

Soon to be shark bait,

Scott

p.s. Oh....a new aussy joke I think you will like.

What does a man with a 10 inch dick have for
breakfast? Well, this morning I had bacon and eggs
with a side of toast.

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October 23, 2000 - A tale of two surfers

Yesterday we had a surfing lesson...hey...$US16 for a
3 hour lesson with all equipment thrown in....how
could we have said no.....little did we know....

Picture two perky Aussy surfers warming us up before
the lesson. Okay....this is cool and makes sense.
Then they told us how to stand up on the board after
we caught the wave....we practiced for 15 minutes on
the sand....no problem....this is pretty easy. Then
one took his board out and caught the first wave and
showed us how it was done....wow....that looked
easy...this should be a breeze. Then we were headed
out into the water.

"Wow...this board is pretty big...well...it should be
easier for us to handle...bamb (wave
hitting)....okay...no problem...just keep walking
out...bamb...wow....well....okay....just keep
going...okay...bamb....woh...okay....set up for the
wave....get on the board...paddle hard...hey...got
it...okay...get ready to stand
up....up....splash...darn...okay...out again"

Three hours later

"Damn...this f***ing thing weighs a f***ing
ton....bamb....cough cough...shit....up
again.....bamb.....grrr....if that perky Aussy bastard
comes over one more time and says "Ah mate, you almost
had it" I am going to shove this huge thing up
his....bamb...(picture huge surfboard bouncing over my
head)....goddamnit....This sport really...(picture
being hit by your classmates huge
surfboard)....Oh...yeah I'm cool....blood...nah...I am
sure its nothing...oh yeah...this is really
fun...bamb....am I going tomorrow?"

Actually...it was really fun and we are thinking about
going again....in a couple of days.....grin

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October 27, 2000 - Hello from the Tropics!

Hello beautifuls!

You have probably figured it out by now, but if it's
warm enough to surf, we are in the tropics. So,
greetings from the tropics.

In addition to humidity and palm trees and feral
iguanas and runaround skinks and industrial-strength
cockroaches, there are mangrove trees in the river
running through Brisbane, and the place gets hit
pretty regularly with cyclones, floods, and the like.
Brisbane is at about 27 degrees south latitude, the
same as Tampa, FL, the Taj Mahal, and the middle of
the Nile River. The final clue to our tropical
locale: Scott has traded in his faithful old baseball
cap for one of those big floppy LLBean-looking hats
which covers your ears and neck too.

We stayed at the most heinous hostel in Brisbane!
Lonely Planet said it was "authoritarian" and
"soulless" but we didn't bother to consult the
ratings. Our bad vibes started when we called them
and they couldn't really give us driving directions to
get there. Upon check-in, we discovered a large,
completely undecorated, white hospital-like
atmosphere. Our "double" was in fact a 4-person dorm
with two vacant beds, 4 white walls, and Pepto-Bismol
bottom sheets on all of them. We were given topsheets
and pillowcases at reception.

In the room was a large list of "do's and don'ts", and
a violation of any of them would get you asked to
leave. There was the standard prohibition of alcohol
in the dorms, but also a fine if you showered with the
bathroom door open, checked out past 9:30 am, set off
the fire alarm, or caused a nuisance.

There was a tiny, dingy kitchen on the 3rd floor, our
floor. It had a small microwave, a gas stove for
which the sparker was broken (so you needed a lighter
to light it), a table but not chairs, and a hot plate
which must have dated from the 1970's.

Most places (especially in the tropics!) encourage you
to keep food in their kitchens rather than in the
dorms for the insect issues. Storing food in fridges
and plastic bags really helps with the hygiene. Big
sign in heinous kitchen: "ALL FOOD LEFT IN THIS
KITCHEN WILL BE THROWN OUT!" (So we left our crumbs
in the dorm.)

The kicker was a complete lack of standard
furnishings: no cups, no plates, no silverware, no
pots, no napkins, no nothing. I went down to ask the
front desk where the _real_ kitchen was.

                ** ** ** ** **

Guy (looking at me suspiciously): "Why do you want to
know?"

Me: "I want to cook dinner and there's no utensils in
that kitchen."

Guy: "What room are you in? Can I see your room
key?"

Me (showing key): "205." (which is on the third
floor)

Guy: "The kitchen is on the third floor. You want
the pot? You come see me. Give me your passport,
your credit card, your room key, something of value.
Then I give you the pot. When you bring me back the
pot, I give you back your passport. Only if the pot
is clean."

                ** ** ** ** **

I did not want to give creepy-boy my passport or
credit card for a pot. It might come back with fungus
on it or something else bizarre.

Instead, we cooked a lovely meal of pasta, green
beans, and tomato sauce in our very own camping pots,
smuggled some beers upstairs, and sat on the verandah
eating off our own plates, with our own titanium
sporks, drinking our bootleg beer. As night fell,
these dark clouds gathered on the horizon and huge
lightning flares jumped between then. To complete the
creepy feel, the most enormous crows flew around and
around, catching insects. Except they weren't
crows...they were bats! "Flying foxes" -- quite large
and quite silent.

                 * * * * *

The next mornign we ate breakfast out of our very own
dishes on the verandah, watching the street traffic.
This hostel owned the hostel across the street also,
and all during breakfast we watched a steady stream of
foot traffic, some of it still in pajamas, cross the
street.

First came a blonde girl in boxers and a pink tank top
walking barefoot across the asphalt with a credit card
in her hand. The same girl returned a few minutes
later with a toaster.

Then was a Japanese guy, shirtless, in baggy surfer
pants and flip-flops walking across the road with his
passport. The same guy returned a few minutes later
with a tea kettle and 2 cups.

Now came the blonde girl again, returning the toaster.

We had pretty much decided to leave immediately, but
for me that clinched it! As we packed up, I left the
bootleg beer bottles in the communal kitchen (so they
wouldn't know what room had violated their 'no booze'
policy).

And as we drove away, we flipped them off. Supremely
satisfying! Bye-bye, suckers!

                 * * * * *

We have since spent a few very nice nights in Rainbow
Beach and are now in Hervey Bay, about to go
four-wheeling on a 75-mile-long sand bar with 6 people
we've never met, for a 3 day camping trip. Wish us
luck!

Love,
Carrie and Scott

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October 27, 2000 - Aussie Quiz

Hello beautifuls! Test your knowledge of Australiana
in the following quiz, gleaned from the depths of
Australian pubs just for you.

1. A "jacaranda" is:

A. a brand new dance, quite similar to the macarena
B. a large tree with bright purple flowers on it
C. a passion-fruit flavored hard candy
D. a vicious tropical fever

2. At most inexpensive restaurants in Australia, you
are welcome to bring your own beer or wine with you to
dinner. True or false?

3. The landmass of Australia is approximately the
same as:

A. England
B. The continental United States
C. Texas
D. the Ukraine

4. The population of Australia is:

A. less than California's
B. less than Chicago's
C. approximately that of France
D. approximately that of Finland, Norway, and Sweden
combined

5. A koala bear spends approximately ___% of its life
sleeping, ___% eating, and ____% in other movement
(mostly making more koala bears).

A. 50% sleeping / 40% eating / 10% other movement
B. 60% sleeping / 25% eating / 25% other movement
C. 70% sleeping / 20% eating / 10% other movement
D. 80% sleeping / 18% eating / 2% other movement

BONUS:
Everybody knows Australia was settled by ships from
Britain full of convicts. When did the first convicts
arrive in Sydney Harbor?

A. 1588 -- just after the English sank the Spanish
Armada. The Brits knew a good thing when they saw it
and since they now ruled the waves, they took the
chance to send a bunch of hard-core serial murderers
to an unknown land called "Terra Australis Incognito,"
which was then shortened to "Australia." The journey
took three years at sea.

B. 1688 -- The Catholic King James II abdicated his
throne and the Protestant William of Orange-Nassau
took it over in the bloodless "Glorious Revoluion."
William sent several shiploads of religious criminals
-all of them Catholic and including James II - Down
Under for Good. The journey took 18 months at sea.

C. 1788 -- Five years after the Brits realized they'd
lost the American colonies and could no longer dump
petty thieves in New York (which had enough of its own
by that time), they sent the first five shiploads of
minor criminals -- mostly prostitutes and pickpockets
-- away for good. The journey took nine months at
sea.

D. 1888 -- Scandalized by Dickens' portrayals of the
poorhouse in "Oliver Twist," Queen Victoria ordered
the urban poor to be deported immediately. The
journey took six weeks by steamer ship and consisted
of poor families and orphans who were considered
criminals because they were bankrupt.

E. 1988 -- Just in time to release Mel Gibson for the
"Beyond the Thunderdome" movie series! The Brits
realized Mel was about to show his buns-of-steel to
the world. This heartily offended British
sensibility, and so they sent Mel (plus several
thousand fans) Down Under Forever. It was a gruesome
24-hour airplane journey.

ANSWERS

1 - B
2 - T
3 - B
4 - A or D. Oz has about 18 million people;
California has about 30 million. Finland (5 m),
Norway (4 m) and Sweden (9 m) combined have 18 million
people.
5 - D

BONUS -- C

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November 3, 2000 - (PG-17 rating) Last Dance with Mary Jane: A Camping Safari: Part two...the Austrians

Thank god Carrie didn't mention the unknown factor on
our trip....

The Austrians....

While we were waiting to get on the ferry to island
Thomas ran into some people he knew...yes...you
guessed it...the Austrians...

During the first day they always seemed to be where
ever we stopped, or would arrive shortly after...like
magic. Hope and Elisa would get very excited, squeal,
and run over to their truck. They would come back
*very* mellow...hmmmm.

The first night they camped with us...and were very
friendly. When the reefer madness started, they
happened to be the biggest burners of all...no
problem. After many hours....they were soooo stoned
they could no longer stand...but seemed quite happy to
crawl about to do their business. About 11pm, Stef
was heard to say "I am sooo stoned, my eyes, they
hurt"...I laughed so hard I almost puked.

The next morning I woke up early and ran into Michi
rolling a huge bomber...and smoking it all up...kinda
like an army commercial...."We smoke more dope before
7am than most people all week"...I was impressed.

The next night we cruised down the beach...running
into you-know-who all the time. We camped next to
this *huge* group of brits, and of course you-know-who
followed us...I just started considering them part of
our group. It started to rain...and the Austrians
bedded down in their truck. The smoke started
billowing out the sides and every time the doors
opened. One of the brits thought something was on
fire...and we had to admit they were correct. Those
interested in those burning herbs would go to the
truck and "Chat with the Austrians"

Strangers are just friends you have yet to meet...

Scott

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November 7, 2000 - Walking Eyeball in the Land of Oz (rated G)

Hello all.

The Walking Eyeball has gone a-snooping in the Land of
Oz and here are a few (G-rated) observations.

Aussies are more blunt, straightforward, and have
never lived in a lawsuit-happy society which makes
them really care whether a guest will slip and hurt
himself on their front steps.

They are more likely to subscribe to the view that
this world is overpopulated anyways, and if you're
really so clumsy you can kill yourself on a slippery
step, heck, Charles Darwin would approve, and besides,
that's one less person trying to get a beer at the bar
tonight.

For example:

Sign in a restaurant: "Be nice to your waitress. She
is the last person to handle your food."

The radio weatherman: "In Sydney today, 22 degrees
and a possibility of showers. You'll know it's
raining if you get wet."

Our boat captain, discussing emergency procedures:
"If you see the crew handing out lifejackets, it's
because the boat is sinking. Put yours on this way
(demonstrates) and hold it here as you jump into the
water. Otherwise you will break your neck and die.
And that wouldn't look very nice for all those news
cameras out there -- a bunch of dead people floating
around in orange lifejackets."

Travel agent, to an American tourist who has missed
her bus: "Well, looks like you really screwed up,
didn't you? Yes, that is a rather large problem.
Good luck. Next in line!"

Posted as part of tourist information: "If you see a
sign which says, 'NO SWIMMING - SALTWATER CROCODILES',
just be thankful you can read."

Hope all is well back home! We are in Airlie Beach,
headed north probably to Townsville tomorrow. We are
bracing for a very long trip through the desert to see
Uluru (Ayers Rock) and will decide whether to go for
it or not after we actually see the bus timetables and
airfares. Twenty hours on a bus through absolute
scrub desert to get halfway there makes one reconsider
even the most famous tourist attraction!

Love
Carrie and Scott

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November 9, 2000 - Tidbits - the Introduction

Hello beautifuls.

Greetings from Cairns, Australia, just 90
stomach-lurching minutes by catamaran from the Great
Barrier Reef. Not only are we in the tropics, we are
technically now in a tropical rainforest.

How beautiful the word: rain-forest! Very accurate.
Lots of forest-type vegetation here which puts the
exuberant New Zealand ferns to shame. And for the
"rain" part of it -- it's muggy, humid, warm, stuffy,
grey, overcast, muggy, and warm.

Most stores downtown have signs in Japanese as well as
English. We have come in from the sand and the rain
and the small-town drunks, back to the Great
Australian Tourist Track, where US$12 will buy you a
T-shirt which says "I went down on the world's largest
living thing." It's sort of sad -- most of the people
strutting about in these T-shirts don't look like
their English is good enough to 'get' the joke. (But
maybe everybody in Tokyo will love it anyways???)

I am trying to read great Australian literature in my
trip here. So far, have read Colleen McCullough's
"The Thorn Birds" (excellent); Nancy Cato's
"Forefathers" (good); "The Recollections of Geoffrey
Hamlyn, Circa 1837" (so boring I ditched it just after
the main character got to Australia with her baby and
good-for-nothing convict husband, plus the good sheep
farmer who really loves her).

But the winner in my Aussie lit category so far is
"Sean and David's Long Drive," published by Lonely
Planet and written by Sean Condon. Sean and David are
a pair of Generation-X Aussies who drive the continent
in a 1966 blue Falcon, drinking too much, hooking up
with German tourists, smoking too much, and living
with an overwhelming fear of being flattened by a
kangaroo, cassowary, road train, or plane crash. I
love Sean's neurotic stream-of-consciousness writing
style, so I will

* recommend you read the book also
* follow Sean's fine example of attention to detail
and try to give you some insights into our Aussie trip

These will follow under the "Tidbits" heading.

Enjoy!
Love,
Carrie and Scott
(who have decided that the 30-cent soft-serve ice
cream cones at McDonald's are not really a special
treat but more of a nutritional supplement)

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November 9, 2000 - Tidbits - A Day in the Life

A Day in Our Life On the Road. Yesterday, in fact.

6:30 am. Wake up in Airlie Beach. Already 90
degrees. Brekkie (Australian breakfast - high fiber
cereal for me; granola for Scott; caffeine for both).
Peacock strutting around the hostel grounds;
milky-white gekko with bright yellow eyes in bathroom.
This is my third day in this exact same outfit -
white T-shirt, black shorts, tevas - not even a change
of skivvies. No need to shave my legs and be on the
lookout for some British dude with 24-hr availability
-- I gots myself a permanent lover-boy -- ain't
marriage grand!

Check out of hostel (I give them back their remote
control for the air conditioner and they give me back
my YHA card - bizarre - but long ago I stopped
worrying about which hostel would want what type of
collateral for which item). Gas up car at US$4 per
gallon, buy paper which declares US presidential
election inconclusive, and drive north through only
light rain and minimal flooding to Townsville.

I buy a 2-lb papaya at a roadside fruit stand.

Scott says: "Do you really want that thing now?"

The fruit guy admonishes me: "Be gentle; it's really
ripe and juicy and will bruise easily."

I cradle it like a small bowling ball. Fresh tropical
fruit -- how healthful; how yummy; how refreshing it
will be.

               * * * * *

Noon: Arrive in Townsville hungry. It is a dump.
Hot, humid, and icky. Small town trying to be a big
town. Walk downtown for lunch. Most businesses
closed (even the Chinese restaurant! on Wednesday! the
horror!) but one bar is quite open. Everybody inside
is staggeringly drunk and one calls out to us -- "Hey
baby! Wanna come in?" Scott looks up. "No, not you.
HER!" I walk on.

Lunch at a roadside hamburger stand -- a big burger
with lettuce, onions, beets, mustard, mayo and tomato
for Scott; fruit salad and bread for me. And all the
while a large, angry, blond redneck-looking guy
(possibly just out of the bar?) stands there with
diarrhea of the mouth. He is loudly telling our
waitress/cook how he's going to kick the S*** out of
some @(*@#$(* who @#$(*@$ with his woman. She is
ignoring him. We do too, sort of.

After lunch, we return rental car two days early and
are very pleased they take it back here in Townsville
instead of in Cairns where we'd originally promised to
return it, without extra charges. Get a 30-cent
ice-cream cone at McDonald's (which here is actually a
sort of nice, American-theme restaurant and is always
air-conditioned and furthermore has minimal cockroach
invasion).

3:00 pm: visit two travel agents; go back to room.
Scott lies down on bed and holds his head and moans.
Ants from floor have made it to the bed now but he is
not bothered by them. I flip desperately through
maps, brushing off wayward ants as necessary. We face
reality: we are officially Old and Crusty. There is
no way we can make it to Ayers Rock and back to Sydney
in the next 2 weeks without spending lots of time on a
bus, and we are not that young and flexible anymore.

Me: "I am desperate to see this big rock in the
middle of nowhere."

Scott: "It's not the 28-hour bus ride THERE that I
mind so much; it's the 44-hour ride back to Sydney
that makes my flesh crawl."

                * * * * *

Twenty minutes before travel agent closes, solution.
Ahhhh, technology. We will fly. Rush back to travel
agent through staggering humidity, sweat profusely,
show photocopies of our international airline tickets
to qualify for "International Backpacker Discount,"
buy airline tix from Cairns to Ayers Rock and then on
to Melbourne (rough equivalent: San Diego to Kansas
City and then on to Seattle. But I doubt anybody's
ever been that desperate to see Kansas.)

Scott is pleased we have a solution that does not
involve multiple days on busses, even if they are
air-conditioned and provide 15-minute comfort stops
every so often.

I am reeling from dropping that kind of money and
unpleasantly acknowledging my entry into the Geezer
Class of travel. Next thing you know we'll be wearing
nametags and cruising around on one of those
double-decker tourist busses that feeds you lunch and
has sturdy young Australian boys in Hawaiian shirts to
handle your luggage for you.

I am happy I will get to see the Big Rock.

           * * * * *

6 pm: Realize the plane to Ayers Rock leaves from
Cairns (6 hours up the road), not from Townsville
(which is here). We returned the car too early --
should have kept it and driven it to Cairns per our
original contract. Oh S***. Buy bus ticket to
Cairns. It leaves tomorrow morning at 6:15, reporting
time is 5:55 am. Walk to bus station to check it out;
by the time we get there it is still humid but now
raining torrentially as well.

Duck into a bar to escape the downpour. Lots of thin
white men playing pool, and a group of mixed
Aboriginal and white men sitting around a table
drinking. I am one of three 'sheilas' in the bar so
at least there is little competition for the ladies'
room.

There is a slender and graceful but extremely drunk
Aboriginal man dressed in a brightly patterned shirt
and brightly patterned baggy pants. He is dancing all
around and despite his inebriation has a rather good
sense of rhythm. Whenever one pool player bends over
to take a shot, the dancer keeps rubbing his bum
against the bum of the pool player. We nearly see a
fight but alas, the dancer is pulled to another corner
of bar.

                 * * * * *

8 pm: We contemplated eating dinner in the bar, but I
am still aghast that we are Old Crusty Pampered Geezer
Tourists who Do Not Brave the Bus to the Interior but
Rather Fly In Comfort While The Young Ones Suffer on
the Bus. In a desperate attempt to recover lost
youth, we go back to the hostel and cook dinner there,
like the young fruit-pickers do.

Every rose has its thorn, and every hostel has its
quirks. This one's quirk is a coin-operated gas
stove. 80 cents to light it; 20 cents for every few
minutes, payable in 20-cent coins only to this clunky
metal box nailed to the wall. Of course we do not
have the proper change. But the electric teapot plugs
into the wall, will boil water, and is free.

Dinner: a can of sardines for Scott, a can of corm
for me, and a packet of ramen noodles made with the
teapot for us both. And beer.

Scott is a very good travelling-camper-doobie and, in
an amazing tribute to his character, willing to eat
like this at times simply to humor me. I am feeling
suitably Spartan again, tightwadded self-respect
restored.

            * * * * *

9 pm: Lights out. This place has no peacocks, but
does have several gekkos in the bathroom, plus the
ants (I have never seen such tiny delicate red ants
swarming so aimlessly over a bedspread or hotel wall
before. They are not even going for the jam yet.)
Wildlife here rated on a par with that from last
night.

Just before drifting off to sleep, I realize that
tomorrow morning, very early, I am going to undertake
a 6-hour bus journey with a 2-lb, very ripe, extremely
juicy papaya in my backpack.

          * * * * *

6:30 am; 24 hours has come full circle. They still
don't know who the President of the United States is
and some people here think Pat Buchanan already served
in the White House under Richard Nixon. (I no longer
bother to tell people that both candidates are merely
cancerous outgrowths of the ever-sinister Republican
Party.)

We have been on the bus for fifteen minutes.

I am slightly nervous about my papaya because it is in
the same bag that holds my journal, camera, film,
shampoo, credit cards, airline tickets, and
travellers' checks. I have wrapped it in plastic and
now all one can do is hope.

           * * * * *

End of Day. Whew! I deserve a soft-serve ice cream.
And a beer. Make that a double-beer. :)

(return to top)

November 11, 2000 - Tidbits: Fear and Loathing on the Great Barrier Reef

Hello Great Hairy Wombats!

<< It has been suggested that the usual 'hello
beautifuls' is getting a bit old, so I thought a bit o
Aussie humour would come in handy. BTW - how does it
feel to be a wombat? What do wombats eat? Wouldn't
you really rather be 'beautifuls' instead of
'wombats'?>>

Scott says to tell you his feet are peeling. I would
like to add that I find this both remarkable and
disgusting.

Yesterday we went out to the Great Barrier Reef. I
won't go into the standard exclamations that it was
big, beautiful, fabulous, tropical, raining, and full
of strange and exciting marine life (though it was!).

The two things which blew me away were:
1) just how enormous it was (you need to get into an
airplane to see most of it at once, and to outer space
to see it all at once) and

2) how amazingly easy it was to get disoriented out
there (no land in sight, and all coral looks the same
after a while, as do all clouds, all waves, all fish,
all boats, and all buoys).

If you want the flash-n-snazz of excellent tourist
photos, check out:

http://home.mira.net/~margaret/scuba.htm
http://www.reefpix.com.au/

I will give you a brief play-by-play of my day on the
GBR.

               * * * * *

In the morning, on the 90-minute boat ride out to the
GBR in choppy seas (with half the tour boat extremely
queasy and the other half actively throwing up).

Chirpy sun-kissed blond male "just gay enough" tour
guide: "Look in the area marked 'Safety Procedures.'
You will find brown paper bags there for your comfort.
They are completely biodegradable and will hold
liquid for approximately 30 seconds before degrading.
If you feel ill, please exit the boat to the back, use
the bag, fold the top over, and make sure to flip it
overboard before it degrades on you. The fishes will
thank you, and so will your fellow passengers."

Repeated over the loudspeaker, in Japanese.

Massive but orderly exodus to back.

<<Is it just me, or on this trip have we been in a
disproportionately large number of close spaces with
Japanese people who are throwing up?>>

          * * * * *

I am queasy too, but it is not because I am seasick.

Instead, I am queasy because I am thinking of a fish.
A great white shark.

Fear and loathing. This is the Pacific Ocean and
there are thousands of sharks in it. They can swim
over here from South Africa anytime they want to. Why
should I get in this water today?

* There was a postcard of a shark for sale in town.
Oh my. It looks fearsome.    And (after I convert 4.5
meters to approx 1000 feet long) extremely large.

* Last year a pair of honeymooning scuba divers were
accidentally left behind on the very same reef I am
going to. They were not discovered missing for a
long, long time and the bodies were never found. (The
captain of the boat did, however, lose his captain's
stripes.) What a horrible death.

* Last week a shark ate 1.5 American swimmers off a
Perth beach. It's far away from here, but one is dead
and the other has no legs. What a horrible death and
what a horrible injury.

* There is the wreck of a small charter fishing boat
on the reef. It didn't simply hit the reef and sink
like everybody else; instead, about five years ago it
caught fire and burned to the waterline in 20 minutes.
Because it was a small boat, it had no lifeboat, just
lifejackets. Because it was a charter fishing boat,
when it sank, the large quantity of bait, very smelly
and specially-designed-to-attract-large-fish, spread
out all through the water.

I cannot imagine spreading fish bait in the water,
buckling myself into a lifejacket, and jumping in to
dangle my feet for anybody who wants hors d'oerves.

Turns out, the people on board the shipwreck swam to a
nearby pontoon (probably in record time) and got
picked up by a scuba boat (probably not nearly soon
enough). Not so horrible, not so fearful, not so
loathsome, but all the same it makes me feel queasy
all over again.

Scott thinks a shipwreck is cool and wants to scuba
dive through it.

I am not so sure that five years is ample time to
completely wash the smell of fish bait away from the
area. Dead fish smell for an awfully long period of
time on land.

I do, however, think the salt water might be good for
the skin condition on his feet.

         * * * * *

We have 30 minutes to go till we get there. It is
time for a meta-decision: how am I going to make this
decision whether to get in the water or not?

Option 1: My death is predetermined for a particular
day and time, by a God, an angel, a devil, or (!) a
joker. It will not really matter whether I scuba dive
or not just now. If my time on this planet is really
over today, perhaps it will be by shark in the
afternoon, or automobile in the evening, or lightning
strike at midnight. (This viewpoint seems to be
particularly popular among both the orthodox religious
and the skydiving communities.) Option 1 says I
should go ahead and scuba dive today.

Option 2: I have some control over my own destiny and
can extend my expected life span by choosing my
activities carefully. You know the drill -- I should
eat my veggies, wear my seatbelt, not play with great
white sharks on the Great Barrier Reef. (This
viewpoint seems to be more popular with people who
monitor their cholesterol and never cheat the IRS.)
Option 2 says I should not scuba dive today.

               * * * * *

In my lifetime, I have studied far too much decision
science (and not enough religion) to choose between
Option 1 and Option 2 quickly or easily.

(What would my MBA students think of me now? A very
important decision and I can't make it fast! The
horror!)

I can think of a thousand permutations on each theory.

I can make a decision tree and attach probabilities to
each node.

I can exponentially smooth a line through a continuum
so it will touch on both theories (which gets me
nowhere, really).

I can even see the wisdom of flipping a coin and going
from there.

           * * * * *

Solution! Logical fallacy discovered in Option 2.

Assumption is that to scuba dive on Great Barrier Reef
measurably increases my overall chance of death today.

Key word: measurably.

(Ahhhh, anybody who's done performance measures,
especially those at DMV, will appreciate how much this
one word matters.)

All the other risks I run daily completely outweigh
the shark risk.

The walk to the boat was dangerous (Aussie drivers are
not merely suidical like the New Zealanders; they are
actively homicidal.)

There is enough second-hand smoke on this boat right
now to take a good-sized chunk off my life expectancy.

People die in boat crashes all the time (and I am not
worried about that in the slightest, not today).

I could have gotten botulism or fatal food poisioning
from breakfast (but I'm still alive and digesting).

             * * * * *

The scuba dive was cool.

I kept a sharp lookout, but no sharks.

Turtle, blue rays, fishes, big fishes, small fishes,
sea anemones, sand, snails, clownfish, blue starfish,
schools of bright orange fishes, long thin bright
yellow fishes.

Scott says his feet are mostly unchanged, but I think
there may have been a small improvement from the salt
water soaking.

Perhaps a measurable improvement, even!


           * * * * *

Love to you all back home!
-- Carrie

(planning when I get back to CA to set up a fishtank
full of goldfish, and tape a postcard of a great white
shark in the background, with a scuba-diver aquarium
ornament, to remind me of this glorious day.)

(return to top)

November 19, 2000 - Tidbits - the Cassowary and the President

Hello everybody!

<< this one got lost in cyberspace for a while --
initially was the day after the US election >>

The top four radio stories, in order, as covered by
the announcer:

1) Four-meter crocodile confirmed in the salt river
marsh outside of Townsville (pop. 110,000). "Four
meters! That's not a crocodile, that's a bloody
ferryboat! As usual, do not swim in the river and
take special care with pets and children."

2) Standoff in Bush vs. Gore election in the United
States. "It's the world's most powerful democracy and
they cannot count the bloody votes. How difficult can
it be? One vote, two votes, three votes...that's the
idears, mate."

3) Harbor Bay in Central Queensland has been declared
a winner in the annual Queensland Tourist Competition.
"They have one hundred travel agents from all around
the world now there, assembled to enjoy the pristine
beauty of Queensland's most uncrowded, secluded
beach."

4) Christmas is only six weeks away! "Make sure you
lay-a-way your holiday purchases soon. For that
special lady in your life, perhaps a new bathing suit
or a sun cruise? For dad, a new barbie (BBQ). And if
you've got family overseas, mate, you blew it -- the
sea mail closed last week."

* * * * *

I am sitting on a Greyhound bus. It is 6:30 am; my
neck hurts, and I am neither awake nor asleep.

I am worrying for my papaya, my big ripe juicy papaya
which is in the same bag as my camera and my credit
cards. There is a smell coming from the two
passengers behind me.

There is the driver's nasal but proud-to-be-an-Aussie
voice on the intercom.

"We are now travelling through a state forest which is
home to the wild cassowary, a large bird which has
been known to attack people. The cassowary eats the
seeds of a certain plant. The bird's stomach acid
dissolves the seed's outer coating. When the seeds
exit the bird's digestive system, along with a (ha-ha)
generous coating of fertilizer, they have been
transported some distance from the original plant, and
the plant's life cycle begins again."

I look out the window and see a thousand varities of
green plants -- ferns, trees, little scruffy things,
big frothy things, bushes, branches, trees, some with
red berries on them. Ahhhh...I bet it's the plant
with the red berries that the cassowary eats.

Note to self: do not eat any plant with red berries.
Now you know exactly where it's been and it ain't a
pretty picture.

End of bus ride. Happily, my papaya has survived the
ride and is full of shiny black seeds. I decide to
play 'cassowary' and eat the seeds.

Seeds taste awful. I bet the cassowary does not chew
the seeds of its plant. Perhaps I shouldn't either.

* * * * *

Love and kisses from us, who are about to miss a
traditional Thanksgiving meal (maybe replacing with
50-cent pitchers of beer?)
-- C + S

(return to top)

November 19, 2000 - What Nobody Tells You About a Scuba Dive

Hello booty-fuls!

(wombathood was not as popular as I'd hoped it was...)

Scott is an experienced scuba diver.

I just got certified, which means I have taken five
dives in my life, four of them with my own private
instructor during the military coup in Fiji.

There are some things nobody tells you about scuba
diving:

* When you're near a coral reef, there is this
crackling sound, like somebody crunching on ice or
rock candy. This is actually made by fish eating the
coral reef. It can be very loud.

* The fish who eat the coral have teeth that look like
sheep's teeth. Smooth even white rows that let them
grind their roughage thoroughly before digesting it.
I am OK with fish near me having these types of teeth
-- it's the classic dental profile of a vegetarian.

* The fish and coral really do look like just like
those movies from "The Underwater World of Jacques
Cousteau" or those films on the Discovery Channel.

* Once scuba-suited up on the boat, everybody wants to
be the first diver to jump in the water. It's not
because the reef is so fantastic, or even because
they're tired of wearing that hot sticky wetsuit and
that heavy gear on the boat. It's because everybody
first jumps in the water, then pees in their wetsuit.
There is a huge first-jumper advantage: first, you
don't have to wait as long to wee; and second, after
you've wee'd, you can swim a distance away to put on
your mask. The last one off the boat must jump into
everybody else's pee-wee.

* Despite the mass pee-wee, the water is often really
really cold. Nobody will tell you it's cold because
then you won't want to get in. But when all the
instructors and guides wear full-body wetsuits, and
tell me I'll be fine in a half-length one, I get
suspicious. And then 45 minutes later I get really
cold.

* When you're scuba diving underwater, your nose is
always full of salty water. Not a full sinus-ful,
which is awful (and does happen at times), but just a
little drip-drip-drip at the end of the nose, just
enough to make it irritated and red. At night, back
on land, the scuba mask marks have faded and now you
just look like an alcoholic.

Does this make you want to scuba dive? I must say,
it's a pretty interesting sport. In my book, it does
fall in the "Sports which make you wet and cold and
require lots of expensive equipment" category -- along
with skiing, glacier climbing, and waterslide riding.

But it also gives you an entry into a secret world
under the oceans, and makes me feel more kinship to
the amoebas and corals and other small creatures
swimming around out there. They've never heard of the
US Presidential vote nor do they care the stock
market's in the hole! And there's a LOT to be learned
from that attitude!

:)
-- Carrie (drying out from diving in the Great Red
Desert)
and Scott (who is pleased his feet have finally
stopped peeling)

(return to top)

November 20, 2000 - Smoke on the Fire; Water in the Sky (Rain in the Desert)

Hello Beautifuls.

Have you seen that movie classic, "Priscilla, Queen of
the Desert?" (If you haven't, see it. It's on
videotape. But do try to get it at $2 night.)

If you have seen it, think back to the scene at the
end. One of the transvestites dolls himself up and
climbs Ayers Rock at sunrise, proclaiming he is "just
what this country needs: a c**k in a frock on a
rock."

Due to our limited backpack space, we have no such
flamboyant clothing. Because nobody else wanted to
come travelling with us, at the moment we also have a
shortage of transvestites.

We did, however, make it to the rock.

How? From Cairns:

1. Ship all camping equipment home because it's heavy
and we hadn't used it yet. Plan to stay in hostels
from now on.

2. Buy plane ticket to/from Uluru (==Ayers Rock)

3. Check weather and see it's raining at Uluru.
Hardest rains in a decade. 10 days straight and it's
flooding. Some roads washed out; others merely
impassable. In the desert.

4. Call National Parks hotline in Sydney to make a
reservation at the Uluru hostel. Get told it's full,
it's really full, all resorts there are full, and if
they weren't full they'd be really expensive, but it
doesn't matter because they're full. The bad news is
the campground is currently flooded (but, on the
positive side, it does have lots of available space).

5. Have crying jag. Repeat "I wanna go home!"
several times. Wish we could recall camping equipment
we just sent home. Alas.

6. Pull self together. We are Marines, Scouts, and
stubborn little doobies. We don't dissolve in water.
Buy tarp, string, pole to fashion makeshift tent.
Count on bivvy sacks to keep selves dry for when we
camp on moist ground.

7. Fly to Uluru anyways. In the air, marvel at these
huge whipped-cream cumulonimbus clouds which are
getting thicker and thicker as we get closer to
center. Exit the aircraft and notice there are large
puddles on the ground. River 8-inches-across running
down the side of the runway. Small shiver down spine.

8. Be brave. Take shuttle to campground. Little
rivers wash across the road, so it's a good thing our
shuttle is a 4-WD bus. Notice how the red desert has
really lush green plants on it. They are all in
bloom. First time in a decade for some of them.

9. At campground: notice the red clay of the desert
does not drain particularly well. The puddles have
the consistency of melted chocolate ice cream, reach
fifteen feet across and are close to six inches deep.
They have birds swimming in them. I am later to learn
there are tadpoles, too. (Frogs! In the desert!!!!)

10. Decide to mosey across to hostel just to see if
there are any cancellations.

11. Hostel lady says yea, sure, they have plenty of
room; would we like a dorm or a four-share?

12. Shock. Surprise. Delight. Alleluia! No
sleeping on water! Play it cool. "The four-share,
please. Do you take VISA?"

13. Have presence of mind to make another reservation
for when we return from our camping safari with the
hostel lady directly (rather than with those
!@(#$*!@#$ in Sydney who just like to say in an
aristocratic nasal voice that the entire resort is
full, full, full.)

14. When we return to carry our backpacks from the
campground to the hostel, we notice there is a big fat
grey-black cloud overhead. Dash under roof. Sit for
a 15-minute downpour, backs pressed to warm brick
building, in the Great Red Desert, eating ice cream
bars.

If you define luxury as something rare and difficult
to achieve, surely there can be no greater luxury than
to have such heavy rain in the desert (rare - once per
decade if you believe the reports) while eating ice
cream in the 90-degree shade (difficult - to transport
it over washed-out roads and to keep it cold).

* * * * *

As per the travellers' karma, every little thing did
indeed work out to be all right. We didn't get too
too wet; had a lovely time, and did commune with the
red center.

Plus I have seen a tadpole in the desert. What a
combination!

Love
Carrie (in an Internet cafe) and
Scott (gone off to listen to his new CD, "Strange
Weird Little Men," and his favorite new song "We Love
the Royals.")

(return to top)

November 22, 2000 - The Great Red Centre

Hello all.

What does Uluru look like?
Click here: http://www.pwp.com.au/

                  * * * * *

It is a very large rock in the center of a very large
flat red desert.

Uluru is huge. It is bigger than Half Dome in
Yosemite; so large postcards and pictures cannot
capture it.

The people climbing up the side of it look like ants.

The Aborigines hold Uluru to be sacred and ask people
not to climb it. (I guess the equivalent would be if
a bunch of Aboriginal people took climbing tackle and
insisted on scaling the window where the Pope gives
his Christmas address, just as he was talking...or
climbed Notre Dame on Easter Sunday, or the Dome of
the Rock in Jerusalem at the start of Ramadan.)

We didn't climb it. (We also plan to leave the Pope,
Notre Dame and the Dome of the Rock alone.)

We did walk around it, getting up at 3:50 am to make a
2-hour sunrise walk around the rock. It really does
take 2 hours to get all the way around the base.

                  * * * * *

Uluru received 25% of its annual rainfall average in
the 24 hours before we arrived. (San Francisco gets
on average 20 inches of rain per year; 25% of this
would be a 5-inch downpour in 24 hours.)

There are the most delicate yellow spiky flowers; a
cactus has purple morning-glory-type blooms on it; the
mulga tree is giving off a smell like (unused)
guinea-pig-box shavings.

Because it rains so rarely here, rivers are usually
dry gullies. People don't build bridges over them;
rather, they just run the pavement right across the
bottom of the riverbed.

If it rains a little, the river runs over the road but
you can still get through with a 4-wheel-drive vehicle
if it has good clearance.

If it rains a lot, the river makes the road
impassable.

And if it rains very much more, the river completely
washes out the road and they have to rebuild it next
dry season.

                  * * * * *

The earth here is red, red like a box of L'Oreal lip
powder, red like miles of cayenne pepper underfoot,
red like dark cream-of-pumpkin soup running over the
roads.

The red sand is everywhere. It is on tracks, near
roads, mushed into a paste, floating on puddles,
kicked up by tennis shoes, always in my socks, and
sometimes on my toothbrush.

There are sage shrubs, spiky spinifex plants, and tens
of millions of insects. If you count, the bugs win.

There are little 3" high straws built out of this red
sand everywhere. I knock the top off of one.
Termites! Little white termites everywhere.

And the ants. Big black ants; little red ants, huge
1/2" long white-and-pink ants with bloodshot faces,
fast ants scurrying around, slower ones stopping to
clean their front legs. (After a while, the desert
all looks the same, but the ants are endless
entertainment.)

There are metallic black centipedes which are 6" long
and writhe and wriggle like in that 1980's video game
"Centipede." They are poisionous and their bite
usually just hurts for a week but if you're allergic
to them it will kill you.

                  * * * * *

And the tourists. Also endless entertainment. This
is a World Heritage site, so people come here from all
over the world.

The Japanese are here with their high heels and
chain-smoking cigarettes and camcorders to document
Hisashi-san's every trip to the salad bar.

The Germans are here with their really thin and tanned
old ladies who don't wear bras, and their teenage boys
who roll their eyes in embarrassment every time Mutti
doesn't understand the Australian slang for "toilet"
and asks the waiter where the "WC" is.

The British aristocracy is here, with their large
diamond rings, exotic leather luggage tags,
forever-unfulfilled expectations of room service, and
white linen skirts (is it possible to construct a
garment which is more difficult to travel with???).

And, the Americans are here. Four in all. You know
Scott and me. The other two were Gene and Dave, an
insurance broker and a salesman from Providence, Rhode
Island. They are _heavily_ muscled and tanned. They
have close-cropped hair. They strut around in the
desert sun with only one tighty-whitey tank top
between the two of them. They have four nipples and
three large nipple rings on display.

The Brits and the Germans stared at them; the Japanese
videotaped them, and I went over to say hello. They
are very nice (although, I fear, rather sunburned by
now.)

                  * * * * *

Tourists aside, the wildlife rating for this place is
pretty good. No bats, sadly, because there's lots of
flying insects for them to eat! No parrakeets or wild
green lorrikeets chattering away (no trees for them to
sit in, really).

Tons of super-fast, super-ugly lizards of all sizes.
For sheer biomass the award has to go to insects.
Bees as big as my thumb; flies like syrup in the
corners of your eyes; dragonflies as long as my middle
finger locked into mating pairs and swirling around
and around. And always a living black carpet of ants,
black lines on a red Turkish rug, black oil stains on
red water, running and streaming and floating
everywhere.

To really make it here, ya gotta be a little smaller
than your average human, preferably cold-blooded to
get rid of heat fast when necessary. To be a real
winner, you should be nocturnal, able to excrete
excess salt from glands in your face (sort of like an
extra nostril), make a good lunch out of, say, a mulga
leaf and 5000 ants, live in a sandy hole in the
ground, and wander around eating anything you find
which is smaller than you.

Any takers?

                  * * * * *

Oh, yes, and between raindrops, there was the heat.

By 9 am it was 90 F in the shade. But the real
killer: at noon on the desert floor in direct
sunlight the other day it was close to 112 F.

Sunbathing was definitely out. As was going barefoot.

Ice cream, anybody?

                  * * * * *

Wishing you all a very happy Thanksgiving and a
wonderful Holiday season. Down here they don't do
Thanksgiving (not even a discount on turkey subs at
Subway!). But they combine Christmas, New Year's and
their longest day of the year. So the Aussies are
generally happy, drunk, and occasionally naked all
during the holiday season. And Santa wears shorts.

Love to all (and missing the turkey)!
-- Carrie and Scott

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November 22, 2000 - Things you would never eat at home...

While we were at Ayers Rock, we managed to stop by the
Cultral Center. As I walked from one building to
another, there was a display of Aboriginal cooking. I
was drawn to it not by my vast interest in the
culinary arts, but I just couldn't believe that people
were willing to stand by a fire in the 108 degree
temperature. As I wondered over, I heard the ranger
say "The witchety grubs are considered a delicacy and
are an excellent source of protein". One of the
Aboriginal ladies then reached into the warm red sand
and picked out several of the cooked grubs (wanna see
what one looks like....check out:

http://www.milamba.com/australia/inhabit/insects/in24.htm

The crowd "Ohh"ed and "Ahhh"ed and were very
impressed...these things are rather large and nasty
looking. Then the ranger asked if anyone would like
to try one. "Heck...I'll give it a shot" came out of
my lips before I knew it. Silence descended and all
eyes turned to me. A huge grin appeared on the
rangers face. She started to walk toward me with the
grub in her hand. "Oh oh.." I thought, desperately
trying to think of come clever way to get out of this
foolish display of bravado. As if she knew my plans,
she rushed up and deposited the white larvae into my
palm and whispered "Just make sure you don't eat the
head, mate" and stepped away and make room for the
gathering crowd. I grasped the grub, still feeling
the warmth of the fire, and slowly moved it toward my
mouth. I briefly wondered if I should let it's little
legs scratch the top of my mouth or tickle my tongue.
Going for the leggies on the side approached,I
inserted about an inch and bit down. As the warm
juice ran into my mouth, I thought "Get this over
quick, and book...you don't wanna hurl in front of all
these people". I started to chew, and the crowd
started to smile. Then the taste hit me, it was
unbelievable. It tasted like....sorta...really
rich...fried...eggs. "Hey...this is really good" I
said, as my confidence returned "Wanna try some" as I
shoved it into the face of this little rat who
desperately wanted me to loose my lunch.
"Ieee...mommie" he shouted as he ran to safety. I
waved my lunch at several people, all of who declined
after my resurrances that it really did taste good. I
was just about to toss it on the ground when this
purple haired German girl came up and said "I vill try
some of vhat". I handed it over, a grin appearing on
my face. She quickly popped the entire grub into her
mouth, chewed several times, and spit out the head.
She then turned on her heel and walked away.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone,

Scott

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November 26, 2000 - Quiz, Aussie Speak!

Hello all.

I take it you had a lovely Thanksgiving meal with
turkey and trimmings? (Won't even bother to tell you
what we did down in Oz, but it did not involve turkey
or cranberries. Our loss!)

Time for another Oz Quiz! (Answers at bottom as
usual)

1. There are 74 species of lizard in the desert
around Uluru. There is also lots of sausage in the
world. One of the items below is a sausage; the other
four are lizards. Can you tell which is the sausage?

A. Bung Fritz
B. Frill Neck
C. Thorny Devil
D. Perentie Goanna
E. Sand Monitor

2. If you find a billabong, you should
A. try to surf on it
B. go bathe in it
C. drink your tea out of it
D. run very fast the other direction so it doesn't
kill you

3. If you find yourself in a dunny, you should
A. relieve yourself -- it's a rest room
B. refuse to take the breathalyzer test -- they can't
arrest Americans here
C. relax -- it's a hammock
D. calm down -- you've worked yourself into a temper
fit and it's not good for your blood pressure

4. If somebody calls you a "two-pot screamer," you
should

A. take it as a compliment -- not eveybody can cook
such a good meal using such limited cooking equipment
B. take it in stride -- they're getting to like you
C. take offense -- they're saying you cannot hold
your alcohol
D. take your foot off the accelerator -- you've gone
way over the legal speed limit

5. If you are knackered, you are:
A. Drunk
B. Exhausted
C. Dressed like the opposite sex
D. Going commando (i.e. without underwear)

Answers:

1-A. Bung Fritz is a sausage which is about five
inches across and about a foot long. The other four
are lizards of the Great Red Centre, possibly also
edible. The perentie goanna is carnivorous and will
try to eat you if you're smaller than he is.
(fortunately most of us aren't less than 2 feet long.)

2-B. A billabong is a hole which is still full of
water in a dried-up riverbed. No surf here, mate.

3-A. A dunny (or dunnie) is most definitely a rest
room. The human sieve knows this one for sure. (and
they most certainly can arrest Americans here!)

4-C. This is particularly dangerous when you can get
pots of beer for US$2.00 (and a pot is larger than a
pint!)

5-B. Knackered is really really tired. Not to be
confused with 'knacker,' which is a term I cannot
translate in polite company.

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November 28, 2000 - The Good Ship Batavia

Hello beautifuls.

Would you like to participate in the following
do-it-yourself experiment?

Ask yourself the following question and (if you like)
email your answer to me (NOT THE LIST - so DO NOT hit
'reply' to this email ... you have to type in my
entire email address at the top of a brand new email!)

Will give an updated tally as the results come rolling
in. And I promise to count them better than in they
do in Florida.

* * * * *

Ask yourself (and a teenage male if you have one
handy):

Suppose there is this experimental spacecraft which is
going to Mars. It will take you 6 months to get there
and 6 months to return. You will just be a passenger
-- computers will do the navigation and in fact, you
never will know exactly where you are until you're
there.

You will have to sleep on the floor in wet straw which
is full of rats and occasionally flooded with
foul-smelling salt water. There are 180 other people
there, and your "personal" floor space is 6' by 3'.
Nobody can take a bath or shower the entire time
you're there. You can only have one suit of clothes
which you wear the entire time, day and night. No
phone, no video games, no books, no romantic
diversions, no MTV.

Breakfast is oatmeal and prunes, lunch is stale bread
and 2 gallons of beer, and dinner is a thin soup of
salted beef and dried peas. This is what you eat each
day, every day for the entire year.

If you fight with anybody else on board, you'll get
flogged or have your hand nailed to a piece of wood,
Jesus-style. You will have to instantly obey orders
from arrogant people you really hate.

There's a 10% chance you will die on this trip, of
drowning or a horrible wasting disease like pneumonia
or cholera.

If you come back alive, you will be a hero. You will
have two million dollars in cash. You will never have
to work again. You can move out of your parents'
house and buy that fancy cherry-red BMW convertible
they say is too dangerous for you to drive. You can
afford as much food and drink as you want, whenever
you want it.

Every beautiful girl/pretty boy from miles around will
search you out and want to be with you. In every
restaurant, as you walk in, people will point at you
and whisper, "oooooh, that's the brave one!" Every
time you walk into a room, people will stand and
cheer.

The question is: do you take the voyage???

[Is anybody willing to poll Troop 405??? -- would you
let me know the result?]

* * * * *

Part II: What, you ask, would make us pose such a
bizarre question?

In Sydney's Darling Harbor, there is a replica of that
large Indiaman ship, called the Batavia. Scott and I
took a tour of it and it was really cool. Some quick
facts:

* It took approx 6 months to get out to the Dutch East
Indies and approx 6 months home

* It had about 350 people on board, most of whom slept
on rat-infested bedding on the floor which was
periodically awash with bilge water

* It weighed about 1600 tons, and was 150 feet long.
The mast, which you would have to climb while at sea,
is about 130 feet high.

* They never really knew where they were -- accurate
navigation was still 150 years in the future -- so
would periodically run into the Great Barrier Reef and
sink

* Despite this, only about 1% of the Dutch East India
Company's ships (130 out of 1500) actually sank

* Sailors faced a 20% death rate from disease on board

* Sailors could not swim. It didn't really matter; if
you fell off, you were a dead man. The ship took 12
miles and several hours to make a U-turn under good
conditions.

* Only the Dutch really knew where the Spice Islands
were. The British were desperate to know. Aren't
you??? (For the enquiring minds out there, they're
more or less what is currently Indonesia, near
Jakarta).

So WHAT, we asked, would inspire somebody to sign on
board as a sailor?

We have tried to put the lot of a Batavia sailor into
modern terms (adjusted the death rate from 20% down to
5% because the background death rate in 17th century
Netherlands was so high).

Hence the Mission to Mars.

Did you go?????

Inquiringly,
-- C + S

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November 28, 2000 - Goodbye Australia!

Hello all and goodbye to Australia!

We are flying to Singapore tomorrow.

Luxuries of Australia we will miss:

For Scott, 'twould have to be the sauna on the 8th
floor of the Sydney Central YHA. He loves it.
Probably his Viking blood expressing itself (yet
again!) He is there now.

For me, it would be the 'iced coffee.' Not the
standard dreary
drip-coffee-plus-skim-milk-with-an-ice-cube. Aussie
iced coffee is a shot of espresso, two scoops of ice
cream, whipped cream, a straw, and chocolate
sprinkles. But never the cherry too.

And the Sydney Morning Herald (US$0.60, daily, does
not do so well in the sauna; better with an iced
coffee).

Today's paper contained an article about the "Palm
Pilot Recession" -- the much-talked-about crash of the
dot-com companies, the oncoming internet depression
which will "wreak its most devastating havoc on the
educated, well-paid, computer-literate workers who
thought themselves immune" from the economy.

(The stories of doom and gloom look a lot like the
"End of the Dinosaurs" exhibit I saw at the Sydney
Museum earlier today, minus the meteor, the volcano
and the large dead reptiles.)

Are you any of these???

Yettie: Young Entrepreneurial Tech-Heads

Yuppie: sorry, folks -- the yuppie is officially out
of style. It's been retired. Yuppies have evolved
into either Grumpies or Lombards.

Grumpie: Greying Urban Midlife Professionals. Old
Yuppies with a mortgage and a house in the 'burbs.

Lombard: Lots Of Money But Are Real D**kheads

Bye from the land of G'Day!
-- Carrie (Managing to type despite the overwhelming
sugar+caffeine buzz from my last iced coffee)

and Scott (still basking in the sauna, being a
latter-day Viking)

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