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Please note that this was written in retrospect. I kept a tiny diary that prompted my memory, but it was mainly written whilst trying to adjust to rural life in the small town of Omarama. It is outdated, but a nice record for me anyway. Although I explored Cairns first, that entry is still only half complete (it's only a year late!!)
By the time Sunday arrived I had well and truly had enough of the rain and despite my firm belief that there was no point in getting upset about the weather while travelling as you cannot change it, it was beginning to get me down and I was losing my motivation to explore and was looking forward to Sydney. I had a relaxed last day, chilling at Tropic Days for a while (which I was feeling rather sad about leaving – it had become home in the way that temporary accommodation can whilst travelling). I then headed into town and wandered along the promenade (in the rain). The Kiwi phoned and we had a lovely, long chat that left me grinning like a teenager in love. I walked along in the rain and it no longer bothered me as much.
I was all packed up to leave and said goodbyes and exchanged email addresses while waiting for the bus driver. When he arrived, I realised I was in for a bit of an adventure. He was a big, loud Queenslander who you cannot help but like, despite all your reservations. I was the only passenger and heard about the huge accident he’d been in that had stopped him being able to run his own business as some or other maintenance person and left him with a huge payout, but in a lot of pain and having to give up his business and drive the airport bus. He told me all about how his pain had affected his moods and his moods his marriage. Not for the first time in my life I questioned what it was about my face that made people want to tell me their problems. He then explained that he was as high as a kite on painkillers and I stopped being concerned about my “tell me your problems” face and more concerned about getting to the airport alive. He was also a typical Aussie in that he’d married and had kids young and focussed all his energy on buying and paying off a house (the exact lifestyle that all my London Aussie mates were either fleeing or petrified about returning to). He told me that he thought I was doing a great thing travelling while I was still young (he thought I was 24 – but then again he was on strong painkillers!) Despite the very differing life choices he had made, he made me really feel that I was doing the right thing and made me feel very positive and privileged that I have chosen to see the world.
I got to the airport in plenty of time and sat around thinking about when I had last passed through Sydney. Sydney holds a very special place in my heart as it was my first experience of independent travel. I still remember so clearly when I spent a night there before heading to New Zealand on exchange. It was the first time I had travelled by myself as an adult. The people I spent the night with took me on a drive past the Opera House and Harbour Bridge. I still remember that feeling of awe and wonder that it actually looked exactly like the pictures. That magical feeling of “WOW! I am seeing the world!” The feeling that you are the first person to ever experience this new place, this place you have seen so often on TV and in books and that you cannot believe you are seeing in real life. This feeling is still there sometimes, yet diminishes as you get more and more spoilt with the places you’ve seen and I still remember that first time fondly. I wonder, as I await my flight, if it really is as beautiful, as awe striking, as I remember it or whether my experienced eye will put that initial magic down to youth and inexperience (I fear it will and hope desperately that it won’t!)
I arrived in Sydney that evening and took the airport shuttle which dropped me off straight outside my hostel. The streets were packed full of people which seemed rather bizarre for a Sunday night until I was reminded that it was Easter Monday the next day and hence majority of the world who actually worked, were excited. What a change this was from Tropic Days. The hostel was clean, friendly, but very, very big. You felt like one of very many backpackers who had travelled in and would too pass out. I got up to my room and starting chatting to a very friendly, very young girl. I was pretty tired and was going to have an early one in preparation for my mission to see my well remembered Sydney view. There was suddenly a knock on the door and these two guys marched in with a bag of goon (papsak for South Africans, the bag inside box wine for others). They topped up full glasses and requested we down it. With only a brief moment of concern about taking alcohol from strangers (sorry mum) I had a sip, ok, a mouthful. It was dreadful. This is a staple drink for backpackers in Aussie I later learn. They were the promotion team who for free accommodation went around trying to lure backpackers to the bar next door – the Scary Canary. My young roommate and I twisted each others’ arms and headed down. We were immediately stopped at the door and ID was requested. I, logically, presumed that they were asking her and stood aside while she proved that she was 18 (yes, I felt old!) But no, this bouncer wanted to see mine too. Had I had it on me, I would have been flattered, however it was in my room and proved to be a bit of a hassle. I returned to the bar though for long enough to have my free drink, share a small jug of beer and realise that the bouncer was most likely checking that I was not too old for the bar. (I assure you, I was!) The bar was the kind of meat market, let’s assist people get drunk (as though they cannot do it alone) that is reminiscent of university days, except I didn’t enjoy them much then and then at least I didn’t feel like an old lady. How has this happened, I asked myself? I am still so young. But no, I am no longer 18. Anyway, my roommate was sweet and we had a lovely chat before both calling it a night. (I did attempt to convince her to drink her body weight in alcohol while chatting up a member of the male species who looked like he’d just passed puberty – this covered many males in the bar, but she declined!)
The next day I got up early (the joys of being older and wiser and hence not hungover) and headed off to find the view I remembered so well. My stomach was filled with butterflies as I got closer and closer to where the bridge and Opera House would be. The harbour was gorgeous, but not the view I remembered. And it wasn’t because I was jaded, it was as I was seeing it from a different angle. I was slightly disappointed as I was so keen to see “my” view. As I reminded myself though, this was a different trip and in many ways I too was a different person. This was gorgeous in itself and I was going to enjoy it for what it was and not try and chase a memory from the past. That would remain a memory. I wandered around the harbour looking at all the various boat trips offered and listening in awe to the didgeridoo players. They were all dressed in traditional tribal gear and the older ones had the scars that I had read about. The playing was incredible and after my own attempts in Cairns, I had a new found respect for how difficult it was.
After a few hours of exploring I made my way back to the hostel. A friend of mine from London, Sally, was back home for her brother’s wedding and was having a party at her place to catch up with her friends. I had promised I would do my best to make it too. This was easier said than done. She lived in the suburbs of Sydney and I am not known for my natural navigational skills. I did want to see her though, so looked up the route on the local journey planner website (these I believe are one of the best inventions, ever!), printed the map, wrote down her number, bought some beers and confidently headed off. I would have had no idea how to even consider doing this when I was last here I thought proudly, realising how much more capable and confident I was (as I should be with 11 years of life experience behind me!) I got there hassle free and thoroughly enjoyed the night. Sally’s friends were very welcoming, friendly and made me feel part of the group despite the fact that they were catching up. Many of them had lived in London and all the London talk made me think about how much I love and miss it. And how I was still “living the dream” this side. I got a lift home with one of Sally’s friends. I got back to the hostel with a niggly sore throat, this was exactly what I didn’t want when I only had a few days to explore this huge city. Despite my better judgement, I got my rubber arm twisted into going back to the Scary Canary with my teenage friend from the previous night and two other eighteen year olds, one of whom was heading back to England the next day to get ready for uni! They were nice girls, but I didn’t feel 100% and I felt old. They couldn’t believe how much I’d done in my life, but then, as I reminded them, I had had a decade more to do stuff than them. One of the girls reaffirmed my belief that I have made the right decisions when she said that she hoped she would be like me when she was my age. However flattered I was I felt old and like I was advising teenagers, rather than having a night out with peers. Even if they respected my life decisions, I was different and I felt it. It was karaoke night, the singing was terrible and my throat hurt. I decided to leave the young ‘uns to it and call it a night.
I woke up the next morning feeling less than great, but determined to be part of the free Sydney walking tour that I’d seen advertised. It was free, but with the expectation that you tip depending on how much you feel it’s worth. It was brilliant! It gave me a good feel for the city and the guide was very interesting and knowledgeable. He also had heaps of stories that you would never read in the history or guide books. Like the one about the oldest pub and how in days gone by, they would welcome sailors to port with arms open wide and feed them free drinks. When they were all very drunk, a trap door under the bar would open and they would fall into the cellar. The next day they would wake up with very sore heads to find themselves chained in this cellar. There were apparently underground passage ways that lead them to the harbour where they would be forced onto boats to work for free. Now that sounds like a pretty rotten hangover! Obviously nobody knows whether this is an urban legend or the truth... Although they have found a dungeon, shackles and secret passage ways! You decide. There were many other stories like this and I had no problem tipping him well, it was worth every cent. I also met a really lovely English girl who was over to celebrate finishing her PHD and was more my age. Unfortunately my throat was beginning to hurt and I was feeling far more exhausted than I should after a three hour, slow walk. I knew that I wasn’t well. I could have spent the rest of the day with this lovely girl exploring the botanical gardens and having lunch, but I sadly just didn’t feel up for it. The walk back to the hostel was awful! I felt very weak and gutted to not be feeling well enough to hang out and explore. I never get sick, so when I do, I also get angry. I decided not to resent missing out a day in Sydney and just focus on spending time in bed and kicking this as soon as possible! There are few things more miserable than being sick when travelling and being in a shared dorm is no fun at all. There are people in and out of the dorm at all time of day and night. All you really want is your own bed and somebody bringing you warm drinks and pampering you. The Kiwi was doing great via text pampering, but it’s not really the same as the real thing. I took a med lem, which knocked me out (how happy I am that my body is so unused to drugs that the slightest hint of paracetamol puts me to sleep). I slept fitfully all day and woke up feeling rubbish, but in need of dinner. I walked up to the shop, bought a litre of orange juice and salad stuff. Vitamins will help kick this (lack of vitamins was probably the reason I had got sick in the first place). After dinner, I took another med lem and went back to sleep. I must have slept for over 12 hours (with a few disturbances). I woke late, still not feeling wonderful, but definitely better than I had been and determined that it had to be well enough.
It was a beautiful day and so I decided to take the ferry out to Manly. Manley was supposed to be lovely in itself, but the ferry ride is also a great way to see a splendid view of the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House. It is much more cost effective, yet as good as the tourist boats that go out for just that view. And what a view it was – this was the view that I remembered from all those years ago! And I was delighted that experience had not jaded me. I was once again blown away by its beauty! Despite my still slightly sore throat I sat out in front so that I could fully admire the view. We arrived at the ferry terminal and like a mob of tourist sheep, all with cameras in our hands we headed out to explore. Benches were made of old surfboards and there were a few young guys hanging around in board shorts and healthy tans who looked like they had just stepped off either Home and Away or an Australian tourist ad – the stereotypical, wholesome Aussie! We all headed down the Corso - “a pedestrianised strip of surf shops, burger joints, juice bars and cafes that have not been entirely kind to the strip’s heritage character” (thanks for the description Lonely Planet!) I decided to stop at Manly beach at the end of it for a take away fish and chips and then seeing whether I felt up for the 10km scenic walk that I had read about in my handy guide book and which sounded wonderful. I bought myself a greasy battered fish and chips with a coke for good measure and sat on the steps watching the surfers and the seagulls and just appreciating how very good life was! My lunch was (unintentionally) shared with the seagulls. They had no fear and obviously could spot an unsuspecting tourist miles off. As I sat enjoying my meal, one swooped over my shoulder and snatched a piece of my fish. The shock made me exclaim out loud and I felt rather silly when a few people looked over, trying not to giggle. I was feeling good, and decided to tackle the walk. And how glad I was that I did. If I can recommend anything to do while in Sydney, it is this. It was an easy walk, despite being described as moderate to hard, and gorgeous. You were never far from the road, yet it felt like you were in your own world. It was along the coast with great harbour views and through forest-like areas as well as past some lovely houses (which probably had less lovely price tags). It took about 4 hours and I enjoyed taking it slow, thinking and just really, really enjoying my own company. At the end I wandered along a beach as the sun started thinking about going down, there were families playing on the beach, walking dogs and I even saw a stingray as I unashamedly followed a family as their child said they’d spotted one. The walk left me believing that perhaps the Aussie dream was true after all. If (or should I say when) I return to Sydney, I will re-do this walk and recommend it to anybody. A magical, magical day!
On my ferry ride back to Sydney, I sat outside to see the view by night. I was asked by another tourist which side was best for the view, as I didn’t know either, we took an educated guess and sat together. She was an interesting character. I had initially guessed that she was Italian, however she was actually from the Philippines. I found the ferry ride talking to her rather exhausting as she wanted to know in a very tick box way what I had seen in Australia. Imagine: Her - “Have you been to Ayres Rock?” Me – “Yes, wow, it was amazing, have you been?” Her – “Yes, me too!” Me – “Didn’t you find it...” Her – “Have you been to the Wet Tropics?” Me – “Yes, the rainforests out of Cairns and Port Douglas.” Her – “Me too!” Me – “Isn’t it incredible how...” Her – “Have you walked the harbour bridge?” Me – “No, I would love to, but it’s a wee bit out of this trip’s budget. Have you?” Her – “I am going to tomorrow and then I’ll have done all the major things and can go home.“ We took photos of each other with the night time view in the background. Spectacular, but we couldn’t get any photos that did it justice. Not for the first time I wished I was just a little bit of a better photographer. The ferry arrived back in Sydney and we wished each other well. This exchange left me thinking about the different reasons people travel. For her, she obviously had a check list that she wanted ticked off and so she rushed from place to place ticking it off. Why did I travel? Yes, I had a checklist in some ways too, but not in the same frantic way. The Manly Scenic Walk was never on my checklist, I had never even heard about it, but how less wonderful would my trip to Sydney have been had I not done it, if I hadn’t had the time as I had to rush off to some other “must do” attraction.
I rushed back to the hostel for a quick shower as I was meeting my English friend from Cairns, Lois, soon. She was picking me up from the hostel and we were going to explore some bars away from the Scary Canary (how nice to have some company over the age of 18!!) She had also lived in Sydney previously and so knew the area. We headed up to The Rocks – a quaint area just above the harbour that used to be really rough (until not that long ago). It was prime property location-wise and it was difficult to imagine it run by gangs and infested with rats. The houses were old (well, old considering how young Australia is) and were full of character. This was the sight for the first what I think of as “Green Peace style” protests. The government had wanted to tear down the properties yet many people had (rightly) felt that they were a part of Australian history and should be preserved. The government was determined and would not listen. So the people united together and all the building companies in Sydney refused to take the contract to demolish the area. The government got people from outside. In a last attempt, to people chained themselves to the buildings and refused to leave, leaving the government with no choice but to bulldoze the people or leave the houses as is and so the lovely area was saved. This is where Lois and I were headed for drinks. I told her about the oldest pub, but due to my remarkably bad sense of direction could not remember where it was. We got thirsty and so stopped for a wine. The pub we stopped at was so “English” that we both had to have a bit of a giggle. As we were catching up, this young, quite nice looking but with a strange vibe about him guy, came to ask whether he could join us as “he was lonely”. We politely put him off, but he was pretty insistent. He then borrowed 10 cents from the table next to us so that he could get a beer – he was given some free olives with his (we noticed enviously). It was then that we figured out the reason for the weird vibe – he was a homeless person. Next to him he had his sleeping bag and packet of things for sleeping rough. His things included an i-pod. How much homelessness differs here from back home. Here you have a nightcap at the local pub that kindly gives you a snack (the olives) before heading off to sleep in the cold with your favourite music playing to keep your mind off your dire situation!
We had a couple more drinks before asking a local security guard where the oldest pub was. By the time we found it, it was closed. Yet another reason to return to Sydney one day, I guess! We headed to another area and found a lovely looking Asian style bar with red lights and drapes. We stopped off for a drink for the road. An absurdly expensive drink for the road. Two single vodkas and cokes cost $40!! Maybe this is why the young backpackers stick to the Scary Canary. We got back to the hostel, me rather tipsy as I always am after just looking at a bottle of wine (so the Kiwi says!) I got to my dorm and all my roommates were asleep and my bed was unmade. I put complaining to the front desk now that I was already in my pyjamas and the fact that making it would wake the whole room into the too-hard-basket and went to sleep in a rather uncomfortable position (sleep came easily though, thanks to the wine and overpriced vodka).
The next day I had an early start. Alongside playing tourist, I was also in a race against time to get my New Zealand working holiday maker visa. The 48 hour process wasn’t quite that if you were African in any way. I had applied on my British passport, but had had to state that I’d spent more than 3 months in a country that was not on their low TB risk list – i.e South Africa. I had received notification that I would need to have a chest x-ray before my visa application could proceed. Although this wasn’t really how I fancied spending half of one of my limited days to explore Sydney (remembering I’d already lost half a day being sick) but if I wanted to a visa, I didn’t have much choice. I had booked an early appointment so as not to waste too much of my day. A decision that I regretted as my alarm woke me up with a sore head and dry mouth on an unmade bed. I headed off to the address that was conveniently only about a 20 minute walk from my hostel. This was one of the acceptable places to get your x-ray and a doctor to fill in a medical page for your visa. I went up to the visa level to find lots and lots of people in various different lines with various different bits of paper and ID with the resigned look that comes with having dealt with immigration before and knowing that there is no point in getting impatient. You just wait. I saw my day flashing before my eyes. Luckily, I was on the wrong level and this was Australian immigration, New Zealand medical checks was the level below.
I headed down with my $90, my passport and my filled in forms and asked a couple of questions to the self important looking woman at the desk. She was helpful, but condescending and spoke a little louder and slower than necessary as though I was less intelligent because I was an immigrant or hoping to be one. My blood started to boil (and my hurting head wasn’t helping matters). I was very tempted to explain to this woman that I was very happy in my country (England in this case) where all her countrymen seemed to try and stay and only wanted this visa because of love and not because her country was in anyway superior, but decided to kill her with kindness instead! She then informed me that the x-rays would be back in two to three working days. I panicked! I need these tomorrow, I was leaving to Melbourne on Friday and needed to get this application in as soon as possible. This was a race against time. Now, I am known for creating panic by leaving things to the last minute, but this time it really wasn’t my fault. I had just been in Sydney for a short period of time. I explained my predicament to which she responded (in the same condescending loud and slow voice as though I was a petulant child) that I really shouldn’t leave things to the last minute. For a brief second I saw the sense in senseless violence. I calmly (using my best teacher voice – also a bit slow and condescending, ha!) explained my situation. She reluctantly phoned the doctors upstairs to see if I could get it back by tomorrow and they said it wouldn’t be a problem at all. She looked a bit put out that they had made it so easy. Silly lady on a power trip! I went upstairs to get the x-rays and they were lovely. It was quick, painless and I was treated with the respect that every person is due. It reaffirmed my faith in immigration services and that perhaps I had just stumbled upon a bad apple and this wasn’t how they were taught to treat people. All done, I headed back towards the hostel and stopped off for a greasy fry up breakfast. Again, life felt great. My visa application was back on track and I was loving my own company. Breakfast while reading the paper with a sunny day spread out ahead of me where I had nobody to please but myself. I understood why so many people swear by travelling alone!
After breakfast I took a long, slow saunter to the Botanical Gardens. Everybody insisted that the Gardens were a must-see. I personally never prioritise going to Botanical Gardens, but am so very, very happy that I went to the Sydney ones (and may learn from this near miss and go to future ones if guide books suggest it). They are spectacular. My main reason for visiting the gardens was as there is a colony (I am sure that is the wrong collective noun) of bats that live there. They are also known as Flying Foxes as their faces look so similar to that of a fox. I have always had a strange interest in bats and was very keen to see them. I walked along looking very closely in the trees, scared that I was going to miss them. I assure you, there is no worry about that. There are hundreds, possibly thousands of them hanging upside down in the trees or flying between trees. And yes, they do have fox-like faces. Fascinating! I continued by stroll, stopping from time to time to lie in the sun, read my book, people watch and just thoroughly enjoy my lazy, hungover, wonderful life. I continued my walk aiming for Lady Macquaire's chair. I had no idea what could possibly be so exciting about a chair, but I thought there was no harm in looking. And am I glad I did! The chair itself is nothing exciting (it’s just a seat carved into the stone) it is what you see from sitting in the chair – the most majestic view ever! The harbour and Opera house ahead of you. Ironically, her husband got this “chair” made for her as she loved sitting enjoying the view. Today it is a completely different view to the one she would have enjoyed, but as, if not more, spectacular. I joined the throngs of tourists to seat themselves in the chair and have photos taken and then headed off to enjoy the view somewhere a little bit more private.
It seems that everybody who visits or lives in Australia is either a Sydney person or a Melbourne person. One of my housemates and very good friends in London, Alysha is from Melbourne and loves her hometown. In speaking to her, I was always convinced that I would be a Melbourne person, but sitting in the sunshine overlooking what must surely be one of the most gorgeous views in the world, I had no idea how I could possibly prefer Melbourne to this. And already I was getting afraid of having the break the news to Alysha that I was in fact a Sydney person. That said, I had not yet been to Melbourne and so the jury was still very much out. Sydney would take a lot of beating though!
Eventually, despite the fact that I had not tired of either looking at or photographing the Harbour and Opera House, I decided to slowly head back.
My dad loved birds. He had identification books where he would painstakingly study a particular bird to decide whether it was this kind of whatever bird or another (the sole difference sometimes being the fact that the one had a red spot on the bottom left corner of its wing, while the other didn’t!) He would then mark that he had seen which ever bird it turned out to be. I briefly got into this hobby, the only evidence of this was that a number of extremely rare, hardly ever seen birds were either seen (or misidentified) by me and hence were marked as seen by me. I quickly lost interest as I didn’t then, nor have I since, found birds of any interest whatsoever. This is before I began to explore Australia. Australian birds are stunning! There are many tropical birds with bright, bright feathers. The first few parrots I saw, I initially believed must have escaped from a pet shop or cage where they were repeating bad language they had once heard or an annoying dog bark, but no, they were wild! It was as a headed back that I saw the giant cockatiels (or were they cockatoos) that roamed the gardens – free and fearless and very friendly. A young English guy was trying to lure them onto his hand and get a photograph with them. I got involved and watched for ages. They seemed to scratch, so I wasn’t so keen on having them climb all over me, but I was keen to get some good photos. The cockatiels joined Uluru, Harbour Bridge/Opera House as the most photographed things in Australia.
I got back to my hostel and moved to my new room. Due to the fact that I had only booked a few days to start off with, I was able to extend my stay, but needed to move rooms. My perfect day was just getting better. My new hostel room was fantastic. It cost no more than the previous one, yet was bigger, had its own bathroom and the last free bed (obviously mine) even had a trashy magazine under the pillow for me to read. There were two French girls trying to sleep off their jetlag, who despite the fact that they had no real idea what time it was, were very friendly and sweet. I lay down to relax and read the magazine when a girl walked in and looked very confused to see me lying there. It was her bed and her magazine and obviously the room had been overbooked. She was very nice about it, but once we had established that there were no free beds, I realised that I would have to move rooms. Moving around was not an easy feat considering I had a huge suitcase (quite embarrassingly big and heavy for a “backpacker”). I went down to the desk to explain the situation. I was very pleasant about it, but let them know that I was frustrated, especially considering the fact that the day before my bed had not been made. To give them their due, they immediately apologised and upgraded me to the “female only sanctuary”. These were girls’ only rooms where you had access to tea, coffee, hair straighteners and were given a fluffy towel and small hotel style soaps and shampoos as well as a complimentary glass of bubbly at the Scary Canary. I was interested to see what kind of people would pay extra money for this, but I was sure that my big, embarrassing suitcase would fit in well here.
I felt exceptionally snobby and as upper class as one can when staying at a hostel as I swiped my card that gave me access to this exclusive area. I was disappointed to see that the room was in fact exactly the same as the other rooms and was less nice than the one I had been in before I was “upgraded”. There wasn’t even an en-suite bathroom and we had to leave the sanctuary to use the bathrooms (shared with the people without access to free tea and coffee!) The bonus was that most people obviously shared my views that this was an unnecessary expense and so there were only three of us in a room made for eight – lovely and spacious. The two other women were one very pretty, posh looking and sounding English girl. She had obviously straightened her hair and had a suitcase rather than a backpack. She was exactly the kind of person I expected to meet in the sanctuary. She was lovely though and was on her way back to England after a holiday spent visiting her brother who now lived in Australia. The other woman was an odd case. She was clearly quite a bit older than me, but I couldn’t quite gauge her actual age. She could have been a young looking mid forties or an old looking mid thirties (or any other age in fact). She had a huge backpack and had just come from backpacking around South America. She had been visiting friends in Australia and by the sounds of things making a pest of herself. Many of her stories involved getting drunk, meeting people and staying out drinking with them instead of going home with the friends she’d gone to visit. She also seemed to have a dislike for men. I decided that she was probably recently divorced and going on an “escape it all and regress trip”. Whether or not this was true I will never know as I decided against going to the Scary Canary with Miss Posh and Miss Forty Going on Eighteen. Meeting this older backpacker threw me a bit as she seemed too old for this life, despite the fact that she seemed to embrace the drink specials more than the eighteen year olds they were intended for. I wondered whether the young, just out of school backpackers thought the same about me. Were you ever “too old” to pack up your belongings and go and explore the world. I hoped not. What was it about this woman that left me feeling so sorry for her. Perhaps it was the defiance with which she seemed to be doing it that left you feeling that she wished herself that things in her life had been different. I still hadn’t worked out quite why I travel, yet it seemed there were those who travelled more to escape something than to discover something.
I had one day left in Sydney and one last thing that I felt I really should see is the famous Bondi Beach. It would seem wrong to visit Sydney and not see this beach so synonymous with the city. As I have mentioned before, I was loving my own company – almost a wee bit too much. I am sociable by nature and during my time in Sydney I found myself uncharacteristically seeking solitude. I wasn’t lonely in the slightest, which was my biggest fear about travelling alone. In fact if anything I was arrogantly beginning to feel that my company was the best out there. I saw that my hostel organised a day to Bondi Beach – they took you on the public bus, a guided hike from Bondi to Bronte and it ended with a barbeque and goon. I debated going alone anyway, but eventually decided that it was necessary to seek company and that this trip wasn’t intended to turn me into a hermit. It was perfect timing as well as it started at 1pm and I had a few admin tasks to do in the morning. The most important one being collect my chest x-rays and get them posted to immigration.
The superior lady at the medical centre was marginally nicer. She handed me a huge sealed package with warnings all over it not to open it as may detrimentally affect my visa application should this confidential document be tampered with in any way. I headed outside and half way down the street stressing whether that meant that my chest was definitely OK or if only immigration New Zealand would ever find that out. My worry was less that I would be denied a visa than that there was something wrong with my chest and I wouldn’t know about it. I headed back and asked about this and was assured that had anything been wrong I would have been notified. So now I knew that I was TB free and my visa too looked a sure thing. I sought out the post office, sent it off and marvelled about what a local I felt in this gorgeous city. I think this feeling came from all the “normal” admin tasks that I was doing. I had a bit of time to kill before heading on the Bondi walk. I was very behind on this blog (and still am if truth be told!) I decided to use the couple of hours to catch up and hopefully stop my mum nagging by giving her an update on my travels.
Before settling down to recount my Uluru adventures I had a quick check of my emails. There was one from NZ immigration and there was a problem. In 1999 I spent a year in New Zealand as a South African exchange student. South Africans were not eligible for working holiday maker visas and hence I was applying on my British passport (and again thanking my mum for passing down a passport that opens so many doors). The email stated that this situation was posing problems as part of the requirement was that I was “ordinarily resident” in the UK, having a passport alone was not enough. I was told to hold off on the chest x-rays as unless I could provide further information my visa was unlikely to be granted (too late, the x-rays were already in the post). I panicked. What did ordinarily resident mean? How long did I need to have been in the UK to fit into that category? Not for the first time I cursed the fact that I had not chosen to live in Wimbledon and as such that my chances of falling in love with a Kiwi and finding myself in this situation were less. I also cursed New Zealand for being such an organised country and having such details from eleven years ago (oh why could they not be a normal, chaotic country like South Africa?) After a brief panic I googled ordinary resident and through the mixed messages seemed to feel that I would qualify. All I needed now was proof that I had been living in the UK – bank statements, proof of employment, teachers’ union membership and National Insurance numbers all seemed to be good evidence. The only difficulty being that I all of those documents were safely somewhere in the UK. (For those of you who know me well, you’ll know that I always have things filed away it’s just that I’m not always sure where.) This would not be the first time that I had asked my mum to send stuff over as a matter of urgency and yet was unable to tell her where she was to find them exactly. Luckily my long suffering mum is one of the world’s very good people and so helps out although she would be forgiven for cursing me (I owe you mum!) I sent immigration a long, very articulate email detailing my situation and the fact that although I have proof of residence in the UK it is there and so may take a while for me to get it to them (I left out the fact that my mum may disown me when she has to search for it). I then forwarded immigration’s email and my response to the Kiwi. I refused to be the only one stressing about this. He had taken the attitude that he didn’t really care, he just wanted me to arrive. This changed when I pointed out that that meant I would be gone again after a couple of weeks. I had done all I could for that day and so decided to leave it to fate while I went and enjoyed the beach. The irony of this situation is that when I first considered working in New Zealand I filled in an online form to see what my chances of getting a visa were and in doing signed up for an immigrate to New Zealand newsletter. Whether it was because I was a teacher and New Zealand is short of teachers or just because they had me on their mailing list, but I regularly received letters encouraging me to immigrate to New Zealand. One of them had a link to a YouTube clip about why New Zealand was a fantastic place to live. The background music was “Forever Young” and there were cheesy scenes of couples running through fields with their hair blowing in the wind holding hands. (True story!) On this day that I got this not so positive email, I also had a bulk mail from Immigrate NZ with reasons why New Zealand is a good choice. I was tempted to email back and tell them that there was no point sending me advertising when they weren’t planning on letting me in, but decided this may further jeopardise my chances. The Kiwi agreed that the whole situation was absurd and ranted on about how they are always saying they were so short of skills and now when somebody had the skills they wanted they made it difficult for them. (I like to think that his passionate response was more based on wanting me to stay for a bit than on deeply entrenched views on NZ’s skills shortage.)
I sat on the stairs in the main reception area of the hostel waiting for the beach gang. I got chatting to a young girl who looked rather odd and from her speech was obviously from a non-English speaking country, I just couldn’t place the accent, so I asked her. She was from England! She continued to sound like a non-English speaker for the duration of our conversation. She told me that it was her birthday that day (she was turning 22) and that she was feeling very nervous. I asked her what she was feeling nervous about and she told me that she just often felt that way. She hadn’t long been in Sydney and was here on a year’s working visa. She’d left a boyfriend behind and showed me a picture of him on her phone. She met him after she put in the visa application and so decided to go anyway and do a long distance relationship. I wonder how she is getting on? If she was nervous about a beach walk I have serious concerns about how she’ll get on looking for work and coping overseas all by herself. Good luck to her. Eventually we got our group together. Our guide was one of the guys I had met previously forcing goon down my throat and trying to convince me to come to the Scary Canary – the marketing team. This was clearly one of their other responsibilities. He had the backpack that he had come overseas with – this time filled with goon, we were to stop at the supermarket on the way to buy some sausages and bread. We stood on the street waiting for him and watching a very bad clown do some very bad tricks, badly. It was heartbreaking in the way that clowns often are. It was made sadder by the fact that a young (somewhere between six and ten years old) girl was with him assisting. She also had clown face paint on and I’m guessing was his daughter. She handed him juggling balls (which he would drop within seconds) or whatever other trick he was doing. I have no idea why he/they were trying to earn money this way. He obviously was not good at this and surely she should have been at school. What added to the pathos was the fact that she stared at him with complete admiration - obviously believing he was the best clown of all time. I wonder how she will look back on it one day? As a special time they spent together or as a very sad childhood? I wish I could have found out their story, but I didn’t and so now they are just a scene from my travels.
Eventually we had everything required for a backpackers’ day out at a famous Aussie beach. We weren’t dissimilar to those tourist busses you see filled with Japanese tourists. Except, replace the air conditioned, recliner seated tour bus with public transport and replace the special camera lenses with goon and you’ll get the picture. We all followed the leader to the bus stop where he distributed our tickets and then piled onto the bus like a bunch of school children (probably as loud and obnoxious). For somebody who had spent the whole week as an independent traveller, it was funny how quickly I morphed into another sheep-like backpacker. I would have struggled to retrace our steps I was paying so little attention. I was happy I had decided to go with a group though as they were a nice group of people and I re-found my social self and enjoyed chatting to people about their various experiences, backgrounds and travels. There were a few young guys whose obviously only aim in visiting Australia was to “get pissed in the sun”, but each to their own. After a just over half an hour bus trip, we turned the corner and there in front of us lay the iconic Bondi beach. As it wasn’t peak season, it wasn’t as packed as it can get, but there seemed a fair amount of bodies to me. It was a beautiful beach and definitely something I associated with Sydney, but I didn’t get the same rush seeing it that I did seeing the Opera House and Harbour Bridge. Maybe I have just been spoilt with beaches coming from Cape Town, or maybe it was how very exclusive it seemed. There were many flash looking houses surrounding the beach and a very exclusive bar/restaurant that had a sign on the door that led me to believe very strongly that goon carrying backpackers would not be welcome. We took our photos and our “guide” explained how dangerous the rift is on Bondi and that so many backpackers die whilst trying to surf that it is nicknamed “Backpackers’ Rift”. I had a picture of English backpackers (they are the largest casualty) with no understanding or respect for the sea who just want to be Aussie style surfers in between getting pissed in the sun and how easily it could all go wrong. We then headed off on our walk to Bronte beach – the less well known sister of Bondi. It was an easy, but lovely walk punctuated with photo stops and chats. We arrived at Bronte and after a walk in the sand, a swim for some (the 22 year old jumped in with all her clothes on in a birthday celebration understood only by her and then spent the rest of the evening shivering in a bizarre towel/dress thing, leaving me wondering once again how she was possibly going to survive the year). We headed up to the Barbeque area for our sausage sizzle and some more goon. I need to explain something about Australia and the best analogy is one of those retirement estates designed for lifestyle – there is a gym, a golf course, a swimming pool and park benches in the sunniest spots. In Australia it seems as though the whole country is designed like that. It is a country where things are built with the wholesome, outdoorsy Australian in mind. Beaches have built in barbeques so that you can enjoy the beach and beer with home cooked dinner – it’s great. There are dustbins everywhere and a presumption that you will clean up after yourself (should you consider not doing so, I have no idea that the people at the barbeque next to you would come over and insist you do). It works and it’s great, and is possibly even more typically Australian than Bondi beach that we all just took dozens of photos of. After our “Barbie”, we all hopped back on the bus – a bunch of cold, tipsy and happy backpackers.
On the bus home, our guide, who must have been in his early to mid twenties, started telling me his Australian story. He had a trade of some kind back in England (I forget what) and had worked and saved to buy a house. Just as he had saved enough money to put down a deposit on a house, the recession hit and the banks stopped lending money and so he was denied a mortgage. In a rage he decided this was a good opportunity to travel. He had been in Australia just less than a year and other than a short trip up the east coast, had been in Sydney for all of that time. He had spent his whole mortgage (over £20 000) mainly in the Scary Canary on booze. I felt sick to the stomach for him. He had just asked his dad to sell his car for him so that he could get a little bit more capital. I hid my shock and said that I hope he’d had a really good time. It did leave me wondering about the value of money. I am sure there are many people who would be shocked if they calculated how much money I could have saved had I never travelled (I think I may be shocked if I did the maths too and so choose not to). They may look at what I could own in property or technology or clothes and yet all I have to show for it are abstract things such as memories and experiences. I personally however, would not swop those experiences for money and all that it could buy me. Though, I am pleased that my experiences are more than just blurred nights in the Scary Canary (although if I am honest, many of my memories are blurred and many bars feature strongly!)
We arrived back at our hostel and everyone headed to the Scary Canary for a drink, I joined them for a quick one, but then had to have a shower and get ready to meet Lois who was taking me to another Aussie lifestyle invention – the lingerie bar. She had told me about these when we had met for drinks earlier in the week and I was sceptical. “You mean a strip club?” I had asked her. She had assured me that it was just a normal bar, designed particularly for tradies to have an after work drink and that there were a number of them about. It was basically a perfectly normal bar, except that there were one or two waitresses/barmaids who wore only their lingerie. This I had to see! She picked me up and we went to this working class looking bar. It wasn’t rough or sleazy, but it was plain with lots of pokies (the Aussies seem to love their gambling as much as they love their beer and barbies). Inside were a few men sitting around having a quiet after work drink – nothing out of the ordinary or unusual. I was disappointed, where were all these lingerie ladies? I went up to order my beer from a fully clothed person and in walked a lady with bra, knickers and high heels – that was it! That however, wasn’t the weird part. The weird part was that it was utterly normal. She wasn’t drop dead gorgeous; her body was average, nice, but nothing to be taking your clothes off about. She stood behind the bar, asking about her next shifts and then calmly said goodbye to the table of obviously locals who barely looked up from their beer to say goodbye. That was it – nothing special really, but I felt like I had walked into the story of the “Emperor’s New Clothes”. I wanted to yell, “Does anybody else realise that she’d not wearing many clothes?” Once the lingerie waitress had left, there seemed little point in hanging about so we headed to a couple of cool bars where despite everybody being fully clothed, the music was good and the drinks better. We had a few wines with the beautiful people of Sydney before I called it an early night in preparation for my trip to Melbourne early the next morning. I fell asleep thinking of half-naked waitresses, bags of goon and how very excited I was to see my friend Sara the next day!
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