Roaring sideways into Shanghai

Sideways angels on their hogs (Photo: Chris Day)

(Published by The West Australian on 3 November 2011.)

Sometimes a middle class guy just has to rip off his conformist mask to expose his inner biker.

That is exactly what I did in Shanghai, the giant city that rivals Hong Kong as the money capital of all China.

Sure there were nice and safe bus tours available, but Shanghai once had a reputation for outlandish behaviour and I wanted a taste.

Shanghai Sideways offered a four-hour experience that looked me to like an urban version of the Easy Rider movie.

It involved a ride on sidecar-motorcycles through the city streets and lanes but with half the time on foot and exploring.

They had the five bikes ready at 9am on a coldish Saturday, one machine per couple of riders. The woman sat in the sidecar, the man on the elevated pillion or vice-versa. Thankfully they provided a guide who drove.

“Want to wear a helmet?” asked Jonathan, our guide who looked like Peter Fonda to my wishful Dennis Hopper.

Up surged a feeling of rebellion, a chance to raise a digit to the nanny state. But one look at the vintage helmet and goggles and I surrendered to image. They looked good with my leather jacket. All that was absent was a tattoo, a missing molar and a long, straggly beard.

“These bikes are modern Chinese replicas of a Soviet replica of a 1930s BMW,” said a smiling Jonathan, a Frenchman who not only leads tours but manages the company’s operations.

Chinese replica of Soviet replica of 1930s BMW. (Photo: Shanghai Sideways).

With me on the pillion and the old lady (technical biker term) in the sidecar, our machine took off in the lead, followed by the four other bikes bearing couples from various Western countries.

Shanghai has the same population as Australia, yet the streets were emptyish and ripe for the taking.

Under the cover of the roar of the engines, I took the opportunity for some mobile Karaoke: “Get your motor running, out on the highway….born to be wi-i-i-ild….”

 Now I started to understand why the Hells Angels took to the road on two wheels. Not for the aggro, not for the drugs, not to annoy the cops and not for the wild women (well, maybe). The thrill of burning along a city street in a pack ignites a feeling of freedom in solidarity with the bros and sisters.

We powered along narrow boulevards where trees burst with new green life and where elegant, low-rise art deco buildings signalled we were in the French Concession.

This quarter of the city dates back to the days when foreigners lived in protected pockets as they milked profits from China. Jonathan pointed out something interesting: “Houses once inhabited by one foreign family are now packed with people—you can see that by the rows of letter boxes.”

We entered an elegant house that after the revolution in 1949 had become a home to top party officials. But China has flipped over to capitalism, and above the door to what is now a modern art gallery is faded calligraphy irrelevant to modern times: “The Spirit of Mao Zedong will live for eternity”.

We swerved at low speed through a labyrinth of walled lanes and reached another boulevard where morning strollers grinned at us and took photos. They didn’t seem to be at all intimated by this horde of faux bikers.

Downtown old Shanghai. (Photo: Michael Day).

Back on the hog, I swapped my perch on pillion for the sidecar and began to cruise the world in an armchair. It felt a mixture of the comical and imperious. My ear to ear grin lasted all the way to People’s Park where lots of older couples were milling about.

“Anybody guess what this is?” Jonathan asked our group, labelled in my mind “the Sideways Angels”. He then quickly removed our ignorance.“It’s a marriage market.”

Parents were inspecting notice boards where CVs advertised potential mates for their offspring. Photos were clearly not important but apparently every notice listed the worldly goods and potential income the young person could bring to the marriage. The oldies negotiate and then their kids meet to see if it could all work out. Harmony is important. After retirement, the parents often move in with the young couple. Not a bad idea for Australia. Look out RSVP.

Zooming past museums to the Communist era—ironically very close to giant billboards for Mercedes-Benz and Tiffany diamonds — we arrived at the famous Bund, the riverfront of Shanghai.

Bank on the Bund. (Photo: Chris Day).

In the 1930s this city was the decadence capital of the world, home to opium dens, gambling, sing-song girls and the armour-plated Chevrolets of gangsters with bodyguards riding on the running boards, toting Tommy guns.

Now it’s all peaceful. The impressive stone buildings of banks and business houses still flank the road but today the red flag of Communist China flies from each one.

Across the river are the towers of capitalism, including one of the tallest buildings in the world, the 101-storey Shanghai World Financial Centre.

Somehow a squadron of side-car machines seemed a perfect counterpoint to this buttoned-down world of finance.

The climax of the run was our arrival at the market in the old city. Our gang dismounted and plunged into the narrow, crowded lanes, gobbling up spicy shish-kebabsand delicious pancakes. We then formed a farewell circle to thank our drivers.

Pancakes for the bikers. (Photo: Chris Day).

Removing my helmet, goggles and mental mask, I morphed into Mr Respectable and returned reluctantly to civilian life.

END

 

Shanghai Sideways: http://www.shanghaisideways.com/

Predators on parade

(Published in The West Australian, 30 December, 2010)

Meal time at the piranha tank in the Bali Safari and Marine Park was a confronting experience.

Prince of the predators

It was not something you could expect in the picturesque Gianyar region, just a short way from Indonesia’s famous tourist centres of Kuta and Sanur.

Everything looked perfectly normal before the food arrived.  The fish were swimming casually about in one big school, looking like cute cousins of Nemo.

Then up strode one of the attendants. He put a dead, skinless chicken on a wire hook and lowered it into the water.

The whole atmosphere suddenly changed. The little devils headed straight for their lunch, their razor-sharp teeth working overtime.

The chicken must have been fin-licking good because the mob got so excited they swarmed all over it, biting from all angles known to geometry.

After a couple of minutes, the piranhas had stripped the chicken to the bone, leaving it looking  like a skeleton of a monkey. Scary.

Somebody said what we were all thinking: “What if you put your hand in?”

“Let’s go,” I suggested, as much to myself as our group, and we wandered away, thrilled and appalled in equal measure.

It was time for a break from the predator side of life.

One of our group held a baby orang-utan and they both posed for a photo. Next was an animal show featuring elephants. Then there was a show  starring dogs, pussy cats (yes, they can be herded), free-flying birds and orang-utans.

Tigers

We then left the cuddly world and returned to the domain of the carnivore. It felt safe enough as we lined up for a photo patting a tranquil tiger cub but we wouldn’t have wanted to try stroking the big white tiger visible through a plate glass window. The muscled beast prowling along a river bank could be described as big and beautiful but not as cuddly and cute.

On the Safari bus trip through a mini wildlife park we were excited to come across a semi-submerged animal of the species that experts say has killed more people than any other except the mosquito. It was Harry the Hippo. No way were we going to hop out to high five him.

After passing animals like zebras and antelopes, our bus went round a corner and shuddered to a halt. A giant, grey rhino was blocking our way. In a contest between the armour-plated animal and our vehicle, I would have put my rupiah on the rhino.

Rhino has right of way

Fortunately, it didn’t come to that. He eventually moved on and so did we, eventually arriving alongside oxen named after a dance, or was it the other way around. The Watusi have horns wider than — and as wicked as — the vuvuzelas at the World Cup.

As the end of our safari, we were safely inside the Tsavo restaurant, staring through its big windows at a pride of lions only a few metres away.

The restaurant’s  publicity pamphlet happily advised us that its name “relives the legendary pair of Tsavo Lions that become famous by killing and eating more than one hundred railway workers on the Kenya – Uganda Railway in 1898”.

If you can’t beat them, join them. I became a predator too. With only a passing thought for the poor old water buffalos of the world, I ordered oxtail soup.

END

www.balisafarimarinepark.com

Michael Day was a guest of the park.

Mexico magazine

Photographs in Mazatlan by Michael Day

Paper shop in Mazatlan

Mariachi men

Purple haze

Statue in the square

Stalinesque statue on beachfront

Room with a view at Costa del Oro

Greenies

Delicates

Lighthouse on a hill

Hello Yellow

Blue eyebrow

One Day in the Life of an Aussie Amigo

Rider on a beach in Mazatlan (This and other photos by Michael Day)

(Published by The West Australian on 7 October, 2010)

“Amigo!” I called out.

I had been told that amigo (“friend” in Spanish) works like “mate” in Australian. Sure enough it worked.

The huge Mexican waiter turned around, gave me a big grin and came over to take my breakfast order (eggs).

I was in a top mood and why wouldn’t I be on a balcony restaurant of the Hotel Costa del Oro (“Gold Coast”)

The restaurant overlooked one the many perfect beaches in the historic port city of Mazatlan on Mexico’s west coast. It was ideal grandstand to watch squadrons of giant birds patrolling the glassy ocean, flying just a centimetre or two above the surface.

A few minutes later, my new-found amigo arrived with what seemed to be a kilogram of melted cheese decorated with the eggs I ordered.  My heart sank. It knew it under threat.

But with a giant amigo watching, there was no choice but to say adios to healthy eating and just tuck in.

Morning

A few minutes later another challenge to my health came from another hombre (a word I remembered from Westerns).

“Catch pneumonia,” said Poncho, who manned the travel desk in the hotel foyer

I was more confused than miffed because Poncho was an amigo who had taken to calling me “Miguelito”.

Double pulmonia

Poncho then explained that Pneumonia (“Pulominia” in Spanish) is an extra-large, golf-cart that takes tourists from the beachside hotels into the centre of Mazatlan.

The drivers of conventional taxis once gave the carts the nickname of “Pneumonia” to frighten tourists into thinking they could catch a cold or worse by travelling in the open-sided carts. But it had the opposite effect and the word is now a marketing tool.

The Pneumonia whizzed me along a boulevard runs next to the longest beachside boardwalk in Latin America. I spotted inline skaters, mums with strollers, kids dawdling to school, giant statues in a Stalinist-realism style and the elderly enjoying views.

The beaches looked like Cottesloe, Swanbourne, City Beach and Scarborough all joined up. Add Trigg as well. Plus there were a couple of islands just to make the sunsets cute. We passed a night club called “Bum Bum” but I couldn’t guess what it meant in English.

A ute of heavily armed police or soldiers was the only evidence of the drugs wars between various mafia gangs. Everything else looked extraordinarily peaceful.

Once off the bus, it was a short stroll to watch young men leap to their deaths. Well, it looked like that was sure to happen.

They climbed up a big rock and then did a swan dive towards lots of sharp baby rocks. Fortunately, a swell came in at the right moment, and they were saved. They came running up and asked for a dollar. Who could deny them? Not this amigo.

It was a far more serene experience to wander up the road into the centre of the Puebla Viejo (the old town). Think Fremantle in stone painted bright pastel.

House in the old town

There were houses and shops in the Spanish style that were mainly blue but with purple around the doors and windows, or lime green with green window sills, or yellow with some kind of orange-ochre trimmings. A light blue shop looked more like a cake than a building.

It was one big architectural art gallery, and all centred around a square where boys watched the girls promenade, where the well-off walked their pedigree hounds, where the music seemed to came out of the walls, and where a bandstand, palm trees and giant plants combined to form the centre.

Siesta

Siesta time

My camera and my eyes sated, I decided that when in Mexico, do as the Mexicans do. That is, have a siesta. I went back to the hotel and lazed around the pool. I watched as refugees from the Canadian winter rode horses along the beach, swam in the surf, bought sombreros from vendors, or flew up into the blue sky attached to a parasail.

Dusk

Back I went to the old town with an Aussie amigo. Our mission was a shoe shine from one of the men who line the Main Square (Plaza Principal), which is crowned by a magnificent yellow Cathedral built in the 19th century.

I perched on my wooden throne as Manuel applied polish with a series of brushes and then used a variety of cloths to turn the dull black leather into an ebony mirror.

Manuel takes a shine to another Aussie

As he completed the final polish, the lights of Cathedral came on, illuminating the statues that occupied exterior niches. The sound of a hymn being sung by a solo soprano drifted into the warm night.

Three young men passing the entrance of the Cathedral doffed their caps. One made the sign of the cross. The reverence was poignant.

Evening

We moved on to nearby Plaza Machado and plucked up courage to enter a mysterious narrow corridor that took us to El Tunel, a restaurant specialising in authentic Mexican food.

Three elderly senoras supervised the contents of three big pots. Mazatlan is famous for marlin so that’s what I ordered. Instead of the giant steak I expected, the waiter delivered a plate of mashed up fish and sliced lemon to bring out the taste.

Three amigos arrived, one carrying a battered old guitar. Their harmonies filled the place with the sounds of old Mexico.

Colour combinations in Mazatlan

10 facts you may not know about Mexico

(Published in The West Australian on 7 October 2010)

1. Emperor: An Austrian named Archduke Ferdinand Maximilian Joseph was Emperor of Mexico from 1864 until a firing squad shot him dead three years later.

2. Lost property: Mexico once owned Texas, California, Arizona, New Mexico, Utah, Nevada, and parts of Colorado and Wyoming but lost it all in the Mexican-American War (1846-48).

3. Food and flowers: Chocolate, avocados, tomatoes, maize, corn, vanilla, zucchini and the poinsettia originated in Mexico.

4 . Population: One million US citizens live in Mexico, and 29 million US citizens claim Mexican ancestry. With 111 million, Mexico is the 11^th most populous country in the world. It has more than twice the number of Spanish speaking people than Spain.

5. Religion: There are more Catholics in Mexico (100 million) than any other country in the world except Brazil. The Mexican Catholic church was severely persecuted  in the 20^th century,

6 . Sport: Mexicans play the oldest  ball game in the world (ulama). It which originated in 1600 BC. Soccer is now the most popular game but bullfighting is the official national sport.

7. Slim pickings: The richest man in the world is a Mexican, Carlos Slim, a telecoms magnate said to be worth US $60 billion. When his father arrived as a penniless immigrant from Lebanon, he was only 14 and unable to speak Spanish.

8. Economy: More cars are built in Mexico than in the United States and Canada. Mexico is predicted to be one of the five largest economies in the world in 40 years time (the others: United States, India, China, Brazil). Oil is its most lucrative export.

9. Tragedy: Mexico has had more than share of tragedy. Its revolution (1910-20) claimed one million lives, a war against persecution of Catholics cost 90,000 dead, thousands of students died in a protest in Tlatelolco Square before the Olympic Games in 1968. Since 2007, more than 22,000 have died in the war against drug cartels.

10. Arts: Good books by foreigners about Mexico include All the Pretty Horses (Cormac McCarthy), The Power and the Glory (Graham Greene); Mornings in Mexico by DH Lawrence

Getting my teeth into tourism

(Published in The West Australian on 7 October 2010)

In the Mexican holiday town of Mazatlan, I had a choice of where to spend my morning: the beach or a dental surgery.

I chose the dentist’s. My problem was neither toothache nor stupidity. Rather I had a bad case of vanity and frugality.

The promise was a huge discount on what I would be charged in Australia for laser treatment on my bottom teeth. They would become white rather than what they had long been – sepia.

It wasn’t an attempt to look trendy again. I had never succumbed to growing one of those desperate grey ponytails or using a tattoo to cover any wrinkles.

Was I after a certain elderly elegance? No, I am not that ancient. What about an image of mature, debonair charm? Yes, that was the look I was after.

Husband and wife team: Dr Rafael and Dr Marisol

The  Orthodental Center in Mazatlan where Dr Rafael Carreno and his wife Dr Marisol Castro have their practice is clean and shiny. That dispelled some of my initial apprehensions about having dental work done overseas.

As I waited in the reception area for my mouth makeover I chatted to some patients from Canada. They had made appointments on the recommendation of friends. Those conversations  relaxed me further.

Dr Carreno later told me that about half of their clients are from Canada and the United States. They combine holidays with cheap dental treatment.

The laser treatment administered by Dr Castro didn’t hurt, one of my main criteria for successful dental work. It involved wearing a plate one night and then sitting through a couple of half hour appointments.

Once finished, she held up a mirror for me to check the results. “But I’m still bald!”, I joked. Then I remembered. Sean Connery, the sexiest man in the world, is also hair-free.

Feeling mature and debonair for the first time in my life, I flashed a gleaming ever-so-white grin and experimented with my new line: “The name’s Bond, Juan Bond”.

Home from the sea

Mazatlan fishermen (Photo: Michael Day)

(Published by The West Australian on 7 October 2010)

In the mid-morning, a Mexican fisherman was coming home from a night working his lines.

An old outboard motor pushed his painted wooden dinghy through the glassy blue.

On the beach near the centre of the town of Mazatlan, leathery skinned men carried wooden rollers down to the water’s edge and waited for their mate to draw near.

The fisherman cut off the motor and rode a gentle ripple on to the first roller. Then it was all hands on deck. They pushed the fish-laden boat forward on to all three rollers and propelled it up the beach.

Soon the boat was safely at rest in the soft, dry sand. Nestled nearby were Charito and another boat called Gonzalito. Further along were Martha II and Cesar.

The fisherman joined others in their daily task of scaling and gutting their catch. One man whistled, then threw some fish innards high into the sky. A giant bi-tailed seabird heard the call and swept in for breakfast. Grey-brown pelicans grumped around and gobbled up spare offal.

Then the fishermen gathered around a boat which had a plank forming a table across its gunnels. The men played dominos, gambling on every throw, and they laughed and shouted in the sun.

Reggie was our Master and Commander

Reggie and crew in action

Reggie didn’t look anything like Russell Crowe but he was our Master and Commander and we trusted him with our lives.

With whipcord muscles and weather-beaten skin, this Balinese helmsman controlled the rubber raft that took four or us hurtling down the Telaga Waja river.

We matelots were a rum lot—a  couple of laughing Aussie lads out for a good time, a delicate Japanese flower from a Tokyo art gallery, and me, an ancient mariner.

We listened carefully as Reggie taught us the commands he would shout to us as we took on the rapids that began near Bali’s highest peak, Mt Agung, and continued almost without a break two hours downstream.

I expected a gentle start to break us in but it was full on action from the start.

“Duck!” shouted Reggie as the first set of rapids fired us at a low slung bamboo bridge that would have put a fair dent in my helmet if I hadn’t instantly obeyed.

“Forward,” came the next command and we dug our paddles deep as we approached rapids where nature had placed giant boulders in inconvenient places.

But rubber has a way of bending around rocks, and we swept down at full pace, wondering if our paddling made any difference at all. Then Reggie yelled “Back” and we all put our paddles into reverse.

I looked to the stern and there was Reggie leaning back at 45 degrees-plus and using his paddle as a mighty rudder to steer us out of danger.

By then we were laughing and shouting with the exhilaration of it all. But things suddenly went quiet as the torrent propelled us towards a rock cliff.

“Boom, boom!” bellowed Reggie. We obeyed his call and leaned away from the wall of doom. The rubber side of the raft did its job and bounced us back into the flow.

When the pace slowed down, we had time to admire the jungle cliffs and waterfalls that ranged from plumes spouting out of holes in the rock to silvery water dropping in aprons over the green. A little coloured bird or two fluttered from shrub to tree.

At one point we passed a farmer tending his rice fields, a scene that looked somehow ancient in this place so far away from the hurly burly of touristdom.

On one dramatic occasion, we got wedged on a rock. One of the lads stood up and bounced on one corner of the raft. Dislodged, we flew off again downstream.

Hard rock cafe

Half way down, we stopped at a stony beach, nestled against a cliff. It was nature’s hard rock café. Soft drinks were the go—we were all designated drivers—but we could equally have dunked our heads in the pure water and had our fill.

Reggie then told me he used to be a cashier for Sobek Adventure Tours, and was now one of their full-time raftsmen. I couldn’t imagine him behind a desk.  He chatted in English to we Australians and then switched automatically to Japanese for the little dynamo from Tokyo.

We paddled off again. Experts now, we showed no fear as we approached a point where the river split in two. Reggie steered us in the right direction.

A raft of scoundrels tried to pass us, and we flicked water at them and they returned fire. I thought they were from Taiwan but their Aussie accents just demonstrated the multicultural nature of the wide brown land many kilometers to the south.

We turned a bend and saw a weir ahead. More like a dam with drop that was closer to vertical than 45 degrees. Reggie gave us the command to stop paddling. We grabbed the ropes and headed for the big plunge. We dropped into the watery mayhem. There was shouting, screaming and laughing. It was us in raft heaven.

Just before the end, Reggie pulled us up next to a set of rapids feeding a deep pool. He climbed a steep rock bank, grabbed a vine, swung out and dropped in. One of the lads did the same, but the rest of us were happy enough leaping into the rapids and getting swept into the pool.

The expedition over, we walked up a hill to a restaurant devoted to hungry rafters.

As we scoffed the scrumptious food, Reggie paid us a complement: “You were a good crew”. But as far as we were concerned, it was our Master and Commander who deserved all the tributes.

END

http://www.balisobek.com/

Michael Day paid for the lads but was a guest of Sobek.

All downhill in a good kind of a way

Your scribe going full tilt downhill

(Published in The West Australian,  21 August 2010)

Cycling down from a volcano in Bali may not be the Tour de France but as a bike ride it must rate as one of the best activities for any amateur on two wheels.

You don’t have to expose your dieting crimes by wearing bulge-hugging lycra, and it’s nearly all downhill, a mix of freewheeling and pedalling along the flat.

Not convinced? How about this: as you go through some of the loveliest scenery in the world you encounter the cutest of kids who smile a big “hello” as their playful older siblings extend a hand for a high five.

We found all this out in stages but to start off some hidden fears had to be expressed.

As we donned the bike helmets and the complimentary cycling gloves ,  a member of our group spoke up, voicing the apprehensions of one or two others. “I might be a bit wobbly because I haven’t ridden a bike for years,” she said.

But as we  set off from Mt Batur towards the pleasant town of Ubud, even those who hadn’t biked for ages found all the old skills came back  with ease.

At the suggestion of our Balinese guide, Made, we dismounted amid  a grove of towering bamboo that was so bushy the temperature dropped a  delightful degree or two.

After  detouring along some earthen tracks to a little roadside farm, Made pointed out papaya, cocoa and orange trees. Then we cycled on to a moss-covered temple and gazed into a courtyard that had been devoted to prayer and meditation for 1000 years.

We left that holy spot in  silent, single file, passing a  giant banyan tree said to be the place of spirits. They must have been kindly souls because we felt blessed by the experiences that were to follow.

As we peddled down little lanes through a sea of  green paddies, there was plenty of time to absorb the sights, sounds and smells of farming life..

“Very agricultural,”  said one city-slicker  experiencing a whiff of cow poo. It was an odour that strangely reinforced our joy at  being away from  busy towns with their petrol fumes.

As if in a dream, we drifted  along village avenues  decorated with yellow ceremonial umbrellas and high, looping bamboo poles. On some parts of the road, women were spreading  rice  on colourful sarongs to dry in the sun.

Just when our bottoms were signaling it was time to dismount for the day, we arrived at our destination near Ubud.

We celebrated the completion of our  Tour de Bali, not with champagne and a victory speech, but with chicken sate, delicious mixed fruit drinks and a feeling of deep satisfaction.

END

http://www.balisobek.com/

Michael Day was a guest of Sobek but paid for a couple of the peloton.

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

Vancouver wins gold

Vancouver rolls out a spectacular welcome mat (Photo: Michael Day)

The Winter Olympics opened in Vancouver on 12 February 2010. The quality of the snowfields is in no doubt. But what about the host city itself?  MICHAEL DAY put ten attractions of Vancouver though their paces to see if they merited gold, silver or bronze.

(This story first published in The West Australian newspaper, 11 February, 2010).

ONE:

Vancouver lookout: SILVER MEDAL

Vancouver lookout (Photo: Tourism Vancouver)

Just eight years after he opened the moon to visitors, Neil Armstrong accepted an invitation to open this 130 metre, 360 degrees viewing tower. I followed his example by taking a giant leap up the outside of the tower via a transparent elevator. One small step and I was in the viewing area and locating the whereabouts of the attractions in the compact city below. It’s an uplifting way to blast off your visit.

TWO:

Le Soleil hotel; 567 Hornby St. GOLD MEDAL

Lobby, Le Soleil.

Athletes have their purpose-built Olympic village, so I looked for a hotel that combined a unique atmosphere with moderate rates. Hotel Le Soleil fitted the bill. It has lush, comfortable 19^th century European (Biedermeier) furnishings. The friendly staff lent me an umbrella and left complimentary apples and water in the foyer.

THREE:

Vancouver Art Gallery: BRONZE MEDAL

An exhibition from the permanent collection of 19^th century Canadian paintings gives an inspiring introduction to the world’s second biggest nation by depicting its mighty mountains and rivers, indigenous people and European settlers. The Gallery Café and its patio are treats but gold slips to bronze due to the upstairs décor, art of mixed quality and the entry fee.

FOUR:

Restaurants: GOLD MEDAL (tied)

Like all athletes, tourists need good food to fuel the physical demands of all that walking. Here are two winners that don’t cost an arm and a leg.

(i)  The Keg restaurant (595 Hornby St)

Delicious food in generous portions served with care and attention by friendly staff.

(ii)Al Porto Ristorante, Gastown (321Water St)

A passing pedestrian spotted me looking at another eating place and directed me instead to Al Porto. May that anonymous person receive a special helper’s medal. The chef was a genius, the service warm and friendly, the cost very reasonable, and the Tuscan décor just right.

FIVE:

The Museum of Anthropology: BRONZE MEDAL

Grrrr....eat art (Photo: Chris Day)

After a marathon journey from downtown to the University of British Columbia, I eventually found the museum with its totem poles, traditional carvings and, my favourite, a single cedar log that had been made into a long, wide canoe. Busloads of visitors can provide an unexpected anthropological study of the fascinating tourist species.

SIX:

Granville Island: GOLD MEDAL

Maybe Mabel selling Maple syrup (Photo: Chris Day)

Placed in a wharfside setting, this marketplace sells scrumptious banana cream pies, giant blooms of white hydrangeas, the softest of  leather and maple syrup by the litre. To top it all off, I found Edie Hats, where a saleswoman performed an artful dance climaxing with the placing on my head of a stylish black hat that I couldn’t resist buying. To guarantee the island winning gold, a busking sleight-of-hand  magician joked to his happy audience:” If you didn’t enjoy it, pay anyway. Why should both of us be disappointed?”

SEVEN

Seabus to North Shore: SILVER MEDAL

The Seabus from downtown to North Vancouver has seats in the front with views of the lovely harbour. After the 12 minute ride to my destination, the Lonsdale Quay markets, I sampled the eggs Benedict that came with delicious local salmon, and was tempted  to buy books about Mounties, murders and huskies. Other attractions include “Screaming Mimi’s Seafood Deli and Steamer” and a stall that sells “Pavlova from Down Under”.

EIGHT

Stanley Park: GOLD MEDAL

Sunset from Stanley Park (Photo: Chris Day)

When locals told me that Stanley Park is a highlight of Vancouver, I suspected they may have been overselling the place. But as I entered on the Trolley Company’s wagon, all my scepticism dissolved and I surrendered to its beauty: the magnificence of the trees, the embrace of the sea, the silent majesty of totem poles.  At 400 ha, it is the same size as Kings Park in Perth. As the sun set, the park took on a golden, mystical aspect.

NINE

Vancouver Aquarium: GOLD MEDAL

Candidate for world's cutest creature: the sea otter (Photo: Tourism Vancouver)

It would be hard to find cuter creatures than the sea otters in this aquarium. They backstroke before rolling, diving, and  then bobbing up to coo and squeak. Other residents include ghostly-white beluga whales, extroverted Pacific white-sided dolphins, and a spooky giant Pacific octopus with nine-metre arms.

TEN:

Character precincts: Gastown; Robson Street: BRONZE medal

It's steam o'clock...not yet huff puff nine (Photo: Tourism Vancouver)

Wandering along the cobbled streets of old Gastown near a musical, puffing steam clock I found a bargain: a tiny greenstone bear grasping a salmon in its jaws. In the Robson Street precinct there are the upmarket fashion boutiques. I found clothing of a more whacky kind when, in adjoining Granville Street, I plunged into a costume shop. It was an  exciting world of superheroes, policewomen, gorillas and creatures from Star Trek. Close by is China town, one of the biggest outside the Middle Kingdom.

http://www.tourismvancouver.com/visitors/

Showtime for animals in the Canadian Rockies

(Published in The West Australian, 8 May 2010:Words: Michael Day Photos: Chris Day).

"No comment," said this animal, refusing to identify its species while trotting away from the media.

“Wolf, wolf!” I shouted as our big, red Dodge cruised to a halt at the edge of highway outside the small town of Jasper in the Canadian Rockies.

Just 50 metres away, there was Mr Wolf, bright-eyed and bushy tailed as he trotted alongside the trees lining the other side of the road.

“Another one,” yelled George as we fumbled with our cameras. We soon realised a whole pack of wolves was on the move.

I reached for the door handle so I could get out to frame the animals against the background of forest and giant, snowy peaks.

But then a primal instinct took over, or perhaps it was a childhood memory of what the wolf told Little Red Riding Hood about his sharp, white teeth: “The better to eat you with my dear!”

I stayed with the others inside our wagon and watched as the pack disappeared into the forest.

The next morning we reported the sighting to our Jasper wildlife guide, John Ward. He asked questions about snout shape and body size, and then announced: “They were coyotes.”

Drat! I knew I wasn’t the first person in the world to cry wolf– the tradition went back to Aesop’s fables– but there went any bragging rights about being like Kevin Costner in his movie Dances with Wolves.

Reality and not a film set

On reflection, seeing coyotes had been a thrill whatever the species. And  I was now reminded  of those old cartoons about Wile E. Coyote and Roadrunner, a thought just right in a place that looks like some unreal, spectacular film set.

It was late October, when the tourist species  is rare on the ground in the Canadian Rockies, having departed after the summer and waiting for full-on winter before returning.

That meant prices were way down and accommodation and restaurant tables were readily available. Armed only with cameras and water bottles, we animal hunters had a good chance of spotting wildlife.

Yogi and Boo Boo Bear were probably already  hibernating in their dens but autumn is a time when the rest of the animal kingdom is out in force.

Muskrat

Muskrat creates a ripple.

Next morning, only a couple of kilometres from town, and under cloudless skies, a muskrat posed on the banks of Lake Patricia.  These cute little creatures are relatives of lemmings but this one demonstrated survival rather than suicidal tendencies when he spotted us.  He leapt into the freezing water and swam away.

As we surveyed the mighty landscape of mountains, lakes, forests and grasslands, John Ward explained the special feeling in the crisp air: “The original people here called this heaven on earth because the animals were approachable and so to them it was obvious that the Great Spirit was present.”

“Approachable” is a technical term these days: it means use the zoom lens.

Mr. Elk

That was especially the case when John led us to herd of wild elk that towered over the long horned sheep nearby. It wasn’t so much the males with their antlers that we had to be wary of.

“The most dangerous animal in the world is the female elk,” said John, only slightly exaggerating for effect as he described how they protect their young.

“They put their ears back and rear up a like a horse and try to stomp you with their feet — and they weigh as much as 340 kilos.”

Beaver

Then we came across a lake where beavers were building their lodges. Their multi-roomed, dry apartments have an underwater entrance and a wooden roof that becomes as hard as concrete as its mud topping freezes in the cold. No predators can find the inhabitants.

The word predator somehow becomes an issue in Jasper. We shivered as a local told us about the cougar, not the lame TV show, but the mountain lion that nobody jokes about: “If you see a cougar,” she said, “it’s already been trailing you for an hour and you are probably dinner.”

Fortunately, our next sight was not a big cat looking for a meal wrapped in long johns and puffy parka. Instead we spied a flotilla of white trumpeter swans on a lake and, up above, a squadron of Canada geese dipping in salute to the peaks.

As John bade farewell, we piled back into our Dodge for a bit of freelance hunting.

Mrs Moose

On the way to the magnificent Maligne Lake we hit the jackpot. There on the side of the road was another show business  character– that  huge goofy looking creature from the cartoons, the moose.

“Hey, there’s a baby,” said George. We spotted the young one totter along, its  skinny, stilt-like legs making it resemble  a novice model on a tarsealed catwalk.

Our wildlife movie  had one more reel to play. The Dodge swept around a corner and there on the other side of the road was a cute little deer.

If I hadn’t cried wolf the day before I would have shouted “Bambi!”

"Bambi!"

Driving in a winter wonderland

River forms moat around magic island

(Published by The West Australian, 1 May, 2010. Words: Michael Day; Photos: Chris Day)

One of those infuriating songs captured me as we were driving along one of the most spectacular scenic highways in North America.

It was that sort of song that implants its tune and lyrics on your cranial hard-drive and comes back automatically from time to time.

On the late October day when we were driving along the Icefields Parkway through the Canadian Rockies from Jasper to Banff, the song in question was Winter Wonderland.

You know the one. The Americans always play it in their Christmas movies, a bouncy little number.

“When it snows, ain’t  it thrilling , though your nose gets a chilling

We’ll frolic and play, the Eskimo way, walking in a winter wonderland.”

It started playing in my mind after we had pulled out of Jasper and entered the forest of a million Christmas trees.

Overnight snow had laid its delicate tinsel on the tops of the green fronds. As a bonus, a white duvet covered the peaks beyond. A little dusting remained on the highway, which was smooth and safe. It was the so-called off-season and there were few other cars about.

After 30 km of the 232 km journey through the Jasper and Banff national parks, we stopped at Athabasca Falls.

“It’s like being in a Christmas card,” I said and started singing about “walking in a winter wonderland”.

Canyon of colour

It seemed so apt. Snow had made the paths pure white, and when we reached the waterfall plunging into a narrow canyon, we were treated to other colours: the green-gold of the moss and the ice-blue of the water far below.

As we moved on down the highway, the scenery exhausted my supply of superlatives. Near Mt Christie a river formed a moving moat around an island of Christmas trees, as a line of mountains graced the background.

Though cold enough for long johns, jackets, gloves and hats, the weather was no impediment even when we moved into a place where the road was completely covered in snow, the whole landscape like vanilla icecream.

When reached the Columbia icefield, a glacier that comes close to the road, we drove up to an elevated car park which was empty of any other living creature bar two ravens, black as coal against the snow-covered ground.

Two is company

“I’ll do a few doughies,” said George, laughing as he gave us a 360 degree moving view before we started feeling queasy and begged him to stop.

The ravens waddled over to greet us, leaving tracks in the snow, but we declined their request for food. We drove slowly on, stopping and starting every few minutes just to admire each fresh shape of a mountain. Some were the classic peaks, others were walls of exposed rock. All were mighty. It seemed endless, and all were so close by.

When we arrived at a frozen waterfall, I silently thanked Mr Digital for inventing his camera. I  knew  many more  photo opportunities were to come and no film camera could have coped.

Frozen in time

We descended into a u-shaped glacial valley  and arrived at what looked like a big gingerbread house , a little bridge for the elves and a lake for the fairy queen.

A couple of cute birds came up to us all unafraid. Those lyrics started in my brain again:

“Gone away, is the bluebird, here to stay is a new bird,

He sings a love song, as we go along, walking in a winter wonderland.”

“I’m beginning to like the song,” I confessed to the others.

A hotel afternoon tea at the Chateau Lake Louise provided the opportunity to scoff fine delicacies from a multi-layered silver cake stand .

We gazed at the mountain-enclosed lake that freezes over in the winter, enough to allow horse-drawn sleigh rides: “Sleigh bells ring, are you listening, in the lane, snow is glistening…”

Light over Lake Louise

Another 52 kms on and we drove through the majestic mountain scenery that wraps the township of Banff like a Christmas present. It was time for that song again…..

The peak of beauty

Bridge to wonderland

Snowbird

"Gingerbread house"

"O Canada"

In bed with the famous

Icon of Canada: the Fairmont Banff Springs Hotel

(Published in The West Australian, 29 July 2010)

It was a right royal experience driving along the grand boulevard leading to the Fairmont Banff Springs Hotel.

One of the most recognised hotels in the world, it has hosted the King and Queen of England, Sir Winston Churchill, the Crown Prince of Japan, and Presidents Roosevelt and Eisenhower.

Now it was our turn, and I felt like giving a little wave to the occasional peasant on the footpath.

We passed through a security check where I half expected Mr Muscle to turn us around with the comment: “What a nerve!”

But politeness is the go in Canada, and we were ushered up to the entrance of a building that is as much a national icon of its country as are the Taj Mahal and the Eiffel Tower of theirs.

The great castle that is the Banff Springs Hotel is built in a Scottish style with influences of a French chateau.

As we entered the giant whirly-gig doors, we discovered that the cavernous foyer doubled as a venue for almost as much entertainment as the Olympic opening ceremony in Vancouver.

First there were some unusual national costumes. A dignified group of guests from the First Nations looked impressive in their modern version of traditional clothing. Then I  did a double take at a large African-Canadian staff member who was sporting a tartan kilt. He could have told a local version of the old joke: “Q. What does a Canadian wear under his Kilt? A. Socks.”

Then, as if performing an impromptu floor show, a woman with four whippets on the leash descended an opulent staircase down to the foyer as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

We inquired and, yes, the hotel welcomes owners with their dogs. I looked for evidence of a canine indiscretion but even the dogs are polite in Canada.

As I checked in, I was almost insulted that a place which has  welcomed so many of the rich and famous doors would accept somebody lowly like me.

The truth is that these days the hotel has 768 rooms and accepts a mixture of upmarket guests and  conventioneers as well as opportunists like us, who found a bargain rate on the Internet.

Our corner room was combination of comfortable yet with some clunky and old-fashioned elements, and a tiny bathroom. Just what you might expect in a refurbished castle rather than a super-modern luxury hotel.

We prowled along the long, wide, dimly lit corridors, decorated with Scottish tapestries. There was a feeling that Macbeth could leap out at any moment. What we eventually discovered were restaurants, banquet halls and luxury shops.

Rapunzel

Later, on a tour with veteran staff member Dave Moberg, we ascended via private lift to the VIP suite in a Rapunzel-like tower, which has  views of the impressive mountains that embrace the town of Banff way down below.

“Wayne Gretzky stayed here,” said Dave. We were slow to recognise the name of the Don Bradman of Canadian ice hockey. Then he said, “Russell Crowe also stayed here”. We gave a loud cheer for Australia.

Dave recited a litany of famous hotel guests, and flashed their photos: “Marilyn Monroe, Clint Eastwood, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Fred Astaire, Margaret Thatcher, Neil Young, Bobby Kennedy, Robin Williams, Alec Baldwin…..”

He whispered that the handsome Pierre Trudeau, a former Prime Minister of Canada,  attended  the hotel’s New Year ’s Eve party where he “kissed at least 20 per cent of the ladies”.

Dave tells the story of how a couple of dodgy brothers built the Banff Springs hotel in the 19^th century, negligently reversing the architect’s plan by putting the front at the back and vice-versa.  “Who was the idiot who gave a million dollar view to the kitchen staff?” thundered the first owner, one William Van Horne.

The hotel has long since fixed the front up by, for example,  installing dining places like the Rundle Room, a restaurant where we licked the cream off the hot chocolate as if it were the snow on the mountains outside.

But to my mind the best addition was the Willow Stream spa complex , which cost millions to install.

The Willow Spa

I made sure that just my eyes were above the water level of the outdoor spa but so I could enjoy the snow without losing any important appendage.

Retreating inside to the heated mineral pool with its hypnotic underwater music, I later moved under the warm waterfalls nearby.

New-fangled options like a maple sugar body scrub and an executive foot grooming were not for me. Instead, I relaxed on a leather armchair in the gentlemen’s retreat, complete with old fashioned paintings of fly-fishermen, an antique clock, and a warm fire.

It was a place fit for royalty and I felt like the emperor of all I surveyed.

Australians thrive in the high green land

Lake Minnewanka (Photo: Chris Day)

(Published in The West Australian, 7 August 2010)

Reminders of the wide brown land of Australia are frequent in the green, white and granite universe that is Banff, the little capital of the Canadian Rocky Mountains.

Young Australians are well represented among the staff of cafes, restaurants, ski shops and the Banff Convention Centre. Ask them why they are in Banff and the replies come quickly: to snowboard and party.

One encounter came after we had taken the gondola up the snowy slopes of Sulphur Mountain to enjoy an aerial view of the town in its setting of snowy mountains and green river valleys.

The cold was exhilarating but it eventually prompted us to move into the warmth of the souvenir shop where we selected a present or two for the unfortunates back home.

“That will be ten dollars,” the young shop assistant said to me in an accent more from the Perth suburb of  Cottesloe than Canada.

We asked each other the same double question: “Where in Australia do you come from, and how long have you been here?”

The extroverted and casual young Australians say they have a warm rapport with their Canadian hosts, who they see as polite, friendly and more reserved.

Australians have had a long connection with Banff. In 1902, the local Crag and Canyon newspaper reported that visitors came from “every part of the civilized world” and referred to “the hardy and canny Scott, the ruddy son of Erin’s isle, the citizen of the South African veldt, the sun-browned Australian…”

The most economical time to come these days is the off-season so we went in late October when we had most of the benefits of the town and rest of the national park without having to cope with the big crowds of summer and mid-winter.

Banff has hot springs, museums, quality shopping, and a golf course inhabited by elk. We saw deer skittering about the residential area, though it was not quite the right time to spot bears gobbling up grain spilt along the famous Canadian Pacific railway line

After our early morning gondola ride, we wandered down the town’s main street, which has to stop eventually due to a big mountain in the way.

After scoffing breakfast of pancakes and bacon smothered in a sea of maple syrup, we drive out of town to a glorious lake whose name gets a laugh out of most visiting Australians.  Minnewanka means “water spirits” and refers to the legend of the hideous spirit which takes offence at singing and punishes those who try.

We suppressed any urge to break out in song though it was tempting at another tiny ice-covered lake where the bright sunshine made the snow glisten.

Bali ticks all the boxes

(Published in The West Australian, 21 August 2010)

Bali ticks all the boxes when it comes to a good holiday.

Butterflies of the sea at Amed: fishermen returning home at sunrise (Photo: Michael Day)

Box One: Food Treats: Tick

(i)   Vincent’s of Candi Dasa: Impeccable service by black-aproned waiters matched the quality of the dishes. Try the seafood pancake. It is more elegant than it sounds. Also give the mocktails a spin. My favourite was mint magic. A European décor with an Indonesian flavour.

(ii)  Jimbaran: A visit to the legendary beach restaurants in late afternoon let us beat the evening crowds who for good reason flock there for the seafood, baked to perfection.

Box Two:Accommodation with a special something:Tick

(i) In a beautiful setting like Bali, it is reassuring when you can relax without feeling your fancy accommodation is harming the natural environment. At the Bloo Lagoon eco-resort in Padang Bai, we swam in a pool cleaned by ionisation, found our way at night with the help of 4 watt LED bulbs, ate fresh vegetables grown in the garden irrigated by waste water, and abstained from soft drinks because sugary drinks are not on offer in the restaurant which serves healthy, delicious food.

The safe environment of Bloo Lagoon

(ii)  We stayed in a luxury room at the Honeymoon Cottages in Ubud where there is an Australian connection, with co-owner Janet De Neefe, the author of one of the best books that explain Bali to a newcomer, Fragrant Rice. We heard Janet delivers a knowledgeable talk about Balinese cooking and saw a demonstration by her staff of how to produce certain local dishes. The resulting meal was one of the most scrumptious we had in Bali.

Hibiscus and frangipani petals at Honeymoon Cottages

Box Three:Artistic creation: Tick

(i) In the days before the festival of Galungan, it seemed as if most of the population was involved in the creation of a penjor, a towering, drooping bamboo pole decorated with weavings and colourful leaves and other decorations. Symbolising affluence, they represent the dragon’s tail. During the festival these elegant examples of people’s art lined the streets and lanes of every town and village.

(ii) Threads of Life, a textile arts centre in Ubud, is a place where we found handmade natural-dyed textiles (blankets, shawls, sarongs, shoulder cloth), baskets and baskets sourced from 40 cooperatives on 11 islands in Indonesia. The genius of Indonesia unfolded before our eyes.

Box four: Characters:Tick

Characters:

(i)   The waitress in a small restaurant was a novice and disarmingly honest about her excitement and nervousness. “I was a servant in a house in Denpasar but came here to work in the kitchen. When the boss said the other day that I could start serving the foreigners, I was so nervous, my heart went tock, tock, tock.”

(ii) The Ubud taxi driver’s right leg was partially crippled and barely reached the accelerator. But his smile was luminous and his spirit transformed what could have been an ordinary taxi ride into a memorable experience. He had no complaints about the cards life had dealt him.

Box five: The unusual  and  the mystical: Tick

(i)   The Blanco museum, Ubud: An eccentric Manila-born artist of Spanish heritage, Don Antonio Blanco (1911-1999), arrived in Bali in 1952, married a famous Balinese dancer and began to paint portraits of nude Balinese women. We viewed his elaborately framed paintings in an impressive three storey circular  gallery crowned with a dome and with an adjoining aviary. Nick-named the “Dali of Bali”, the late artist is succeed by his son, Mario.

Boys practice dancing in Ubud (Photo; Chris Day)

(ii)  Dancing in Ubud: Young boys provided a graceful afternoon spectacle as they practiced dancing outdoors. That night rain began to fall so the location for the hypnotic kecak dance performed by their elders moved to a covered pavilion next to a temple. The venue proved strangely atmospheric, especially later when an ancient-looking dancer fell into a trance and danced on burning coconut shells. He emerged from the smoky haze with blackened but unscathed feet.

Box six: The unusual  and  the mystical: Tick

(i)  The sea off Amed. The trick to enjoying Bali is to arise early. At Amed I went on to the beach before 6am to watch the fishermen sail home. Their outriggers adorned the bluest of oceans with coloured, triangular sails—like butterflies at dawn.

(ii) After sunset, we walked along the side of the Uluwatu temple and looked down at the steep, seaside cliffs. They were streaks of white in the purpling dusk.

END

http://www.bloolagoon.com/

http://www.threadsoflife.com/mainstoreubud.asp

http://www.casalunabali.com/

Michael Day was a guest of Casa Luna.

Experiencing a different Australia

At the Barunga Festival a few hours south of Darwin, it hits me that I am experiencing a totally different version of Australia from the one I am used to.

Dancing at Barunga (Photo: Peter Eve- Tourism NT)

The people are not speaking in English but rather in several languages, all Australian but incomprehensible to me.

The Barunga Festival held annually in June is a highly regarded indigenous cultural and sporting festival in the Top End.

It has historic roots as the place where a call for Aboriginal rights, the Barunga Declaration, was presented to Prime Minister Bob Hawke in 1988.

Amid the thousands of Aboriginal people camping at the Festival are a few hundred Australians of European descent many of whom are experiencing what it is like to be in a minority. For us it is fun, curious, a privilege.

Close up of Crocodiles (Photo: Peter Eve-Nt Tourism)

Excitement is mounting because tonight we are going to see and hear some of the best singers and bands in the Northern Territory.

“Give a big hand for Jessica Mauboy!” shouts the MC and the crowd cheer as the Darwin-born star bounds across the stage and launches into the songs that have confirmed the talent first seen nationally on Australian Idol in 2006.

A lantern at Barunga Festival looks ready to eat the moon (Photo: Peter Eve--Tourism NT)

Then it is the turn of Arnhem band Yilila, which turns on a performance of such energy and excitement that we rush towards the stage and dance to the pounding rhythm.

Lead singer Grant Nundhirribala dances, jokes, and sings in a superstar performance we wish the whole of Australia could see.

At the climax of one song, all lights go out except for those illuminating two giant batik-style crocodile figures that are the backdrop of the stage. It is a special moment.

The music is a culmination of a day of surprises. In contrast to the negative portrayals of indigenous life the Northern Territory, we found a green, clean and prosperous Barunga community with a “no alcohol” rule being observed for the festival.

The crowd thrilled to a spear throwing contest where a woomera-style device proved its worth by propelling the spears to their distant target without the run up associated with the javelin.

Art exhibitions, concerts, didgeridoo manufacture, story-telling and sports events are all part of a program drawing increasing numbers each year.

Spear throwing competition (Photo: Peter Eve-- Tourism NT)

http://www.jawoyn.org/barunga-festival.htm

http://www.yilila.com

http://www.jessicamauboy.com.au/