Nov 15 - Melbourne to Metung

Alas, our next big adventure began with a very humbling negotiation of the inner workings of downtown Melbourne traffic on a Saturday morning. Having packed our sleek, silver Renault Megane with bags, maps, coolers, Pokemon cards and Nintendos – all the essentials for a successful odyssey with kids – we set out for a five hour drive east of Melbourne to Metung, a small lakeside community known as Victoria’s Riviera. Unfortunately, there was the small matter of negotiating our way around a huge Italian festival, 50 000 environmental protesters and the Santa Claus parade all blockading the downtown core and frustrating our best Mapquested efforts to “get outta town”! Eventually, we managed to expertly wind our way down to the right highway – actually tollway – without a single wrong turn and we were away. But only after calling the toll company people to pay our $4.85 on credit card over the phone for the toll we owed as a result of driving our rental car over 3kms of toll road without a transponder! This was perhaps not the start we were looking for!

Eventually, we got ourselves a significant way into the countryside and started to enjoy the gorgeous rolling hills of eastern Victoria, the green forests and farmland, and the opportunity to explore. The tandem of Carter on map, Darling behind the wheel and kids working the Nintendos in the back was once again working its magic and the kilometers began to stack up. A lunch/coffee/toilet break found us in Moe, a small town big enough for a drive thru McDonalds, an impressive Dinky car collection and a transplanted heritage town (think Black Creek Pioneer Village). It was also home to quite possibly one of the foulest public washrooms I have ever had the non-pleasure of experiencing. In Australia it is more standard for the men to pee against a communal stainless steel wall than it is to have your own personal urinal. For those of us who might succumb to the periodic bout of stage fright, this arrangement is no treat. There is also the added complication of never knowing quite where to stand and if I don’t know, the kids know even less. If in doubt one tries to stand as far away from the wall as possible. Of course, the prospect of finding soap and warm water is a bet the most fearless punter wouldn’t take. There are many times I have stumbled out of a public washroom in Oz gasping for breath, wishing I could shower, change my clothes, burn my clothes and then perhaps, the building. It’s enough to make you want to find a good tree or fire hydrant. Needless to say lunch just wasn’t the same.

Once back on the road we wound our way over endless hills and thrills travelling through a very lush and green part of Victoria that stood in stark contrast to our very dry Melbourne. The driving was easy and quite fun and I was finally behind the wheel of my first automatic transmission. Changing gears was no longer part of the collective driving equation which eliminated those awkward moments of stalling my way through a roundabout with the wipers going. In our sporty mid-size Renault we zipped along in style though I imagined a nice little BMW coupe would be a whole heck of a lot more fun.

Soon we were slowing down for signs that said Metung and the smell in the air told us we were close to the sea. Metung is in an area of inland saltwater lakes that are protected from the ocean and created by a ninety mile spit of beach that is apparently the second longest piece of beach in the world. This beach creates a natural inland waterway and there are miles and miles of communities and little harbours that dot the area. Metung is one of the more picturesque in the area and is the vacation home of Simon Davies’ family.

We stayed at a resort called Moorings at Metung which was a series of very comfortable condo-style units complete with pools, spa, tennis courts and all of the amenities of a very nice home. After making ourselves comfortable and doing some serious work in the pool we headed out for dinner to the local pub/hotel/club known as the Metung Hotel. This might have been one of the best meals we had all trip and we were all in great spirits. It seemed like half the town was having dinner with us. We sampled the local wine, we ate gorgeous salmon, and we enjoyed the fact that we were once again together as a family exploring and sharing every dirty bathroom and beautiful meal the road and country had to offer.

NB – A final note must be made about our new “friend” – the Australian Bush fly – who accompanied us throughout this most recent journey. In Canada we have our mosquitoes, black flies, horse flies, etc. and they can be a right royal pain in wherever they choose to pester you. However, Australia is unlucky enough to have a fly far more insidious than any of those bloodsuckers. And where there is a definite time or place for our flies (IE swamps at dusk) the Australian fly is here, there, and everywhere all the time. Smaller than a common house fly but similar in appearance; this fly doesn’t even bite you. It does something far worse – it simply bugs you. You never find any mention of the flies in any tourist information. It’s like the Aussies don’t even know it exists. There have been times where I have been standing in a group of people trying to club 3 or 4 of the little bastards out of the air and the people beside me haven’t batted an eyelid or raised a hand. In fact, the Australians have this sort of official swat that involves the slow and deliberate waving of your hand three times across the front of your face that they lovingly call the “Australian wave”. You see people everywhere walking down the street or sitting in cafes and suddenly there it is – swish, swish, swish. The Aussie wave. Incredibly it works and is far more cool than the sort of irate rain dance that I have invoked. I am perfecting my salute as we speak. And I need to ‘cause they’re everywhere! I went for what I thought would be a pleasant stroll on the beach near our condo in Metung for 5 minutes and was chased indoors by a storm of flies that would have made Alfred Hitchcock proud. What’s the real kicker with these guys is that they try to get in your nose, eyes and ears. They want to get in there. They have to get in there, in order to breed or eat or some God awful thing!. And they are often successful at getting in there!!!!! Ahhhhh! We are in the middle of the fly season in Melbourne and I honestly have to say that the fly factor is enough to challenge this burg’s reputation as the world’s most liveable city. There may be flies on some of you guys, but there are definitely flies on us!

We have returned from the Red Centre! (and many parts in between)

The Carter/Darling odyssey concluded another successful leg of travels today with our slightly bumpy, more than a little exciting landing back in Melbourne. This was a fantastic 12 day adventure from Melbourne to Sydney to Alice Springs and Ayers Rock and then overnight by train to Adelaide and then home. 3 major cities, 4 states, one colossal piece of red rock and almost 6400kms in the process. Much blogging and pictures to come, but for now - to bed!

Themes on the Journey

A recent survey of my last few reading conquests reveals a similar theme throughout: the journey. As we, too, continue to move through our own Australian journey, I continue to find meaning in the travels of others, fictional or not. The movement from one point to another whether emotional, geographical, chronological or whatever reveals so much about the character of people and the qualities of the worlds they encounter.

A while ago I finally wrestled Jack Kerouac’s On the Road into submission. The iconic road trip story had proven to be quite a formidable opponent and I continue to wonder at its lasting presence in bookstore windows. There are times where Kerouac waxes poetic about the jazz in a Denver club or the heat of a Mexican night that did supply this reader with an original phrase or revealing insight. But too often Dean’s boorish dreamer and Sal’s wasted waste of his career become annoying and whiny in light of the lives they touch and ruin. It is a novel about the possibility of the journey but too often I felt I was being mocked. Forty years later, the glory Kerouac heaps on to the notion of escaping responsibility and driving into a hazy, booze-fuelled sunset seems at first impractical and then downright insulting. Oh, to afford the luxury of not caring. Not in this century I’m afraid.

My next novel was more promising in terms of taking responsibility for one’s life – at least, that’s what I thought at first. Dead Lucky is the autobiographical account of Lincoln Hall, the Australian mountaineer who was left for dead on the top of Everest but lived to the tell the tale. I am a sucker for a good mountain climbing story and Hall’s tale, though nothing close to Krakauer’s Into Thin Air, takes you into the mind of a man who impossibly defeated death through a combination of luck, skill, determination, and the efforts of others. But what strikes me about mountain climbing or marathon running or any extreme solo sport is that it is ultimately a very selfish pursuit – especially if you are putting your life at risk. And that’s what I could not quite hear in Hall’s story – a genuine concern for the sacrifices other people made to put him on top of Everest and then drag him back down. Having made it back to earth and life through the efforts of many, many people and after having put his wife and sons and friends through hell and back – Hall wants to chock it all up to the “pull of the mountain” and what he had to do to be true to himself. I’m not quite there. If what you must do in life is so important that you are willing to risk losing everything, hurt others in the process, nearly die and then conveniently tell all in a book about it - then you are truly selfish. This book is also a journey – but for me it wasn’t so much about a man conquering a mountain – but more about one man’s pursuit of an obsession that only he could really explain.

I then moved on to a novel I have been meaning to read for some time: Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart. What a great story and another great journey. I loved this novel for many reasons. Primarily because I felt like Achebe was playing with me the whole time. He is a master story teller and knows exactly what he is doing in terms of how and how much detail he offers the reader. The story is the tragedy of one man and a metaphor for all of Africa and its struggles with the influence of “white” Christianity. It is such a simple tale but it reminds the reader that what may seem primitive and barbaric to some is natural and real to others. The chance to watch the righteous Western conquerors move in from the perspective of the “conquered” natives is shattering and raises disturbing questions. Who is to say who is right or wrong? Why should those with the most power impose their will on others? How many incredible civilizations have been lost as a result of the “rightness” of might? So many relevant issues for today that Achebe saw and felt on the African continent 50 years ago. His wisdom about the way the world works makes me feel like a silly little school boy. Life’s journey is stark and moving here and its lesson about how we all have the potential to fall from greatness reminds me that the journey is not always completely in my control.

Shifting continents entirely I picked up Bruce Chatwin’s On the Black Hill. Having enjoyed Chatwin’s Songlines so much I was hoping for a similar experience. This is a wonderful story about the Jones twins, Lewis and Benjamin, living out their days in rural Wales throughout the greater part of the last century. There is something about the relationship between the brothers that is oddly reminiscent of the connection between Heathcliff and Catherine in Wuthering Heights. Maybe it’s just the similarity in the weather, but Chatwin weaves a very readable tale around all of the struggles and hardships the two encounter and the complex connection that twins share. What made this story such a revealing example of journeys is that all of the lives in the novel are lived by people who struggle simply and work hard to put the next meal on the table. The life is simple and rugged but also intensely beautiful for that fact. It is a romantic world in which people die nobly and live humbly and I defy anyone to read this story and not feel a little bit like riding a tractor or shearing some sheep. It reminds me that fulfilling life journeys need not be filled with the material trappings of fame or fortune.

Finally, I have picked up the granddaddy of all “journey” stories – The Odyssey. I am familiar with the tale but I haven’t “been here” for awhile. And though I am still on Ithaca waiting for Telemachus to depart, I am already inspired by Odysseus’s endless struggle to return to his family, his wife’s continuing faithfulness, and his son’s refusal to give up hope. I can’t wait for what else this novel and this continent may have to offer me about life and the theme of the journey…

The Punters and the Ponies

Culture update. We have just come out of Melbourne Cup Carnival week and I wanted to record some thoughts about what could be considered a combination of the Calgary Stampede, Grey Cup week, and the Toronto Film Festival/Fashion Week all rolled into one. Where do I begin?

You first notice it in the store fronts, TV ads and flyers in the paper. Like a huge back to school campaign, there are ads for Spring racing fashion and all of it has to do with what you wear to "the Cup" and its many parties. Ladies wear fitted, flowy, short dresses, with ridiculoulsy high heels and of course a very weird looking hat. Men wear suits, jazzy ties, bright shirts, and maybe a hat of some sort. Cup day/week/month is an excuse to shop and look good. Ironically, it is also an excuse to behave as a bit of drunk and much of the high fashion gets trashed as each race day inevitably ends up as a bit of a schmooze and booze fest.

First there was the Caulfield Cup, then Derby Day, the Melbourne Cup, then Oaks Day and Emirates Day. It's at least 3 weeks of horse racing over various weekends and weekdays and the city, at least a good portion of it, goes crazy. Some examples would include the full scale fist fight that broke out in one of the VIP bars one race day. Made the headlines. Or on Oaks Day the trains from the racetrack broke down forcing 100, 000 drunk and very well off punters to kick off their high heels and walk home. There was public outrage! An inquiry.The train company made a $100 000 donation to charity just to calm the frayed tempers of the Armani-set. There was also the headline a few weeks ago that due to the withering economy some of the major sponsors were planning to reduce the amount of money they spent on race day festivities. This was scandalous! Or one day I counted 31 total pages of the Sports section dedicated to horse racing. 31! It is the news story day after day.

The actual Cup day is the first Tuesday of November every year. It's a public holiday for Melburnians and so the kids were out of school. For weeks we had been wondering if we should take part in the festivities or not and people seemed to be of two minds. Some said definitely and others said watching a race or two on the tube would be enough. After some serious humming and hawing, we didn't do anything much. Testament to that was the fact that I was in the library writing an essay while the rest of Melbourne partied. Linton and the kids had lemonade and watched the race at the neighbours. We didn't so much as place a bet. But we could have!

There is literally a mini-casino on every other block in Melbourne. There are "sweeps" in every office. Everyone seems to have a buck on this filly or that "sure thing". As a direct result there are also a lot of public awareness campaigns for problem gamblers. I'm not sure they have quite drawn the dots between their love of the ponies, the number of gaming houses and the problems associated with both.

Even our house is filled with pictures of cup winning horses. It almost makes you feel that you should brush up on the sport so you can understand it - or at least speak the lingo. So I did. Well actually I found an article in one of the local papers that was trying to answer the same question I was asking: What is it with the punters and the ponies in this country?

In a recent op-ed piece in The Age newspaper, my new favourite, the writer talked about horse racing as the replacement for any type of religious zeal that Australians might harbour. That's quite a statement. He goes on to describe the experience of watching a race in Federation Square this way: "The thundering of the hooves made a metal hum that shimmied through the entire cavernous space...racecalling is a form of Australian jazz and that's what Greg Miles' call of the Schweppes Tonic 1000 was like, his voice galloping with monotonal ease, save for the occasional flourish at the end of a sentence. I didn't understand a word but enjoyed it immensely." Racecalling as Australian jazz? Now that's saying something.

In the conclusion of his article the writer wonders at the strange confluence that existed on a wonderfully historic day - November 5, 2008 - in countries half a world away. On one contintent Americans were making history by voting in Barack Obama as their next president and on this continent Australians were partying it up in style and celebration of the next great Cup winner - who won by half a nose. Unlike in the US, this horse was not the favourite. However, the passion that Melburnians dedicated to this winner and all those who have run before, was "Obamaesque" in its fervour.

Phar Lap is one of this country's most beloved heroes - man or beast. There is a stuffed version of him standing on regal display in the Melbourne Museum. In closing his article, the editorial writer quotes this poem as an explanation for the complete and total reverence Australians have for their horses: It is Australian innocence to love/The naturally excessive and be proud/Of a handsome chestnut gelding who ran fast.

If Barack Obama and Phar Lap can capture equal billing and importance, at least in one writer's eyes, then horse racing is truly a past time that either I don't understand or desperately need to "take up" tomorrow.

Nov 2 - Exploring the Yarra Valley

Because we hadn't really done much for about 24 hours, we were suddenly chomping at the bit to get out and see the countryside. Our neighbours had once again graciously gassed up the trusty Holden and thrown the keys at us so what were we to do but to clamber aboard and head for the hills - literally! After debating the merits of mountains, beaches, or wineries we decided upon the Yarra Valley and a combination of the Healesville Sanctuary and the Yering Station winery.

The Yarra Valley is about one hour due east from Melbourne and is home to more wineries than one can imagine. A sort of Niagara-on-the-lake in an Eastern Townships-like setting. Really pretty with a much more lush feeling than currently dusty, dry Melbourne. The driving and navigating was relatively smooth with only one minor freak out on my part. Pretty soon we were cruising down the very toursity main drag of Healesville - reminding us of an older Picton - with galleries, pubs and cafes.

On the way to Healesville we had actually stopped in a little widening in the road called Coldstream to visit the uncle of Alex's best friend at Maurice Cody. He is in Oz having married an Australian and working as the chef at the Coldstream Brewery and Restaurant. We had a nice visit taking a few pics and walking away with 18 of the Coldstream Brewery's finest.

Our first stop was the sanctuary which has the largest collection of indigenous Australian animals in the world. It also has an animal hospital which is home to 1500 abandoned or injured animals. It is very well set up and we enjoyed the playpusary in particular. Linton just liked saying the word platypusary. After doing all of the possible exhibits including a really cool encounter with a Goanna and a couple of magpies we headed to the gift shop to stock up on a few "stuffies". Then we were off to the Healesville Hotel for a garlic-infused lunch. A neat and very busy spot the crowds told us we had picked the "it" spot. The prices told us that as well.

After rolling out of the hotel we headed down the road in search of the first vineyard to be established in Victoria over 170 years ago. Today Yering Station is home to a five star guest house, 3-4 restaurants, a gorgeous fresh produce store and an unbelievable art gallery. We were blown away by the setting and the establishment and felt a little bit under dressed compared to the rest of the clientele and cars in the lot.

Nevertheless, we sampled a bit of wine while the kids were drawing chalk pictures on the floor. We liked the MVR over the Sauvignon Blanc and the Chardonnay. So much so we needed to buy some. With our bottle tucked safely under our arm we wandered over to the art gallery/restaurant and pretended to be rich and famous. There was one installation piece that consisted of three mounds of dirt, metal and plastic going for a cool $27 000. I was tempted.

The Yarra Valley was a real revelation for its proximity and beauty. If money were no object another trip to the wineries and a possible overnight at one of the many spas and guest houses would definitely be in order. Either way, we'll be back.

Oct 28 - A Day in Ballarat

We have been fortunate enough to meet a really wonderful family who have been very thoughtful - loaning us their car, driving Colin to birthday parties and now taking me along on their travels around Victoria. Before this family lived in Melbourne, they lived in a town about 1 and 1/2 hours away from Melbourne called Ballarat. The mom, Fleur was going back to Ballarat for the day and offered to take me (Linton) there so I could look around while the kids were at school.

Ballarat, I learned, is one of the main tourist attractions in Victoria as it was the place where gold was discovered in the 1850s. If you can believe it, the actual gold was discovered in "Canadian Creek". The discovery of gold attracted thousands of diggers to the area and in 1854, there was a deadly dispute between the diggers and the government over gold licenses. As I was told by Fleur, it was "Australia's civil war moment". In 1854, the diggers burned their required licenses and in protest raised the blue flag of the Southern Cross (which became known as the Eureka Flag). Soldiers and police attacked the diggers' stockade killing about 30 diggers. Eventually the diggers who were accused of treason were acquitted and the gold digger license system was abolished. This rebellion and its result really symbolize to Australians "a fair go for all" and makes Ballarat the birthplace of Australian democracy.

Above you can see my pictures of the gold shops that still exist and the beautiful old buildings in downtown Ballarat that were built during the wealthy times of the gold rush. I did also visit the Ballarat Art Gallery which houses the original Eureka Flag. Above is the information board that sits outside the Eureka Flag gallery. If you click on the photo above, you can see that its display was partially funded by the Canadian government. No one in the gallery seemed to know why but I was proud of the connection.

The other interesting thing about Ballarat is that during the 1956 Olympic Games hosted by Melbourne, it was the location that hosted the rowing events on its manmade lake, Lake Wendouree. Because of the drought in Victoria (more on that in a future blog entry), there really isn't a lake here anymore. See the painting above of Lake Wendouree in the 1800s compared to my picture with the Olympic rings in front of what remains - a swamp.

All in all, a fun day for me to learn a little Aussie history while getting to know Fleur a bit better. I am hoping to bring the boys back to the area and visit the tourist attraction of Sovereign Hill (gold fields' museum and heritage village with an evening show that re-enacts the events of the Eureka stockade!)

Hallowe'en Party!

The first blog of a new month and I have to document our smash of a Hallowe'en Party! Having sensed a definite lack of talk about trick-or-treating on the streets of Melbourne in the weeks leading up to October 31st, we took it into our over-achieving-Canadians-with-time-on-our-hands hands to host a party for some of the kids and families who we have met over the past few months.

The build up was monolithic and included three trips to local malls, late night decorating and pumpkin carving, and even an effort on my part to effectively re-create cows brains with frozen cooked fusili! We were feeling the pressure! Having talked up Hallow'en in the schoolyard as something Canadians proudly "get into" we didn' t want to let the home side down. How could we invite 20 Melbournians into our home for what might be their first Hallowe'en Party ever and serve up a lame ghost costume and a few cheese doodles? No, no, no! This was going to be a party for the ages! This was going to be a party they would never forget! At least, that's what I was thinking.

Where do I begin. There were two lovingly hand-carved pumpkins - Japanese pumpkins that are smaller and tougher (or maybe it was the butter knife I was using) - the traditional "Canadian-style" were nowhere to be seen. We had a flying vampire with light up eyes and spooky voice. We had downloaded sound effects with chains and wolves and screaming witches. There was a tonne of spiderwebs, spiders, and a particular lifesize skeleton seated on the couch with a large sword sticking from his gullet. There was tonne of food and lollies and wine and punch and cakes and beer...

Colin and Alex were into it from the "get go" and had us decorating days before the big day. Colin was going as a weird, dead soldier guy and Allie was a very cute skeleton. Linton was her ever evil witch with pink hair this time and I was some sort of rapper/soccer dude with some bling and bad teeth. Definitely weird but maybe not scary.

Not wanting to have a bunch of nine and ten year olds trashing the rental for two hours, I dreamed up a few hours of activities and games. There was a quiz, a story, some monster drawing, the monster mash, an eyeball toss, guess the gross thing and pin the tail on the werewolf. I think they were a hit and managed to keep the damage to a minimum though my beautiful skeleton was trashed within 10 minutes of the party starting.

By 6:00 pm it was all over and we were bidding the last few guests a Happy Hallowe'en. Our close-to-next-door neighbours stayed a little longer for another glass of wine and a chance for their two sons to have a bit of a dance party with C and A. There would be no late night trick-or-treating this year, and no mountains of candy that would last 'til Christmas. But what we would have is the memory of our first and very fun Australian Hallowe'en party.