Good News/Bad News

Do you want the good news first? Of course you do.

I passed my Drivers License test. With a perfect score, no less. Exciting, huh? It was only my second try! For a thirty question, multiple choice test it was surprisingly challenging. It was all that “Give Way” stuff that threw me off the first time. But, hey! I’m legal now! Never mind that Jorge passed his the first time...

Getting a license to drive a car in Australia is apparently harder than getting a license to sell real estate here.

One realtor we spoke with, a hilarious Canadian named Mike, who you must use if you are ever in need of some property in the Port Douglas area, explained the steps to us:

1) Take week-long real estate course

2) Take real estate exam. Have exam scored on the spot

3) Incorrect answers will be circled in red. Sit back down and answer those questions again. Have exam scored on the spot again.

4) Repeat Step 3 as necessary until Passing Score of 100% is achieved.

Oh, right, I almost forgot, the bad news...

We had an appointment in Cairns today with the immigration people. No answers yet. We can’t expect to have visas issued until we’ve been here for several more months; one month in country ain’t gonna cut it. So we’ll try again later on. They also want to see the kids enrolled in an educational institution as part of our commitment to residency, so it looks like they’ll be starting SCOOL July 11, when the locals finish up their holiday and the second semester begins.

Owning property does not help our case at all. Because the house we’re presently renting is on the market and we are not interested in purchasing it, we’re probably going to just move right into Port Douglas, rent a place and be done with it.



All the news that’s fit to print.

-- Adolph Simon Ochs (Motto of the New York Times)

The Kuranda Experience

Because we needed an excuse, we told Elle we would take her to do The Kuranda Experience, yes, that’s what the brochure officially calls it, for her birthday. This included a visit to the Tjapukai aboriginal culture show; a trip up over the rain forest and Barron Gorge in a glass bubble of a gondola, hanging by a little thread, to the town of Kuranda, an old mining-turned-hippie-artist-colony town, on the Skyrail; and a ride back down the range on the Kuranda Scenic Rail, a mine train line converted for sightseeing. We had done the Skyrail and train before, but Elle was too young to remember it, and I was disappointed that we had missed the Tjapukai show last time around, so this was a good opportunity to kill several birds with one stone.

If you are up this way, don’t miss the cultural attraction. Besides enjoying the Dreamtime and dance shows, we tried our hands at spear throwing (which I am pleased to say I am very good at) and boomerang throwing, learned didgeridoo techniques (and how to save a small fortune by playing on a piece of PVC pipe), and had a lesson in bush food and medicine. Even if you’ve done the trip up and down the mountain before, do it again. Sarabelle and Grice were as excited as if they’d never seen it before; Grice screaming the entire ride up the Skyrail, “Oh! Oh! Take a picture, Mom! Quick! Over there, get a picture of that, too!”

I’m sticking all the photos down below because it seems when I pull up the published site, that the pictures within the post are slipping, covering up some of the text. Let me know if you see it too. Maybe it’s just me...

Here then are shots from the dance portion of the show (I wish I had taken pictures of the kangaroo hunt dance, but I was too fascinated to move), boomerang throwing lessons, Skyrail views, and some of the Kuranda locals.

If a man insisted always on being serious, and never allowed himself a bit of fun and relaxation, he would go mad or become unstable without knowing it.

-- Herodotus

Scenery

Here are some views we get to enjoy every time we head out from the house to run errands:









Landscape photography is the supreme test of the photographer - and often the supreme disappointment.

-- Ansel Adams

I rest my case.

No wonder an acquaintance of ours scoffs at the quality of the Australian school system. In his entire career as a mining executive he never had one secretary that could spell properly.


To the uneducated, an A is just three sticks.

-- A. A. Milne

Offering

Inspired by an episode from The Amazing Race where contestants had to build an elaborate fruit offering for temple monkeys in Thailand, Grice and Elle created gifts for the bandicoots and padymelons that visit our yard.

This morning, it seems they have been pleased.

All our scientific and philosophic ideals are altars to unknown gods.

-- William James

Music

Aunt Julie and Gabby will be especially pleased to hear that Sarabelle has been entertaining herself, and us, with music she has picked out by ear from tunes on Beethoven’s Wig 2, several other classical composers, and even pieces of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Phantom of the Opera, on the mothball-scented Rich Lipp & John piano from Stuttgart the owners left behind.

Shubert, Dvorak, Chopin, Vivaldi, Paganini, Brahms...

She’s even practicing her scales.

The indefatigable pursuit of an unattainable perfection, even though it consist in nothing more than in the pounding of an old piano, is what alone gives a meaning to our life on this unavailing star.

--Logan Pearsall Smith

Sidetrip

Any information we had ever read on the Bloomfield Track contained graphic warnings about impassable river crossings, vehicles being washed away, bringing adequate water and food in case you were lucky enough to only suffer a stranding, watching out for scary man-eating wildlife, etc. For years this coastal dirt road was the only land route to Cooktown, a place Jorge has been wanting to visit for the past five years. I don’t know why. Why does a man climb a mountain? We didn’t make it last time we were here basically because I am a big chicken, although at the time I just blamed it on the kids. With his birthday around the corner and a new, supposedly safer, paved inland road available and a piece of property to look at in the vicinity, I relented.

The Developmental Road starts out with a giant billboard showing which segments of the road are open, so it’s still a challenging ride, paved or not. We made it up there without incident, enjoying the one sight, the mysterious Black Mountains, along the way. These are disintegrating mountains, no more than gigantic piles of black boulders, where people have been lost crawling among the bazillion caves formed by the rocks (which instantly made me want to go do some exploring of my own -- I’m only a chicken when it comes to things that might eat me) and where the wind blowing through the rocks makes strange moaning sounds and pilots report strong air disturbances from the updrafts.

We spent the night in Cooktown -- named in honor of, who else, Captain Cook, when he beached his ship Endeavor there for repairs after running aground on a reef off the part of the coast he named Cape Tribulation -- and about ten minutes the next morning surveying the town. That’s all it took: Butcher, baker, bank, post office, hotel, done. We spent a little more time on a croc-infested scenic walk on our way to the cemetery to check out some of the area’s notable burials, timing it just right, at low tide, when you can somewhat safely cross the swamp. Jorge unknowingly dropped the truck keys in the mud when he was forced to carry Elle on his back. Several yards behind him, I spotted them by chance, narrowly averting disaster, as I shuffled along staring at my feet ignoring the ‘scenic’ part of the walk after Elle nearly stepped on a small venomous looking snake (the incident which inspired her reluctance to walk.) Lots of “Accidentally drowned” and at least one “Accidentally taken” (grabbed by a crocodile in other words, though I would think that would have been more of an “On purpose.”) We found Mrs. Watson and her son Ferrier’s grave. The unfortunate Mrs. Watson made her home on an Aboriginal sacred sight and one day the natives attacked her and her two Chinese servants. She escaped with the surviving servant and her infant son in a large cooking pot, floating around from coral island to coral island, keeping a diary for about a week before they all died of dehydration.

After all that fun, we headed to look at a 20-acre piece of property that sounded interesting and ended up enjoying a swim in the high-altitude, crystal clear, croc-free Wallaby Creek that borders the piece. With about four hours of daylight left, we calculated we had enough time to make it back down the Bloomfield Track.

Wrong.

“Harrowing” doesn’t do it justice. Even with four-wheel drive, some of the climbs were so steep we barely made it up. Then it started to sprinkle, making the clay roads sickeningly slick. Throw in numerous “Fast Moving Water” warning signs depicting a car being swept off the submerged roadway, sections of road completely washed away, sheer drops on both of the Track, a map that didn’t quite match up with the route, and nightfall, and you’ve got yourself a pretty nerve-wracking ride. And all this on a good day for the Track. I can’t imagine anyone attempting it in the rainy season. But dusk is a great time for animal spotting. We saw clouds of sulphur crested cockatoos, horses, wild hogs, and a seven-foot python that made us wait, burning up our last bit of daylight while he rested in the road. Grice had to give him a poke to get him moving or he might have been there all night.

We finally reached the paved part of the road at Cape Tribulation and stopped at one of our favorite resorts to inquire whether the ferry was still running and if not, if they had rooms available. The boat was still operational, so after a dinner at the resort celebrating our survival, we crossed the large, water-dwelling-reptile-infested Daintree River on the always frightening pontoon ferry boat before finally arriving safe and sound at home.

Our doubts are traitors,
And make us lose the good we oft might win,
By fearing to attempt.

-- Shakespeare (Measure for Measure)

Open for Business

What happens when there’s no TV and the trampoline is no longer such a novelty and the one tennis ball you found in the yard is now stuck in the bushes where you can’t crawl in and get it because there are things in there and you are afraid to go down and play in the creek until Dad buys you a pair of galoshes to keep the leeches off your legs?

Ask, no, beg Mom to let you open The Trunk and do some schoolwork. Get excited when you discover Mom has packed three copies of Harvey’s English Grammar so that everyone has their own copy just like in a real class. Have fun organizing all the books by subject on the little built-in shelves in the living room. Try to decide which you should read first, The Iliad or The Odyssey. Do your math and then play school with your littlest sister, teaching her a few math lessons of her own. Get your sisters together for an afternoon of sketching with all your new art supplies. Then shock your parents a second day in a row by pulling the books out again and competing to see who gets to do math with Mom first.

Nothing is stronger than habit.

-- Ovid

Cool

They say we’re in the tropics, but in the middle of the night, our first in the rental, I had to get up and put on one of my Irish knit sweaters then took the other to wrap around my feet. After a busy night of everyone swapping beds and climbing in with someone else in search of extra body heat or maybe in hopes of stealing another blanket, we finally got comfortable and slept in a lot later than usual. We were awakened by the crazed flapping of the birds above, Wampoo Fruit Doves, outside our window fighting over palm seeds. They have dove heads and parrot bodies, with brilliant plummy maroon chests.

We made a trip into town today and picked up some extra household supplies, a new shower curtain, scouring powder, disinfectant, and a scrub brush for the bathrooms, and extra blankets. Regardless, I’m tucked in tonight under my new wool blanket with my sweater and thermal socks on, just in case.


Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.

-- Mark Twain

INTERMISSION

Updates will be intermittent for the next few days, more than they already are, while we settle in and wait for the phone guy to hook us up. And yeah, in the meantime I’ll work on taking some more pictures. I admit I’ve been slacking in that department, but nothing too interesting has been happening these last few days, unless you count dropping the landlord’s old couch off at the “Refuse Tip” while the kids play a challenging game of I Spy at the dump, or getting the whole family and our truck locked inside the appliance company’s fenced yard after picking our new washing machine up from the loading dock at the very end of the day, or Jorge wrestling the washing machine off the truck and into the house without a dolly through six inches of mud...

Up 800 meters above sea level, around 91 twisting, curvy turns, 20 kilometers from the highway turnoff, past two scenic overlooks and one national park, that’s where we’ll be, setting up house, anticipating DSL.


How much of human life is lost in waiting.

-- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Third World

We moved in last night, sort of. We’re not yet, but most of our belongings are up there including the new towels we bought, five, each in a different color so there is no arguing about whose is whose and no doubt about who left theirs soggy on the bathroom floor; one blanket for each member of the family; and two bamboo floor mats, to make living on the industrial strength vinyl covering the floor a little less sticky; all bought at a linen vendor’s bankruptcy sale. We are truly living the life of immigrants. Or refugees. We did splurge a little and bought a nice teak table and chair set for the outside dining porch. Aesthetics are important too.

The delay in moving is due to the fact that first we must bomb the house. The landlords took their two dogs but left behind a few fleas. So while toxic chemicals waft around the premises we will be back in town purchasing our camping gear -- everybody will be on cots except me; I’m going with the hammock option which will provide seating during the day -- and some pots (cast iron cookware is practically free, $15 USD for a good-sized Dutch Oven), utensils, and cups. Jorge wants to buy plates from our friends the potters, who make a heavy stoneware type in a mossy green color featuring etchings of the palms and mountains from the Daintree (World Heritage rainforest) area where they live, but we would probably have to wait until next Sunday to catch them again at the market unless we make an unscheduled visit by their house. Quality, not quantity, for these refugees.

In some respects, living outside the urban areas here is a lot like living in a third world country, like life in the mountains of Belize. Vehicles are utilitarian, clothing is whatever fits, people are largely self-reliant, and living with a certain level of dirt must be tolerated, except that there is quite a bit of government intervention and most of the people look just like we do.

The last few days we’ve had a taste of what The Wet is like -- one of only two seasons around here, the other being, yeah, you guessed it, The Dry -- as an unusually long and late rainy season tapers off. It is nothing like Florida’s dramatic afternoon thunderstorms. Here there is just a steady soaking downpour that can last months; day and night, heavy, continual rain minus the thunder and lightning. The Girl From Clewiston even waxed nostalgic for South Florida’s violent summer weather. Under these conditions, forced to go shoeless, we’re experiencing what we called in Belize “Mennonite Foot,” a condition honoring our perpetually barefoot, horse-and-buggy-driving farmer friends’ permanently mud-caked, crusty-toenailed, calloused feet. (It’s okay, they’re not online.) With reports on Brisbane’s drought and Level 5 water restrictions banning practically every use of water beyond bathing, and then only if you’ve got at least three people every second Tuesday between 6:00 and 7:00 AM, I’ll gladly take the wet.

When it rains, it pours.

-- Morton Salt

School

There has been much interest both here and abroad in when the children will begin school.

The elementary is just up the road from the rental house and the bus picks up at the top of the street. Our landlord left behind uniforms for us and the kids go to school barefoot. How much easier could it be?

Today is a holiday, the Queen’s birthday, and after the next two weeks the school kids here take a two-week vacation before beginning their new semester, so that would be a good opportunity to get these girls started, except...

1) I am unimpressed with the quality of education.

Elementary is elementary. It couldn’t hurt Elle. She might even go right into second grade based on her age. Gracie might enjoy the social aspect, but you’re always told in school that you are not there to socialize, so what would be the point?

Core subjects at the high school level are English, Mathematics, Science, and some hodgepodge course, Studies of Society & the Environment, which notes that it incorporates Personal Development Education, whatever that may be. The basics have all been previously covered at their Grade 9 levels even though Sarabelle didn’t formally do any schoolwork at all last year. Aside from choosing Japanese as an elective (and getting to go on an awesome field trip to Japan) and Art (which we’ve already studied in greater depth), Sarabelle’s other options include: Creative Design in Food & Fashion; Drama; Football; Graphics; Health & Physical Education; Home Economics Food Major; Physical Performance & Aesthetics (a class in aerobics, dance, gymnastics, and my personal favorite, circus); and Tropical Fashion Design. There are a few more serious sounding electives, Business Education (personal finance and consumer rights and responsibilities. How to Be a Consumer? Pass.); Design & Technology (development, nature, and manipulation of industrial systems. After finishing The Long Emergency and The Omnivore’s Dilemma, the whole industrial thing is a huge turn-off); Industrial Technology (same as the previous course but easier, focusing on the characteristics of materials: wood, metal, plastic, electronics); and Information Technology Education (learning Microsoft Excel, Access, Word, Front Page, and Publisher with Keyboarding Skills an integrated part of the entire course). Purely vocational. Bleah.

2) I dragged over The Trunk full of materials (and paid a ton of overweight charges) and am determined to use them.

An education first, a vocation later.

____


My first impression of the Australian “State School,” was of a correctional institution or a mental hospital, even though I understand that my response to the term is a purely cultural conceit, similar perhaps to the incorrect impression a Brit might have of American “public” schools, which, unlike their public facilities, actually are for the general public. Until now, believe it or not, I was still somewhat on the fence, a painful barbed wire cattle fence, but seeing it in writing, I think the choice is obvious.

True, it would be a chance for the girls to make some friends in the area, but I’m hoping joining a sport or club will fill that void. We have the excuses that they just finished their school year and are due their (summer) vacation, they would either be repeating a grade or dropped in the midst of a higher grade, and besides, we have tickets to return to the States at the end of November, before the local school year is officially ended. Better to start off fresh next year, right?


I have never let my schooling interfere with my education.

-- Mark Twain

Commercial Break

We never had the chance to rent the cute little VW campers the New Zealand company Kool Kombi had to offer, but this company offers a way cool Australian alternative.

Whoever got this going is genius, reconditioning older vans and giving them unpolitically correct paint jobs. So far the most outrageous ones we’ve spotted were The Pope’s Final Tour and a spoof on an Avis rental called Anus. Today’s favorite was the Cheech and Chong van.

If printers were determined not to print anything till they were sure it would offend nobody, there would be very little printed.
-- Benjamin Franklin

Much virtue in Herbs, little in men.
-- Benjamin Franklin

Serendipity?

After several days of driving and looking and driving and comparing and driving and driving, we have found a house to rent. It was the very first place we looked at, the place our orange juice-squeezing market friends said we should see on their road.

It’s a three bedroom, two bath, concrete block, tin roofed, ground level house on 6 1/2 acres up in a tableland area of the mountain range above Port Douglas. It’s got a fish pond, chicken house, vegetable garden, fruit trees, barn, garage and other outbuildings, three or four separate fenced pasture areas, and is surrounded by a rainforested creek with mountain views. It even has DSL available and its own blue life-sized Buddha statue down by the creek. For the kids there’s a trampoline that someone bought from the owners but forgot to pick up, and a giant swing. All for around $650/month US. Oh, and it’s unfurnished too, which means that between now and Sunday evening when we move in, we’ve got to find beds, at least one table, five chairs, and a washing machine (because I don’t relish the idea of beating my clothes on a rock in the fish pond.) Today we checked out a few furniture stores, and while everything was reasonably priced, we’re thinking even cheaper checking classified ads and camping equipment suppliers. The kids want cots, I want a hammock, Jorge fancies himself a jolly swagman. Everybody gets one towel, blanket, plate, cup, fork, knife, and spoon. What more does one need?

So, let’s see, we’ve got a mailing address, a physical address with a six month rental agreement, a bank account, a driver’s test booklet (just need to drop by and take the 30 question test), and a vehicle. We are almost ready to go see what kind of Returning Resident Visa the government will issue us.


“How You Gonna Keep ‘Em Down on the Farm After They’ve Seen Paree?”

-- Sam M. Lewis and Joe Young

Port Douglas

Port Douglas has captured our attention, again. It’s very similar to Boca Grande in its small town, exclusive, resort feel, old wood-frame architecture, and charm. And prices. The locals are certainly as friendly too. It’s also where celebrities and ex-US presidents are sometimes spotted enjoying low key, semi-anonymous vacations. (Clinton was partying downstairs when he got a sobering phone call on September 11.)

We happened to arrive at the beginning of their so-called peak season, so-called, because we don’t see any crush of tourists. Despite claims of no availability by various accommodation services, we managed to find loads of places, ending up in a prime spot at the corner of Wharf and Macrossan at a bargain rate. The realtors won’t say so, but it seems they may be experiencing a bubble in property prices as well. It didn’t help that they had two major storms within the last few months. So we wait. Just like Boca, once the season passes the prices should start dropping.

Sunday is Market Day. Grice and I got up before dawn, well, really I did -- early rising being a pleasant result of having my clock reset -- and dragged her half-asleep across the street, to the ANZAC park. After an hour or so and a return to the room to get them motivated, Jorge, Sarabelle, and Elle finally joined us. We caught up with some former acquaintances, potters (the kind who make ceramics, Mom, don’t worry) who had us out to their place years ago. We also made some new ones: D and J, squeezing fresh orange juice, who raved about the area they live in up in the mountains above Port Douglas and recommended we see a property on their road (which we did); J and J, selling all kinds of homemade relishes and chutneys, British ex-pats who happily live in the same beautiful Tableland area and also suggested we drive by a house for sale on their road (which we did); B, the award-winning orchid grower, who told me that he would never sell his large holding in the foothills to the Japanese who have been after it for years because they kept him hopping into the trenches during WWII, and who also suggested we take a ride up his way (again, we did); B’s daughter-in-law who is from Clewiston, Florida, where she picked up her Australian husband when he arrived there to teach the Florida cane growers how to use the new mechanical cutters; and P and F, who are selling the property that D and J first recommended. We also came across the Name Guy again, who bends names into gold or silver wire for necklaces. The girls and I had stopped and talked to him at his regular spot on Macrossan a few days before. He wondered if we were Canadian; he thought we were too soft-spoken to be American.

Breakfast was a sample of fresh tropical fruits and juices and a bag of locally made macadamia nut biscuits, and then in a scene reminiscent of Seurat’s “A Sunday on La Grande Jatte” and Sunday in the Park with George, we enjoyed the point at the end of the park.




Many things, having full reference
To one consent, may work contrariously;
As many arrows, loosed several ways,
Fly to one mark; as many ways meet in one town;
As many fresh streams meet in one salt sea;
As many lines close in the dial’s center;
So may a thousand actions, once afoot,
End in one purpose, and be all well borne
Without defeat.

-- Shakespeare (King Henry the Fifth)

For Cousin Bob...

...because as far as we know, the master gardener has never been able to successfully add this beautiful species, to his palm collection. Bob, we think of you and the girls every time we see these, which, since they are everywhere, is often.

For Mindy...

...since we won't be able to visit in the hospital or during your recovery, some flowers for you.

Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls;
For, thus friends absent speak.

-- John Donne

Tick!

After taking a day off to laze around the multiple pools at the Cairns Colonial Club, we set off this morning to tick one major item off our list, purchasing a vehicle.

We met Beck, a fair dinkum, honest Joe (her terms) bush chick from the Far, Far, Really Way Far North. She sold us Mrs. Troopie (her name for the wagon), a sturdy diesel truck with an odometer that quit at 284,000 or more likely 1,284,000 kilometers. Just perfect for the family that already owns two other well-used vehicles named Boatie and Jeepie.

She’s a beaut.

We dropped Mrs. Troopie off with a highly recommended mechanic before heading up the coast to Port Douglas for a few days. On the way, she showed her displeasure at being left behind by blasting out one spectacular backfire.

Women upset everything. When you let them into your life, you find that the woman is driving at one thing and you’re driving at another.

-- George Bernard Shaw