Through the Red Centre, Part II

Group assembled, we hit the road south out of the Alice Springs area. Natalie, the guide, told us we would need to “stop to pick up firewood” at some point. So I wasn’t surprised when about an hour into the journey we began slowing down and she announced it was time to get the wood. I was a bit surprised that we weren’t at a shop but were literally pulling over to “pick up firewood” directly from the dried bush on the side of the road. So the whole lot of us got out and picked at the chaparral until we had a reasonable quantity.

By the time we got into camp near Kings Canyon, it was getting on dinnertime so we got a fire going (I was disappointed we used a lighter, I was hoping for two sticks or a flint, ala Bear Grylls) and put our pot of spaghetti bolognaise on. The camp itself was modest but accommodating, with permanent tents, a kitchen/dining area and real toilets and showers — and signs reminding us not to feed the dingos (right), a few examples we saw as we were pulling in.

After dinner, I joined a game of Uno with the younger Swiss kids (younger in this case meant they were all in their early 20s), the Ukrainian and the Germans. You find out a bit about the world when Uno evolves into a drinking game. For example, Garoslav proudly boasts that he comes from a city near the Azov Sea that is the second-most polluted city in Ukraine. The Swiss girls were from German-speaking cantons and the Swiss boys were from an Italian-speaking canton and neither group was particularly kind in their words for the French-speaking cantons. And Luka, the English bloke, really does say “blimey!” on appropriate occasions.

I bunked with Patricio (the Italian), whose English skills were admirable for being entirely self-taught, if uneven. A couple evenings later, while we were having our unofficial farewell dinner (more on that later), Patricio asked how old I was. Not wanting to sound like the old fogey I was (turned out I was probably the oldest in the group), I subtracted a couple years and said “35.” He said, “You age well, I’m 35.” Patricio, kind-hearted soul he was, really looked about 40.

After an abbreviated night’s sleep, we awoke at 5 a.m., had some cereal and headed out to Kings Canyon. The canyon is probably most famous in the United Stated for the scene at the end of “The Adventures of Priscilla: Queen of the Desert,” when the drag queens hang out over the verdant edge and just “look fabulous.” Following a stern lecture to bring enough water for the hike, we began our quick ascent (which hit a 60-degree angle at one point) and climbed what felt like 1,000 feet before the trail evened out.

Circling around, we found the great view from “Priscilla,” where the canyon splits wide, a river making the undergrowth below a verdant green to contrast with the red desert. I don’t know who looked more fabulous hanging over the canyon — me (below) or Guy Pearce.
We continued our trek, this time to near the canyon floor, where we found what is euphemistically called the “Garden of Eden (right),” where the shaded, lower irrigated reaches make a small tropical zone, complete with 100-million year-old plant species and tropical birds in the middle of the Northern Territory desert. It was a refreshing stop after our hike and the Ukrainian even stripped to his underwear and took a brief swim in a river-created pool.

We completed the circle of the canyon, piled back into the bus and (after stopping at a picnic ground for sandwiches) headed off to Uluru — a three-hour drive, complete with a stop at a road house, where emus roamed free. After checking into our campground, we came into Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park, where we saw the monolith.

I supposed I was expecting I would have some sort of spiritual experience when I first saw the imposing monolith, but what I really felt was a sense of accomplishment in just getting there (and ticking off one of my “places to see before I die”). I also thought, “Dang, that’s an awfully big rock.” But mostly I was just happy I was there.
Because of the late hour (we would have much more time the next day), we just made a brief quarter-circle around Uluru, but that was enough time to get a sense of scale that a photograph just can’t impart. “Awfully big rock” is right. We also took in some Aboriginal art painted on the side. No one — neither Natalie nor the rangers — could tell us if the art was hundreds of years old or just painted on Wednesday.
Uluru at sunset is supposedly one of the most-inspiring sights in the world, as the red twilight accentuates the red sandstone monolith. Hundreds of tourists lined up with champagne in the viewing area, providing a spectacle in and of themselves.
But the same rain that would later inspire my “memorable thought” (as stated in part I) would cloud over the sunset — making the rock just turn dark instead of red. In compensation, we got the spectacular sight of a rare desert lightning storm.

Night two of our tour ended with a chicken stir fry in the campground kitchen followed by another few rounds of the Uno drinking game. I must say that my iPhone was a hit with the European kids, who admired both the technology and my eclectic music collection. There were complaints that I didn’t have enough Moby in my collection.

I turned into the four-man tent (I was the only person in it who couldn’t speak Italian) and fell asleep in the top bunk as wind and rain buffeted the sides of the tent into my sleeping area. Between the fact that I was extremely fatigued from my early arising that morning and that I had to get up at 4 a.m. the next day, I didn’t let it bother me.

To be concluded ...

Through the Red Centre, Part I

ALICE SPRINGS, NT, AUSTRALIA (Nov. 16, 2008) -- Every once in a while, one has a moment that -- even while experiencing it -- you know that you will remember it fondly in later years not because it was typical, but because it was so damn atypical that it stands out like a sore thumb.

To wit: the moment of zen I had earlier this morning:

"I'm walking home at 2 a.m. in a residential neighborhood in Alice Springs, Australia, in a driving rainstorm after a night of clubbing."

Let's dissect that statement. First, although I've been walking more recently, it's never at 2 a.m. -- I have a kid. Second, why would I be in a residential neighborhood in Alice Springs at 2 a.m.? Third, Isn't Alice Springs one of the driest places on the entire planet? Fourth, John? Going clubbing? Not since I was a teenager. But it all happened.

To understand all this, one has to regress three days when I got off the Ghan in Alice Springs. We arrived a couple hours early (easily making the one tight connection I had on this trip), so I had time to briefly tour Alice's downtown, go to a hostel and publish a blog entry.

Then at 11:15 a.m. sharp, Natalie from Adventure Tours grabbed me, a Scots woman (Kirsten) and four Irish "kids" (Paul,Sean, Eoin ["Owen"] and Ciara) to begin our "Just the Centre" tour. Already on the bus were an English couple (Luka [male] and Mieke [female]), a Swiss couple (blimey, forgot their names already) and Patricio (from Bologna). We filled out some paperwork, then stopped at the airport and picked up a couple German girls (Linda and ... I'll just say "Hannah"), a Brazilian girl (Joana), a Ukrainian (Garoslav) and a bunch more Swiss kids (Simone [male], Matteo, Angela and ... um ... "Heidi") before heading south out of Alice. A quick stop (two hours late) at the Mt. Ebenezer Roadhouse let us pick up two Japanese girls (er, "Team Japan") and our group was complete.

A lot of people think Uluru and Alice Springs are close to each other. Maybe in the grand, universal scheme of things, but it's a four-hour drive between the two and first we were going to camp at Kings Canyon. Going south along the Stuart Highway can be a long drag of brown dirt and scrub, and one might think it's even longer when one's stuck in a minibus' uncomfortable seats with about 20 strangers and a foul-mouthed guide who loves singing "Waltzing Matilda" out at the top of her lungs while driving. Not me, I was having the time of my life, sore butt and all.

(More to come -- it's time to turn in here. I've been up for 23 hours, minus a nap in the bus)

Trains, wallabies and buskers, oh my!

The Ghan, Australia's premier north-south train.

Wednesday morning I caught the Ghan, Australia's north-south counterpart to the east-west Indian Pacific, from Darwin. The Ghan was comprised of similar rolling stock as its sister train, but in a different paint scheme. There was also no video screen up to, which spared me from having to watch whatever "inoffensive" film the authorities on the train had to offer.

Heading south, past the container terminal and its road train assembly points, we got into the bush. As a well-watered part of Australia, the northern part of the Northern Territory was quite green. But amidst the verdant flora, I saw red-mud colored chimneys sometimes going eight feet or more into the air. Were they eroded rock structures? Petrified trees? A few minutes of thinking helped me realize what they were -- giant termite mounds (a fact later confirmed by the inane commentary piped over the loudspeakers). There were literally thousands of them within a short stretch, indicating to me that Australia must be swarming with billions of termites.

The train ride was smooth and we got to our first stop after only 3.5 hours, the small town of Katherine. The problem with Katherine was that the Ghan stopped for four-and-a-half hours, but the train station was six miles out of town. That meant that you either sat extremely bored for a long time in a small train station in 100-degree heat or you anted up for one of the offered "whistle stop" tours, some of which weren't cheap.

Opting for the Katherine Gorge tour, I paid in the dining car then boarded a motorcoach in the train station parking lot. We drove for about a half-hour to the nearby national park, where we would catch a boat down the Katherine River. The river meanders its way through a natural gully formed by a giant fracture in the Earth?s sandstone crust, leaving a smooth-flowing waterway underneath sheer rock cliffs that go up to nearly 300 feet high.

The Katherine Gorge.

The water was crystal clear, almost like Lake Tahoe, and we could see fish from our flat-bottomed boat as they went near the surface. The tour guide was quick to point out that we were safe as only fresh-water crocodiles generally inhabited this particular river system, and then not in great numbers. So very reassuring.

With the river so shallow in this, the end of the "dry" season, we actually had to disembark our boats at one point, walk about a quarter-mile, then re-board a second boat because the river was so shallow. (It should be pointed out that the draft on our flat-bottomed boat was about a foot and you could lean out and touch the water if you so chose.)

As we were making our way back, the guide pointed out a steel-mesh tube along the shore in the approximate shape of a coffin. "That's a salt-water croc trap," he said (trap at right). The boaters, who had been calm to that point pointed out he said there were only "freshies" in the Gorge. "Infrequently," the guide said, "a young salty will get chased away from his home by a larger salty and come up the river. We've only caught two in the past 12 years here."

As our tour concluded, we made our way back to the bus and I saw some movement in the nearby picnic area. "A family of kangaroos," I thought, moving over to take some pictures. Like so much of my wildlife shooting camera work this trip, my luck was bad -- the batteries on my camera died at just that moment. Sacrificing the batteries in my GPS unit, I reloaded the camera and was able to get some nice shots.

Feeling proud that I had finally gotten a decent picture of a kangaroo, I boasted to the British man I was walking next to. "Sorry mate, that were actually wallabies," he said, putting me down gently.

Sigh. Ah well, it's a hopping marsupial -- close enough. I even saw a couple of the dreaded cane toads (an introduced species that's causing all sorts of trouble) for good measure. Below: Finally, a picture of a marsupial.



The bus took us to downtown Katherine (all three blocks of it) so we could load up supplies. There was a group of young Aboriginal men sitting in the grassy median of the road, having a chat and otherwise doing nothing. "Not meaning to sound racist," said the man from Melbourne sitting next to me (although he was sounding racist), "but that lot is taking over the country."

As I walked through the small shopping center, I saw the familiar sight of impoverished young men and women with no jobs and nothing to do that I'd seen in various parts of the United States. Only the facial features were different. In fact, in front of me in line at the supermarket was an older Aboriginal woman buying a modest amount of groceries. She swiped her EFT card (it looked quite similar to a California welfare card) through the machine several times and was declined each time. With a sullen look on her face, she eventually apologized to the cashier and walked off empty-handed.

If I hadn't been in a hurry to re-catch the bus to the train station (I literally had less than five minutes to do so) I might have had the thought to offer to buy her groceries for her. With the exchange rate, it would have been about $20 to feed her and her family. I actually feel really guilty as I write this for not thinking it at the time.

Darwin also had its share of poor indigenous people, but I'm happy to say that not one of them begged from me. In fact, although I hate buskers (Claire can attest to that) there was a Aboriginal man singing the blues on a guitar Tuesday in Darwin that actually was pretty darn good and elicited a $2 coin from me.

If anything, the poverty among Australia's Aborigines might help me understand it better at home, although it won't necessarily improve my ability to help.

I'm now in Alice Springs, and will soon head off on a guided adventure tour to Uluru (aka Ayers Rock) for two nights of camping away from all things Internet. See you on the other side.

Robo-post: Rottnest Island adventure

(John is quite literally out of touch in the Outback right now, exploring Kings Canyon and Uluru, so here’s a previously unpublished post about my weekend activities.)
The view from the Rottnest Island gun turret.

Last Saturday, I took the train out to the port city of Fremantle — site of a major US Navy submarine base in the Second World War and still a major Indian Ocean port. Not that seeing “Freo,” as the locals call it, was a major destination. Once there, I got a ferry out to Rottnest Island (above), about 10 miles off the coast of downtown Perth.

The pleasant ferry ride over was courtesy of Oceanic Cruises’ catamaran. It was fast and scenic and the Indian Ocean was pleasantly smooth.

Rottnest Island was named in the 17th century by a Dutch explorer who thought the long-tailed creatures he saw hopping all over the island were actually giant rats (relax Claire, they were actually quokkas). I had hoped I would be able to see some quokka on the island, but the extent of the wildlife I saw were some long-tailed skinks.

Me exploring Rottnest Island.
There’s but one real way to get around the island, by bicycle (a rental for which was included in the cost of my ferry ticket). I hadn’t ridden a bike in probably 10 years, maybe 15. But it’s true, you never forget. As much as I’d like to say my recent exercise program helped (and it did a bit), the bike riding reminded me that I’m still not in the best of shape.

Rottnest is kind of a weekend holiday and day trip destination for Perth residents, and as such was crowded when I arrived, but some peddling away from the settlement left me very much alone.

In fact, I eventually found a little bay, complete with wave-breaking reef, on the north shore of the island. It was just me and a couple Dutch tourists (maybe they were claiming the island back) in a crystal-clear warm lagoon. I hip-waded out as far as I could in the tranquil lagoon.

During my Tour de Rottnest, I hiked up to the large gun turret that was key to the Fremantle defense during World War II because of the great view (seen above). The gun turret (below) wasn’t dismantled after the war because of the difficulty in moving the huge mass back to the mainland.


I spent about five hours on the island, only leaving because the bike rental expired at 4 p.m. and the last ferry left the island an hour later. I continued past Fremantle on the way back and got a very nice cruise up the Swan River to Perth proper, giving me great views of the city’s skyline from the river (below).


John will be back blogging from Alice Springs on Saturday (Australia time) about Kings Canyon and Uluru (aka Ayers Rock), barring any baby-eating dingos.

In Flanders' (tropical) Fields ...

An Aboriginal woman and her child watch during a moment of silence in Darwin's Remembrance Day ceremonies on Nov. 11, 2008.

DARWIN, Northern Territory (Nov. 11, 2008) — Today is Remembrance Day (Veterans Day in the United States), so my big activity planned on what was designed as a light day was to attend memorial ceremonies on the Esplanade.

So I headed out to the memorial to participate, only to find no one there. It turns out I was at the World War II memorial and the ceremonies were at the World War I memorial about 1 km up the road. Luckily, I heard the sound of taps on a bugle wafting down the road and hustled over just in time to catch the end of the ceremony.

Below: The ceremonial laying of poppies on Darwin's Cenotaph.


I put a poppy on my lapel, then spoke with a couple Aussie Vietnam Vets, whose participation in that war is often forgotten on our side of the Pacific. I snapped a few pictures and then retreated to the well air-conditioned mall for a Chinese food lunch.

Below: Plaques commemorating the defense of Darwin during World War II, including the contribution of the sunken USS Peary.

Prior to the ceremony I got a haircut at the local barber shop. The barber’s name was Gerry and he was born in Greece. Strangely, there was another American in the next chair getting his hair cut. He operates a small resort on a minor Indonesian island, but is closed for the summer so he’s staying down in Darwin. Probably a good idea, with the hostility some Indonesian radicals are showing right now after the execution of the Bali bombers.

Seeing as I needed a shave, I had Gerry handle that while I was there — especially since the whole package (including tip) was only about $20 USD with the exchange rate. Getting shaved by another person is fairly relaxing if you can get thoughts of Sweeney Todd or "Eastern Promises" out of your head.

I just got back from enjoying the pool, seeing as this is the only hotel on my trip that has one (although the hostel in Alice Springs has a hot tub). It was one of the few unheated pools I’ve been in that I did not need to take time to get used to the water temperature — and it was a salt-water pool to boot! After a quick swim, I sat reading on a deckchair, conscious of the really loud booming to the west. Luckily , I cleared out before the rain started.

Tomorrow I catch the Ghan train to Alice Springs, from which I'm off to Uluru and the real outback. I'll be incommunicado for a couple days. As for now, I'm off to eat some kangaroo!

It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity (and the heat too)

Darwin's old town hall survived Japanese bombs in World War II, but was destroyed by Cyclone Tracy in 1974.

DARWIN, Northern Territory (Nov. 10, 2008) — Welcome to the tropics. I’ve made it to the “Top End” of Australia, to Darwin, gateway of the North.

It’s certainly tropical, temperatures in the high 90s F, very humid and a light rain all day. The first taste I had of the weather was the descent down toward the airport, which came in through the remnants of a tropical thunderstorm. I’m generally a good flyer, but I held onto the seat a bit as the wind buffeted back and forth. At least I got breakfast on the 3.5-hour flight, something I wouldn't get on a comparable American flight. (Check out the "Sultana Bran" on the right!)

Compared to the bulk of Australia that I’ve seen, Darwin is lush and verdant. But with all the beauty, Darwin still seems to like to celebrate tragedy. For example, every 100 meters or so is a memorial to some structure destroyed by Cyclone Tracy.

If it's not a memorial to the cyclone, it's a memorial to the bombing that this city saw in World War II. I took a quick self-guided tour of the raided area and buried WWII oil tanks this afternoon.

The main bombing memorial in Darwin.

The bombing is supposedly a key plot point in Baz Luhrman's upcoming overly Oscar-hyped film "Australia," which I had hoped to see while I was Down Under. But thanks to the delay in shooting Harry Potter book seven's movie, the sixth movie, "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince," was moved to next summer and "Australia" -- originally scheduled for an early November release -- will now come out around Thanksgiving in Harry Potter's former release slot, after I'm already back in the States. Gee, thanks Warner Brothers.

La comida no es buena, mate!

Perth Sundays in the park include wiffle cricket.

(On Saturday I took a ferry to Rottnest Island and had a good time, although it physically exhausted me to the point I couldn’t blog about it. I’ll try to put together a robo-post that will come up next week while I’m incommunicado in the Outback.)

After a week in Australia, I decided on Sunday to do something entirely un-Australian.

After speaking with Claire and Ian in the morning, I took a three-mile hike (according to my GPS) in Kings Park, the sprawling expanse of wilderness on the west side of Perth’s downtown. Not that walking in the park is un-Australian – in fact, upon getting back to the park’s edges, I saw literally hundreds of Aussies having a Sunday picnic doing that most quintessential of Australian stereotypes: barbecuing (I didn’t see any shrimp on those barbies, though).

Bill Bryson claimed he saw some echidnas in Kings Park on his hike, but I just saw cat/birds and massive ants, both of which I have had enough of.

I arrived at the bus stop to get out of the area and after waiting a half-hour (I could’ve left sooner but again forgot I actually had to hail the bus), I boarded a bus but found that I only had a dollar coin and a $50 bill. Luckily one of the locals took pity an spotted me the remaining $1.30 I needed.

So where was I going? To uphold the Aussie spirit of sportsmanship, to watch a match of …. soccer. Soccer (or association football, if you prefer) is about Australia’s fifth-favorite sport, after Aussie rules football, rugby, netball, horse racing and go-carts, but I met a Perth Glory supporter on the bus. Matt was decked out in his soccer kit and helped me with the (largely already figured-out) directions to the match. He asked me some questions about US soccer ( er, “MLS,” “youth sport,” “Beckham”) and showed me to the ticket booths, where Ihad no trouble getting a good, cheap seat.

Matt and I met his friend, Chris (Claire has a couple cousins named Matt and Chris), and we headed in. Of course, we were right in the sun and I had short sleeves, shorts, no hat and had not brought sun screen. Luckily, I saw a family about three seats down lathering up and they were perfectly willing to share their sunscreen with me (I might not have even asked in the States).

The game itself was entertaining. Both teams scored an early goal, then the visitors dismayed the crowd by scoring one just before the half. A busy second half followed, and the home team thrilled the supporters by kicking a successful penalty literally seconds before time ran out. The game ended in a satisfying 2-2 draw (as satisfying as a draw could be, that is).

Aussies don't get all that excited about this sport, either.

Perth does one right when it comes to sporting event tickets, rather than just let the drunkards drive their way home after the match, all tickets are accepted as same-day fares on the local bus system. So I took the train to downtown and walked into the Northbridge district where I decided to grab a bite to eat.

I was standing in front of Zapata’s Mexican restaurant, debating whether to try Mexican food 10,000 miles from Mexico, when a black man also looking at the menu suggested I try it. I mention his race only because the gentleman — a US Navy retiree from Arizona — has lived in Perth for 14 years and said the location was the former site of Perth’s only soul food restaurant.

So I tried it, and should have figured out something was wrong when I wasn’t offered free tortilla chips. I had to order corn chips (incorrectly on the menu as “papas fritas”) and when they arrived they were a bit stale with little bite in the salsa. I was sitting at the end of what appeared to be a large picnic table and there was an Italian women and her son, about 10, sitting at the other end of the table. The waitress mangled their order (which I understood perfectly well) and, feeling bad, I shared my chips with them.

I ordered a combo with a chicken taco and shrimp quesadilla (although I think I received a shrimp enchilada) and both were passable, although strangely seasoned (it turned out the kitchen staff was from Ecuador and Chile). The sides were terrible though: the beans were dry and overdone and the rice was pale, thick like risotto, underdone and tasted like it was thick in cayenne pepper. Blecch. I won’t be going back there. (Above, John 10,000 miles from Mexico, but having tacos.)

Actually, since I’m waiting in the Perth Airport for my flight to Darwin right now, I won’t have to. I’m going to miss Perth, it was good to me. It’s a good, laid-back town.

It should be noted that despite checking in a good hour before my flight, the window seat I requested was gone and I’m going to be stuck in the middle seat for 3.5 hours. I have also not once had to show an ID, despite checking in a bag and going through security. Get on it, Australia.

Why Barack Obama owes the Borg

Barack Obama owes the Borg for his victory in the 2008 US Presidential Election. No, this isn't some rant about "mindless drones" or a comment that "Resistance is futile." Instead, it is a reasonable reflection that Obama's rise to power began at least partially because of the most famous resident of the Delta Quadrant.

Obama in 2004 was an Illinois State Senator running for the US Senate just four years after being handily defeated in a run for a House seat. Obama's Republican opponent in that 2004 Senate race was Jack Ryan, an up-and-coming investment banker who hoped to ride GW Bush's coattails into Washington. (Note that this Jack Ryan is not the Tom Clancy character.)

By all accounts, Ryan was running an intriguing race against the relatively unknown Obama. Then a couple muck-raking news organizations successfully petitioned to have Ryan's sealed divorce records made public. The most scandalous revelation was the Ryan's ex-wife claimed that Ryan had taken her to sex clubs in several cities, intending for them to have sex in public.

Humilated, Ryan withdrew from the race about 90 days before the election, forcing Republicans to come up with (after briefly considering Mike Ditka) an alternative candidate in perennial office-seeker Alan Keyes, who was trounced by 52 points. It's not known if Ryan could have beaten the charismatic young Obama, who catapulted his candidacy into national recognition, but it almost certainly would have been a closer race.

So who was Ryan's wife, who claimed he tried to force her to have sex in public? None other than Jeri Ryan -- aka Star Trek Voyager's resident Borg drone Seven of Nine.

A drive in the country

(A replica of the brig Amity, which brought the first English settlers to western Australia, on display at the maritime museum in Albany.)

ALBANY, Western Australia (Nov. 7, 2008) — Unless one is born in Panama, or maybe South Africa, they are unlikely to see two oceans for the first time on the same day.

But thanks to my excursion to Albany, on the south coast of Australia about 255 miles southeast of Perth, I got to see both the Indian Ocean and the Southern Ocean for the first time today. Yes, the Southern Ocean has officially been an ocean since the year 2000, at least according to Australia. You weren’t taught it in school because it wasn’t considered an ocean then.

Technically, what I saw was part of the Great Australian Bight, sort of Down Under’s answer to the Gulf of Mexico. So therefore on this trip I have taken two locations (Perth and the Great Australian Bight) off my list of the Earth’s geographical features/cities I wanted to see before I die. If you count Rawlinna, which I only half-jokingly would add to the mental list from time-to-time, that’s three, and I will soon see Darwin and Uluru (five and six). Sadly I will just miss seeing any part of the Gulf of Carpenteria.

(Other features on the list include the Kamchatka Peninsula, Marajó [the huge island at the mouth of the Amazon River], Munich in Germany and Table Rock [near Capetown] in South Africa.)

How did I get to Albany? I actually drove there! Yes, me, reputedly not the smoothest of drivers braving the “wrong” side of the road in a rented right-hand drive car. (I had some fun with the lady at the rental counter, jokingly asking her which side of the road I should drive on. But the best part was that she was actually named "Shelia!" Imagine, Aussie parents actually named their daughter Shelia ... ). I actually have been doing pretty well driving, although I tend to overcompensate when I feel I’m drifting to the left. I also have problems with two-laned traffic circles. I’m not worried about driving on the left when I’m thinking of it, but I do have bad premonitions of “realizing” with a start that I’m on what I think is the “wrong” side of the road and swerving into the right lanes. I think I’ll fight it.

The countryside was great coming down. There were, of course, the lengthy suburbs of Perth, which trailed into farmland, then forests of thick gum trees for hours on end, then finally farmland again before I got into Albany — site of Britain’s first colony in Western Australia (beating Perth, then the “Swan River Colony” by about three years).

Albany has a bit of old New England feel to it, not surprising considering it’s still a decent-sized port and was the key to Australia’s whaling industry until whaling was shut down starting in the 1970s. There’s also a spectacular war memorial just outside of town because Albany was the last place in Australia that many of the ANZACs who fought at Gallipoli in World War I ever saw.

(Below, a view of the Albany port and bay.)

I just had the best local lamb shanks at an Albany restaurant called Dylans on the Terrace. Frenched shanks with sweet potato mash and mint relish. MMMmmm. The restrained presentation was a bit different from the one I got in the small town of Balingup for lunch. I stopped in a nice little café and ordered the pork pie, thinking it was like a beef pie. The lady behind the counter said something along the lines of “Didja know that it’s English and served cold?” I hadn’t but decided to try it anyway. “Alright. And if you don’t like it, you can blame the bloody Poms.”

It was half decent.

Now for a drive back to Perth on a slightly different, more-direct route. I think I might see some kangaroos tonight up close, as they’re mostly nocturnal. I sort of drove by one today, but it was roadkill.

Update: Perth (Nov. 8, 2:40 a.m.) — The drive back at night revealed one more difficulty of driving on the left. When you just see a set of headlights directly in front of you, an American driver has to fight the urge to pull over the to right to feel safe. I also saw five wild kangaroos rather close, including one I pulled up about 10 feet from but ran away before I could take a picture. I also stopped briefly to take in the southern sky. The familiar northern constellations appear upside down! Orion and Taurus were both on their heads. I also finally saw Canopus, the second brightest star in the sky but too far south to be seen from the United States.

A place where birds sound like cats

When one thinks of Australian wildlife, one generally thinks of kangaroos and koalas. I finally saw a few kangaroos -- from a great distance about 7:30 a.m. Tuesday as the train approached Perth. They were really far away, foraging in a field, and I couldn't get a picture of them. I've been much too far west and in the wrong type of surroundings (generally desert or urban) to see any koalas.

What I have noticed are the birds. They don't generally look all that exotic (although I have seen some sort of cockatoo-like bird flying around), but their cries are sure different. Except for the globally-ubiquitous pigeons, most Australian birds I've noticed are very loud, with strange (to my ears) cries. One even sounds like a cat in heat! (Check out an mp3 of the BirdCat.) Below, a poor-quality picture of the bird/cats.
My most intimate encounter with Aussie wildlife occurred in Adelaide the other day. I was walking by a cemetery trying to get some pretty pictures when I saw some huge ants and began to film them (turn sound up!):

I was fine, but I thought my unintentional comic timing was great!

Off to rent a car and risk driving on the left side of the road ...

(Wow, this was my 50th blog post!)

Everyone's new best friend

Drunk Aussies take the "best" photos, and I mean that on both sides of the camera.

Generally when I'm abroad, I try not to draw attention to myself or specifically advertise that I'm an American -- I try to use the local slang and sometimes (to the huge chagrin of Claire) I even try putting on the local accent. Not that I have a problem with being an American (I certainly have never done the "pretend you're Canadian" schtick), but I don't like being treated like an "outsider."

Yesterday was an exception. While "being American" was key to my plan to get students at the UWA to speak to me, I hadn't intended to keep the advertising up into the evening. Circumstances dictated otherwise.

For example, I was waiting at a bus stop and the fellow there asked why I was taking pictures of the passing buses. I told him I was from out of town and was getting souvenirs. He asked if I was American, I affirmed and then asked how to get to Northbridge (a fashionable district of Perth). He said, "Mate, you get on any one of those buses you've been taking pictures of." How was I to know you actually have to hail the bus? Oh yeah, there's a sign (right).

The fellow bus-stop patron was named Brad and was catching a bus to the local rail station to get his trip south. He had the smell of beer on his breath and a six-pack of Carlton Draught in his bag. After giving some vague directions, he suggested I go to Mustang, because "It's an American Bar." I told him if I wanted to go to an American bar, I'd have stayed in America. He laughed. (He also asked if San Francisco was "full of poofts." "Yes it is," I said proudly.)

We finally got a bus (it's easy if you actually hail it) and I got to the Northbridge area, a modest three-block by two-block stretch of restaurants and night clubs on the edge of Perth's Chinatown. After taking a survey walk of the area, I slowed down outside a local steakhouse where the (Italian, Greek or Lebanese) owner was standing outside, reminding me quite a bit of Stanley Tucci in "Big Night." He invited me in, showed me to a table near the front window and I ordered the rib-eye, apparently an Aussie specialty. After indulging in a fine meal, I went to the counter to pay.

I spoke with the man at the counter, who asked if I was American (no fake accent tonight!). I affirmed again and soon had all three members of the wait staff -- one proudly showing me a copy of the night's extra edition of the West Australian (left) -- telling me how impressed they were at the results of the election.

As I left the restaurant, I looked across the street and there it was: Mustang, the "American" bar Brad had told me about. It was close and looked hopping, so I dropped my head in. Well, it was American in that it was crowded, played rock and roll had TVs with sports on all around. But when your TVs have Aussie rules football and soccer on, it kind of ruins the American effect.

I had wondered if there were any other actual Americans in the bar, when I saw a couple Obama Girls near the bar. If I wasn't hiding my nationality, these very drunk young women were absolutely flaunting it.

The other Americans in Perth weren't difficult to find.

I asked for a picture, they asked if I was American and when I replied yes I was given an unsolicited hug by the drunker of the two (and that was saying something) and a high-five by the other. They tried to tell me from whence they came, but their speech was too slurred and the bar was too loud for me to understand. Some of the Aussies wanted a picture of the Yanks in their midst, to which we obliged. I could've probably gotten a free drink out of the deal, save for the fact that I don't drink and wanted to head home because I was tired.

I had one final encounter on the Murray Street Mall, where a tiny (literally about 5-foot-0) man was selling the newspaper extra. I asked for a copy to make a souvenir and was -- for the umpteenth time in the evening -- asked if I was American. He congratulated me on having a new president (I had to explain that GW Bush is still president until Jan. 20) and engaged me in conversation. He immigrated from Italy 44 years ago (although he still sounds fresh off the boat) and was impressed that there were a lot of Italians in San Francisco.

Getting back to my hotel, I had intended to blog and surf the net, but collapsed after a busy day. The flip side of that was that I awoke at 6:30 a.m. today. (Below, the Perth skyline at night.)