Kindness of Strangers

Thursday, October 23, 2008

When you embark on a journey of this magnitude, you quickly learn your travel preferences. What I’ve learned about myself as a traveler in three continuous months of travel would have taken me years to figure out under normal conditions. For example, I’ve learned that I’m not really into the outdoors, unless it involves flat, short walks in cool temperatures. I am fascinated by places that retain their indigenous culture in the face of the modern world, and I adore good food and wine. I hate hot and humid weather. Maikael prefers ancient sites and physically challenging conditions, enjoys natural beauty, and doesn’t mind the heat. I imagine that all of these realizations will inform our future decisions about where we travel, and what we’ll do when we get there.

Western Australia was the perfect location for us, providing experiences and sites to suit us both. We decided to travel to this largely untouristed part of Australia after reading Bill Bryon’s In a Sunburned Country, an account of his travels across this vast country. We were enchanted by his descriptions of the tall tree forests that this region is renowned for. Great stands of karri, marri, jarrah, and tingle trees dominate the landscape, the only place in the world where these trees grow (the only trees bigger than a karri are California redwoods). We based ourselves in Pemberton, a drowsy logging town whose main street boasts the requisite tearoom, butcher shop, and IGA grocery store, but not much else. The area is an arborist’s dream, with clutches of national parks hugging the perimeter of town. Rolling green hills stretch as far as the eye can see, resembling nothing of the dusty red bush that most of us associate with Australia.

On our first day we drove the Karri Explorer loop, taking us through dense forests of native trees. I was surprised that we were driving through eucalyptus trees (known here as gum trees), whose canopy looked nothing like the sage-colored wafer leafs favored by hungry koalas that I usually associate with the species. The karris shed their bark each year, leaving mounds of leathery strips at their base, revealing a smooth, silvery trunk. They are beautiful, and their spicy perfume is unmistakable as you pick your way through the undergrowth, which looks like something out of a prehistoric tableau. A lush carpet of verdant tropical plants blankets the feet of these grand trees; I kept expecting a dinosaur to come ambling out of the forest at any moment. Instead, we hear nothing but silence and the melody of brilliant birds: green cockatoos striped red and blue dash through the canopy, as electric blue wrens flutter through the undergrowth.

Admittedly, my favorite part of the Explorer loop was the interpretive information along the way. By tuning our radio to a certain station, we could listen to stories about these great forests, including a storytelling session from a phenomenal Aboriginal storyteller. While the official history goes that the Aborigines preferred the coastal areas for their abundance of food sources, the storyteller says that they avoided these forests due to a belief that evil spirits lurked in the dark depths. When I’m not listening to the radio I can read boards from the fictional diary of the fictional forest ranger, who I can only describe as a very sensitive man who enjoys long walks through the trees and tuneful bird calls.

After familiarizing ourselves with the region, we spent our second day taking walks through Warren and Bedelup National Parks. It is springtime here, and the forest is awash in a riot of wildflowers that create the most spectacular smells. Fresia grows wild, a heavily perfumed scent that hangs heavy in the air. Everything is clear and bright. Sunlight pierces the dense canopy, fingers of light combing through the silvery leaves, casting delicate shadows over the landscape. Maikael decided to climb the imposing Bicentennial Tree, chosen during the commemoration of 200 years of European influence in Australia for its incomparable views from the top of the valley below. There are a series of fire lookout trees in these deep woods, where rangers can mount a spiral “staircase” of spindly metal rods rammed into the tree’s trunk, culminating in a lookout platform, to spot potential bush fires. They are also open to tourists to climb, which Maikael bravely attempted, ascending 75 meters (about 225 feet) above the leafy canopy without the assistance of any ropes, guides, or safety helmets. A group of elderly Australian tourists from Adelaide congregated at the base, marveling at Maikael’s monkey-like prowess and making him a minor celebrity in these woods.

The coup de grace of our time in the trees was journeying to Walpole for the famous Tree Top Walk. Built in the clutches of a great tingle forest, the Walk is designed to bring visitors into the canopy through a series of walkways created to simulate life in the treetops — they even sway in the breeze. The tingles only grow in a 6,000 hectare area, and their lifespan is roughly 400 years. First they grow tall and then wide, and despite their massive size (upward of 75 meters), their roots only grow a meter long and a meter deep from their base. Walking amongst the trees on the boardwalk below, I noticed the ragged licorice bark colored by an obvious wildfire; I was surprised to learn that the wildfire had raged through the area not last year but in 1937. The spindly upper branches were also caused by the fire, which swept through the canopy at a greater rate than underfoot, wiping out the vegetation permanently.

While the trees are lovely, I am, again, most interested in the construction of the Walk. There was once a tingle tree so large that a car could be parked in the base of its trunk. (Prisoners being transported through the area also camped overnight in the shelter of these huge trunks.) Due to the constant trampling of its shallow root system, the tree eventually fell, highlighting the need for a low-impact way to enjoy the trees. The Walk was fabricated off-site and then constructed using no cranes or helicopters to avoid damage to the delicate forest.

Still, I am not much of a tree person. Lucky for me, the region is also known for its exceptional food and wine. Between Margaret River and the Pemberton area, we spent hours dipping in and out of wineries, sampling the local fare. The area is famous for its chardonnays and cabernets, and we tried sips of delicious vintages. We quickly learned that the best food and ambiance was to be had at local wineries, which is where we ate most of our meals. Local spring lamb, succulent duck, marron (a type of freshwater crayfish), trout, truffles, and cheese dominated the menu, along with farm-fresh fruits and vegetables. I nearly fainted at the chicken fettuccine, the poultry having been smoked on-site. I ate a salad so fresh that it tasted as if had marched off the fields moments earlier: crisp troops of lettuce, bright batallions of crunchy carrots, squadrons of garden-fresh sage and thyme. Many a country road ended in cideries, avocado or apple stands, and herb farms boasting lavender and rosemary scones with local cream and jam for afternoon tea. And all of this to be enjoyed in the sunny gardens and shady vineyards.

Trees or no, I was in heaven.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Today we hit the double digit mark: we’ve been on the road for 100 days, which seems somehow momentous. Just as presidents give an update after their first 100 days in office, we’ve decided to give our own “state of the union” address. How are we faring? What have we learned? What have been our favorite and least favorite parts of the trip? How will our lives be different when we return?

Surprisingly, Maikael and I share many of the same favorite experiences. We both loved Portugal’s Douro Valley and Turkey’s Cappadocia, places we plan on returning someday soon. Maikael was captivated by Pamukkale and the Bedouin camp we stayed at in Jordan. We both enjoyed Bhutan; Maikael for the hikes to cliffside monasteries, and me for the cultural aspects. The place I have felt most alive is Bali; we both agree that the highlight of that experience was the Ubud Bungalows Think Tank. Maikael resonates most with Australia. But the most memorable aspect hasn’t been the sights but the people we’ve met by chance along the way. Maikael put it best when he said that, from these people, we’ve been given the gift of exposure to the multitude of ways in which one can live their life.

We are very fortunate that nothing calamitous has happened: we still have our passports, our money, and our bags (insert knocking on wood here). There hasn’t been a single worst experience, but we hit our lowest point in India, when everything just felt too difficult. Another tough aspect of the trip has been the ongoing stress and worry. Contrary to popular belief, we are not living a Carnival Cruise commercial. Juggling our household, ongoing trip planning, website, and Maikael’s career has been more difficult than we could have imagined. It’s hard not to bicker when you’re tired and constantly adjusting to new things. We’re doing our best and learning not to be too hard on ourselves, or each other.

We’ve both learned a tremendous amount about the act and art of traveling, and will never travel in the same way again. We both agree that seeing less usually amounts to a richer experience. We are learning to take a proposed itinerary in the Lonely Planet and cut it in half for the time allotted. I’ve learned that I’m quite content doing nothing: if I can eat good food and meet interesting people, I’m genuinely happy. (Belgium is next on my list after meeting a lovely Belgian couple in Bali who told me that there are French fry “huts” on every block.) I could do without long, crazy, hot hikes. Packing light is not only doable, it’s preferable. We’ve both become braver and more assertive through this process. I would no longer hesitate to travel to a non-English-speaking country: while it’s a challenge, it’s very achievable. I know how to travel smarter (always know when your major holidays fall). I’ve learned that tuning into my intuition rarely fails me. Most importantly, I’ve learned that travel, like life, is a personal experience. I take recommendations of places to see and things to do with a grain of salt, because how another person experienced it is bound to be different than my own.

And what have we learned about ourselves? How will our lives be different when we return? We both feel a willingness and confidence to try new things – that bathroom remodel we’ve been dreading for years seems like no big deal after buying train tickets in India. Maikael and I have also come to realize how much our lives had become dictated by habit and routine. In many cases, we spent our time unwittingly doing things that we didn’t even really like. I doubt we will resume our subscription to cable TV after we return home. We would both like to be more intentional in how we shape our careers and our free time. I would like to start some new endeavors and get into the best shape of my life, starting yoga or another spiritual practice. I’d also like to get back to the things that used to make me happy: taking dance classes, singing, performing. My creative self desperately needs to be rekindled.

At the end of the day, we are generally happy and healthy. We have higher highs and lower lows than we are accustomed to in our everyday lives, but we are never, ever bored.

We posted our first batch of photos from Western Australia to the appropriate album.  Enjoy, mate!

Sunday, October 19, 2008

We are well into our Western Australia tour, having begun in Fremantle, a hip suburb of Perth, then winding our way south through the wine valleys and tall tree forests that the southwest region is famous for. As I walked around Fremantle that first day, I was struck by a feeling of familiarity that I couldn’t quite place. The tidy mom and pop storefronts, an historic city hall, a small park, shopping arcades around each corner. Then it hit me: I had walked into 1950s Main Street USA. Not an exact version, but an alternate reality. It’s as if Ward and June Cleaver moved out and the hipsters moved in, leaving the buildings behind. The town isn’t trapped in time; there are trendy hair salons, chic boutiques, and more upmarket coffee shops and juice stands than you can shake a stick at. But I got a glimpse into what the communities of the US would look like today had the megastores never encroached. I finally understood what my dad has been nostalgic for my whole life.

On our first night in town we ventured out for dinner at 8 pm, expecting this trendy town to be abuzz. Instead, the streets were completely deserted, the full moon casting a spooky glow over the Gold Rush-era buildings. Where were all the people? We breezed into a local fish and chips restaurant and were shocked to learn that they were closed. The rest of the town had followed suit, and we were left with one choice, a hip brewery that didn’t seem to be closing its doors anytime soon.

The next day we headed south, weaving our way through towns with names like Yallingup, Mandurah, and Cowaramup. We stopped for a fish and chips lunch at a cozy dockside restaurant in Bunbury (we were getting our fish and chips one way or another), and discovered the same charming town planning. A bakery, cafes, banks, a hardware store, and a bookstore lined the short blocks, nestled between stores selling trinkets and souvenirs. We worked our way south along the coast, passing rolling green pastures dotted with herds of lazy sheep and huge stands of wild calla lilies. Sometimes the backdrop was celery stick trees growing out of great hills; other times the cerulean ocean loomed in the distance. Were it not for the palm trees and Birds of Paradise lining the roadsides, I could have sworn I was in the UK.

We stopped for coffee at a beachside cafe; it was 4:15 pm, and they had already closed for the day. Undeterred, we walked down the faded boardwalk, taking in the sweeping sandy beach that disappeared into the aquamarine water. We reached our day’s destination, Margaret River, around dusk. The heart of a major wine producing region, the golden light fell softly over lush fields of grapevines. We zoomed down country lanes, shaded by tall trees who arched their great backs over the roadway, kicking up heaps of dust in our wake. Known for superb food and wine, we ambled around town in search of a great dinner. We were bowled over: most entrees ran $25 – $30, and most restaurants were closing their doors by 7pm. Even the grocery store was shutting up shop.

By the time we made it to Pemberton a few days later, we had grown wiser about business hours. Most shops are open 9-5. Wineries and attractions close by 4. Bars don’t stay open much past 8 or 9. “Why do things close so early?” we kept asking the locals. No one seems to think these hours are unusual, and some grow defensive at the suggestion that there’s something wrong with this way of doing business. “It’s not Europe, you know,” one woman bristled. The prevailing attitude seems to be, why do you need to be out past 6? You should be at home eating dinner! Of course that’s hard for a tourist to do, but I guess that’s the point: these are truly small, everyday towns, not tourist havens. Everyone plans their day around store hours, which is what we’re learning to do.

It’s easy to glorify the quaintness of these small towns while, in the same breath, criticizing their hours of operation. I’m beginning to understand that the limited hours are what helps to keep them quaint. Most are family-run businesses, whose staff is extremely limited. They need a break to. While I can moan about the one grocery store closing at 7pm, I am delighted when I step foot in its doors. Despite its diminutive size, nearly all the produce is locally grown. Instead of shrink wrapped packages of funghi, crinkly paper bags simply marked “mushrooms” fill the stands. Bins of local walnuts abut the aisles. Everything in the meat and cheese case is local, and the lion’s share of dairy product is from Margaret River. This, I am happy to say, is the flip side of staying small.

Saturday, October 18, 2008

We’ve stayed in our fair share of hostels on this trip, which have surprised us in their variety. In many cases we’ve stayed in historical homes in quiet hamlets, and have chatted with retired couples, families, and middle-aged travelers. But it was only a matter of time until we stayed at a real backpacker’s youth hostel. You know the kind I’m talking about: a congregation of shirtless twenty-somethings (at least the dudes) on journeys of enlightenment, who employ self-rolled cigarettes, techno music, joints, and beer as the trusty tools of their trade?

This was the scene that greeted Elizabeth and I upon check in at the Old Firestation Backpackers hostel in Fremantle, a quirky and artistic suburb of Perth. We had just survived a three and a half hour overnight flight from Bali, followed by a few hours of sleep in the airport terminal, and finally negotiating our rental car on unknown streets. As a former fire station, the building has a beautiful, historic air, with a surprising number of nooks and crannies that would make M.C. Escher proud. We quickly checked in, dumped our luggage, and headed into the town.

Our time in the downtown, reminiscent of Main Street USA, was productive enough. Half-drunk due to lack of sleep, we exchanged some books, purchased toiletries, Elizabeth bought a new T-shirt (she hated the shirt she was wearing so much, having served its baggy purpose through the Middle East, she had the store throw it away), and got haircuts. My lack of mental facilities peaked at lunchtime, when I took minutes to decide whether I wanted bread with my pasta dish. We made a beeline back to our room for a bit of sleep.

Waking up, we couldn’t help but notice the faint sound of CCR’s “Bad Moon Rising” and the sound of clinking glass penetrating our walls. Leaving for dinner, we saw a small group of men gathered at a large picnic table, conveniently placed outside our door. Surely, we thought, they will be gone by the time we get back.

Upon returning, the small group had morphed into a brigade training for alcohol nuclear war. The music had reached a fever pitch, with European techno blasting from a karaoke machine. Two men were engaged in a fierce drunken battle of table tennis. We were outnumbered, so we stealthily entered our room and got ready for bed. Elizabeth, clearly disgusted, exclaimed, “I’m too cute for the Old Firestation,” and then jammed her iPod headphones in her ears, cranked up the volume, and promptly went to sleep. Taking her lead, I grabbed some earplugs, fell asleep immediately, woke up realizing I had never inserted the earplugs, put them in my ears, and fell asleep again.

You may never guess it, but I enjoyed blissful sleep that night. Even twenty-something backpackers have their limits, I suppose, and they finally retired to bed in the late hours of the night. I was so exhausted, it didn’t matter anyway. The morning was overcast and eerily quiet, except for the random squawk of a seagull. I stepped outside the room, and saw a vision of the post-apocalypse with copious empty bottles littering the table and floor. The only signs of life were the clean-cut and responsible-looking ones who we had never laid eyes on before.

I made my way to an oddly placed bathroom entitled “The Philosopher’s Shower.” Inside, someone had painted an “Under the Sea” theme, replete with mermaids and a variety of colorful fish, but the centerpiece was that of a pair of enormous black-rimmed “Philosopher’s” spectacles, much like I imagine those described on that billboard in the Great Gatsby. Like many public restrooms, former guests had obviously spent time in this bathroom and pondered the world only to scribe their wisdom on the wall. Comments ranged from the inane, “Check out ya big ride!”, to the surprisingly deep, “I have pondered the world’s problems and I concede…I am at a loss.”

Elizabeth could not wait to check out, and we quickly packed so we could start our big drive south. Handing our keys over to the Italian desk clerk, he asked how our stay was. I was surprised to find that this was a hard question for me to answer. In truth, there were a few other guests in the over 30 crowd, and the 20 year olds I talked with were uniformly nice and interesting people. I muttered something about it being a bit noisy, but that earplugs helped. He looked truly apologetic, but I quickly asked how he likes the hostel life.

“I love it!,” he quickly responded. “I live in a beach side apartment,” he conceded, “but our guests regularly live here from six months up to two years. We even had a guy who lived here for three years! Personally, I wouldn’t want to live in any other place in the world.” He spoke with such conviction, how could I not believe him?

Friday, October 17, 2008

I was sitting in the Perth airport, having just spent two hours sleeping in the fetal position on a row of a leatherette chairs. The drool at the corners of my mouth had barely formed a crust when a woman in an Indiana Jones-esque hat appeared in front of me.

“Good morning!”, she said. “Have you just arrived? Do you know where you’re going?”

My internal radar immediately began blinking. “Oh god,” I thought, “here we go.”

I smiled. “No, I’m fine. I’m just waiting for my husband. He’s getting something to eat upstairs.” A bald-faced lie, but self-preservation was the key.

“Do you know how you’re getting from the airport to your next destination?”

I suddenly noticed a stack of leaflets in her hand. She was clearly from a transportation company and was going to try to sell me a seat on her Day Tours of Perth bus. Some things never change, I thought.

“No, we’re good. We’ve hired a car. We’re not even staying in Perth. We’re picking the car up in Bayswater, actually, and then we’re driving down south. To Margaret River. So, yeah, we’re all set.”

“Brilliant. It’s just that sometimes people arrive at the airport and they don’t know where they’re heading or how to get there, and I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

It was then that I noticed the pin on her shirt, identifying her as a representative of the Western Australia Tourism Board. She hadn’t been trying to sell me anything; she was genuinely trying to help. I have grown so accustomed to vendors approaching me that I’m immediately suspicious of anyone who appears innocent and concerned for my well-being.

“Welcome to Australia – and to Perth! Have a wonderful visit!”

After traveling through the developing world for the past three months, stepping foot in Australia is as close to being home as I’ve felt since we left Albuquerque. Had I arrived in Australia direct from the States I’d be focusing on the all the differences between the two places. For example, Australians can drink just about anyone in the world under the table. When we disembarked the plane at 4:30 in the morning, a great mob of people practically ran from the plane to the duty-free store, where bottles of alcohol began flying from the shelves. When I went to buy a muffin at a cafe in the airport, a sign with an itemized list of 15 rules related to alcohol consumption and regulations regarding serving intoxicated guests greeted me. But all I could think was, “Man, I’m glad I can read that sign!”

Sociologists say there are more within-group than between-group differences, and after traveling through the developing world for the past three months, I am focused on the similarities between the US and Australia. Bathrooms have toilet paper, and I do not have to squat over a hole in the ground. I no longer have to clamp my mouth shut when I take a shower. I can have complete conversations with people. When I order a chicken sandwich in a restaurant, I know exactly what I’m going to get. I couldn’t help but marvel how orderly the flow of traffic was as we drove from the airport to Fremantle. I got excited when we climbed into a taxi cab and the meter automatically flicked on. The safety procedures on the airplane were the most extensive I’ve even encountered, explaining not only what I needed to do, but why I needed to do it. I guess you could say I’m experiencing a minor dose of reverse culture shock as I make my way back into the Western world for the next two months.