After a quick drive to Napier, a lovely little town renowned for it’s amazing Art Deco architecture, we decided to stay there for a couple of nights and see if we could pick up some WWOOF work on our way to Christchurch.
For any New Zealand travellers in the audience, I would highly recommend the Napier Prison Backpacker’s Hostel. It’s a great place to spend a few nights; good clean facilities, very comfortable beds, and a whole lot of fun. Spending a night or two in the cells is pretty entertaining.
It only took a couple of phone calls for us to secure a WWOOF appointment at a really cute sounding place; we will be at a small hobby-type permaculture farm shepherded by a Swiss lady with a voice and accent that could immediately conjure boxes of Swiss chocolates wrapped with grosgrain ribbon. I’m quite intrigued by the presence of a hand-milked cow.
We left Napier a couple of days before our scheduled arrival at the WWOOF farm, as the farm is on the south island and it will take us at least a day’s travel to get across on the ferry. The Hawke’s Bay region is renowned for it’s wineries, and there were plenty of wineries along the Naiper-to-Wellington highway. We planned on stopping of at about eight or so wineries, but by the third winery I was completely hammered and Glen, despite diligently spitting out every mouthful of wine, was worried that if we visited any more cellars he was going to end up absorbing too much alcohol to continue driving. The first vineyard’s wine was nothing to write home about; pleasant but not particularly interesting. The second vineyard was quite a bit of fun; the woman conducting our wine tasting was a hoot, the wine was delicious, and the samples were generous. There were a couple of reds that I would have liked to purchase, but they were very costly and well outside our budget. At the third vineyard we came across a really fantastic dessert wine – the first dessert wine I’ve actually enjoyed – and a lovely Shiraz, so we bought a bottle of each.
Wine purchased and safely stowed, we stopped for lunch at a highway eatery known as The Chook and the Filly. If you are ever driving the South Highway 50, stop by this place and have a meal. Actually, if you are planning on driving the SH2, change your plans and take the SH50 instead just so you can stop at this place. The food is mouth-watering, the prices are reasonable, and the proprietor is a great man to talk to about the wines you have (or are about to) sample.
The remainder of the drive was quite uneventful, and we spent the night in Paraparaumu at the Barnacles Seaside Inn YHA hostel. This is another place that I will add to my list of recommended accommodations. It is very, very homey and comfortable. The kitchen is a little small, but the delightful dining room/TV room more than makes up for it, and it meets my cleanliness standards.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Abort! Abort!
After forking out for our muddy yet refined adventure at Hell’s Gate, Glen and I were feeling the effects of living on a fixed budget and a high cost of living for two months. Taking advantage of the unsecured wireless internet connection we discovered in our motel room, we scoured the New Zealand seasonal backpacker’s work websites for some temporary employment.
We weren’t expecting much in the way of results from this job hunt, as we would only be available to work for one week at most. Nevertheless, one of the employers responded. He had advertised needing workers for squash weeding, and if we could make our way to Hastings, in the scenic and very fertile Hawkes Bay area, he would have work and accommodation for us.
We drove down on a Sunday. From the multiple phone conversations Glen had with him, we believed we would start work on Monday. Our contact would meet us in Hastings and escort us to the farm, where we would have beds at the modest price of $80 each for one week’s stay. Upon arriving at the arranged meeting point, we called our contact and he said he would be there in ten minutes. One hour and twenty minutes later he arrived, hardly acknowledged either of us, said absolutely nothing in regards to his extreme lateness, and led us on a ten minute drive to the farm and hour housing.
To say that the place was a roach motel would be putting it politely. I’m well aware that there are cockroaches in New Zealand, as there are in 99.7% of the world, but to have so many crawling around in such a filthy excuse of a bunkhouse was disgusting. I personally prefer my food cupboards to be relatively cockroach free, wheras these roaches used the food pantry as a thoroughfare. The beds were stained and boasted crusty patches on the mattress coverings, the garbage in the kitchen was completely infested with ants, and the bathroom had no toilet paper.
Our contact said that there wouldn’t be any work available for us on Monday (which was supposed to be our starting date). There would probably be no work for us on Tuesday either. We might be starting on Wednesday, at the earliest, but he explained that there were some German backpackers waiting for work and they would be given priority as they have staying there for several days on the farm. We might only have two or three days work a week, our fine fellow explained days, maybe four days at the most. He promised to call us with more information the following morning, and would drop off a key to the accommodations.
After we resigned ourselves to the general grottiness of the place, we hauled our bags in and wandered around the multi-winged backpacker’s complex. And who did we come across in one of the wings? One of the travellers we had been hanging out with at the Auckland hostel! He had been at the farm for a week already, had only worked a couple of days, and was spending most of his time twiddling his thumbs waiting for more work. A large number of the other people staying there were in a similar situation. Some of them did have work, but the impression we were given was that working days were few and far between. This bleak outlook, combined with the cagey, vague information given to us by our contact, the disgusting accommodation, and the sheer number of people who would be giving priority for work over us, led us to the conclusion that there was no work to be had, and that it would be a waste of time and money to stay.
So we did a runner! Early the following afternoon, after neither seeing or hearing from our contact, we flung our backpacks back into the car and took off before anyone could ask us to pay rent for our one night’s stay. So long dodgy work contractor! So long roach-filled backpacker’s shack! So long prospectless days of thumb-twiddling!
POOF! Gone with ninja-like stealth!
We weren’t expecting much in the way of results from this job hunt, as we would only be available to work for one week at most. Nevertheless, one of the employers responded. He had advertised needing workers for squash weeding, and if we could make our way to Hastings, in the scenic and very fertile Hawkes Bay area, he would have work and accommodation for us.
We drove down on a Sunday. From the multiple phone conversations Glen had with him, we believed we would start work on Monday. Our contact would meet us in Hastings and escort us to the farm, where we would have beds at the modest price of $80 each for one week’s stay. Upon arriving at the arranged meeting point, we called our contact and he said he would be there in ten minutes. One hour and twenty minutes later he arrived, hardly acknowledged either of us, said absolutely nothing in regards to his extreme lateness, and led us on a ten minute drive to the farm and hour housing.
To say that the place was a roach motel would be putting it politely. I’m well aware that there are cockroaches in New Zealand, as there are in 99.7% of the world, but to have so many crawling around in such a filthy excuse of a bunkhouse was disgusting. I personally prefer my food cupboards to be relatively cockroach free, wheras these roaches used the food pantry as a thoroughfare. The beds were stained and boasted crusty patches on the mattress coverings, the garbage in the kitchen was completely infested with ants, and the bathroom had no toilet paper.
Our contact said that there wouldn’t be any work available for us on Monday (which was supposed to be our starting date). There would probably be no work for us on Tuesday either. We might be starting on Wednesday, at the earliest, but he explained that there were some German backpackers waiting for work and they would be given priority as they have staying there for several days on the farm. We might only have two or three days work a week, our fine fellow explained days, maybe four days at the most. He promised to call us with more information the following morning, and would drop off a key to the accommodations.
After we resigned ourselves to the general grottiness of the place, we hauled our bags in and wandered around the multi-winged backpacker’s complex. And who did we come across in one of the wings? One of the travellers we had been hanging out with at the Auckland hostel! He had been at the farm for a week already, had only worked a couple of days, and was spending most of his time twiddling his thumbs waiting for more work. A large number of the other people staying there were in a similar situation. Some of them did have work, but the impression we were given was that working days were few and far between. This bleak outlook, combined with the cagey, vague information given to us by our contact, the disgusting accommodation, and the sheer number of people who would be giving priority for work over us, led us to the conclusion that there was no work to be had, and that it would be a waste of time and money to stay.
So we did a runner! Early the following afternoon, after neither seeing or hearing from our contact, we flung our backpacks back into the car and took off before anyone could ask us to pay rent for our one night’s stay. So long dodgy work contractor! So long roach-filled backpacker’s shack! So long prospectless days of thumb-twiddling!
POOF! Gone with ninja-like stealth!
A Stinking, Scalding Tub Full of Goodness
Rotorua is well known for its geothermal wonders. The entire town is built around these natural hot springs and geysers, and holy smackers do the locals ever make good use of it. Every place of accommodation lists natural mineral pools among their amenities, and despite the purveying reek of sulphur that blankets most of the town, the town is one of New Zealand’s top tourist destinations.
Our own motel had a mineral pool, of course, which we decided to try out one evening. I’m not entirely certain if my intestines were completely poached by the end of our brief dip, the arteries in my legs certainly were. Glen managed to submerge himself up to his neck in the scalding water, while I only managed to get in up to my waist. It took us about ten minutes of ginger, inch-by-painful-inch entry to get to that point. I believe that the water was around 43 degrees Celsius, and our skin was a blotchy lobster-red for a good hour after we got out.
A much more gentle experience was had at the Wai Ora Spa at the Hell’s Gate Geothermal Reserve. We were signed up for a combo package, which included our entry fee to the geothermal reserve park, a private mud bath, and a soak in the spa’s sulphur pools. I would like to add that the park has a complimentary shuttle bus for visitors. It might be wonderful to have our own car again, but it is delightful to have someone else do the driving and thinking for us.
The walk was defiantly nifty; despite having seen natural hot spring sources before, the violence with which the mud and water bubbles up from this area is surprising. The smell is sometimes eye-wateringly pungent, but after a while one’s nose deadens somewhat at it becomes more bearable. All cliches aside, 'alien' would be the best way to describe the landscape, as it is a blasted, pitted place marked with pools of black mud that says "gloop gloop" and shockingly yellow sulphur crystal formations.
The spa was delightful. The properties of the hot springs create marvelously silky mud that is excellent for one’s pores. Both the spa’s mud and sulphur baths are sourced directly from the geothermal reserve, so it’s a thoroughly local indulgence. All snooty expounding upon the curative properties of the mud aside, it was darn fun to wallow in it and get completely filthy.
After we rinsed off (in a freezing cold shower, I might add: the water came straight out of a garden hose set-up and promoted severe testicular retraction) we went to the sulphur baths. The water was smelly but extremely soft. Happily, the temperature of those baths weren’t nearly as hot as the mineral pool at our hotel, so we were able to get in up to our necks quite quickly. I’ve begun to wonder, however, if the pools were designed to extract human energy and use it to power the facility; we were completely drained after getting out of the sulphur pools. A word to the wise traveller: don’t make any plans for the evening following a day at Hell’s Gate/Wai Ora. You will be useless for any activity apart from blobbing in front of the television and occasionally drooling.
Our own motel had a mineral pool, of course, which we decided to try out one evening. I’m not entirely certain if my intestines were completely poached by the end of our brief dip, the arteries in my legs certainly were. Glen managed to submerge himself up to his neck in the scalding water, while I only managed to get in up to my waist. It took us about ten minutes of ginger, inch-by-painful-inch entry to get to that point. I believe that the water was around 43 degrees Celsius, and our skin was a blotchy lobster-red for a good hour after we got out.
A much more gentle experience was had at the Wai Ora Spa at the Hell’s Gate Geothermal Reserve. We were signed up for a combo package, which included our entry fee to the geothermal reserve park, a private mud bath, and a soak in the spa’s sulphur pools. I would like to add that the park has a complimentary shuttle bus for visitors. It might be wonderful to have our own car again, but it is delightful to have someone else do the driving and thinking for us.
The walk was defiantly nifty; despite having seen natural hot spring sources before, the violence with which the mud and water bubbles up from this area is surprising. The smell is sometimes eye-wateringly pungent, but after a while one’s nose deadens somewhat at it becomes more bearable. All cliches aside, 'alien' would be the best way to describe the landscape, as it is a blasted, pitted place marked with pools of black mud that says "gloop gloop" and shockingly yellow sulphur crystal formations.
The spa was delightful. The properties of the hot springs create marvelously silky mud that is excellent for one’s pores. Both the spa’s mud and sulphur baths are sourced directly from the geothermal reserve, so it’s a thoroughly local indulgence. All snooty expounding upon the curative properties of the mud aside, it was darn fun to wallow in it and get completely filthy.
After we rinsed off (in a freezing cold shower, I might add: the water came straight out of a garden hose set-up and promoted severe testicular retraction) we went to the sulphur baths. The water was smelly but extremely soft. Happily, the temperature of those baths weren’t nearly as hot as the mineral pool at our hotel, so we were able to get in up to our necks quite quickly. I’ve begun to wonder, however, if the pools were designed to extract human energy and use it to power the facility; we were completely drained after getting out of the sulphur pools. A word to the wise traveller: don’t make any plans for the evening following a day at Hell’s Gate/Wai Ora. You will be useless for any activity apart from blobbing in front of the television and occasionally drooling.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Sparkleypoo the Magic Wagon
We are now in Rotorua. How did we get to Rotorua?
IN OUR CAR.
Yep, we’ve bought ourselves a higher class of crap-can than is normally iconic of self-driving backpackers. It is a 1995 Subaru Legacy station wagon, automatic, with a sunroof and a moonroof, and a very temperamental air conditioning control system.* The price was cheap (you've got to love the promise of a quick cash sale for negotiating a lower purchase price), the timing was perfect, and the vehicle is in good condition. It contains a great deal of concrete chips and dust, as the previous owner was a construction worker and put his work stuff in it. It is definitely in need of a vacuuming, which will happen once we find a self-serve car vacuum place. There is room for us to bed down in the back and plenty of space for hauling our gear. We have named it Sparkleypoo.
We left Auckland on the very same day that we purchased the car, and headed to Rotorua to enjoy the sinus-cleansing sulphuric smells and the fantastic natural wonders of the geothermal hot-spots. We will be taking in the natural beauties, the natural geysers and hot water boiling up from the ground, and the mud baths. Thanks to a wonderfully budget-friendly choice of motels, we have our own suite, shower, and kitchen for three days at the same rate as a double room in a hostel would cost us. It is a fat time, a time of plenty (despite the initial cost of getting the car, which will quickly pay for itself due to the cost of bus fares), a time of personal space and self-determined mobility.
For the record, driving around in Aukland's central downtown area is terrifying. I was behind the wheel on the first two very short excursions, and as it was my first time driving on the left in a left-oriented car, it involved a great deal of cursing. All cursing was done at the top of my lungs. Needless to say, Glen's been doing the driving ever since.
In other news, Glen’s hair is now red:
*Note: The air conditioning works just fine, it is just that it takes some very persistent prodding to get the buttons to recognize your commands when you first turn it on. The easiest way to deal with it is to simply not turn it off, but to adjust the fan, thermostat, and intake until it maintains a comfortable cabin temperature.
IN OUR CAR.
Yep, we’ve bought ourselves a higher class of crap-can than is normally iconic of self-driving backpackers. It is a 1995 Subaru Legacy station wagon, automatic, with a sunroof and a moonroof, and a very temperamental air conditioning control system.* The price was cheap (you've got to love the promise of a quick cash sale for negotiating a lower purchase price), the timing was perfect, and the vehicle is in good condition. It contains a great deal of concrete chips and dust, as the previous owner was a construction worker and put his work stuff in it. It is definitely in need of a vacuuming, which will happen once we find a self-serve car vacuum place. There is room for us to bed down in the back and plenty of space for hauling our gear. We have named it Sparkleypoo.
We left Auckland on the very same day that we purchased the car, and headed to Rotorua to enjoy the sinus-cleansing sulphuric smells and the fantastic natural wonders of the geothermal hot-spots. We will be taking in the natural beauties, the natural geysers and hot water boiling up from the ground, and the mud baths. Thanks to a wonderfully budget-friendly choice of motels, we have our own suite, shower, and kitchen for three days at the same rate as a double room in a hostel would cost us. It is a fat time, a time of plenty (despite the initial cost of getting the car, which will quickly pay for itself due to the cost of bus fares), a time of personal space and self-determined mobility.
For the record, driving around in Aukland's central downtown area is terrifying. I was behind the wheel on the first two very short excursions, and as it was my first time driving on the left in a left-oriented car, it involved a great deal of cursing. All cursing was done at the top of my lungs. Needless to say, Glen's been doing the driving ever since.
In other news, Glen’s hair is now red:
*Note: The air conditioning works just fine, it is just that it takes some very persistent prodding to get the buttons to recognize your commands when you first turn it on. The easiest way to deal with it is to simply not turn it off, but to adjust the fan, thermostat, and intake until it maintains a comfortable cabin temperature.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Between a Rock and a Whorehouse
Thanks to the salesmanship efforts of a backpacker’s travel agent at the Peterpan’s Adventure Travel shop and against the express recommendations of a dear friend, Glen and I booked our first few nights in Auckland at the Nomads Fat Camel hostel. We were lured by the enthusiasm of the backpacker agent, the promise of free meals every evening*, the availability of a double room, and the hostel’s habit of refunding traveller’s their airport shuttle transfer fee (which ended up being about $30 for the two of us).
The room was reasonably clean and the bed comfortable. The hostel itself is divided into multiple floors, two communal areas on each floor, and each communal area divided into dorms or twin/double rooms. There is an interesting apartment-style communal set up in every room cluster, one kitchen for every 20 or so hostellers, a 24 hour manned reception desk, travel agent, and a bar on the main floor.
And for the frisky, there are two massage parlours and three strip clubs flanking the hostel walls!
Right next door to the hostel is Cleopatra’s (yep, that's the entrance awning to the Nomads Fat Camel hostel in the picture).
Just in case you were mistaken as to the nature of the establishment, Cleopatra’s has kindly placed a sign advertising their services in the front-entrance stairwell:
If Cleopatra’s isn’t exactly what you are looking for and you wanted something with slightly less class, you can go one door over and visit Lipstix. Lipstix has a seedier, naughtier flare than Cleopatra’s. They can’t afford a fancy printed sign in their entrance, so they opted instead for a more budget-friendly chalkboard.
Should you be wanting something a little more – ahem - energetic, just walk to the other side of the hostel. On the other side of the hostel, right beside the hostel’s bar, is The Mermaid Bar (yes, they actually have a website), where there are "enchanting mermaids performing for you nightly."
Once you have piqued your appetite at The Mermaid Bar, you can head next door to The Moon Gentleman’s Bar. On a grocery shopping expedition during our first night in Auckland, we passed by The Moon and found that some kindly nurse had positioned herself right in front of the door. I believe that she was present to help out with any men who may have been experiencing a spike in their blood pressures. I’m surprised that no one offered her a coat, however, as she must have been very chilly in that little uniform. She needed a larger size, as she couldn’t even zip her top fully closed!
After sating one’s thirst for scantily clad nurses at The Moon, you may stagger next door again for our final stop, The H.Q. Club Gentleman’s Retreat. At this point, you should be relatively exhausted from your night on the town, so the upper-class genteelness implied by the exquisite signage and the fact that this is a "gentleman’s retreat" should be something of a comfort.
Truthfully, it seemed that the people coming out of the strip clubs and massage parlours were far less rowdy than the people spilling out of the Fat Camel’s bar. As one of the hostel staff put it, "having whorehouses for neighbours just means that there's that much more security people around." Phew! And I thought that we might be dealing with something serious!
*Note: The free "food" was atrocious. When I say that it was nearly inedible, I mean it; one evening I was actually unable to chew the beef. The chewed-up piece was indistinguishable from the non-chewed pieces. The meals were, in general, drowning in salt and grease containing meat of such low grade that it would gag a goat. Fortunately we were able to get our free portion "supersized" for free, because Peterpans has a deal that you can get your food at the Fat Camel upsized for free upon presentation of the yellow rubber Peterpans bracelet - otherwise it would cost $4. While I would have shrunk away in horror at the idea of even larger portions of that dodgy food, upsizing the meal usually meant that you got some vegetables as a side dish. We ate it because it was free, but I'm still not entirely certain if the indigestion and cramping was worth it.
The room was reasonably clean and the bed comfortable. The hostel itself is divided into multiple floors, two communal areas on each floor, and each communal area divided into dorms or twin/double rooms. There is an interesting apartment-style communal set up in every room cluster, one kitchen for every 20 or so hostellers, a 24 hour manned reception desk, travel agent, and a bar on the main floor.
And for the frisky, there are two massage parlours and three strip clubs flanking the hostel walls!
Right next door to the hostel is Cleopatra’s (yep, that's the entrance awning to the Nomads Fat Camel hostel in the picture).
Just in case you were mistaken as to the nature of the establishment, Cleopatra’s has kindly placed a sign advertising their services in the front-entrance stairwell:
If Cleopatra’s isn’t exactly what you are looking for and you wanted something with slightly less class, you can go one door over and visit Lipstix. Lipstix has a seedier, naughtier flare than Cleopatra’s. They can’t afford a fancy printed sign in their entrance, so they opted instead for a more budget-friendly chalkboard.
Should you be wanting something a little more – ahem - energetic, just walk to the other side of the hostel. On the other side of the hostel, right beside the hostel’s bar, is The Mermaid Bar (yes, they actually have a website), where there are "enchanting mermaids performing for you nightly."
Once you have piqued your appetite at The Mermaid Bar, you can head next door to The Moon Gentleman’s Bar. On a grocery shopping expedition during our first night in Auckland, we passed by The Moon and found that some kindly nurse had positioned herself right in front of the door. I believe that she was present to help out with any men who may have been experiencing a spike in their blood pressures. I’m surprised that no one offered her a coat, however, as she must have been very chilly in that little uniform. She needed a larger size, as she couldn’t even zip her top fully closed!
After sating one’s thirst for scantily clad nurses at The Moon, you may stagger next door again for our final stop, The H.Q. Club Gentleman’s Retreat. At this point, you should be relatively exhausted from your night on the town, so the upper-class genteelness implied by the exquisite signage and the fact that this is a "gentleman’s retreat" should be something of a comfort.
Truthfully, it seemed that the people coming out of the strip clubs and massage parlours were far less rowdy than the people spilling out of the Fat Camel’s bar. As one of the hostel staff put it, "having whorehouses for neighbours just means that there's that much more security people around." Phew! And I thought that we might be dealing with something serious!
*Note: The free "food" was atrocious. When I say that it was nearly inedible, I mean it; one evening I was actually unable to chew the beef. The chewed-up piece was indistinguishable from the non-chewed pieces. The meals were, in general, drowning in salt and grease containing meat of such low grade that it would gag a goat. Fortunately we were able to get our free portion "supersized" for free, because Peterpans has a deal that you can get your food at the Fat Camel upsized for free upon presentation of the yellow rubber Peterpans bracelet - otherwise it would cost $4. While I would have shrunk away in horror at the idea of even larger portions of that dodgy food, upsizing the meal usually meant that you got some vegetables as a side dish. We ate it because it was free, but I'm still not entirely certain if the indigestion and cramping was worth it.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Welcome to New Zealand! Go See Canada!
One short flight and in-flight screening of Live Free of Die Hard brought Glen and I to Auckland, New Zealand. Guess what we found when we got through customs!
Mounties! Doesn’t everyone find representatives from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police when they get off the plane in New Zealand?
Granted, their hats were wrong and the uniforms weren’t exactly regulation issue, but they were unmistakably Mounties. Apparently Air New Zealand was running a promotional campaign for their new direct-to-Canada flights, which were being launched that very day. Do you think we could get hired by Air New Zealand to pose as Canadians?
Mounties! Doesn’t everyone find representatives from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police when they get off the plane in New Zealand?
Granted, their hats were wrong and the uniforms weren’t exactly regulation issue, but they were unmistakably Mounties. Apparently Air New Zealand was running a promotional campaign for their new direct-to-Canada flights, which were being launched that very day. Do you think we could get hired by Air New Zealand to pose as Canadians?
We Found Orientalism. It Threw Up All Over a Restaurant.
One final note before leaving Brisbane: we went out for a nice light dinner at a restaurant, and chose Ahmet’s, a Turkish-themed joint on the South Bank. This was the restaurant with belly dancing on Friday and Saturday nights. There would be no performance that night, but we thought it looked like a fun place to have a bite anyway.
It was…entertaining, to be sure. The service was terrible, we nearly had to trip up our waitress to get her to even look at us. Glen had a beer, while I ordered their "Turkish Apple Tea". It sounded nice. It smelled nice. It tasted nice. It wasn’t tea. All it consisted of was heated apple juice. It was tasty, but one would think that to have something branded as “Turkish Apple Tea” as opposed to “Hot Apple Juice”, there would be something, oh, special about it. Maybe the juice could be heated with a couple of cinnamon sticks simmering in it. Just a thought.
The food was good, albeit a little slow. The waitress forgot about our dessert, but that didn’t make the baklava any less delicious.
The décor was – ah – Turkesque. Orientalism at it’s finest and boldest was splashed everywhere. Jewel-toned sheer fabrics were draped all over the ceiling, every inch of furniture was upholstered in some fantastically clashing pattern, and there were bad fresco-style murals all over the walls. Here is a little visual tour (the photos are a little dark):
This was our table. With food. And upholstery.
This is the mural beside the table.
The mural worried me. The painted women were watching our every move.
Here is one view of the restaurant.
Here is another view of the restaurant. Behold the magnificence of the ceiling drapery!
And finally: a turban shelf, for all your turban needs!
I can only marvel at the bipedal weaving skills of the dancers who perform there on the weekend. Those tables were mashed together very, very closely. Besides, the orientalism in that place is so thick I’m amazed the diners don’t get choked by the faux gold threaded drapery.
It was…entertaining, to be sure. The service was terrible, we nearly had to trip up our waitress to get her to even look at us. Glen had a beer, while I ordered their "Turkish Apple Tea". It sounded nice. It smelled nice. It tasted nice. It wasn’t tea. All it consisted of was heated apple juice. It was tasty, but one would think that to have something branded as “Turkish Apple Tea” as opposed to “Hot Apple Juice”, there would be something, oh, special about it. Maybe the juice could be heated with a couple of cinnamon sticks simmering in it. Just a thought.
The food was good, albeit a little slow. The waitress forgot about our dessert, but that didn’t make the baklava any less delicious.
The décor was – ah – Turkesque. Orientalism at it’s finest and boldest was splashed everywhere. Jewel-toned sheer fabrics were draped all over the ceiling, every inch of furniture was upholstered in some fantastically clashing pattern, and there were bad fresco-style murals all over the walls. Here is a little visual tour (the photos are a little dark):
This was our table. With food. And upholstery.
This is the mural beside the table.
The mural worried me. The painted women were watching our every move.
Here is one view of the restaurant.
Here is another view of the restaurant. Behold the magnificence of the ceiling drapery!
And finally: a turban shelf, for all your turban needs!
I can only marvel at the bipedal weaving skills of the dancers who perform there on the weekend. Those tables were mashed together very, very closely. Besides, the orientalism in that place is so thick I’m amazed the diners don’t get choked by the faux gold threaded drapery.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
In the Lap of Luxury
Ah! The joys of a private shower! Ah! The splendour of personal space! What could possibly cause these paroxysms of joy? Why, dear reader, Glen and I have temporarily cast aside the communal living arrangements of hostel life and indulged in the rental of a more upscale place.
We decided that our last two nights in Australia would be spent in a nice hotel. As we need to catch the train to the airport at 6:30 on the morning of November 2nd, we wanted a hotel that was in easy walking distance of the CBD main train station and transit centre. After much hunting around for a hotel and consulting the tourist information booth in one of the major outdoor malls in the Brisbane CBD, we landed upon Abbey Apartments, a hotel/apartment building featuring completely self-contained apartments geared to business travellers. The location couldn’t be better – it is literally across the street from the train station, which will allow us to roll out of bed and stumble to our airport train with minimum time and fuss. The rate was very reasonable – a heck of a lot better than the Holiday Inn hotel that is attached to the train station. And really, I prefer the apartment setting. The building still has a pool, hot tub, and sauna, but now we have the niceties of single-bedroom apartment sized space, and a full kitchen. We were able to simply move all our groceries right into the apartment fridge, and don’t need to blow our budget and guts eating all meals at restaurants for two days. To add delight upon delight, this apartment has in-suite laundry washers and dryers! I shrieked with happiness when I asked the receptionist how much the coin laundry cost and she told me that we would have our own laundry facilities and washing powder in the room. I’ve never been so excited to do the laundry, but I suppose that is what you get after nearly two months of hostels.
We checked in as early as possible – in case you are curious, it was at 10:05 am, precisely ten minutes after we checked out of the YHA hostel (which is only two blocks north of the apartment building). Basking in the glorious privacy of our little suite, Glen and I started the day with some lazing about, computer games, and cable television at a moderate volume. After a while, we wandered down to the CBD outdoor mall, went souvenir hunting without much luck, and purchased groceries for lunch. We came back to the apartment for a leisurely late lunch (how’s that for alliteration?) of kangaroo steak, pasta, peas, and Aussie shiraz. The steak was to die for, I sincerely wish we had picked up kangaroo steak earlier into our holiday and ate more of it. We went for a soak in the hot tub, made a brief evening excursion to find some Hallowe’en bar action. Finding no action of interest – Hallowe’en here is not a big event, so the party was basically just louder-than-normal music and a few guys taking the opportunity to cross-dress – we went back to the hotel to eat salad, bake cookies, and drink Australian wine.
The wine in question is well matched to supermarket just-add-egg-and-butter cookie mix. At this moment we are finally slugging back the strawberry wine we purchased in Tasmania. It smells like strawberry jam and has a liqueur like taste to it. It goes down very, very smoothly and I could easily see a gaggle of women getting hammered off it at a hen party. It is delicious and extremely sweet. I honestly didn’t expect it to be this good! You can’t drink a lot of it at once, as it does get rather cloying, but it is unmistakably strawberries and I’m quite enjoying it. There is also some free entertainment occurring out on the street below our apartment balcony. There is some sort of altercation out by the train station, with a few young fellows running around and train station guards shooing them away. The Paddy Wagon just drove by, and the guard directed the cops to where they could pick up the young rowdies. The Hallowe’en parties at nearby bars must be ending, as there are a few drunks weaving their way past our building. It appears that most of them are drifting up to hostel row, which is not surprising.
As you can tell, we are more than enjoying our purchased moments of privacy; we are positively basking in them! And we have another full day of privacy basking, a nice trip to the art gallery and museum in the early afternoon, and an evening at whatever South Bank restaurant strikes our fancy for our last meal in Australia. Then it shall be off, off to New Zealand!
See you there!
We decided that our last two nights in Australia would be spent in a nice hotel. As we need to catch the train to the airport at 6:30 on the morning of November 2nd, we wanted a hotel that was in easy walking distance of the CBD main train station and transit centre. After much hunting around for a hotel and consulting the tourist information booth in one of the major outdoor malls in the Brisbane CBD, we landed upon Abbey Apartments, a hotel/apartment building featuring completely self-contained apartments geared to business travellers. The location couldn’t be better – it is literally across the street from the train station, which will allow us to roll out of bed and stumble to our airport train with minimum time and fuss. The rate was very reasonable – a heck of a lot better than the Holiday Inn hotel that is attached to the train station. And really, I prefer the apartment setting. The building still has a pool, hot tub, and sauna, but now we have the niceties of single-bedroom apartment sized space, and a full kitchen. We were able to simply move all our groceries right into the apartment fridge, and don’t need to blow our budget and guts eating all meals at restaurants for two days. To add delight upon delight, this apartment has in-suite laundry washers and dryers! I shrieked with happiness when I asked the receptionist how much the coin laundry cost and she told me that we would have our own laundry facilities and washing powder in the room. I’ve never been so excited to do the laundry, but I suppose that is what you get after nearly two months of hostels.
We checked in as early as possible – in case you are curious, it was at 10:05 am, precisely ten minutes after we checked out of the YHA hostel (which is only two blocks north of the apartment building). Basking in the glorious privacy of our little suite, Glen and I started the day with some lazing about, computer games, and cable television at a moderate volume. After a while, we wandered down to the CBD outdoor mall, went souvenir hunting without much luck, and purchased groceries for lunch. We came back to the apartment for a leisurely late lunch (how’s that for alliteration?) of kangaroo steak, pasta, peas, and Aussie shiraz. The steak was to die for, I sincerely wish we had picked up kangaroo steak earlier into our holiday and ate more of it. We went for a soak in the hot tub, made a brief evening excursion to find some Hallowe’en bar action. Finding no action of interest – Hallowe’en here is not a big event, so the party was basically just louder-than-normal music and a few guys taking the opportunity to cross-dress – we went back to the hotel to eat salad, bake cookies, and drink Australian wine.
The wine in question is well matched to supermarket just-add-egg-and-butter cookie mix. At this moment we are finally slugging back the strawberry wine we purchased in Tasmania. It smells like strawberry jam and has a liqueur like taste to it. It goes down very, very smoothly and I could easily see a gaggle of women getting hammered off it at a hen party. It is delicious and extremely sweet. I honestly didn’t expect it to be this good! You can’t drink a lot of it at once, as it does get rather cloying, but it is unmistakably strawberries and I’m quite enjoying it. There is also some free entertainment occurring out on the street below our apartment balcony. There is some sort of altercation out by the train station, with a few young fellows running around and train station guards shooing them away. The Paddy Wagon just drove by, and the guard directed the cops to where they could pick up the young rowdies. The Hallowe’en parties at nearby bars must be ending, as there are a few drunks weaving their way past our building. It appears that most of them are drifting up to hostel row, which is not surprising.
As you can tell, we are more than enjoying our purchased moments of privacy; we are positively basking in them! And we have another full day of privacy basking, a nice trip to the art gallery and museum in the early afternoon, and an evening at whatever South Bank restaurant strikes our fancy for our last meal in Australia. Then it shall be off, off to New Zealand!
See you there!
Bob Dole Wants His Peanut Butter!
We’ve been back in Brisbane at the trusty Brisbane YHA hostel for all of one night, and Neil has made another appearance! This time the asshole stole our jars of peanut butter AND jam. They were in a labeled cubby shelf! The jars themselves were tagged with our names! He again had to go looking through all our other food to find those jars! I was going to make peanut butter and jam sandwiches for our afternoon trek, but that is now out of the question.
FURTHERMORE, this time Neil was not satisfied with nicking food from just one place. This time Neil has raided the communal food shelves in addition to taking our food! He made off with a nearly new bag of sultana raisins (it was on the communal food shelf when Glen and I arrived, and we opened it and used a cupful in our oatmeal), a tub of butter, and a bottle of pancake syrup. Clearly he is on a condiments rampage!
Conclusion: hostellers are jerks. Also, Neil is stalking us.
FURTHERMORE, this time Neil was not satisfied with nicking food from just one place. This time Neil has raided the communal food shelves in addition to taking our food! He made off with a nearly new bag of sultana raisins (it was on the communal food shelf when Glen and I arrived, and we opened it and used a cupful in our oatmeal), a tub of butter, and a bottle of pancake syrup. Clearly he is on a condiments rampage!
Conclusion: hostellers are jerks. Also, Neil is stalking us.
More beaches, more surfers, more shopping
That is essentially what Gold Coast is. After our break-from-noise in Murwullimba, we went about half an hour north to Coolangatta. The YHA hostel there promised free breakfast, and we are not ones to turn down free food, so there we went.
In addition to the free breakfast, the other advantage of Coolangatta is that the city runs into Tweeds Heads, and Surfer’s Paradise, and every other little party suburb that populates the Gold Coast. It is beach after beach after beach after beach. Glen and I aren’t exactly interested in beaches. There are also markets after markets after markets. Glen and I do like markets quite a bit.
The first market we hit was the Surfer’s Paradise night market. It involved a half-hour ride on their excellent public transportation to get from Coolangatta to Surfer’s Paradise, and it was worth the trip. What little we saw of the beach lived up to its name – the waves looked like a surfer’s dream come true. The night market had plenty of random artisan tents, and some of the items were quite lovely:
After we strolled up and down the market purchasing absolutely nothing at all (as usual – although I still think we should have gotten a basket of those really fragrant strawberries), it started to rain quite heavily. We dived into one of the many pubs that lined the open air mall behind the night market. We nursed a beer for about an hour while waiting for the rain to stop, and had an uproarious conversation with a Scottish ex-pat who was feeling chatty.
The next morning we headed to the Carrara open-air markets. Advertisements and fliers for the market were all over the hostel and it declared itself to be smashing good family fun, so we figured it would be worth checking out.
To say that it was a flea market would be polite. To say that it was a flea-bitten, Chinese knock-off filled, crap strewn thieves den would be more accurate. It was grody, there were knock offs of every conceivable super hero, and most memorably a kid’s toy cell phone shaped recording device titled something to the effect of "Uninteresting Girl". I believe that the original toy name was completely different but the meaning got lost in translation. After about half an hour we gave the place up as a bad job and headed back to the city.
We didn’t to much the following day, as it was pouring rain all afternoon. That night there was a massive thunderstorm that woke up the entire hostel, fried some of the hostel lights, and blew out the nearby traffic control lights. It sounded like a cannon was being shot off the hostel roof.
Three days in Coolangatta were enough for us. It is a great place if you are into surfing and did a great deal of visiting with some really nice hostellers, but there wasn’t much else to do. Had we been 18, full of booze, and eager for the bar scene we may have stayed longer, but we decided we would rather spend the remainder of our time in Australia back in Brisbane.
In addition to the free breakfast, the other advantage of Coolangatta is that the city runs into Tweeds Heads, and Surfer’s Paradise, and every other little party suburb that populates the Gold Coast. It is beach after beach after beach after beach. Glen and I aren’t exactly interested in beaches. There are also markets after markets after markets. Glen and I do like markets quite a bit.
The first market we hit was the Surfer’s Paradise night market. It involved a half-hour ride on their excellent public transportation to get from Coolangatta to Surfer’s Paradise, and it was worth the trip. What little we saw of the beach lived up to its name – the waves looked like a surfer’s dream come true. The night market had plenty of random artisan tents, and some of the items were quite lovely:
After we strolled up and down the market purchasing absolutely nothing at all (as usual – although I still think we should have gotten a basket of those really fragrant strawberries), it started to rain quite heavily. We dived into one of the many pubs that lined the open air mall behind the night market. We nursed a beer for about an hour while waiting for the rain to stop, and had an uproarious conversation with a Scottish ex-pat who was feeling chatty.
The next morning we headed to the Carrara open-air markets. Advertisements and fliers for the market were all over the hostel and it declared itself to be smashing good family fun, so we figured it would be worth checking out.
To say that it was a flea market would be polite. To say that it was a flea-bitten, Chinese knock-off filled, crap strewn thieves den would be more accurate. It was grody, there were knock offs of every conceivable super hero, and most memorably a kid’s toy cell phone shaped recording device titled something to the effect of "Uninteresting Girl". I believe that the original toy name was completely different but the meaning got lost in translation. After about half an hour we gave the place up as a bad job and headed back to the city.
We didn’t to much the following day, as it was pouring rain all afternoon. That night there was a massive thunderstorm that woke up the entire hostel, fried some of the hostel lights, and blew out the nearby traffic control lights. It sounded like a cannon was being shot off the hostel roof.
Three days in Coolangatta were enough for us. It is a great place if you are into surfing and did a great deal of visiting with some really nice hostellers, but there wasn’t much else to do. Had we been 18, full of booze, and eager for the bar scene we may have stayed longer, but we decided we would rather spend the remainder of our time in Australia back in Brisbane.
Murwullywoolambubby-something-or-other
Four nights in Byron Bay and we were ready to head onwards. We chose to head slightly northwards and start making our way back up to Brisbane, so the next place that appealed to us was a hostel in the town of Murwillumbah (I have no idea if I spelled that correctly) at the base of Mt. Warning. Mt. Warning is the center of the largest volcanic caldera formation in the southern hemisphere, and so has excellent hiking, lots of wildlife, and as there isn’t a single beach in sight the hostel is a damn sight quieter than anywhere else on the Gold Coast. We were ready for some quiet nights and real sleep. Besides, the hostel in Murwillumbah serves free ice cream every evening at 9pm!
There wasn’t much to see or do in the town itself, but the hike up Mt. Warning was fantastic. There are three distinct zones of vegetation: sub-tropical rainforest at the bottom, temperate rainforest in the middle, and heath vegetation at the top. Plenty of wildlife roams around the walking track, mostly lizards and birds. As far as lizards went, we saw big fat skinks, various unidentifiable lizards, and a teeny little juvenile snake. Most frequently sighted are the bush turkeys. They are everywhere, males and females alike, and are excellent scavengers. We had a male follow us up the walking track for some distance, and two males were waiting for scraps at the very top of the mountain.
Ugly sucker, ain’t he?
There are also flies. I’ve become convinced that every fly around the Gold Coast decided to host a reunion on the lookout decks at the top of the mountain. The noise from the buzzing was incredible, it was as though we walked into a swarm a million flies thick, but we could only see about 20 of them at any given point in time.
The flies couldn’t compete with the views, though. They were exceptional – from the peak of Mt. Warning you can see the full caldera formation all around. It feels like you are at the top of the world, only there’s no snow and you don’t need a respirator to breathe. Provided, of course, that you don’t keel over after reaching the top. It takes about 2 hours of good, quick paced hiking to get up the mountain, and the final 100 meters is a vertical scramble aided by rough rock formations and chains. Believe me, you need the chains.
It’s really, really, really freaking steep. On the way back down, Glen decided that we needed more undignified pictures of my ass:
So I yelled at him:
Back at the hostel, we were spending our time eating ice cream, feeding water dragons (the resident hostel dragons will take bits of apple right out of your hand, and apparently one of them got so bold that it would climb onto the laps of people eating on the deck chairs), and chasing various forms of local wildlife. The highlight of this urban wildlife bits was the advent of a magnificent carpet boa that was slowly wending its way around the hostel ground, shedding it’s skin.
Isn’t it magnificent? And we were able to watch it shed its entire skin, in two pieces. Carpet boas are really lovely creatures and are quite harmless to humans. They’re great to have around houses, though, because their primary source of food is rats and mice, so they are excellent for pest control.
There wasn’t much to see or do in the town itself, but the hike up Mt. Warning was fantastic. There are three distinct zones of vegetation: sub-tropical rainforest at the bottom, temperate rainforest in the middle, and heath vegetation at the top. Plenty of wildlife roams around the walking track, mostly lizards and birds. As far as lizards went, we saw big fat skinks, various unidentifiable lizards, and a teeny little juvenile snake. Most frequently sighted are the bush turkeys. They are everywhere, males and females alike, and are excellent scavengers. We had a male follow us up the walking track for some distance, and two males were waiting for scraps at the very top of the mountain.
Ugly sucker, ain’t he?
There are also flies. I’ve become convinced that every fly around the Gold Coast decided to host a reunion on the lookout decks at the top of the mountain. The noise from the buzzing was incredible, it was as though we walked into a swarm a million flies thick, but we could only see about 20 of them at any given point in time.
The flies couldn’t compete with the views, though. They were exceptional – from the peak of Mt. Warning you can see the full caldera formation all around. It feels like you are at the top of the world, only there’s no snow and you don’t need a respirator to breathe. Provided, of course, that you don’t keel over after reaching the top. It takes about 2 hours of good, quick paced hiking to get up the mountain, and the final 100 meters is a vertical scramble aided by rough rock formations and chains. Believe me, you need the chains.
It’s really, really, really freaking steep. On the way back down, Glen decided that we needed more undignified pictures of my ass:
So I yelled at him:
Back at the hostel, we were spending our time eating ice cream, feeding water dragons (the resident hostel dragons will take bits of apple right out of your hand, and apparently one of them got so bold that it would climb onto the laps of people eating on the deck chairs), and chasing various forms of local wildlife. The highlight of this urban wildlife bits was the advent of a magnificent carpet boa that was slowly wending its way around the hostel ground, shedding it’s skin.
Isn’t it magnificent? And we were able to watch it shed its entire skin, in two pieces. Carpet boas are really lovely creatures and are quite harmless to humans. They’re great to have around houses, though, because their primary source of food is rats and mice, so they are excellent for pest control.
The Return of Neil
Okay, either Neil followed us to Byron Bay or he has sent his agents after us. Someone has gone rummaging through our LABELLED food shelf in the hostel kitchen and has stolen all our fruits and vegetables!
NEIL!!
NEIL!!
Beach Hunting, 2nd Attempt
After getting a good night’s sleep, we struck out again in search of a hostel on those fabled Queensland beaches. This time, however, we had the people at the YHA reception desk call other YHA hostels and book our room for us. Our first attempt was Surfer’s Paradise (seriously, the town is actually called that), but they were full up due to a big NASCAR race being held there that weekend. Upon the advice of the guy at the tour desk, we booked in at Byron Bay, which is approximately 2 hours south of Brisbane, in New South Wales.
Byron Bay is the quintessential spring break/surfer town. It is very beautiful, extremely touristy, always busy, and contains more new age shops per square inch than anywhere else in the world. I defy even San Francisco to have more new age stores per yearly capita than Byron Bay.
The YHA hostel there is crowded and noisy but well laid out with a big patio, a nice pool, and a great pool deck area for lounging. This is a very, very good thing because I managed to get sick (again) on the bus ride to Byron Bay. Just about the only comfortable position I could assume that didn’t leave me nauseated beyond all reckoning was doubled over with my head on my knees and my arms clamped across my stomach. I have no idea what sort of illness it was – a small touch of stomach flu possibly – but I think I was as nauseated as I could get without actually vomiting. It didn’t let up for a minute, eating was impossible, and moving around just exacerbated it. I spend most of my time hunched over a picnic table on the deck with my book trying not to think about bile, while Glen explored the beaches.
I was laid up for about two days, unable to get comfortable, and sleeping at night was next to impossible for either of us thanks to the noisy, noisy, drunk British kids who were sharing our dorm. Our dorm had a rather odd configuration; there were two levels, the main floor had two bunk beds while the loft where we slept had a double bed. We could easily forgive a bit of noise at night – after all, it is a hostel, so we do expect more night time partying than your average holiday accommodation. This group, however, took it to a whole new level. The guys yelled at the top of their lungs whenever they opened their mouths, the girl screeched as loudly as the guys, they slammed the door as hard as possible whenever they entered or exited the room, and they spend their entire stay in various stages of crapulence.
Glen and I agree that they could have been quite entertaining to hang around with had they not been making so much noise. They were very nice kids and we chatted with them frequently, but they were so phenomenally inconsiderate when it came to piping down at night that we were very irritated by their presence. According to their conversations, which were impossible not to listen to, they had been kicked out of most hostels they stayed in and were making arrangements to find work in Byron Bay. How they expected to find work when the lot of them were on permanent hangovers was totally beyond us. They must have looked and sounded like hell at their interviews, because when they came in at night the reek of alcohol coming off their breath and their bodies was so thick that it stank up our loft area as soon as they walked through (and then proceeded to slam) the door.
Noisy hostellers aside, Byron Bay is beautiful. It is fun being in such a touristy area, and once I was well enough to eat and walk around, we had the biggest, greasiest burgers we could hope for and thoroughly enjoyed the window shopping. The beaches were lovely and the water was an ideal temperature for wading. There were quite a number of jellyfish washed up on the beach. At least I suspect that they were jellyfish. When I poked one with the toe of my boot, it was rather firm. It is entirely possible that the firm clear blobs all over the beach were silicone breast implants that one of the many boobified bathers had managed to lose when their bikinis fell off in especially hard-hitting ocean surf. Or maybe the implants simply fell out when they were sunbathing topless. There are lots of topless sunbathers in Byron Bay, and no one seems to mind or even really notice.
Oh, and there enough anorexic women in teeny, teeny, teeny bikinis to give anyone a complex. For the first time in my life I felt self-conscious in my very flattering one-piece bathing suit because I was not showing enough skin. I must have been the only female on the beach under 48 years of age who:
a) wasn’t wearing a stringy little bikini, and
b) didn’t have a cocoa-bean tan.
Then again, I was also the only girl there not to be running the risk of skin cancer and sun damage related premature wrinkling. So there!
PS: I know that I mentioned this already, but the window shopping was really good. At several points I was rather tempted to blow a couple hundred dollars picking up some really fantastic clothes. Fortunately for our budget, my willpower is stronger than any temptation thrown up by a nice, floaty, waist defining, funky-print dress!
Byron Bay is the quintessential spring break/surfer town. It is very beautiful, extremely touristy, always busy, and contains more new age shops per square inch than anywhere else in the world. I defy even San Francisco to have more new age stores per yearly capita than Byron Bay.
The YHA hostel there is crowded and noisy but well laid out with a big patio, a nice pool, and a great pool deck area for lounging. This is a very, very good thing because I managed to get sick (again) on the bus ride to Byron Bay. Just about the only comfortable position I could assume that didn’t leave me nauseated beyond all reckoning was doubled over with my head on my knees and my arms clamped across my stomach. I have no idea what sort of illness it was – a small touch of stomach flu possibly – but I think I was as nauseated as I could get without actually vomiting. It didn’t let up for a minute, eating was impossible, and moving around just exacerbated it. I spend most of my time hunched over a picnic table on the deck with my book trying not to think about bile, while Glen explored the beaches.
I was laid up for about two days, unable to get comfortable, and sleeping at night was next to impossible for either of us thanks to the noisy, noisy, drunk British kids who were sharing our dorm. Our dorm had a rather odd configuration; there were two levels, the main floor had two bunk beds while the loft where we slept had a double bed. We could easily forgive a bit of noise at night – after all, it is a hostel, so we do expect more night time partying than your average holiday accommodation. This group, however, took it to a whole new level. The guys yelled at the top of their lungs whenever they opened their mouths, the girl screeched as loudly as the guys, they slammed the door as hard as possible whenever they entered or exited the room, and they spend their entire stay in various stages of crapulence.
Glen and I agree that they could have been quite entertaining to hang around with had they not been making so much noise. They were very nice kids and we chatted with them frequently, but they were so phenomenally inconsiderate when it came to piping down at night that we were very irritated by their presence. According to their conversations, which were impossible not to listen to, they had been kicked out of most hostels they stayed in and were making arrangements to find work in Byron Bay. How they expected to find work when the lot of them were on permanent hangovers was totally beyond us. They must have looked and sounded like hell at their interviews, because when they came in at night the reek of alcohol coming off their breath and their bodies was so thick that it stank up our loft area as soon as they walked through (and then proceeded to slam) the door.
Noisy hostellers aside, Byron Bay is beautiful. It is fun being in such a touristy area, and once I was well enough to eat and walk around, we had the biggest, greasiest burgers we could hope for and thoroughly enjoyed the window shopping. The beaches were lovely and the water was an ideal temperature for wading. There were quite a number of jellyfish washed up on the beach. At least I suspect that they were jellyfish. When I poked one with the toe of my boot, it was rather firm. It is entirely possible that the firm clear blobs all over the beach were silicone breast implants that one of the many boobified bathers had managed to lose when their bikinis fell off in especially hard-hitting ocean surf. Or maybe the implants simply fell out when they were sunbathing topless. There are lots of topless sunbathers in Byron Bay, and no one seems to mind or even really notice.
Oh, and there enough anorexic women in teeny, teeny, teeny bikinis to give anyone a complex. For the first time in my life I felt self-conscious in my very flattering one-piece bathing suit because I was not showing enough skin. I must have been the only female on the beach under 48 years of age who:
a) wasn’t wearing a stringy little bikini, and
b) didn’t have a cocoa-bean tan.
Then again, I was also the only girl there not to be running the risk of skin cancer and sun damage related premature wrinkling. So there!
PS: I know that I mentioned this already, but the window shopping was really good. At several points I was rather tempted to blow a couple hundred dollars picking up some really fantastic clothes. Fortunately for our budget, my willpower is stronger than any temptation thrown up by a nice, floaty, waist defining, funky-print dress!
No Room at the Inn
As our gnat-sized attention span had us tire of Maroochydore and surrounds relatively quickly, we headed back to Brisbane and moved immediately onwards to Stradbroke Island. "Straddie" is located about an hour outside of Brisbane, on a very large sandy island. It promised wonderful scenery, wildlife, forests, and stunning beaches. So we forked over entirely too much money for public transport to the ferry and then ferry transport to the island, and confidently walked to the hostel at about 7:00 pm to get our beds.
Now this is how fortune and circumstance can lead to sheer stupidity: we had been having such luck with our hostel accommodations and heard so many hostel owners say "Crowds? Nah, no crowds, not at this time of year," that we didn’t bother calling ahead to see if any beds were available. Conversation impaired by the din created by the huge throng of youth populating the hostel kitchen and common room, we inquired about beds for the night. The hostel staff on duty looked at us blankly, asked if we had a reservation, and nearly snorted as she told us that there wasn’t anything available – no point in even looking at the room rental book. Try up the road, she said, as she unceremoniously ushered us out.
Undaunted, we walked up the road to a nearby hotel. There were no signs indicating no vacancies, but there wasn’t anyone at the reception desk either. Their reception closed at 2:00 in the afternoon. We walked up further, discovering that there wasn’t so much of a town at Amity Point, just more of a collection of houses and the occasional resort splayed alongside the highway. Oh, and every single place of accommodation (and there weren’t many) was closed. The town shuts to close down between 2:00 and 5:00 in the afternoon, no exceptions.
So what does one do when stuck in a town with no room, no tent, and no where to sleep? Simple! Why, you wander over to the nearest campground, find a high school group chaperoned by several teachers, chat with them for a while, and then sleep on their campsite, of course! The teachers thought our predicament was hilarious, and welcomed us readily.
The above picture is a lie, actually. We didn’t get any sleep at all. Between the intermittent drizzle and my own paranoia about the security patrol catching on to us, I ended up awake the entire night and Glen only caught snatches of sleep here and there. After the third bout of drizzle, we went inside the campsite’s covered barbecue area, and Glen snoozed while I read my book. Security did drive past, but I believe they assumed we were part of the high school group.
One of the teachers was up early the next morning, so she took us for a walk around the beaches, which she knew quite well, and talked about the local flora and fauna. It made for a lovely morning, despite our exhaustion, as the teacher was very nice and was a good conversationalist.
At about 7:30 we left the campsite and started to walk around the town itself. Our first stop was back at the hostel, to see if they had any newly-vacant beds that night. No such luck, the place was booked solid throughout the weekend. Then we went back to the hotel that closes at 2:00 pm every day. They only had a room available for that evening (it was a Thursday), and it would be about $175 for the room. We decided not to take it because we knew full well we would spend the entire day sleeping, and would then have to leave the next day, probably without seeing much of the area or the island. The receptionist there called around to some other resorts, but there was nary a vacancy anywhere.
Finally, we went back to the reception building for the campsite where we illicitly stayed the previous night. There were no campsites - much less any cabins - available at all – in fact, there wasn’t a single campsite anywhere on the whole blasted island. We finally found out that we had managed to find our way to North Stradbroke Island on the one busy weekend outside of peak season. That weekend the island was playing host to both a surfing competition and a folk music festival, so every surfer and hippy in Queensland had invaded the island and snapped up any available space.
So we said, in the words of Eric Cartman, "Screw you guys, I’m going home."
Or, in our case, back to Brisbane. We found ourselves back at our trusty YHA where we again secured a twin room, and proceeded to fall asleep for a good 5 hours. Then we got up, had our first meal of the day (at this point it was around six o’clock in the evening), and went back to bed.
That’ll learn us not to call in advance.
Now this is how fortune and circumstance can lead to sheer stupidity: we had been having such luck with our hostel accommodations and heard so many hostel owners say "Crowds? Nah, no crowds, not at this time of year," that we didn’t bother calling ahead to see if any beds were available. Conversation impaired by the din created by the huge throng of youth populating the hostel kitchen and common room, we inquired about beds for the night. The hostel staff on duty looked at us blankly, asked if we had a reservation, and nearly snorted as she told us that there wasn’t anything available – no point in even looking at the room rental book. Try up the road, she said, as she unceremoniously ushered us out.
Undaunted, we walked up the road to a nearby hotel. There were no signs indicating no vacancies, but there wasn’t anyone at the reception desk either. Their reception closed at 2:00 in the afternoon. We walked up further, discovering that there wasn’t so much of a town at Amity Point, just more of a collection of houses and the occasional resort splayed alongside the highway. Oh, and every single place of accommodation (and there weren’t many) was closed. The town shuts to close down between 2:00 and 5:00 in the afternoon, no exceptions.
So what does one do when stuck in a town with no room, no tent, and no where to sleep? Simple! Why, you wander over to the nearest campground, find a high school group chaperoned by several teachers, chat with them for a while, and then sleep on their campsite, of course! The teachers thought our predicament was hilarious, and welcomed us readily.
The above picture is a lie, actually. We didn’t get any sleep at all. Between the intermittent drizzle and my own paranoia about the security patrol catching on to us, I ended up awake the entire night and Glen only caught snatches of sleep here and there. After the third bout of drizzle, we went inside the campsite’s covered barbecue area, and Glen snoozed while I read my book. Security did drive past, but I believe they assumed we were part of the high school group.
One of the teachers was up early the next morning, so she took us for a walk around the beaches, which she knew quite well, and talked about the local flora and fauna. It made for a lovely morning, despite our exhaustion, as the teacher was very nice and was a good conversationalist.
At about 7:30 we left the campsite and started to walk around the town itself. Our first stop was back at the hostel, to see if they had any newly-vacant beds that night. No such luck, the place was booked solid throughout the weekend. Then we went back to the hotel that closes at 2:00 pm every day. They only had a room available for that evening (it was a Thursday), and it would be about $175 for the room. We decided not to take it because we knew full well we would spend the entire day sleeping, and would then have to leave the next day, probably without seeing much of the area or the island. The receptionist there called around to some other resorts, but there was nary a vacancy anywhere.
Finally, we went back to the reception building for the campsite where we illicitly stayed the previous night. There were no campsites - much less any cabins - available at all – in fact, there wasn’t a single campsite anywhere on the whole blasted island. We finally found out that we had managed to find our way to North Stradbroke Island on the one busy weekend outside of peak season. That weekend the island was playing host to both a surfing competition and a folk music festival, so every surfer and hippy in Queensland had invaded the island and snapped up any available space.
So we said, in the words of Eric Cartman, "Screw you guys, I’m going home."
Or, in our case, back to Brisbane. We found ourselves back at our trusty YHA where we again secured a twin room, and proceeded to fall asleep for a good 5 hours. Then we got up, had our first meal of the day (at this point it was around six o’clock in the evening), and went back to bed.
That’ll learn us not to call in advance.
Maroo-something-or-other
We only spent a couple of days in Brisbane before deciding to carry on to Maroochydore, which is further north along the Sunshine Course, and spitting distance to the Australia Zoo. We weren’t going to be in that area and not go visit the late Steve Irwin’s stomping grounds, so we got beds at the Maroochydore hostel, ate loads of the complimentary breakfast (continental, of course) that is provided for the hostellers, and took the courtesy bus to the zoo.
The zoo is lovely and a great deal of fun. It costs an arm and a leg to get it, but we weren’t about to let that deter us. The habitats are brilliant, demonstrations occur throughout the day, and the dedication to conservation is evident. Oh, and if you want gadget xyz with Steve Irwin’s madly grinning head on it, you can find it there. The gift store is a little creepy, like his ghost is watching you in the guise of spoons, t-shirts, and bobble heads. His message and his passion goes on undiluted, though, so it’s all good.
As for the rest of our time in Maroochydore, we spent it walking the beaches, which were very nice and covered in white sand and surfers. There are a few shopping centres to take a peek in, and as expected everything is wildly expensive. The same goes for the restaurants. There must be more restaurants and cafes in three blocks along those beaches than there are in Times Square. There are also water dragons everywhere.
Somewhere between the six dollar lattes and the two hundred and fifty dollar string bikinis, we succeeded in finding squishable wide-brimmed hats. As our lily-white complexions and sensitivity to heat (more on my part than on Glen’s) doesn’t exactly jive with the dominatrix that is the Australian sun, hats were necessary. All efforts to find suitable hats either in Edmonton or abroad failed miserably. This is partially due to the apparent scarcity of responsible sun wear that doesn’t make one look like a hippy, and partially due to the fact that any reasonably shaped hat had some sort of tourist patch or brand name logo on it. As Glen put it, we would not demean ourselves to being "Australia’s or Billabong’s bitches".
So up until our third day in Maroochydore, we were going about heads uncovered. No sunburns or illnesses resulted, but this is because we haven’t been going out during the worst heat of the day. Happily, we came by a hat shop that contained good, wide-brimmed sun hats that didn’t make us look like complete gits, were reasonably priced, could be crushed into a backpack friendly size and still return to its original shape, were certified by the Australian Cancer Society, and didn’t sport a single place name or brand logo. So now we have our hats, and can enjoy both greater visibility and greater protection from sunburn. Incidentally, both of us have yet to get sunburns, which says a great deal about the strength of the sunscreen cream we’ve been using.
As a side note, it appears as about a quarter of the towns along the Sunshine Coast and the Gold Coast bear a name that starts with “M” and ends in something completely unpronounceable. Maroochydore is relatively easy, but the tongue-tiedness carries on with name such as Mooloolaba, Murwillumbah, Mullumbimby, and so on. I’m sure I would have had the hang of these names were I a local, but trying to stutter through them is awfully embarrassing from a tourist point of view. I feel like a complete git whenever I attempt to pronounce any of them.
The zoo is lovely and a great deal of fun. It costs an arm and a leg to get it, but we weren’t about to let that deter us. The habitats are brilliant, demonstrations occur throughout the day, and the dedication to conservation is evident. Oh, and if you want gadget xyz with Steve Irwin’s madly grinning head on it, you can find it there. The gift store is a little creepy, like his ghost is watching you in the guise of spoons, t-shirts, and bobble heads. His message and his passion goes on undiluted, though, so it’s all good.
As for the rest of our time in Maroochydore, we spent it walking the beaches, which were very nice and covered in white sand and surfers. There are a few shopping centres to take a peek in, and as expected everything is wildly expensive. The same goes for the restaurants. There must be more restaurants and cafes in three blocks along those beaches than there are in Times Square. There are also water dragons everywhere.
Somewhere between the six dollar lattes and the two hundred and fifty dollar string bikinis, we succeeded in finding squishable wide-brimmed hats. As our lily-white complexions and sensitivity to heat (more on my part than on Glen’s) doesn’t exactly jive with the dominatrix that is the Australian sun, hats were necessary. All efforts to find suitable hats either in Edmonton or abroad failed miserably. This is partially due to the apparent scarcity of responsible sun wear that doesn’t make one look like a hippy, and partially due to the fact that any reasonably shaped hat had some sort of tourist patch or brand name logo on it. As Glen put it, we would not demean ourselves to being "Australia’s or Billabong’s bitches".
So up until our third day in Maroochydore, we were going about heads uncovered. No sunburns or illnesses resulted, but this is because we haven’t been going out during the worst heat of the day. Happily, we came by a hat shop that contained good, wide-brimmed sun hats that didn’t make us look like complete gits, were reasonably priced, could be crushed into a backpack friendly size and still return to its original shape, were certified by the Australian Cancer Society, and didn’t sport a single place name or brand logo. So now we have our hats, and can enjoy both greater visibility and greater protection from sunburn. Incidentally, both of us have yet to get sunburns, which says a great deal about the strength of the sunscreen cream we’ve been using.
As a side note, it appears as about a quarter of the towns along the Sunshine Coast and the Gold Coast bear a name that starts with “M” and ends in something completely unpronounceable. Maroochydore is relatively easy, but the tongue-tiedness carries on with name such as Mooloolaba, Murwillumbah, Mullumbimby, and so on. I’m sure I would have had the hang of these names were I a local, but trying to stutter through them is awfully embarrassing from a tourist point of view. I feel like a complete git whenever I attempt to pronounce any of them.
Brisbane, Round One
I am happy to report that our hostel in Brisbane was significantly cleaner than that in Auckland. One half of the hostel is brand spanking new, while the other half is slated for demolition in a couple of months and a new wing of the hostel, complete with rooftop pool, shall be built in its stead. The hygiene of the bathrooms in the to-be-flattened half is somewhat questionable, but no where near the disgusting factor of the YHA Montgomery’s in Hobart. The newer building is impeccably clean.
Brisbane itself is certainly bustling, and has its lovely bits. We were delighted with the discovery of the day-glow purple flowered trees that dot the city. They are not a native species, but they are awfully pretty:
The city also has a wealth of botanical gardens, which we explored quite a bit. The trees there are deadly, and I ended up getting stuck in one of them:
The shopping is excellent, especially in the CBD (that’s downtown to you North Americans) and quite a lot of street performers and buskers. So far our favourite find is the South Banks area, which is touristy, I’ll admit, but very lovely. The archway that runs along a large portion of the South Banks stretch is yet another example of the excellent modern architecture that Australia seems to take so naturally to:
There are outdoor markets and cafes galore, and some lively looking restaurants. We passed by a Turkish restaurant that has Friday and Saturday night belly dance performances, and while we were not able to take in the performance that particular night, we’re hoping to be back during an upcoming weekend night so we can get a drink and watch the dancer. From what we could see, she’s very good.
The array of wildlife within Brisbane itself seems to be comprised mainly of the regular sort of urban birds, such as various sorts of corvids, hundreds of swallows, gigantic fruit bats (I actually shrieked with delight the first evening we spotted the fruit bats flying overhead), andgarbage birds ibis. There are lots of ibis. I used to think that ibis were lovely graceful birds worthy of being immortalized in Egyptian art. Upon closer inspection, they are surprisingly ugly things that are considered quite a nuisance by the locals. Why are they a nuisance? Well, let me show you.
First the ibis decides to strut around downtown, enjoying the sun and appearing innocent enough:
Next, the ibis finds a likely looking garbage can and hops on for a quick peek:
Then the ibis reaches in with that great long beak, pulls out a fast food bag (usually McDonald’s), and spreads the contents all over the street:
They are commensurate pickers and eaters of garbage and strew the stuff around everywhere. They are perpetually rummaging around garbage bins and are more effective at trashing an area than a pack of seagulls.
Brisbane itself is certainly bustling, and has its lovely bits. We were delighted with the discovery of the day-glow purple flowered trees that dot the city. They are not a native species, but they are awfully pretty:
The city also has a wealth of botanical gardens, which we explored quite a bit. The trees there are deadly, and I ended up getting stuck in one of them:
The shopping is excellent, especially in the CBD (that’s downtown to you North Americans) and quite a lot of street performers and buskers. So far our favourite find is the South Banks area, which is touristy, I’ll admit, but very lovely. The archway that runs along a large portion of the South Banks stretch is yet another example of the excellent modern architecture that Australia seems to take so naturally to:
There are outdoor markets and cafes galore, and some lively looking restaurants. We passed by a Turkish restaurant that has Friday and Saturday night belly dance performances, and while we were not able to take in the performance that particular night, we’re hoping to be back during an upcoming weekend night so we can get a drink and watch the dancer. From what we could see, she’s very good.
The array of wildlife within Brisbane itself seems to be comprised mainly of the regular sort of urban birds, such as various sorts of corvids, hundreds of swallows, gigantic fruit bats (I actually shrieked with delight the first evening we spotted the fruit bats flying overhead), and
First the ibis decides to strut around downtown, enjoying the sun and appearing innocent enough:
Next, the ibis finds a likely looking garbage can and hops on for a quick peek:
Then the ibis reaches in with that great long beak, pulls out a fast food bag (usually McDonald’s), and spreads the contents all over the street:
They are commensurate pickers and eaters of garbage and strew the stuff around everywhere. They are perpetually rummaging around garbage bins and are more effective at trashing an area than a pack of seagulls.
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