Cairns to Brisbane
“...it's only when I get back from what seems like quite a long trip and check the map that I start to get a sense of how big this country is; it's absolutely huge!...”
Wise words from an astute and perceptive traveller only two short weeks ago. Pity then, that I didn’t heed my own advice in tropical Queensland and end up taking three bus trips totalling 33 hours to get to where I need to be at Christmas.
Originally, I intended to leave Sydney and fly to Melbourne after which I would fly up to Brisbane for Christmas with my Mum’s brother Hughie and his family. But the prospect of another city left me feeling a bit fatigued so I decided to get out into the wild, battle with nature and munch a little bush tucker (NOT rhyming slang!!!).
Landing in wet and humid Cairns, I’ve got a week to get to Brisbane so I’ve already decided that I’ll trek through the rainforest for a couple of days, sail round the Whitsunday Islands and then go off on safari to Fraser Island. It’s only then that I check the map. All three of these activities are hundreds of miles from each other and Brisbane itself is 1,000 miles away so after spending all of 16 hours in Cairns, (more than enough, actually) I’m on a bus heading south for Airlie Beach, gateway to the Whitsunday Islands.
Now I’ve never been much of a water baby. “Aw look at him splashing about, he’s at one with the sea” is not an endearing compliment I’ve ever heard heading my way. More often than not I’m signalling for a lifebelt. So signing up for a three-day sail around the islands on a boat that once took part in the Americas Cup is enough to have me breaking out the travel sickness pills, or crèche boy pills, as they’re more fondly known.
There’re 19 passengers and 4 crew in total and as we amble along the dock trying to identify which boat is ours, my mind is desperately trying to find a comforting image of a happy, seafaring movie where nobody dies, gets eaten by a shark or is subjected to Celine Dion. But I can’t think of one. Are there any? Scrambling on to the deck to find a spot to sit, only one thought lingers – we’re going to need a bigger boat!
There’s a little light rain and a stiff breeze (The Perfect Storm?) as we leave the safety of the harbour and with the sails up, the boat is soon zipping along at a seemingly impossible angle that only The Poseidon would be proud of.
The Whitsunday Islands, like most things in the southern hemisphere apparently, were named by Captain Cook back in the 18th century as he was spreading his travel agency business across the globe. He named them after the day he arrived, not the most original idea in the world but one that could have been worse I suppose. The Pancake Day Islands or National No Smoking Day Islands just don’t have the same ring.
There are 60 to 70 islands in total but only a handful are inhabited with resorts so they maintain the appearance of being very unspoiled. Sitting in the clear blue and green water of the Pacific Ocean and surrounded by the Great Barrier Reef they are nothing less than spectacular.
My strategy for the three days is to keep the heaving and retching to a minimum, work on my tan on deck or on the beaches and at the very most, try a bit of snorkelling in the shallow waters of the reef. However, before I realise what I’m doing, a very funny sales pitch convinces me to sign up for an introductory scuba dive and I’m pulling on the second skin of a wet suit and strapping on the air tanks convinced that I’m going to find Nemo.
Our instructor informs us that the only thing we have to concern ourselves with underwater is breathing, first in and then out. Smart ass! I’m relieved because I’ve had a knack for breathing almost effortlessly for a good number of years now. This is going to be a doddle. It’s not.
To have to consciously think about and then execute the act of breathing in and out through my mouth is a LOT harder than I imagined, especially when I combine it with blowing my nose to pop my ears and clear my mask of water.
Then there are the hand signals to remember so that communication underwater is straightforward and unambiguous.
We learn how to ‘say’ “I’m Okay”, “I’ve Got A Problem”, “Up”, “Down”, “Left”, “Right”, all of which I forget the instant I have to breathe, blow, pop and clear. Instead, I introduce a couple of new phrases to the international scuba language.
“What the fuck was that dark shadow?”
Continuous flailing of the right arm coupled with frantic pointing with the left.
“Watch out for the f#cking jelly fish!”
A frenzied turn of the head together with flippers flapping in the opposite direction.
“The next time you kick me you Swedish b#stard I’m gonna rip that f#cking tube from your mouth!”
A very determined hard stare and a lot of expletive bubbles
However, after fifteen minutes of this initial panic and terror, the sales pitch comes good. It IS a different world down there. The coral sways and comes alive in the current and the fish are everywhere, all colours and all sizes. They encircle and envelop me and at times I don’t seem to be able to move in any direction, a spider web and I’m caught in the middle. I didn’t find Nemo but I did see a big turtle and a small shark and collapsed exhausted half an hour later on the beach to tell the tale. Easily the best thirty pounds I’ve spent so far on this trip.
All meals are provided on the boat although the price of good food is a meticulous washing up rota that everyone follows without question. We also spend both nights aboard and are allocated bunks that are only slightly roomier than a coffin. I endure this on the first night but on the second, I need more space and fresh air so I grab a mattress and sleep up on deck. It’s calm and peaceful and there’s only a slight breeze to bounce the ropes against the mast sending an occasional, hollow cowbell sound across the flat, dark water of the inlet.
With no artificial light around, the sky above appears overwhelmed with stars interspersed with satellites speeding from one side of the horizon to the other. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen this and at first I think it’s some kind of UFO phenomenon but the skipper puts me right before I can get too excited about the possibility of a close encounter of the Agent Scully kind.
Arriving back at Airlie Beach after three days, I’ve managed to avoid being sick but I’m quite sunburnt and in desperate need of a wash. We were rationed to one, thirty-second shower during the whole three days! 24 hours after alighting from the boat, I step off a bus on the Gold Coast of Queensland only slightly behind my clothes with have developed a ripe smelling, active life of their own. Nice!
For the past ten days or so then, I’ve been enjoying all the traditional features and activities of Christmas and New Year with family. Lots of food and drink (excellent pies and fish & chips!), some seriously average television, pulling a few crackers, barbeques by the pool, lying on the beach and going to surf school, which turns out to be bloody hard work. I now have even more respect, if that’s possible, for the cast of Baywatch!
My cousin Susan and I also went for a day trip to The Australia Zoo, home of Steve ‘Crocodile Hunter’ Irwin, where “Crikey, Crocs Rule”! He’s actually there in person, a rare event apparently, and we witness his exhilarating crocodile feeding display with only a slight sadistic hope that it’ll all end in tears. A few days later, he's splashed all over the news media feeding the crocodile with one hand and holding his four week old son in the other. Crikey!
The zoo is run in a very impressive manner with lots of interactivity for kids and adults alike. I get to fondle a koala bear and touch a snake and everyone can wander freely in the grassy areas where the kangaroos roam...
“What’s that Skip?” I ask a hyperactive joey. “Ten percent off in the gift shop, today only? No worries mate!” These animals are well trained.
Anyway, now it's a new year and having just watched Celtic win the league, I’m leaving my Rangers-loving uncle to fly to Christchurch in New Zealand to journey across Middle Earth. I’ll no doubt encounter Wizards, Kings, Hobbits, Elves, Dwarves, Orcs and the mystical Ring of Power, which is… eh… nothing to do with my toilet blocking escapades!
Till then.
Love, Neil x
“...it's only when I get back from what seems like quite a long trip and check the map that I start to get a sense of how big this country is; it's absolutely huge!...”
Wise words from an astute and perceptive traveller only two short weeks ago. Pity then, that I didn’t heed my own advice in tropical Queensland and end up taking three bus trips totalling 33 hours to get to where I need to be at Christmas.
Originally, I intended to leave Sydney and fly to Melbourne after which I would fly up to Brisbane for Christmas with my Mum’s brother Hughie and his family. But the prospect of another city left me feeling a bit fatigued so I decided to get out into the wild, battle with nature and munch a little bush tucker (NOT rhyming slang!!!).
Landing in wet and humid Cairns, I’ve got a week to get to Brisbane so I’ve already decided that I’ll trek through the rainforest for a couple of days, sail round the Whitsunday Islands and then go off on safari to Fraser Island. It’s only then that I check the map. All three of these activities are hundreds of miles from each other and Brisbane itself is 1,000 miles away so after spending all of 16 hours in Cairns, (more than enough, actually) I’m on a bus heading south for Airlie Beach, gateway to the Whitsunday Islands.
Now I’ve never been much of a water baby. “Aw look at him splashing about, he’s at one with the sea” is not an endearing compliment I’ve ever heard heading my way. More often than not I’m signalling for a lifebelt. So signing up for a three-day sail around the islands on a boat that once took part in the Americas Cup is enough to have me breaking out the travel sickness pills, or crèche boy pills, as they’re more fondly known.There’re 19 passengers and 4 crew in total and as we amble along the dock trying to identify which boat is ours, my mind is desperately trying to find a comforting image of a happy, seafaring movie where nobody dies, gets eaten by a shark or is subjected to Celine Dion. But I can’t think of one. Are there any? Scrambling on to the deck to find a spot to sit, only one thought lingers – we’re going to need a bigger boat!
There’s a little light rain and a stiff breeze (The Perfect Storm?) as we leave the safety of the harbour and with the sails up, the boat is soon zipping along at a seemingly impossible angle that only The Poseidon would be proud of.
The Whitsunday Islands, like most things in the southern hemisphere apparently, were named by Captain Cook back in the 18th century as he was spreading his travel agency business across the globe. He named them after the day he arrived, not the most original idea in the world but one that could have been worse I suppose. The Pancake Day Islands or National No Smoking Day Islands just don’t have the same ring.There are 60 to 70 islands in total but only a handful are inhabited with resorts so they maintain the appearance of being very unspoiled. Sitting in the clear blue and green water of the Pacific Ocean and surrounded by the Great Barrier Reef they are nothing less than spectacular.
My strategy for the three days is to keep the heaving and retching to a minimum, work on my tan on deck or on the beaches and at the very most, try a bit of snorkelling in the shallow waters of the reef. However, before I realise what I’m doing, a very funny sales pitch convinces me to sign up for an introductory scuba dive and I’m pulling on the second skin of a wet suit and strapping on the air tanks convinced that I’m going to find Nemo.
Our instructor informs us that the only thing we have to concern ourselves with underwater is breathing, first in and then out. Smart ass! I’m relieved because I’ve had a knack for breathing almost effortlessly for a good number of years now. This is going to be a doddle. It’s not.
To have to consciously think about and then execute the act of breathing in and out through my mouth is a LOT harder than I imagined, especially when I combine it with blowing my nose to pop my ears and clear my mask of water.
Then there are the hand signals to remember so that communication underwater is straightforward and unambiguous.
We learn how to ‘say’ “I’m Okay”, “I’ve Got A Problem”, “Up”, “Down”, “Left”, “Right”, all of which I forget the instant I have to breathe, blow, pop and clear. Instead, I introduce a couple of new phrases to the international scuba language.
“What the fuck was that dark shadow?”
Continuous flailing of the right arm coupled with frantic pointing with the left.
“Watch out for the f#cking jelly fish!”
A frenzied turn of the head together with flippers flapping in the opposite direction.
“The next time you kick me you Swedish b#stard I’m gonna rip that f#cking tube from your mouth!”
A very determined hard stare and a lot of expletive bubbles
However, after fifteen minutes of this initial panic and terror, the sales pitch comes good. It IS a different world down there. The coral sways and comes alive in the current and the fish are everywhere, all colours and all sizes. They encircle and envelop me and at times I don’t seem to be able to move in any direction, a spider web and I’m caught in the middle. I didn’t find Nemo but I did see a big turtle and a small shark and collapsed exhausted half an hour later on the beach to tell the tale. Easily the best thirty pounds I’ve spent so far on this trip.
All meals are provided on the boat although the price of good food is a meticulous washing up rota that everyone follows without question. We also spend both nights aboard and are allocated bunks that are only slightly roomier than a coffin. I endure this on the first night but on the second, I need more space and fresh air so I grab a mattress and sleep up on deck. It’s calm and peaceful and there’s only a slight breeze to bounce the ropes against the mast sending an occasional, hollow cowbell sound across the flat, dark water of the inlet.With no artificial light around, the sky above appears overwhelmed with stars interspersed with satellites speeding from one side of the horizon to the other. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen this and at first I think it’s some kind of UFO phenomenon but the skipper puts me right before I can get too excited about the possibility of a close encounter of the Agent Scully kind.
Arriving back at Airlie Beach after three days, I’ve managed to avoid being sick but I’m quite sunburnt and in desperate need of a wash. We were rationed to one, thirty-second shower during the whole three days! 24 hours after alighting from the boat, I step off a bus on the Gold Coast of Queensland only slightly behind my clothes with have developed a ripe smelling, active life of their own. Nice!
For the past ten days or so then, I’ve been enjoying all the traditional features and activities of Christmas and New Year with family. Lots of food and drink (excellent pies and fish & chips!), some seriously average television, pulling a few crackers, barbeques by the pool, lying on the beach and going to surf school, which turns out to be bloody hard work. I now have even more respect, if that’s possible, for the cast of Baywatch!
My cousin Susan and I also went for a day trip to The Australia Zoo, home of Steve ‘Crocodile Hunter’ Irwin, where “Crikey, Crocs Rule”! He’s actually there in person, a rare event apparently, and we witness his exhilarating crocodile feeding display with only a slight sadistic hope that it’ll all end in tears. A few days later, he's splashed all over the news media feeding the crocodile with one hand and holding his four week old son in the other. Crikey!The zoo is run in a very impressive manner with lots of interactivity for kids and adults alike. I get to fondle a koala bear and touch a snake and everyone can wander freely in the grassy areas where the kangaroos roam...
“What’s that Skip?” I ask a hyperactive joey. “Ten percent off in the gift shop, today only? No worries mate!” These animals are well trained.
Anyway, now it's a new year and having just watched Celtic win the league, I’m leaving my Rangers-loving uncle to fly to Christchurch in New Zealand to journey across Middle Earth. I’ll no doubt encounter Wizards, Kings, Hobbits, Elves, Dwarves, Orcs and the mystical Ring of Power, which is… eh… nothing to do with my toilet blocking escapades!Till then.
Love, Neil x
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