Cairns & The Daintree: Part 2

Cairns & The Daintree: Part 1

Today & Tomorrow

It's a horrible rainy day in Adelaide today. I watched a tree fall onto moving car as I walked to work, stopped to call 000 and thanked whomever for it not being my car. When I got to work I confirmed my flight to Queensland for tomorrow morning. I don't even care that it's at 6.05am.

Flickr Member: Rui Palha


Flickr Member: Boggy C

A Taste of Latvia

As if I hadn’t experienced enough hospitality yet, I took up my penultimate invitation and flew to Latvia, just in time for Russian Orthodox Christmas. My lovely Russian friends with whom we had many a dumpling in Caen took me in from the cold in Riga, and I got to experience another part of Europe, where had I not had people to visit would otherwise not have been to.

One of the thing that sticks most about my time in Riga is the food. For memories’ sake, I asked Katja and Polina to write down everything we tried. Both the Russian and Lativan Lido’s took me back to my Sizzler days (circa 1992, but at 1971 prices), but introduced me to some of the tastiest food this side of the Eastern block.

I’ve done my best with the Russian, Latvian and ango-version spelling, and due to the dark, cost nature of the restaurants, I didn’t take any photos. These photos are all sourced elsewhere (click for links), but give you an idea of the cuisine, which is delicious.

борщ (Borshch) - traditional red soup with sour cream and garlic

Холодец (Holodiec) - boiled meat and jelly

Hvorost - fried pastry, similar to Italian crostoli

блины (Blini) - Russian pancakes

Mors - hot brewed cranberry drink

Soļanka - soup with garlic, sour cream, black olives and lemon

Pelēkie zirņi - Latvian grey peas with bacon and onion

Голубцы (Golubci) – cabbage leaf rolls with meat and rice

Драники (Draniki) – potato pancakes with sour cream

PS: Never can say goodbye...

As I said to my friends, it is merely See You Soon and not Goodbye, and I can’t completely leave Sweden without mentioning a little more of the mischief that went on there. It was just 4 weeks ago I arrived, but with everything I have done since, it could easily seem like an eternity. Airports come and go, and already I am 6 flights away, trying to remember everything that happened.

Coming from Copenhagen on the train, I busied myself with iPod Swedish lessons. Combined with my acquired knowledge of the language on my Summer trip, I thought I had it covered when I wanted to interrupt someone and ask for help. Thank goodness I stuck with “Prata du engelska?” (Do you speak English?) instead of what I thought was “Excuse me”. I almost told a complete stranger to “Shut the hell up” because håll käften and ursäkta sound quite similar (despite obvious differences in spelling), and I was really nervous.

Nevertheless, I arrived without offending anyone, and was already back where I left off with my Swedish friends. It was still Kalmar, but now it was Kalmar with snow. We threw snowballs at each other on the way to the student bar on Saturday night, and the big stone ball by the mall wasn’t rolling in its watery base any longer. Instead it was frozen, motionless, and I toyed with the idea of sitting it on vodka instead of water for year-round movement. Then I remembered I was in Sweden and was overcome with images of the local licking the fountain.

We didn’t stay in Kalmar long, opting for a cheaper 6 hour bus to Stockholm in preparation for Christmas and New Year. I was fortunate to have the hospitality of the Hedberg family in both Stockholm and Mariefred, where I spend my first White Christmas. I had sent my letter to the North Pole and was well and truly inundated with my wishes coming true. As previous photos have shown, flying down hills on a Snow Racer and trotting through the forest on horseback are a far cry from my usual BBQ in the park for Christmas, but it was a completely unforgettable experience that I don’t think I would have traded for the usual given the option.

Back in Stockholm, the snow-covered balcony was the perfect spot to watch the New Year’s Fireworks, all of which are completely legal, unlike Adelaide where even weak little sparklers were banned from outdoors at the risk of starting a fire in the 40-plus heat. We took a walk by some of the many waterways, where thin layers of ice and snow hid the waters and boats were frozen into position at their moorings.

So I’ve covered the snow, Christmas, New Years, and a few other things. The more I do, the more I want to remember every day - and yet the last few weeks have slipped by, and the journey is almost at an end. The pictures help tell the story, but they don't always cover everything. Now, I think it’s safe to move on to Latvia, which I did just over 1 week ago…

Let It Snow

The new year has begun but the adventure isn't over just yet. I could hardly stop writing just because I've left France - and much of the last three weeks of 2009 was the most memorable, probably due to recency, but more likely due to all this white stuff lying around.

I left Caen, made a stop in London and then flew to Copenhagen, where upon stepping out of the plane saw for the first time snow falling from the sky. I'd seen some dirty leftovers in Seoul last year, and a tiny bit in Paris when I arrived, but this was the first REAL snow. It was floating down, and as I made my way out of the Copenhagen metro, I stood and watched as it settled on my bag and on the street.

I happened to be in town at the same time as some very important people with their big private jets who were discussing something about how warm it is, but I think they must not have been spending enough time outside, because it certainly wasn't warm where I was standing.

A few days later, on a train to Vejen near the German border, I saw more of it than I had imagined. The train journey was supposed to take 3 hours but it took 6, and all the changes along the way that annoyed everyone else were my opportunity to get outside and play in the stuff. It was causing havoc but it was also something out of a fairy tale.

The sound that snow makes when you crunch it under your boots is hard to describe and even harder to imagine - it's kind of squeaky and crunchy at the same time. I imagine if you could turn the sensation of chewing alfoil into a sound, it would be similarly entertaining, without the pain. You can kick the snow drifts and send puffs of white into the air. You can lie down in it and wave your arms and legs about or you can roll it up and throw it at people. You can eat it (but not the yellow parts as I'm told) or just look at it as it fall silently, making even the ugliest things beautiful. It's a highly versatile and entertaining substance, and to think, it's just water...

I was in Vejen to visit my very first friend Chris, who moved to Denmark about 3 years ago. He and his girlfriend Kristina have a very good backyard for playing in the snow, so that's what we did. We searched the garden shed for good sleds but all we found was a few plastic bags and some old skis that just sank in the powdery snow.

We shared some hygge (to be explained), a Christmas table, and a few snowballs, and as soon as it had begun, Denmark was over. I had a date with a fat man and some presents in Sweden...

Another Year Over

I started this blog on the 1st of January this year with this graphical interpretation of my expectations for the year:

Life would be rosy, I'd have a pink scooter and my hair would always be perfect. I'd jet about Paris in designer couture and share some love as I went. In actual fact, I was both wrong and right all at the same time.

The skies have often been rosy - sunsets in Santorini and Seville are indeed impressive. But it's not always pink or purple or orange. Grey skies made their way in plenty of times, and some of those times were tough. It was dark and cold in UK, and the heavens showed no mercy in Malta. Just as life is not all sunshine and rainbows, neither was the year. But I took them all as they came, and some of those rainy days in Caen where I was shut up in my room with a cup of tea and a good book were equally impressive on my memories.

I never did get a pink scooter but I had a cool bike called Matilda who took me into town a few times, to the laundromat when the washing machine broke, to my friend's houses and to the supermarket. Dad fixed her tyres when she was feeling flat and she's still at Euro Res now, taking somebody else around town. I think I've covered every possible mode of transport, including countless flights, trains, and metro rides, taxis, buses, ferries and even a horse-drawn carriage. I drove on the wrong side of the highway in the wrong side of the car with a gear stick on the wrong side through the snow the other day - and I didn't die.

As for perfect hair, even that featured a couple of times. Fixed with lilies for the Prom, it grew to my shoulders until July. Then I got sick of it as I always do, and had it cut for free by a student in Edinburgh. In Champagne, after a couple of tasting at the cellars, I literally walked right into a salon and got my fringe back. Since then, I've been looking after it myself with a pair of hair scissors from Carrefour. I even earned a block of chocolate and two hugs for cutting other people's hair at home. Considering the price of haircuts in Europe, I could have charged more, but I'm just looking forward to a decent style again when I get home, for a decent price.

I learned that some days its ok for your hair to be awful anyway. When it's 40 degrees and all you have to keep cool is a spray bottle, you change your priorities. When it's -12 outside and you've got a furry hat and a scarf wrapped around your head, it doesn't matter how your hair looks when you finally make it to the supermarket.

That leads me to the designer couture. Despite visiting Paris 19 times this year, I did not stock up on Louis Vuitton or Hermes. If someone offered me a fancy leather handbag or a year abroad (they cost the same), I know what I'd choose. But that's not to say that I didn't buy anything - a pretty recent journal entry is testimony to that. By the way, of course I didn't manage to fit it all in my case, even with 4 Space Bags. 2.5 boxes were sent home, half of it was rummaged through by those that were staying, and currently 15kg of it sits in London awaiting my return. I've learned that most 'stuff' is just that - if you don't have one thing, you'll have something else, and sooner or later you're sick of it anyway, you throw it away, you lose it, it gets stolen, or just sits there collecting dust. The most important things I have now are already back at home - some are packed in one little box that's already arrived safely, and the others sit waiting for me to return.

As for romance, I had my share of dramas. Those who were involved know who they are and I'm not going to repeat it all now, but life doesn't always go according to plan. Sometimes things are great, sometimes they don't work out, you make mistakes and life keeps going. I have something very special now and I wouldn't give that up for anything. I've learned that those who love you will stick by you no matter what, and maybe even stop in to say Hi.

Having my parents visit and climbing the Eiffel Tower together will be something I will always remember. Going to Italy together to meet new family was so special for all of us, and meeting the families of those who are my new loves is something yet again. The friends I have made this year, those I have lived with, spent every day with, studied with - I'd leave everything I had at a charity store if I could just take these people home with me. Fortunately some of them will be at home when I get there, but others will stay on this side of the world. I've been welcomed into homes, fed, sheltered, and cared for like a sister or daughter by so many lovely people this year, and each of them have made my life brighter. Especially at Christmas, when I am usually surrounded by my family, my fears of homesickness were almost abolished - I was absolutely not alone and still felt as much love as when I am at home. The only thing I wanted was for everyone to come and join me in the snow!

As I said very early in the year, before I left, "being given the chance to study in another country is something that has an effect on you. You end up learning more about yourself than anything else." I stand by that now - but reflect with a strange sense of knowing, that none of my lessons were learned in a classroom.

Knowledge comes from doing, and I certainly did a lot this year.

And so tonight, on this last day of one hell of a year, I see the clock strike 12 with some of the closest friends I have made, not just this year but in my life. They have shared so much with me and I am beyond happy to be able to share this night with them. I miss everyone at home, but in just 2 weeks I'll be back where I started and will have thousands of photos to pour over, hundreds of Facebook statuses to keep up with, and a few regular phone calls to make.

Happy New Year to everyone, and may the next one be as good as this has been. I'd like to see it try.

On my Nose and Eyelashes

To Go or Not to Go?

That is the question, and one not usually answered with difficulty. We're studying Tourism again, and if I've got all the 'enabling factors' (desire, time and money) I don't usually think twice about jetting off to see some amazing attraction. But then I thought about this:

By the time I arrive home in January, I'll have been on 22 flights for the year. That means I'm responsible for about 7 tonnes of CO2. I have to admit, I feel a bit guilty. I don't go around burning piles of plastic bags and car tires, but I don't voluntarily neutralise my emissions with Ryanair either.

We were discussing this in class today, which brought us to the idea of a tourist tax. The idea that you should pay a tax for all the destruction you cause in your effort to see the Taj Mahal or the Acropolis or Stonehenge. As if the entry fees aren't enough already, some places have already implemented additional levies to try to undo some of the damage. Lots of churches in Europe ask for a donation for their upkeep, so why not everyone?

But here's the thing: when we go to visit ancient/fragile/historically significant things, we are contributing to their destruction. And not just those of us who scratch our name into them, or chip off a bit to take home, but every single person who goes there. The floors of Versaille, the canals of Venice, the stone of the Great Wall - they all feel the wear and tear over time. We can patch them up, or rebuild them completely, but then they're not really the same, are they?

So, our discussion moved to the concept of banning tourism. Do we shut down the ticket booths, lock the gates, and stop people going to these places to ensure they're not worn away to nothing? If so, if our only experience of these wonders is in books and films and photos, are they even worth preserving? Are we willing to pay to protect something we'll never see?

Oooh, I'm getting all uppity about the environment, sure, but seeing some the great wonders makes you wonder yourself - how much longer will they last? I'd like to think I saw Venice before it sank under the weight of over-fed tourists, but ideally I'd like to have seen it and be able to send my kids or grandkids to go see it too. I want it to last!

Do you think places should limit the number of visitors?

Do you think we should just keep going and worry about it when they're gone?

Or should we shut the shop, throw over the dust sheet and just wait till there are suitable virtual reality visits?

Food for thought. And seeing as food is low, I'll chew on this one for a while.

The Land Before Time

When I imagined my time in Europe, I honestly didn't consider Malta. I had bigger plans, bigger countries on my list but, as it happens, the world has a habit of changing your plans. I came, I saw, I dived (or dove?) and I loved it. I've talked about the diving, I've talked about the landscape, but there's a couple more things before I move on.

Firstly, the towns. Malta is a Scrabble player's dream - Xhagra, Marsaxlokk, Birzebbuga... If proper nouns were allowed, Xewkija would be worth 78 points - and don't get me started on the triple word scores.

I spent my days on Gozo, the smaller island. Frankly, it's a little behind the times, but in a good way. This is a place where 7-Up battles for top spot with Kinnie, and you can make up your mind about Best Soft Drink whilst enjoying a cheese or pea pastizzi for 25c. They complain that the euro has made everything three times more expensive, but they are still WELL behind France when it comes to expensive.

The buses are also cheap. Super cheap. As in, you can get around for 47c, and why wouldn't you when it's in one of these babies:

I really want to highlight the buses. Coming soon to a tea towel near you, these buses definitely emphasise the journey over the destination. Malta has several bus types that are no longer in service anywhere else in the world, and the operation model dates back to a system introduced in 1977. The bus authority determines the schedules, which are then operated by the private bus owners, who remain responsible for the condition and upkeep of their buses - and believe me, the Maltese know how to pimp a ride.

The Virgin Mary looks down from her spot above the windscreen, right next to framed photos of previous buses. They're all named, and they convene in Valetta around the enormous fountain like the cool kids hanging out at the mall.

We took one from the ferry into Valetta, the capital of Malta. Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that the capital city has got to be a little more modern, a bit more 'with the times'. Well, it's not. But that's not a bad thing - life moves at a different pace, which is about as quick as ice cream melts.

We walked around Valetta for most of the day, stopping to see the noon canon fire over the bay, and again later at the snack bar for an icy cold can of Kinnie (think creaming soda with orange peel and spices). As you can see, Valetta is not a flashy place. Understated is a suitable term - it's not about to waste time with unnecessary pomp and glamour. It's certainly no Hotel Ritz, but this place on Gozo is:

Malta boasts no shortage of local characters. Here's a couple of my favourites:

I walked past this gentleman in Valetta, and couldn't help but smile. He smiled back, and I continued walking. A way up the street, I stopped and looked back. He was still looking at me, grinning. As if he had a thought bubble protruding from that hat, I could tell he was thinking "She totally wants my picture." He was right. I went back and asked if I could take his picture and he grinned even more. "Bingo," went that second bubble.

This dashing gent was parked by the Inland Sea on Gozo. I wasn't going anywhere near a man wearing two shades of red simultaneously, especially red corduroy, so I took to stealth approach and pretended I was photographing the van. Sneaky.

So there it is, my autumn vacation in Malta. 2 weeks well spent, and now I'm qualified to see the world up to 18m below sea level. Don't discount this place, it really is a different side of Europe and a welcome break from the account-draining streets of Paris or Rome. I loved it, and I think you could too.

Gone Divin'

It's the holidays. Again. Already. One thing's for sure, this exchange business is hard work.

I took the liberty of beginning on Tuesday instead of Friday, and have arrived in Malta to the sun, sea and my sweetheart. And this time, I think I have taken every available mode of transport to get here: tram, train, metro, bus, airplane, van, ferry, car. Did I miss something?

Grant was waiting for me at the port. The Hilux bounced along what was more potholes than road, and lead me not into temptation, but delivered me from evil. The mini-bus ride from the airport was evil. 100km-per-hour-through-Valetta-with-no-seatbelts kind of evil.

Later, I was tempted, by fruit salad on the terrace. We looked out on the yellow limestone of Marsalforn, Gozo, and at the risk being immediately dumped, I mentioned that the buildings made me think of Price of Persia 2, a relic of my 2-dimensional gaming 90s nerdy stage. Commander Keen, anyone? I wasn't dumped. It remind him too. Ah, the good ol' days.

Source: Symbian Star

But it was not the Arabic-esque architecture I'd come for. I sought a totally different landscape, and before lunchtime the next morning, I'd been wedged into a neoprene suit and stuck underwater with 6kg around my waist and another 12kg on my back. It's a new experience, and one I will elaborate on later.

But for now I got to run, curry is on the stove and it needs eatin'.

Postcards from Dublin