Life with a porpoise

Life with a higher porpoise (Photo at Seaworld by Chris Day)

(Published by The West Australian newspaper)

Commune with your “inner chicken” and make Seaworld your first choice on the list of theme parks at the Gold Coast.

A visit to Seaworld involves bodies flying through the air upside down, dramatic drops, plunges into water, and breakneck speeds.

The same is true of the other parks, but the advantage of Seaworld is that it is not you who has to do all these terrifying things. Rather, the job goes to animals that thrive on it all.

We know that a brief window of developmental madness hits guys between about 18 and 24. They will accept — and probably meet — any daredevil challenge. But there is one thing they can’t do– get basic premiums on insurance policies. Why? Two words: survival statistics.

Theme park operators kindly keep these lads away from endangering the general public by using a variety of pitches to lure them into their secular temples of fear.

Tunnel

For example, Wet’n’Wild touts for customers with this frightening threat: “Riders begin their wild journey on the unique Tornado super-slide from a 15-metre high platform, then blast down a 40-metre long tunnel into the middle of a storm.”

Just along the freeway from Wet’n’Wild, Movie World has this petrifying promise: “The awesome new Batwing Spaceshot is a rapid 4.5G vertical launch up a 60 metre tower, followed by a drop into a breathtaking negative descent – beyond freefall!”

A little further up the road and the spruikmasters at Dreamworld unleash this description of their pride and joy, the “Wipeout” ride:   “It is the mother of all tidal waves and you’re strapped in the middle without a life line.”

If by now you are deciding to choose lawn bowls instead of a theme park, read about our experience and think again.

Seal of approval

When we arrived at Seaworld, we took our seats in a stand to watch a show with the corny name “Quest for The Golden Seal.”

It didn’t take long for us to shed our veneer of jaded sophistication. We cheered and clapped at the antics of these animals. They seemed to tease their handlers, mimic their movements, and play to the crowd.

Their sheer power and control in the water made our Olympic heroes look ordinary. And unlike our swim teams they didn’t have to spend four hours a day staring at a black line underwater.

Corkscrewball

Feeling somewhat smug for getting an adrenalin boost without threatening life or limb, I then had to answer a tough challenge from a 21-year-old in our party. Would I go on the corkscrew roller coaster, the one “moderately” scary ride at the place? The implication was that if I didn’t accept I might  just as well apply for some sort of  premature senior status that signals readiness for a pension card, hot chocolate and a chaste kiss from a night nurse.

I took him up on the dare. The attendant locked me in before I could change my addled mind. I soon endured 30 seconds of being upside down and meeting my own backside approaching at full speed.

Shouting and screaming with a death rictus grin helped me alleviate the terror . The young thought I was roaring with joy like them. When I emerged shaken and stirred, I controlled my tremors to wave a condescending hand at my grinning contemporaries, who had wisely given it all a miss.

Climax

But the real climax of Seaworld was yet to come. It arrived with force and a beauty that made us all spontaneously gasp and applaud like the Barmy Army on steroids.

We were sitting in a stand, much like the one for the seal spectacular, and just staring at a large pool. We were waiting for somebody to arrive and announce that something was about to happen.

Then, without a word of warning, three huge and shiny dolphins erupted from the water and powered into the stratosphere before grinning at us and gracefully diving back into the deep.

The next 20 minutes packed in more spins, skills and hijinks than Warne in his prime. These were entertainers who made we humans feel truly humble. And they clearly needed no cruelty or excessive fish bribes to perform.

A dolphin duo rocketed along the surface just a metre apart. They   maintained a high level of cruise control as a 20-something guy rode them, one foot on each muscular back. Responding to an invisible command, the dolphins flicked their rider high in the air and were well out of the way as he dived back down.

This young man could choose to spend his time off work on the thrill machines at the other theme parks down the road. But you could bet he wouldn’t bother.

Nothing in the man-made universe can compete with nature’s athletes at their finest.

END

Michael Day paid for his own admission ticket to Seaworld. He is not related to the dolphins.

http://seaworld.myfun.com.au

Hollow achievement

Herbert Hollow, shaped like a square block of wood, was our woodwork teacher and I was his worst pupil.

“When you are using the plane, make sure you go with the grain,” Mr Hollow told our class, pointing out some pattern on the piece of wood he was holding in his leathery, square hand.

He began demonstrating. Then he asked:  “Any questions?” I quickly thought up one: “Should we move our body as we push the plane along the wood?” By a fluke, I hit the jackpot. He congratulated me: “Good question!”

That was the first and last compliment I ever received from Herbert Hollow. I could not blame him.  My interest in carpentry matched my interest in mechanics—nil. My ability was minus nil.

When we started using the plane, I could never figure out which way the grain went. If there was a pattern, surely the grain could go either way.

Instrument of torture: the woodworking plane (Photo" Wikimedia)

Apparently not. My wood always ended up with chips out of the edge.  I turned the wood around and tried pushing the plane along it in the other direction.  I spent most of my mornings making the piece of wood smaller and smaller.

Every time  I smoothed one edge, I saw a chip on the other side. Then I tried in vain to to flatten out strangely undulating surfaces.

“Ow!”I got a splinter in my finger and couldn’t get it out.

“Hold your hand out,” said Mr Hollow, approaching me.

Was I going to get the cuts? No. He produced a sharp blade and expertly extracted the sliver of wood. It didn’t hurt at all. But, for some unknown reason, I fainted. When I woke up, I knew my credibility was also going to take a dive.

Apron

“We will now do dove-tail joints,” proclaimed Mr Hollow, reaching for a chisel in deep in his carpenter’s apron.

Along with the others, I grabbed my own chisel and tried to copy what he had demonstrated. But one side of the joint was always out of whack with the other. Nobody else seemed to have the same problem. My dove-tail became like a fantail and would wobble– the very thing it shouldn’t do.

Instrument of torture #2 (Photo: Wikimedia)

Outside class, I could hammer in a nail, use an axe to cut up totara blocks, and slice up kindling with a tomahawk.

But I never mastered the humble chisel or that hated oblong of wood with the steel tongue, the wood plane.

Somehow, though, I joined the others in completing our introductory piece of carpentry: a “matchbox holder”.

It was an item with a central pillar on which people were supposed to slide the matchbox. They remained unused in my parents’ living rooms for years, looking like some strange mini-altar from an Aztec kingdom.

Aztec altars? No, matchbox holders.

Announcement

One day Herbert Hollow had an announcement: “We are now moving on to the major projects of the year.”

He gave some boys the job of building stepladders and others a round table.

Mr Hollow, a short, square man with a short, square crew cut, then came up to me, and said: “You (pause) you will be making (pause) a tray.”

It was a strange experience for me, a good academic performer, to be the worst woodwork pupil that had ever existed in the Hollowsphere.

After a few weeks, we displayed our work. The stepladders worked perfectly, and the tables looked good too. My simple tray was just an oblong board, which had gaps purposely left between the wooden edges and ends so that crumbs could be brushed out.

“I will now put up the marks,” said Mr Hollow, using his hammer and a tack to put up the list, a copy of which would go back to St Joseph’s to be entered on our school reports.

We crowded around to read what we had been awarded.

The boys who made the best stepladders got “ Excellent”.  Lots of others got “Very Good”. Then there was a sprinkling of “Good”.

I found my name quickly. There next to it was the mark awarded specially and only to me. “Fair”.

The funny thing was that in later years I never saw the stepladders or tables in use in the homes of any of my friends.

But when Mum had guests, she would take out the tray and load it up with her special china and a plate of scones, and tell everybody: “Michael made this!”

Bush tucker on location

Nature's menu near path to waterfall (Photo: Michael Day)

(Published in The West Australian)

We sample bush chewing gum as we wander along a track in Nitmiluk National Park, in the Northern Territory of Australia.

Our happy-go-lucky guide with the movie star name, Tyrone, then invites us to try another dish on the bush tucker menu.

It is a bush peanut, but Tyrone delights in telling us it is named after part of the rear end of a dog, which it resembles.

“Remember the words ‘under the shade of the coolibah tree’ in Waltzing Matilda?” Tyrone asks, pointing to the very species in question. It is a spindly thing with barely a leaf.

“No shade,” he laughs, before hunting for bush passion fruit but finding instead bush mint.

“Heard about a seven course Territory meal?” he asks. We shake our heads.

“A six pack and a beer,” he roars, and we get caught up in the happiness of this man.

Turtle

He has another joke about how the tasty long neck turtle is a convenience food, coming as it does with its own plate.

Push through some palm trees, and all eyes feast on our destination: a cool, clear pool under a silver waterfall. The ochre cliff backdrop is studded with palms and all manner of greenery.

We city people can’t help but observe that the Northern Rockhole is an ideal movie location.

Cliff that appeared in Jedda (Photo: Michael Day)

In fact, on a cruise the next day in nearby Katherine Gorge we saw, illuminated in the morning sun, the giant cliff that was a location for Jedda (1955), the first colour feature movie made in Australia.

Film set

As well as the scenery, there are any number of people like Tyrone who play cameo roles to the hilt, characters who make the Territory seem like one big film set.

One of  these is  raconteur and outdoor chef, Geoff Mark, who entertains guests at his Stockmans’ Camp Tucker Night at Katherine.

While he spins his yarns, “Marksy” serves barramundi with lemon myrtle, traditional gem scones, and quickly-cooked marinated kangaroo (“the longer you cook it, the tougher it gets.”)

Marksy informs us that he tells overseas tourists  he knows the  first names of all the wallabies at the far side of the paddock.

“I shout out ‘Barry!’ and sure enough, one of them will pop its head up,” he says with a grin as wide as the Territory.

There is another reminder of the silver screen when we meet a star of Crocodile Dundee at the Adelaide River Inn, ninety minutes south of Darwin

Charlie R.I. P. (Photo: Peter Eve- Tourism NT)

Charlie the Buffalo, who was hypnotised in the movie by Mick Dundee, is now in an eternal slumber.

He had an appointment with the taxidermist a few years ago and now stands rampant in the bar of the Adelaide River Inn ninety minutes south of Darwin.

END

http://en.travelnt.com/explore/katherine/nitmiluk-national-park.aspx

http://en.travelnt.com/search/product-detail.aspx?product_id=9001105&category=TOUR

Kayaking down the Katherine

"Merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream" (Photo: Michael Day)

(Shorter version of this story published by The West Australian)

“Put your helmets on,” our nuggety guide, Mick Jerram, told the nine members of our group.

We were on a 24-hour kayak journey down the Katherine River in the Northern Territory of Australia.

Looking like a refugee from a Vespa convention, I began paddling towards the first rapid of our trip. I was master and commander of Boom-Shiva, a sit-on-top, one-person style of craft.

The rapid wasn’t exactly Niagara, barely rating as Class 1: “small; passages clear; no serious obstacles”. Helmets weren’t necessary but it was comforting to know that Mick was being extra careful.

I flailed with my paddle as I shot down the torrent. As I passed Mick, supervising at the side of the rapid, he grinned: “Should give you a speeding ticket!”

Diplomatically handling over-confident customers as well as timid novices is part of the skill set of Mick and colleague Jenn Child of Gecko Canoeing.

After another small rapid, Mick casually remarked that it’s best not to paddle while shooting a rapid unless you really need to change direction. I took that gentle hint on board.

Lorna in action (Photo: Tourism NT--Peter Eve)

He reassured first-time paddler Lorna that her hilarious, involuntary reversal down the rapid was not such a bad manoeuvre: “You go where the water takes you rather than being nervous and doing the wrong thing.”

No rebukes, no teasing, just advice. Mick showed us how to use the paddle as a rudder, and why we should lean into a rock or tree if we were on a collision course.

“By leaning in, the water comes under the kayak and pushes you away,” he said, demonstrating the action with his cupped hand.

Welcome

We were hours away from any human settlement in a stretch of river reached via a bumpy off-road track where stately  brolga birds  stood in a signature Territory welcome.

Paperbarks trees, pandanus and casuarinas lined the high banks. Serene stretches of barely moving water were separated by rapids that could be handled by novices yet still excite the more experienced. Families often make the trip.

Relaxing in the river (Photo: Michael Day)

“You can drink straight from the river, the water is never fresher,” said Mick, dipping his water bottle to demonstrate.

Then he went silent, pointing with his paddle to the bank. We drifted closer and saw a freshwater crocodile basking on a log.

A cockatoo, like a white fan, gracefully alighted on a branch overhead. As we moved downstream, wallabies bounced along the bank. I just missed seeing a dingo.

The silent meditation induced by the picturesque surrounding was shattered as a bunch of blue-winged kookaburras went berserk.

“They’re warning us to stay out of their territory – it’s almost like they want to escort us out,” said Mick.

“They are the sound of the north but they don’t laugh like other kookaburras — it’s like they have a flat battery,” he said. Sure enough, the birds conked out without a  cackle.

We stopped for an afternoon tea laid out on collapsible tables that had been folded into Mick and Jenn’s Indian-style canoes.

Fruitcake

With helmets back on, we shot a  rapid named Fruitcake, the name  becoming relevant to me as I bumbled my way down, forgetting the lessons I thought I had learned.

“This next rapid is Dead Man’s Drop,” announced Mick. “It’s a Grade two but you’ll be ok.”

Over-confidence tamed, rudder action memorised, sphincter tighter than a shark’s, I stroked into the rapid.

I headed for the side of a big rock, leaned into it and shot along until a big snag of a tree came in sight. Another lean and I was away but going straight at Mick standing waist deep at the river bank.

He pushed down on the side of my kayak and I ricocheted back into the current. When I arrived in calm waters, I felt like I had won Olympic gold.

We dragged our kayaks on to a beach to camp for the night.

Dining under an outback sky (Photo: Tourism NT -- Peter Eve).

A fancy city chef could not have provided a better candle-lit dinner than the one Mick and Jenn cooked over an open fire.

“Do you ever get the feeling that someone will be voted off?” asked James. Then it was time for all we jolly swagpeople to turn in.

I was happy at the absence of mosquitoes and half-wondered about saltwater crocodiles but was too tired to worry.

I had not been about when Jenn had told the others that, yes, there were young male salties in the river but, due to the lack of grass for nest-making there were no females. so the aggression levels were way, way down.

“We are careful and don’t swim in deep holes and there haven’t been any problems in the 15 years of these trips,” she told me at the end of the trip.

Stars

The best part about the night was waking up every so often to gaze at more stars than I imagined ever existed. Once I thought I saw on the opposite bank a serial killer shining a spotlight over our sleeping forms but then realised it was only Venus rising at full voltage.

Mick puts out the fire (Photo: Michael Day)

An hour before dawn, I had a job to do, and I remembered Mick’s ground rules that  some fellow paddlers told me had prompted instant constipation: “Take  the shovel , toilet paper and one of these brown paper bags. Bury what you do but bring back the paper in the  bag and throw it on the fire.”

I wandered off into the dark, long-handled shovel over my shoulder. As I crouched, my flickering torch made a leafy branch look like some carnivore, thereby helping the process.

After a morning rapid to wake us up, we  glided along the dreamtime river. Pete flicked out his fishing line and hooked a  barramundi but the fish  escaped by winding the line around snags.

Great-billed heron (Photo: Tourism NT-- Peter Eve)

A great-billed heron posed on a bare branch, kite-hawks circled the sun, an azure kingfisher made a cameo appearance and  two young sea eagles displayed their fluffy white bellies as they performed a fly past. I felt I was witnessing the essence of Australia.

Our trip over, we hauled our kayaks up to a waiting trailer where I left faithful Boom-Shiva to nestle against some siblings: T-hugger, Melon, Newby and Namaste.

Wallabies bounced in swerving escort as we drove back through the bush towards the distant highway. A whole family of brolgas danced goodbye

END

http://www.geckocanoeing.com.au/

Be bold, be bald

(Published by The West Australian in The West Magazine)

Bald swimmers regularly prove a point at international competitions by often being head and shoulders above rivals afflicted with scalp hair.

Champion Aussie swimmers Grant Hackett (left) and Michael Klim (right) will no doubt persuade Nicholas Springer (centre) to thow off his cap and expose his baldness.

The more male a man is the less hair he will have on his head, a fact attested to by scientists.

They tell us that a large potent drop of the male hormone, androgen, will eventually eliminate unwanted growth around the brain. This explains why women are seldom hairless—up top anyway.

At the Olympics, you will note that many of the male swimming stars are either bald or have shaved their heads to achieve that sexy status.

Many other men are now imitating those voluntarily-bald sports gods and the men whom nature has gifted with the gem of genetic baldness.

Increasing numbers  of men are demanding “number one” or “number two” haircuts from their barbers. This is throwing the wig and snake-oil hucksters into a spin.

An aggressive radio advertising campaign has been launched, claiming that shiny –scalps are avoiding mirrors and refusing to face facts about hair loss.

But chrome-domes know that the words “hair loss” are being used as desperate money-raking spin to try to downgrade the fantastic achievement of scalp-gain.

There is no dandruff for a bloke with a bald bonce. No nits surround a cleanskin either—except for those on hirsute hobgoblins who make jealous jibes.

Women, of course, have known about the sexy secret of bald men for years. The unfortunate females stuck with a partner afflicted with head growth look in envy at those women with the sly and satisfied smiles, the wives and girlfriends of the bald barons of the bedroom.

Sean Connery, the flower of the baldroom

For years women have named Sean Connery (“the name is Bald, James Bald”) as the world’s sexiest man. When he joins the angels (ever seen a hairy angel?), his replacement will be bald Bruce Willis.

Nature  endowed many of the greatest political figures, from Gandhi to Gorbachev, with shining heads clear of scrub. They were in great contrast to, for example, the hairy Hitler and Stalin with that shaggy atrocity.

Look at Salman Rushdie and his procession of beautiful admirers. They love him as much for his baldness as his books.

Baldness acts like a magnet for Salman Rushdie

It is written in the Bible: “Doth not even nature itself teach you that if a man have long hair it is a shame unto him.” The world “long” means “any”.

It is a filthy lie that Homer had a comb-over. Or that he used Grecian 2000 (BC). Like the great Olympian heroes, the great poet crowned his nude nut with a laurel wreath.

William Shakespeare, known to all humanity as the bald bard, once described how nature counterbalanced beauty with ugliness: “Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud; clouds and eclipses stain moon and sun.”

"To be bald or not to be bald, there is no question: BE BALD!" (Wm Shakespeare)

Only smooth Shakespeare’s sensitivity to the feelings of the follicled fools prevented him adding: “Some men’s heads are defiled by unsightly locks.”

Throughout the ages, those virile men without hair on their heads have remained modest, knowing their superiority. They have not wanted to make the bushy feel bad. But things have changed recently after the sight of so many champions baldly claiming victory.

Let there be no beating about the bush, no splitting of hairs. It is time to glorify the naked scalp.  Now is the moment to make a bald assertion.

List of all story titles

• Note: If you scroll down a list of  stories under, say, “Australia” and can’t find one of the stories listed here, click on  “Previous entries” (it will be at the bottom once you have scrolled down all the stories on that page). That  will give you more stories.
• King of the Castle (Lavish presidential palace: Romania)
• A Quiet Place in Galilee (Where Jesus taught: Israel)
• Sinning in the Vatican (Vatican museum: Vatican City)
• Cavorting in the city of Casanova (story and photo essay) (Delights of Venice: Italy)
• Relishing the relics of Tuscany (City of towers: Italy)
• Galileo’s last Giggle (Fascinating science museum: Italy)
• Paddler with patter (Sea kayaking: Australia)
• The one that didn’t get away (Fishing in crocodile river: Australia)
• Riding the Sea Stallion ( Jet ski fun: Australia)
• Visiting the Big Smoke (Drug town: Australia)
• Life with a Porpoise (Dolphin display: Australia)
• Oh Island in the Sand (Biggest sand island in the world: Australia)
• Hello World (Something about the travel writer: Michael Day of Brisbane, Australia)
• Green heart beats in sub-tropical city (City garden: Australia)
• Women wrestle with big tradition (Female sumo wrestlers: Japan)
• Poking around in Ponorogo (Festival town in East Java, Indonesia)
• Treasure found under theatre (Famous Kabuki actor: Japan)
• Laughter flows on the Hozu River (Boat ride down river: Japan)
• Boulevard of the elite (Distinctive houses: Australia)
• House on the edge of nowhere (French chateau in outback: Australia)
• Stars of the underworld (Sea creatures: Australia)
• Fencing with length (Longest fence in the world: Australia)
• Love is in the air (Island which attracts love: Australia)
• Monkey business in China (Unusual food: China)
• NZ on the right track (Scenic train ride: New Zealand)
• (i) Dancing at the Red Disco (ii) Chinese “Oscars’ (Nightclub and Film Festival: China)
• Climbing to the camp of the commander (Mountain hideaway: East Timor)
• Keys to the stairway to heaven (Sultan’s grave: Indonesia)

Green heart beats in sub-tropical city

Misty "rain" on the forest boardwalk in Roma Street Parkland

(Published by Capital Magazine)

After a short stroll from the concrete jungle of Brisbane, visitors plunge into a rainforest and make their way toward a pandanus headland overlooking a lake.

The only sound is their own voices, usually  marveling at how they can be so close to the central business district yet be moving through a landscape that could well be inhabited by the Phantom of comic book fame.

Giant ferns line their path. Vines drop from towering trees and finish within swinging height over pools at the bottom of waterfalls. A misting system sends out a thin silver rain that does its botanical duty as well as creating a jungle illusion for visiting humans.

This pocket of rainforest is just one of the distinct “rooms” or precincts of the Roma Street Parkland set in the heart of the Queensland capital.

Visionary

The 16 ha Parkland occupies a space that had been a railway goods yard until that facility was moved. Debate about the future of the valuable land was vigorous — a sports stadium was considered.A visionary decision by the Queensland Government in 1999 led the area to become the Parkland. It opened in April 2001.

When locals want to boast about the Parkland, they speak about :the world’s largest subtropical garden in a city centre” but such a description tends to mask the real charm of the place.

The delicious experience of wandering along the winding paths through and between the precincts has nothing to do with size, but more about the human scale of the beauty.

Visitors do not trek through lawns typical of conventional parks–though there are tree-studded expanses on its edges — but rather pop into surprising visions of beauty that are close by and rather cute in their dimensions.

Surprising visions of beauty (Photo: Chris Day)

Lush feel

The place has a green and lush feel in many places, the result of the careful use of recycled water.

Visitors usually begin their journey at the central point known as the Hub and move into the Spectacle Garden, the natural canvas on which the gardeners paint their miniatures.

Circles cut into low-rising hedges frame displays of delicate flowers. Next to them are high, zig-zag borders which enclose triangles of red. Stepping-stones over a miniature stream lead to a path that curls around a corner and leads to a tower of flower, a layered column festooned with petals of all hues.

Tower of flower (Photo: Chris Day)

Not all the plants are subtropical. Triangular trees — the topiary reminiscent of Versailles– occupy a discreet spot, and cyclamens decorate the ground under a  spreading camphor laurel  tree.

One of the key figures behind the success of the Parklands is  the curator Bob Dobbs, who has  held that position since its inauguration.

Green fingers

For 21 years beforehand, Bob had cultivated tea in his native Sri Lanka and it seems as though the beauty of his homeland has inspired his green fingers here. He accepts praise with polite reticence.

“It’s a constant challenge to think up something new,” says Bob, explaining that the designs are changed every six to eight weeks.

After leaving the spectacle of the Spectacle, visitors follow the curve of Foxtail Avenue to where the six-year-old section of the Parkland adjoins the steepish upper precinct, known for generations as Albert Park.

On those grassy slopes are an amphitheatre, sometimes used for outdoor Shakepeare, a wedding pavilion and a playground, complete with a swing for the wheelchair brigade.

On the flat land ahead is Weeping Fig Avenue, one of the many surprises that are the signature of this place. The tops of the high trees once reached over the wide path and create a fresh and embracing tunnel of green. Badly damaged by a storm, it has made a strong comeback and will soon return to its former glory.

Weeping Fig Avenue before the storm (Photo: Chris Day)

Visitors walking along that avenue soon have the chance to admire a soft, green fernery. Elsewhere in the park they might spot a Wollemi pine,  a tree so ancient its forebears might have provided lunch for vegetarian dinosaurs.

Elevated walkways

Elevated walkways connect some of the precincts, taking people into the arid land gardens and  then the rainforest. From a lookout, they can clearly see the old town hall clock, a view obscured in most parts of Brisbane by office blocks.

From an elevated walkway towards the Town Hall clock (Photo: Chris Day)

Down below the walkway, on  the pandanus headland, is a bronze sculpture of a railway worker’s hut, complete with a  window looking out on the lake that stretches back to the hub. The artwork is just one of many carefully installed in the park.

The lake is favourite watering hole for a variety of birds, including the ibis, which is admired by visitors but rejected by locals who do not regard its beauty as enough compensation for its scavenging.

The lake is home to such fish as freshwater mullet, silver perch and the Pacific blue-eye but the most unusual denizen of this particular deep is Queensland lungfish whose ancestry  could date back 100 million years.

Frangipani court

A short walk alongside the lake leads to frangipani court, a pleasant area where the scent competes with barbecue perfume on summer nights.

Ahead  is “Celebration Lawn” where events such as the annual multi-cultural festival attract thousands of visitors, providing live entertainment for residents in apartment buildings on the borders of the Parkland.

On one side is a waterfall that combines a natural flow over several steps with sporadic jets of water firing out of semi-submerged silver domes.

Water play (Photo: Chris Day)

Automatic people counters show that some 500,000 people visit the Parkland annually. Manager Peter Bayliss says regulars include fitness groups in the morning and evenings, inner city residents, and students of nearby schools.

As the pleasant nature of the place becomes more widely known, increasing numbers of families, horticultural groups, tourists and community organizations are heading for the Parkland, he says.

Mr. Bayliss expresses pride in the 22-strong workforce (eight gardeners) and he pays tribute to some 70 regular volunteers who provide guided tours or assist with the gardening.

Key to the stairway to heaven

Stairway to the royal graves of Imogiri. (Photo: Michael Day)

(Story published by The West Australian)

Starting the long climb to the royal graves, I carried with me the hope that my visit would give me a lesson in the mystic secrets of traditional Javanese culture.

It was mid-afternoon at Imogiri (“misty hill”), 17km south of Yogyakarta, the ancient cultural capital of Indonesia’s (and the world’s) most populous island.

Way up ahead on the stone staircase, a lone woman was silhouetted against the sky, framed by the towering trees which lined the route.

I copied her climbing technique and so zigzagged the 454 steps to the summit, where a woman with a beautiful oval face appeared before me.

“Do you want some water, father? “she asked, using the polite Indonesian term for an adult man.

“No thank you, mother, I have some with me.”

“You can have this map of the graves, father, for only 1000 rupiah,” she said.

I bought the map and, after consulting it, turned right, heading for the grave of Sultan Hamengkubuwono IX, a hero of the war waged for independence in the late 1940s.

At the narrow doorway in the high wall surrounding the grave sat an elderly man, two women and two girls.

The grave was officially closed, but it was worth a try: “Good afternoon, many I enter?”

‘Are you able to pay 10,000 rupiah, father?” one of the women asked.

It was a pittance to me. I nodded and then accompanied the man to a pavilion where he dressed me in a sarong, a long-sleeved, high-collared shirt and a Javanese-style cap.

We climbed yet more stairs, lined by graves of members of the Yogyakarta royal family. Near the entrance to the sultan’s tomb were two Javanese men, one with unusual, lustrous, purple-black skin.

He asked me if I wanted the special power which came from visiting the graves. I said I did.

Pray

One of the men accompanied me inside and told me how to sit and pray.

The flower-bedecked grave was a narrow slit in a stone floor. A big golden umbrella was raised over it, and white cloth was suspended on both sides and at the back.

I closed my eyes. Was it only my imagination or did I receive a soft image of coloured stripes? Or was that just the impression on my retina of the jacket worn by my guide? And that exhilaration. Was that just my heart beating after all that climbing?

Eventually I left the graveside. I made a donation. (“It will come back to you manifold,” I was told.) I took off my borrowed Javanese clothes and opened my wallet to sort out the payment. I did not know it then but that very act would bring me back for a memorable experience.

At the nearby graves of the sultans of the Mataram Kingdom of the 17^th and 18^th centuries, a group of schoolchildren and teachers listened to a guide describe the graves, recite royal genealogy and tell a joke or two. He invited them to drink the sacred water from four big urns.

Relaxed and inspired, I enjoyed the drive home through the intense green of the rice paddies and under the pastel pink of the sky at dusk.

Lost

It was back at my hotel that I discovered I had lost the only key to the security box containing my passport. The penalty was $150, the price of replacing the box if it had to be forced open.

I guessed the key must have dropped from my wallet so I returned to Imogiri.

In the darkness, my taxi driver, Paino, led the way towards the stairs.

We greeted groups of locals sitting along the way. They were enjoying a chat or a game of cards, their smiling faces golden under the soft lights. We explained our mission and received the traditional blessing in the Javanese language: “Please, please”.

We continued climbing. Suddenly Paino froze mid zigzag.

“Look, sir, the snake!” He pointed to a small coil on a step. “It’s a weling. If it bites you, you will die. There is no medicine.”

I shuddered, partly from fear, partly from some perverse excitement.

Paino grasped me by the elbow to guide me forward. We advanced slowly, fear and exhaustion taking their toll. Paino shone his torch on each darkened stop until we reached the top.

Again there were soft tones of inquiry by friendly, smiling men near the entrance to the Mataram graves. They ushered us in.

A group of elderly men and a woman were performing the last Muslim prayers of the day. In the dimly-lit, open-sided pavilion, their prostrations in the direction of Mecca were an unworldly sight. At one end of the pavilion a grandfather clock chimed.

Stars

Then the same old man, who a few hours ago had dressed me in Javanese clothes led Paino, two other men and me along the stone path to the robing pavilion below the sultan’s grave. The stars were brilliant in the tropical darkness.

We entered. Paino shone his torch. The old man switched on a weak bulb. I looked down, spotting the key. I grabbed it as if were a priceless jewel.

The old man grinned broadly, and everyone else laughed in happiness.

It was a magic moment, a key to happiness for that special time in that powerful place.

Women wrestle with big tradition

Wrestler in Japan's open division for females: Rie Tsuihiji, 19. (Photo: Steve Ferrier)

EVEN Japanese are shocked when they hear about women sumo wrestlers.

Somehow the mental picture of gargantuan wrestlers does not fit well with  images of petite women in kimonos or modern fashions.

Sure enough, there is nothing petite about Japan’s female heavyweight champion, Rie Isuihiji, a 19-year-old commerce student at Tokyo’s Takushoku University.

Although Ms Isuihiji is not nearly as bulky as the male sumo champions, she is hefty enough to dissuade any likely lad looking for a fight.

It is not a polite to ask a lady her weight, but let it be said that she was nowhere near qualifying for the under-70g division of the inaugural women’s sumo championships in Osaka in January.

In exquisite contrast to her size and wrestling ability, Ms Isuihiji displays refined politeness and friendliness when meeting overseas guests.

“My father is a judo instructor and I stated practicing judo when I was three,” she said, modestly refraining from mentioning that she was once third in Japan’s female student judo competition.

With a fellow member of the women’s judo club at the university, Ms Isuihiji took up sumo training partly as practice for judo, partly for fun.

Training

Then they started training for the sumo championships.

“I have to say sumo for women has different rules than for men,” she said.

“Men regard it as a martial art whereas we see it as a sport. Our rules are different too. Striking in the face is prohibited in women’s sumo, and we can’t crash into each other with our heads.”

Unlike her male counterparts, she has no special diet but tries to eat as many vegetables as possible.

Donning their orange Lycra suits and wrapping a wide white belt around their middles, the women sumo wrestlers move on to the tatamai mats of the judo dojo, make a circle with black rope and prepare to demonstrate their skills.

Ms Isuihiji is the biggest, so it is her job to face the charges of all her team-mates. They rush at her with enthusiasm, push, shove, then get gloriously dumped by the champion.

Champion in the under 50-kilo division, Kayoko Cabori, is pushed from the ring by Rie Tsuihiji. (Photo: Steve Ferrier).

“I’m sorry,” she says to her victims as she helps them up from the floor. “I didn’t use any extra power.”

They all seem to understand — some of them finished in the top two or three of the other divisions in the national championships.

Cameraderie

The women share a camaraderie that comes not only  from practising sumo and judo together but also because they all study commerce and live in the same apartment block.

There to keep an eye on them is their coach, Kaneo Iwatsuri, director of Takushoku University’s judo club, and a former Japanese judo champion.

Mr Iwatsuri says women’s sumo is not aimed at becoming a national sport but is more part of physical education.

“I teach them and we also have experts from the men’s sumo club as instructors,” he said.

“A layperson may feel that sumo is dangerous for women but if they have practised sufficiently in judo there is no danger.”

Takushoku University's female sumo wrestlers line up in their weight divisions. (Photo: Steve Ferrier)

There are different weight classes in competition and they do not have to build up their bulk.

“They are women,” he said. “They want to lose weight.”

END

Poking around in Ponorogo

Reyog dancer in Ponorogo (Photo: T. Rizzo)

(Story published by Perth Edition magazine)

Amri was unusual for a Javanese.

Instead of smiling for most of his waking hours, he wore a lugubrious expression on his drooping face.

We were in the East Javanese city of Ponorogo, and although it was tempting for me to hive off with some of the more personable Indonesians about the place, it eventually proved worth my while to spend long hours chatting to Amri.

At about 5am one day we were sitting together in the foyer of the Kencana Dewi, the city’s premier hotel. Now don’t get any fancy ideas. We’re talking one star maximum here.

Amri decided to teach me a poem which uses English, Javanese and Bahasa Indonesia to produce a lilting rhyme. Translated it goes: “Good morning, good morning, your yellow shirt is attractive”.

I learned it because I knew if I could recite the poem to locals it would have the same kind of effect a foreigner’s intimate knowledge of cricket has in Australia. It would win hearts and open doors.

Pick the foreigner (the author) in Ponorogo.

Keys to a good time

There are three keys to having a good time in Java. The first it to get up early. The air is crisp, the coffee is fresh and the people perky. If it is after 9 am the locals are almost ready for their midday snooze.

The second key is to avoid the tourist traps. The third is to give the language a go.

Those keys open the padlock that guards the real treasure of Indonesia — the charm of its people.

That early morning rave with Amri was the start of a great day. Look, Ponorogo is on  nobody’s map of the wonders of the world. It’s a bit hard to get to. It is stuck between the cool mountain city of Malang and the sophisticated cultural centre that is Solo.

Ponorogo is, yes, a bit hicksville. But that is partly why it is worth visiting. Western visitors are still a curiosity but not a star attraction. You get attention but few hassles.

Amri and I strolled out of the hotel and hopped into a becak (a bicycle powered rickshaw). The driver wore a hat that looked like a flowerpot, a fashion for his trade.

We headed for the centre of town, stopped at a gap in a row of shops, paid the driver and plunged into the shadowy alley that is the market.

No tourist gimmicks there. On sale were plastic sandals and schoolbags, sleeping mats and prayer rugs, badges and books, fruit, rice and brightly coloured pyramids of spices. Everyday items for the locals transform into objects of interest for a foreigner.

Half-wit

“Why didn’t you say it to her?” Amri’s voice pierced my hypnotic focus on what is usual in Java — the unusual. “Who? What?” was my dazed reply. “That woman,” he said, with the  irritated impatience of someone who believed he was dealing with a half-wit. “She was wearing a yellow dress.”

Curses, I had missed that chance. Indonesians love word play. As I discovered on later occasions, a Westerner delivering a line about her attractive yellow clothing would have won a smile at least but more likely a few jokes and then a cheery farewell.

I obviously needed a pick-me-up and they’ve got just the thing in Java. It is Indonesia’s famous health drink, jamu.

The beauty of the local women is attributed to the herbal concoctions. There are many varieties: some to induce good muscle tone after childbirth, some to keep the skin taut  and glowing, and some used by both sexes just to give the system a boost.

I chose the last one. It was a bit hot but easy enough to swallow. I didn’t notice much change in my condition. Maybe you need to take it three times a day before meals.

Rest

Ponorogo is one of the few places on the planet that lacks a Chinese restaurant but that’s okay. The eating place along from the Kencana Dewi has the standard fare for that part of the world. We gobbled up our rice and veggies and then it was time for my midday rest.

Amri slouched off to his room. I went into mine and was grateful the air conditioning made such a racket. It drowned out all the noises of the outside world.

I woke up in time to head for the Reyog Festival procession, beginning in the late afternoon. This mind-blowing parade occurs in July and is worth timing your visit  for.

Troupes of traditional dancers, complete with their spiritual and physical strongman, the Warok, danced and played their way down streets lined with so many people it became easy to recognise that this is one of the most densely populated areas in the world.

But no need to worry. Indonesians know how to operate in big crowds. Nobody pushed and shoved, the kids were safe.

We all admired the towering tiger mask backed by arches of peacock feathers, the men in black jackets and red and white shirts, the dainty, colourfully-dressed young women.

Dancers

We followed the parade into town. Speeches preceded the performances by the dancers, who demonstrated their prowess under colourful banners.

Night markets are always a buzz but that festive evening in Ponorogo all the stops were out in the dimly-lit town square. Medicine peddlers used anatomical models with detachable body parts to sell their pills, martabak pancakes were on sale, gamblers tried their luck,  and hawkers pushed everything from rings to T-shirts.

A stallholder called me over. “Where are you from?” she asked in Indonesian, adding: “My goodness, you’ve got a long nose.” That was my opening for a tease about her great beauty. It got everybody laughing. The crowd gathered round for more joking.

There are plenty of interesting places an hour or two from Ponorogo: Lake Ngbel with its delicious mangosteens, the erotic temple of Candi Sukuh, and the burial place of President Sukarno at Blitar.

But for me the real fun, the true satisfaction was being among the ordinary people in an ordinary city in extraordinary Java.

Factbox: Get there by flying to Bali and then taking a domestic flight to Surabaya. Take a bus or tax for a night in Malang

Treasure found under theatre

Great Kabuki actor Jakuemon Nakamura in his dressing room (Photo: Steve Ferrier)

To find the national living treasure we had to move like Indiana Jones through low tunnels, around tight corners and past many obstacles.

The object of our quest was Jakuemon Nakamura, perhaps the most famous Kabuki actor in Japan and one whose mere name elicits sighs of admiration.

Nakamura’s dressing room is under the plush auditorium of Tokyo’s famous Kabuki-za Theatre and can be reached only by maneuvering through labyrinthine corridors in the bowels of the great building.

At last, through sliding doors in  a Japanese-style room of elegant simplicity, we meet the great master, seated on a low stool , wearing a dark grey and black gown and flanked by huge bouquets from his many adoring fans.

Nakamura’s  surprisingly youthful-looking face—he is 77—would come as a surprise to his audiences, who are used to seeing him in gorgeous female costumes and white facial make-up. He is an onnagata, an actor who specialises in female roles.

Spectacle

Kabuki is a colourful and melodramatic form of drama, begun in the17^th century when, during a time of strict and conservative political rule, the people clamoured for such spectacle.

Now it is enjoying a boom as young Japanese flock to performances.

Men have played the female roles for centuries. The original performances by actresses were considered too suggestive, indicative of their raunchy moonlighting activities.

Roles are generally hereditary.  Nakamura’s 48-year-old son plays a male role and his 41-year-old is also an onnagata.

Nakamura told how he began his career when he was three by learning to chant Japanese classics and then, three years later, by performing dances on stage. During his school years he continued to practice and perform but his career was interrupted when his voice broke.

The Japanese army then conscripted him as a truck driver and sent him to South-East Asia.

Emperor

Upon his return, he resumed his career and became so successful that he has been invited regularly to the imperial palace, where he has chatted with the previous and current emperor and empress about his work in the theatre.

“Because I play a female role, I bring with me a lot of costumes and wigs and give explanations about them,” he said, adding that his imperial hosts were great fans of Kabuki.

Nakamura said onnagata play female figures differently from movie actresses.

“Our performances are not natural but artificial,” he said, making his point by pointing in several directions to illustrate first a young girl, then a middle-aged woman and then a grandmother.

His great artistry, shown in such a casual demonstration, was clearly appreciated by everyone in the room. There is no need to ask why, in 1991, he was accorded the honour of being named  a “national living treasure”.

Fresh spirit

Despite his many years on the stage, Nakamura said he has to approach every new performance with fresh spirit.

“You need to have a heart to perform a role in a play, or otherwise you can’t impress an audience, You also need to acquire the proper techniques or else you will not convey your message.”

Kabuki stories range  from those with realistic and unrealistic themes to psychological dramas. There is one which parallels Romeo and Juliet. Many address great and tragic issues.

In the theatre above Nakamura’s dressing groom, non-Japanese speakers can listen to a translation and explanation on headphones as the spectacle of colour, drama and music unfolds before them. The stories become fascinating and easy to follow.

Nakamura said he hoped Kabuki will be enjoyed in many countries in the world. He had some final words of advice for his visitors.

“Kabuki is something which is not so much about thinking but about how you feel.”

END
Many thanks to the Japanese Ministry of Foreign Affairs for its assistance.