Wednesday 26th November: the sound of the didgeridoo
Today our small party visited the Aboriginal paintings at Ubirr rock to again gaze upon ancient art forms. As before, the art occurs within the natural shelters of a rocky outcrop, this time located on the edge of the Nadab floodplain. Here it seems as if the depictions of the creation ancestors are of a more aquatic nature: barramundi, catfish, mullet and turtles swim along the surfaces. I think somewhere in their midst a thylacine prowls, but I didn’t see him. Admittedly, historically the Aboriginal people would retouch paintings to keep the images vibrant and viable as didactic tools, so it was difficult distinguishing art that was several thousand years old from art of a few centuries in age. Either way, they exuded an air of mysticism. To see the art you have to climb, and the reward is two-fold – the art and the panoramic views across the floodplain and escarpments (the trainers of my last trip have been usurped by my walking boots).
The vastness of the views was completely breathtaking. At the site a local Aboriginal guide gave a spell-binding talk explaining the culture and mythology of his people, plus he played the didgeridoo fabulously. I hadn’t appreciated the range of sounds that could be achieved on this seemingly simple wind instrument nor had I given any thought to the skill required in breathing in and blowing out at the same time to achieve those sounds. The didgeridoo playing at Uluru had been good, but this was better: quite wonderful. As I discovered at Uluru, to hear the didgeridoo being played in its natural home is really rather special.
After the exertion of rock climbing, it was off to Guluyambi to embark upon a cruise on the East Alligator River. The relaxation didn’t last long as we drifted up to the Arnhem Land shore of the river where, on land, we had a practical lesson in fire-making. Sadly, I didn’t progress past the theory. But we weren’t all bad students as one in our party managed to get some ‘amber fire’ going with relative ease, which made me wonder why Ray Mears always makes such a big thing about lighting a fire. Seeing the blisters on the palm of my hand later in the day, perhaps I was being a bit churlish towards Ray’s skills. The land upon which this fire-making activity was taking place can only be accessed with permission from the traditional owners, the Yolngu people. I might have been in Arnhem Land for a few minutes, but I did feel it was a privilege to be there.
In the afternoon we popped in to the Bowali Creek Visitor Centre, which was a bit ditto if you’ve been to the centre at Uluru. Just feel the information could be imparted a little more imaginatively… especially when the human guides are so brilliant at sharing their oral culture. The route back to Darwin took us to another visitor centre, the Window on the Wetlands Visitor Centre, which sits atop Beatrice Hill, one of the highest points on the Adelaide River floodplain. The information leaflet drew my attention to the design of the building. Glancing up, the upswept roofline did indeed appear fluid as it represents the wings of a dancing brolga. These large Australian cranes dance as part of their mating ritual; singly, in pairs or in social groups. They also gaily toss grass skywards as part of their ritual, creating an image of being the party animals of the bird-world.
Sadly these (and other) spectacular wetland birds were predictably noticeable by their absence, but it must be a twitchers’ haven at the right time of the year. However, Mother Nature generously provided an alternative spectacular sight, standing with a glass of wine in my hand and nibbles at my elbow, I watched in total fascination as (once again) storm clouds of epic proportion gathered away in the distance, over Darwin.
Back at the hotel, reflecting upon all I had seen and done, I decided that my trip to Kakadu National Park had indeed been ‘awesome’. I felt a long way from anywhere and enjoyed the experience so much, that I would really like to return. However, next time I’d opt for the wet season, to have a go at bird watching and hopefully witness the courtship rituals of the dancing brolgas. The best time for bird-watching is less challengingly referred to as the ‘green season’, covering the months from December to March: I was just on the cusp.
Thursday 27th November: another terrific day
Today I’m off to the Katherine River, but only after what turned out to be a very emotional first stop at the Adelaide River War Cemetery. The cemetery, established in 1942, is a memorial to the 430 plus service personnel who lost their lives during the sixty-four Japanese air raids on Darwin. The cemetery also contains the Northern Territory Memorial which commemorates the lives of those service personnel who have no known grave.
Set on the banks of the Adelaide River, the grounds are especially beautiful with lush lawns and colourful flower gardens. Against this serene backdrop the epitaphs are difficult to read without shedding a tear. A peacock family manages to soften the solemnity of the surroundings and their antics were described to us. Father, having done what nature requires him to do, divorces himself from family matters. Harassed mother tries to sit on her new clutch of eggs, but jealous juvenile son won’t let her. So Mum has to practice ways of getting him physically drawn away from the eggs and occupied, so that she can sneak back to the cooling clutch. The two men who look after the cemetery, and who told us about the dynamics of the peacock family, obviously do so with love and reverence. An early lunch at the Adelaide River Inn was a bit of a shift in mood as, on the bar, stands ‘Charlie’ the stuffed water buffalo and local (deceased) resident made famous for his role in the movie, Crocodile Dundee. He is/was a big chap!
The afternoon was total bliss as we ventured into the Nitmiluk National Park for a trip down the Katherine River through two of the thirteen deep-sided sandstone gorges. Rapids and waterfalls complete this geological wonder. Mooring up we burnt a few beer-fuelled calories with a now familiar walk and scramble over rock-strewn land between the two gorges for a look at some more Aboriginal rock paintings. By now my brain was struggling, I had so enjoyed looking at the previous paintings, but art was now losing out to my eagerness to be back in the water. Consequently, my attention was not quite as it should have been as I was mentally on my way back to the boat, before the art had even been reached.
Culture dispensed with, we all trotted back to the boat in double-quick time – we knew what was next on the agenda and were impatient to get going. The watery meander home took us via Edith Falls for a swim in the paperbark and pandanus fringed fresh-water pool. The falls were in subdued mode awaiting the arrival of the rains which would convert the lazy trickle into a raging torrent. It didn’t matter one jot as swimming and floating in the cool clear water was delicious. With grateful thanks to Joan, I remained safely in place within my new swimming costume as I drifted on my back looking up into a clear blue Australian sky. Much as I love sea swimming, the fresh-water version is a rare treat. When the conditions are right (warm) I would certainly cast off into the English Channel, but I don’t find much appeal in squelching through the cold mud of an English riverbed or pond.
Huh, mud is nothing. It was only after this dreamy interlude that I learnt that freshwater crocodiles also enjoy drifting in the cool water of the Katherine River. On cue, a junior version, an exact replica of an adult in miniature, had wriggled to the water’s edge where it remained inert as if posing just for us. I silently thanked him for his magical timing. These reptiles are harmless to humans, unlike their saltie cousins who enter the pool when the water levels rise during the wet season. Just in case anyone feels the macho need to gamble with their lives, there are signs reminding the foolhardy that swimming is banned in the wet season. I didn’t ask, but when the waters recede, do the salties recede with it… or do the park rangers give these prehistoric reptiles a gentle nudge… or were interlopers still hiding log-like under the pandanus as I swam by? If I swam up against a crocodile, would I hang around to identify its genus? Freshwater or saltie… I’d be out in a flash.
These sharp-toothed thoughts did not spoil my appetite. To round off an already idyllic day, we stopped for a barramundi and mash supper: yum! I couldn’t have conjured up a mo
re delicious ending to my Kakadu National Park experience.
… On cue…a junior version wriggled to the water’s edge
Friday 28th November: a last day in the fascinating Top End
Awoke this morning feeling a little sad that this part of my journey was coming to an end, it was as if I wasn’t ready to move on but wanted instead to retrace my steps and see more of the Northern Territory. Once again I felt that visceral tug which had caught me off kilter at Uluru. Packing George I wondered how to fill the few hours between checking out of the hotel and checking in for the flight to Perth. Having relinquished my room key, not sure how this came about, but one of the ‘lads’ from the hotel drove me down to the quayside where I had a fresh orange juice. Sitting in splendid isolation I realised that all around me the neighbouring cafes and shops seemed to be reflecting my mood – they had taken on that sad ‘closed’ out of season look. As soon as the cyclones are due, the itinerant tourist-trade-staff begin to drift away in search of work in a more equitable climate.
Sipping my drink, I mused upon how much I had warmed to Darwin and the people I had met. It is an ethnically diverse community and on arrival in Darwin I had had no idea of the important role undertaken by the immigrant Chinese population in the town’s development and frequent reconstruction. Since the European settlement, Darwin has been flattened four times and after each wave of devastation it was the Chinese community who helped ensure, by dint of their hard work, that a new Darwin rose phoenix-like from the metaphorical and literal ashes.
Bidding a fond farewell to the harbour I caught a shuttle bus back into town where it was so hot, I downed another orange juice. Taking a final amble through the town, I whispered a silent farewell to the Aboriginal family sitting in the shade of an ancient tree, to Joan and the shopkeepers who had been so chatty and charming and to Darwin itself. Somehow I sensed that in a few years, the city would have grown and transformed itself. My visit was on the cusp of that change and I’m glad I saw it before it became too slick. I then sauntered back to the hotel to board the airport shuttle bus. The delayed flight finally got me into Perth at 5pm where I was just in time to catch another shuttle bus, this time to my slightly out of town accommodation, Sullivans Hotel.
Sullivans is a welcoming family-run establishment situated on Mounts Bay Road and nestled beneath King’s Park. Struggling up the four steps from the car park into the reception area brought back memories of diving headlong onto the pavement in Sydney… perhaps the steps are a bit steep? Not sure why, but they did present George and me with a challenge. As I fought to get a grip, I became aware of several jaw-grinding diners silently watching me through the plate glass dining room window: it was hard not to giggle. The window protrudes alongside the steps and into the car park, so comings and goings provide diners with unscheduled entertainment. However, when in the dining room, the watchers become the watched as a parked row of V8 engines appears to be looking up hungrily at the hotel guests. Hints of Stephen King’s Christine perhaps?
Step-challenge completed, I made my way towards the discreetly head-bowed receptionist and in no time at all was immersed in a happy evening re-arranging the contents of George and attending to my laundry. There’s nothing like the hum of the washing machine to snap me out of nostalgic reveries! On this occasion the laundry room was located close to the hotel’s tiny swimming pool and garden, where I discovered it was relaxing to sit in the evening with a good book, whilst waiting for the machine to go through its cool wash cycle.
As this was my second visit to Perth, it really did feel like home.
Perth: Welcome Back
Saturday 29th November: a day of culture
I awoke to the sounds of the city – a combination of the constant flow of traffic, strangely heading out of town, and the raucous racket of the crow community. If I stay in Australia too long, I might miss the gentle dawn chorus of England.
Hungry, as ever, it was off to the infamous dining room to tuck into the more than adequate ‘continental’. The waiter was mortified by my abstemiousness (if only he knew). It seemed that the Trailfinders rate included the full cooked works, and he tried every which way to make me change my mind. This is probably the only occasion on my travels when I’ve actually turned down an offer of food. Whilst munching through my granola, I became aware of an odd one-sided conversation taking place behind me. Someone was asking questions, pausing and then commenting on what must have been the replies…but I couldn’t hear them. The companion must have had a tiny voice because we are only inches away from one another. As I got up to go I discovered that the one-sided conversation was indeed just that, one-sided. A lone chap was chatting to himself. Oh dear, I have a sneaking suspicion that I might be guilty, in a more subtle fashion, of doing the same thing. Let that be a warning.
Map in hand, I walked in to Perth, approximately fifteen minutes away, and down to the Swan River and over on the ferry to south Perth where I visited the Art Gallery of Western Australia which contains an eclectic and fascinating mix of artefacts in all media, including installations. I stood transfixed before a small painting by the Australian artist Frederick McCubbin entitled, Down on His Luck (1889). It depicts an out of work swagman sitting slumped on a fallen log; here were two fallen souls. The weight of the man’s despair is palpable and, unsurprisingly, this allegorical image has remained seared on my brain… where I expect it will stay forever more.
Continuing the theme of despair (only a tenuous link) the new build section of the art gallery connects to a 19th-century building which once housed the Perth Police Courts. The collection continues into this space and adorns walls which would once have witnessed sights considerably different to the sights of wandering tourists. The two holding cells seemed to chime guilty before the prisoner had covered the short walk to the courtroom where the dock was plain and austere (for the sinner) whilst the witness stand was carved and ornate (for the sinned upon).
After a long session of culture, I wandered and ambled and absorbed Perth life. I went down to the Swan Bells again, but felt no desire to further my skills as a campanologist instead I had a cup of coffee by the water. I then went in search of the old mint, but gave up a road intersection too early, as I later realised. And so decided that having walked about as far away from my hotel as was possible, whilst remaining within the city limits, it was time to turn around and head for home.
Close to the hotel I dropped into a bottle shop and bought a bottle of beer and borrowed a bottle opener. The cool drink refreshed me as I set about a stint at the keyboard sending emails home. Another very satisfying day had been ticked off the calendar.
Sunday 30th November: black swans on the Swan River
First task was to return the bottle opener before I then climbed Jacobs Ladder, a steep pathway just behind the hotel, to King’s Park where I wiled away several pleasant hours. Appropriately, the tree top walk provides you with a birds-eye panoramic view of Perth and the Swan River, on which floated the first black swans that I had seen in Western Australia. These elegant birds posed the same conundrum as the robins in New Zealand: how can a southern hemisphere bird seem so like its northern hemisphere cousin? Some more avian evolutionary research is needed.
Facing away from the water, the main approach to the park runs along Fraser Avenue, which is lined with handsome white-barked lemon-scented gums. These majestic trees provide a guard of honour leading to another of Australia’s spectacular parks. Here pathways meander up and down gentle slopes, water burbles from streams to ponds, children cartwheel on springy grass, and trees of every description provide both shade and colour. On a branch of a sparsely leafed specimen, a kookaburra obligingly cackled. Hooray! Another native ‘must see’ seen. Although technically in the wild, he was obviously used to strolling visitors, so he sat quietly, now mute, whilst I inspected him from all angles. Yes, there was no mistaking the fact that he was a member of the kingfisher family. He might be the national bird
emblem of New South Wales, but he looked very at home in Western Australia. My Australian wildlife tally was finally on the increase.
Leaving King’s Park – eventually – I looped my way around and back into town where I raided a hole in the wall for 300 dollars. This amount was rather more than I usually withdraw, but tomorrow I would be on the road again heading into the unknown, so this was my insurance. I spent a small portion of the money on a book, one that I had heard of but had never read: We of the Never Never. Reading it after my visits to the Top End and the Red Centre and now whilst travelling to the gold fields and the Wheatbelt region was entirely appropriate, as these are all areas of the ‘never never’, the outback. Written in 1902 by Jeannie Gunn, the book is a memoir of an eventful year spent with her husband on a remote cattle station in the Northern Territory just 300 miles south of Darwin. Jeannie arrived as a bride and left as a widow, her husband having died from malarial dysentery. Many of the incidents she described are horrific as they detail the battle between settlers and the indigenous people who were being starved off their ancestral land. But she was also meticulous at portraying life in a harsh and unforgiving climate – her writing voice is measured and calm whereas mine, under similar circumstances, would have come across as being high-pitched and increasingly hysterical.
My own short odyssey would take me across remote regions where the hardships that became Jeannie’s way of life would be familiar to the families who lived and worked there today. My planned route was to head east to Kalgoorlie-Boulder, south to the coast at Esperance and then back to Perth along the more densely populated coast via the Margaret River region. For part of the journey I would be out in the back of beyond: the ‘never never’. That’s why I needed the money! I hadn’t booked hotels or motels, instead opting for lady luck to join George as my travelling companions.
Travels with George Page 18