A week in the Sunburned Land: Australia

Before I stepped foot on the land, I never believed of a paradise on earth. Now that I’m back, I can unequivocally say there is indeed one. Such an exaggeration is forgivable for a bumpkin like myself who for the first time walked a continent other than Asia. But to say that I came back a different man, it is no exaggeration and forgiveness not necessary. If I could ever rewind my life, I just might drop everything I have and Australia, I come, look back I’ll never.

The Anticipation and The Flight
My wife and I decided to flee the hustle and bustle of Singapore to a land of wine and meat, Kangaroos and Boomerangs, desert and pasture. Australia is in a league of nations by itself, no other country comes close to it. Not only is the nation affectionately known as the Land Down Under, but also everything else about this country seems topsy-turvy from us Up Above: their constellations are upside down; their seasons flipped back-front. So little has this place mingled with the rest of the continents, the antipodean creatures have taken on ‘X-Animals’ characteristics, where one animal hops, some fish walk, other mammal, blind and deaf, burrows. Much of the landscape has also been left unmolested by humans for millions of years, allowing mother nature to take on a proportion so grand and majestic yet so surreal. From its reefs to its gorges, mountains to its plains, cliffs to its shores, everything seems bigger yet stranger. Such were the anticipations awaited us.

Nothing prepared us for the grueling 5 hours flight, aggravated further by a technical issue costing another 2 hours. The thrumming of the massive plane pregnant with a full passenger-load made all tranquility impossible and all food unpalatable. I was further kept awake by 2 portly Caucasian men who were trying to charm a stewardess in allowing them to stand on the aisle. They lamented the Herculean task of packing their butts in between the seat. The tedium of the flight was made bearable by an elderly gentleman walking his toddler, presumably his grandson, up and down the entire length of the aisle for hours. The cute little fellow delighted us as he reciprocated our greetings with the most innocent and angelic babbling and gestures. The plane’s entertainment system also did a great job to while away our time as we fumbled through its commands, poking, jabbing and rubbing the touchscreen with fingers, to settle for a decent movie distraction. But the palpable groans of the engines under our weight, made worse by the 2 portly gentlemen, through the 30,000 feet atmosphere dampened any movie magic the system has had to offer.

Melbourne
Once outside the airport, we were quickly shepherded into this quaint-looking bread toaster van-coach towing a luggage trailer, a relic from the seventies. The 22-seater was incredibly uncomfortable. I had to double fold, triple twist my limbs before straitjacketing myself into the most un-ergonomic seat. My tour-group fellows, exhausted and famished, acquiesced our destiny to the tour leader squeezed and settled in quickly. However, to my great consolation, I peered out the windshield, admiring my maiden scene of the authentic Melbourne suburb. Alongside the roads, beautiful rustic cottages sat, each with a unique face, two symmetric windows with shades opening, wearing panes reflective from the early morning sun, sturdy wooden door with chiseled carvings, and a smiling front yard beaming with a manicured lawn, showing perfect row of fences, with some occasionally sticking out its gravel walk path in jest. Good urban planning extended beyond the cities, with the shrubs and branches pruned, twigs and branches removed, in nearly all roads. Rarely I encountered any collapsed lamppost, dangling signboard, malfunctioned light or road cavity.

St. Paul’s Cathedral and Federation Square
We were let loose at the Federation Square, an ultra modern building whose utility I could not fathom. Stepping out of the van, I was greeted by the amicable cool of the Melbourne December breeze tickling my face, the bright but gentle glare of the noon sun, surrounded by the vast expanses of a spic-and-span navy blue sky. The feeling was rejuvenating. Our tour guide, frantically waving her triangular flag, rallied us to the our afternoon missions. Standing on an improvised stool, pointing her flag to the location of St. Paul’s Cathedral and Melbourne Train Station, synchronising her watches with ours, issuing her last instruction, the tour guide relinquished her authority to the individual group leader and bade us good luck. The passengers split into several smaller groups, groping over maps and cellphones, checking and rechecking our photomunition, readying our headgear and jackets, the fellow ladies touching up their face paint, putting on our anti-day vision sunglasses and off we set for our objectives. As Asian tourists, we could not be more fanatically and determined. With our cameras and cellphones positioned and loaded, we came fully prepared to shoot ALL, show ALL and brag ALL. No one was supposed to come back without the spoils of conquests. Every inch of the ground and every scene of the attraction had to be fiercely contested, either we shoot or be shot or both. With the impossible number of permutation and combination of shots, men’s single, women’s single, men’s doubles, women’s doubles, mixed’s doubles, not to mention the endless poses of v-sign, heart-sign, pursed lips, palm to lips blowing kisses, it was a miracle that we survived our first mission.

St Paul’s Cathedral

St Paul’s Cathedral (Interior)

As we approached the Cathedral, we saw the slow emergence of the spiky rectangular columns of red clay structures. The medieval sanctuary of unequal heights stood oblivious to the modern surrounding. Walking to the entrance, I gazed up, reveling at the spires and gargoyles on the pinnacle. But it was the interior that took my breath away, to say the least. I was awestruck by the size of the hall, the geometrically splendour of the empyrean, the stain multi-colour panes jigsawed together to depict biblical characters, brought to life by the translucent and light look emitted from the windows, the inviting majestic hall with tiers of seats, sanctuary lamps, Paschal candle stand, all these and were made more by the tranquillity and heavenly bless sweeping over us. We were humbled. My wife and I knelt and prayed.

St Paul’s Cathedral (Stained Glass Window)

We were made to wake up at the most ungodly hour for a 3-4 hours journey to the Phillip and Churchill island, the southern tip of Australia. All of us were bleary-eyed from the excitement and late night, laboriously sorting and categorising our booties, endorsing them with witty captions, before sending off to the various social media lauding our exploits . The aftermath was equally sleepless, waiting to tally followers’ clicks of approval and comments of recognition. Along the journey in the bread toaster van, I was vacillating between dream and reality, only to be rudely awakened by a splattering sensation on my palm, mistaken for raindrops, jerked me to close the windshield. When realised the source was somewhat more intimate, I bent my head, covertly wiped my mouth. Feeling guilty, I looked around for witnesses. Only to find out the rest of the passengers were no more innocent than me. Nearly every one was humpy-dumpy-like oscillating, every visible head was jerking in all possible direction like nodding toys, a few with gaping mouth and drooling in the most undignified manner. I told myself to stay awake.

Phillip and Churchill Island

Churchill Island

Phillip and Churchill island did not ingrain me much impressions, a typical tourist spot and a heavily make-over place to retain the earlier settlers’ dwellings and lifestyles. The raucous flies however left me a few indelible marks on my face. Like their monuments and Cathedral, these flies were of proportion unseen in my world. I thought I have long made peace with these creatures since my army days in some god forsaken forest. I was wrong and quickly ran for cover.

The Spirit of Melbourne
My time spent in Melbourne is far too short to warrant a correct opinion on the place and its inhabitants But for the whatever little impressions I gathered, I come to love the place and its people. There seems to exist a comfortable breathing space between every Melbournian; even their vehicles are generously spaced out, a far cry from the Island Republic where elbowing and jostling is a matter-of-fact affair, cars bumper to bumper. The people are friendly, carefree, radiating a sense of freedom and independence. They express themselves diversely, through their wardrobe, their hairstyles, their tattoos as well as their graffiti strewing the neighbourhoods with impunity. Far from defacing walls and building, the uncalled for decorations adorn the landscape, giving Melbourne a tinge of rebellion and waywardness. They also know where to draw the line for their creative expressions do not spill into legitimate boundary. Nearly every vehicle comes with a trailer hitch, as if in the spur of the. moment, they could simply just hop in, packed up their children, towed their dwellings, off they go in search of adventure.

Tattoo

Graffiti

Graffiti

Graffiti

Graffiti

Hunter Valley Vineyard
Fast forward to Sydney where we spent a night in the Hunter Valley. It is was picturesque vineyard of unparallel lush green pastures, spacious barns and an endless horizon. Rows upon rows of grapevines lined up perfectly on the undulating plateau, dangling and tempting us with their luxurious harvest. Bees and butterflies flitted and fluttered over the verdant landscape. A rustic and idyllic cottage sits elegantly along a meandering, gravel driveway, perched on a higher ground, overlooking the whole velvet settings, as if serving to protect the surrounding flora and fauna. We breathed the smooth flagrant air, enjoying the quietude and basking ourselves in the midst of a paradise as we sipped the produce of the land.

Hunter Valley Vineyard

Hunter Valley Vineyard

The Blue Mountain
The mountain is a pristine beauty. From the viewing balcony, we feasted our eyes in the panorama: eucalyptus trees forming a rich canopy below, the stupendous vista overseeing the Three Sisters rock formation. However I saw none of the blue mist due to the emission of eucalyptus oil from its trees. The less than 40 minutes stay left me little to contemplate.

Blue Mountains (Three Sisters Rock Formations)

Darling Harbour

Darling Habour
Unquestionably, I have not seen a lovelier habour. The torrid sun was made bearable from the salty cool breeze fanned out from the sea, seagulls swooning above, making bomb-dive for their lunch; other birds chose to sit quietly waiting for an easy picking from unsuspecting tourists. The whole harbour coastline flaunts its arresting curves, with yachts and ships, anchored to the harbour, dipping up and down, splitting the air with the occasional blaring and whistling, the dense bed of cockles hugging the foot of limestone pillar and wooden columns, waves gently splashing the structures; the precise portion of sun, waters and metals gives Darling Habour its unsurpassed glitter. The Aussies and tourists alike were relishing the afternoon beauty, under the outdoor cafe umbrellas, sipping their afternoon coffee.

Darling Harbour (Panorama)

Sydney City
Compared with Melbourne, the pace in Sydney is faster, nosier and louder. It is very much a cosmopolitan. If Singapore is multiracial and diverse, Sydney is far more, with a sizable population from nearly every country and from nearly every race. Such diversity may explain their sharp wits and unabashed humour. Walking down Victoria Street, off Kings Cross road, two beer belly bouncers tried pulling my friend to an adult show. Seeing my friend with his young son, the bouncer alerted his co-worker to drop the sales pitch. “Just park your son at McDonald, you will walk out this show a better man in no time,” the other bouncer retorted. We all laughed. At the Sydney airport custom, an Aussie officer routinely reminded me that knifes and sharp objects were not allowed. He then interjected in all seriousness: “By the way, did you left guns inside?” This time, there was a momentary pause before my delayed smile.

What attracts people all over the world to Australia? The country is a welfare state that will see to all Aussies, from cradle to grave, their needs and cares. Although I invariably saw vagabonds and food lines at many corners in the heart of Sydney, they are mostly by choice than by circumstance. Their vagrant lifestyle makes doling out difficult for the Aussie government. No one should be left behind is Australia’s motto.

For however short a time my stay, Australia mesmerises me like no other place. It is strange, extreme, brash, and even harsh; but it is youthful and glitters with excitement and possibility. It is the closest I came to a paradise.