When I had first approached the sandwich stand, I saw the seagull attack another woman with food. I stifled my laugh and assumed he would bug her for the duration of my meal. Oh, how I was wrong. Apparently, the turkey sub was his favorite, which he made well known as he dive-bombed towards my table. I had been waiting for him, with my notebook at the ready and began to furiously swat at the bird. He stood down. For the remainder of the meal I kept my eye on the gull, which tried to hide himself behind chairs and palm trees in order to make a sneak attack. When he wasn’t stalking his prey, he was warding other gulls off, pecking at their necks if they didn’t move fast enough. He’d even pull a tricky move by going to attack another bird, but then coming back to try to snag my food. And while I stuffed my mouth full and try to chug Diet Coke from a bottle (not a good feeling, too carbonated) I had a revelation: even here in the heart of metropolitan Sydney I find myself finding the forces of nature in order to survive.
Okay, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. It was only a seagull. But many Australians do find themselves fighting the elements in order to survive. Drought is a very real problem here as are bushfires. Which brings me to my point, this is a country very connected to the land. They rely on it for survival. Resources are scarce and must be treated with respect. And while I’m not saying Australians don’t have their own issues with land resources, but their connection through the land shows through their personalities. With the exception of some tall poppies, the majority of Australians carry a certain humbleness with them. Their ability to adapt to any situation is why the rest of the world loves Australians so much. They’re fun, never overly confident, and seem to be fearless of all that lies ahead of them.

I find myself leaving this country with a wealth of knowledge. From understand socialist health care, to discovering the male platypus is indeed poisonous. I searched for the Emu in the sky and mistook tourists engraving for Aboriginal art (mind you, I was on about two hours of sleep). It’s been a wonderful three months here and I find myself thinking it’s still not enough. I’ve only done the tourist route. I’ve yet to burrow my way inland and never even scathed the west coast. But I guess you could say this is a good thing. As a good friend reminded me, it’s best to leave on a high note. It’s always better to leave with the sensation of wanting more. And such is the conundrum of travel: you can never stay in one place long enough to really see it all. It goes without saying that the world’s a big place with so many inlets, so many people, and so much culture. No one can ever really “see it all.” But this is the beauty of it: though there may be no new stories, no new destinations, there are new ways of telling it and everyone’s perspective is different. So I encourage those back home who’ve followed me through my journey here to go out and have journeys of your own. Go explore the great world beyond and share your experiences with others because there will never be too many stories, as everyone is unique to its author. As long as we continue to share our experiences, we will never run out of ways to tell them.

The next day I caught the train at Central and made my way to the grounds. I paid my twenty-four dollars and headed in. I found myself in Yogo Alley, the carnival grounds. All around me were the bright lights of the booths and about the most annoying sound I have ever heard. It was somewhere between that obnoxious ring tone they advertise in Europe (the frog who sounds more like a chipmunk that goes on forever) and a pubescent boy whose just sucked helium and for the life of me I couldn’t find out where it was coming from. As I walked past the Wacky Whistles table I noticed the guy moving his mouth like there was something stuck in his teeth. It took me another minute to realize the sound that was currently making me ears ring was coming from him. I contemplated, if only for a moment, smacking him in the face and saying that no forty-year-old man should be playing with such a ridiculous toy but decided the better way to go about things was just to walk as far away from him as possible. But the trouble was that these Wacky Whistle stations were around almost every corner. This was to be the plight of my day. To escape the excessive whirling and whizzing of the whistle, I dipped under the railway station onto the other side of the grounds and slowly made my way to the sheep shearing show.
For those of you who were like me and have never witnessed a sheep being sheared, it is rather hilarious. When the shearers open the gate to pick out the sheep most in need of a haircut, the animals go berserk. They flail and jump on top of each other in order to escape the men’s grasps. Eventually—because the animals don’t have much of a place to run—the pick an extra wooly one and drag him out. Once the shearer has a grasp on the sheep’s fore limbs, the animal goes completely limp. Stuffed doll limp. And it stays limp throughout the entire shearing process. It isn’t until the razor is turned off and the shearer lets the sheep get its footing does it scramble frantically to find an escape route.

But this was only the beginning of a rather packed day. I had barely scratched the surface. I had yet to witness not just the milk cow competition, or the goat competition, or even the multicolor chickens, let alone the wood chopping competition in which men slammed through logs thicker than their heads (let me tell you, that’s pretty thick).

The Ekka held a wealth of knowledge about agriculture and livestock, breeding and feeding. It’s home to the Stockman’s Challenge, in which competitors must unroll a swag, lie in it, roll it up again, bowl their sheep (literally, rolling a stuffed herding dog and bowling pins with pictures of sheep tapped to them) and fill a bag with grain under a minute and thirty seconds. It’s your annual country fair on steroids. I was incredibly impressed by the amount of information available to the public here at this event. Kids were watching milking demonstrations, there was a room with just about every breed of horse you can think of with a board next to their stall telling the breed, its origins, its strengths and assets. Not only were the animals on display, but Ekka attendants were welcome to learn more about each individual animal, highlighting the importance and of farming in this country.

The Ekka once again proved to me how close Australians are with the soil upon which they live. They understand the severity of drought, they know where their meat comes from, and they know that chips are actually potatoes—a fact that many children in the United States did not know, as evidenced by Jamie Oliver’s “Food Revolution.” As corny as it was in moments, the Ekka is vitally important to rural Queensland and the larger part of Australia as it allows the country to come into the city and educate the city slickers about the backbone of Australia.

Dr. Seuss must have visited the Australian outback for inspiration. With the desert oaks whose leaves weep over the branches and layered rock formations of King’s Canyon that sit awkwardly on top of one another, you can’t help but think of his story – The Lorax. Add the controversial uranium mining and the Aboriginals discontent with development on the land, and you’ve got the plot too.

When I first arrived in Alice Springs, it was with the naïve anticipation of a wonderful Outback adventure and the hopes of connecting and learning more about the Aboriginal culture. Okay, I wasn’t that naïve. I yearned to be able to connect with these nomadic people and hear their stories, but knew very well that the Aboriginals kept to themselves, and that the Caucasians blissfully ignored their existence. This is not fair, nor pleasant, but as a temporary visitor in such a place, I obeyed the rules.

After stopping off at my hostel, I gulped down my fears and strode into town alone. In all my weeks of travel by myself, it wasn’t until this day that I was nervous. The Aboriginal people have an intimidating presence. They lie in packs on the grass. They speak a language I couldn’t even fain to understand. They stare you down as you walk past. You are an intruder. You need to go home.

I had walked into town with the idea that because the town was small, I could find my way around easily without a map. Upon crossing the dry riverbed of the Todd, I came across seedy pubs, fast cars and Aboriginal people’s stares, and realized this was far from the truth. For the first time, I felt exposed. In Melbourne and Adelaide, Asians would ask to take a picture with me, mistaking me for a local. Here it was plain and obvious I was a tourist, I was alone and I had no idea where I was going.

After a spot of lunch, and a short duck into an art shop, I found the tourist centre. Upon walking in, I asked for a map and how to get to the School of Air, the center for Outback radio schooling. The tourist centre employee wasn’t very helpful. He gave me a doubting look and told me it was an hour’s walk out of town. With a sigh, I asked him where the Reptile Centre was, which he politely pointed out for me. He also pointed to Anzac Hill, a ten-minute climb for three hundred and sixty degree views of the area. Even he seemed to know there wasn’t much to do in this town.

I left the centre and sat on a bench just outside to look over my map. I didn’t want to be pulling it out left and right on the streets, as I didn’t want anyone knowing I didn’t really know where I was going. When I got up to leave, a man was approaching me.

“Hi girl!” He was waving in a friendly manner and I suddenly felt frozen to the ground. I looked around me. The area was heavily populated. Taxi drivers and their officials were checking out their vehicles before setting off for another shift. I was still right next to the visitor’s centre. I inhaled and told myself I was safe. “Are you from Melbourne?”

He was in front of me now and my heart was in my chest. I couldn’t decide whether or not to lie. I couldn’t decide whether or not to run.

“No. I’m from California.” He looked confused.

“Where?”

“The States. The United States.” Still no response. “America?”

“Ah, you come over on the big cat.”

“What?”

“The cat. The chatte. You know.” He made the sound of an airplane imitated a landing. “You know?”

“Yes.” I was still baffled.

“You have three dollars? I’m short three dollars.”

“For what?”

“A cold drink.” And at this point I knew what he wanted money for. The same thing the homeless in San Francisco wanted money for, the same thing bums in Eugene wanted money for. Alcoholism has run rampant throughout the Aboriginal community ever since the first white Australians introduced them to the drink. Giving this man money would not help him and it would not make me feel better. I fiddled in my pockets, desperate to give him something else. A candy bar. A water bottle. Anything. All I had was a used handkerchief.

“No, I’m sorry. I don’t have it.”

“No? It’s just three dollar come on.”

“I’m sorry. No.”

“Okay then.” I remained frozen with guilt.

“Okay.”

“Bye girl.”

I turned and walked away, towards the Reptile Centre and began to cry. I was scared, I was alone, and I had completely failed to reach out to this man. Frustration swirled with my fears as I looked back to make sure he wasn’t following him. I’ve read a fair amount of material on Aboriginal culture and relations with White Australians. I know the problems, but there was nothing I could do to help.

When I first read Bill Byrson’s account of Alice Springs in his novel – In a Sunburned Country – I was slightly offended and found him to be a bit close-minded as he said: “So without an original or helpful thought in my head, I just sat for some minutes and watched these poor disconnected people shuffle past. Then I did what most white Australians do. I read my newspaper and drank my coffee and didn’t see them anymore.” But now I understand. As an outsider just visiting, there isn’t anything you can do. Even if you’ve read plenty of literature about it, even if you’ve asked many people’s opinions, even if you sympathize beyond belief, you are still a white tourist, drifting through town, living a life these people could never dream of.

And so I skipped the Reptile Centre and bee lined for Anzac Hill. I took the steps two at a time and was out of breath as I reached the top. And there I spent a long time looking over a beautiful country full of wonderful, mysterious stories that I will never know, and is slowly being destroyed by the imprints of those foreign to it.

If you ever by chance find yourself sitting on the steps of Federation Square, Melbourne, Victoria, you’ll be looking out at quite an odd array of architecture. Directly across from you is the Flinders Street Train Station. Built in 1854, the station has a classic copper dome rising high above the sandstone arches, which continually spit out commuters. With its size, high traffic, and central location you would assume that it would be called, Central Station. But the town of Melbourne continually defies tradition. Their Central Station is actually a random stop of the train line, on the edge of the city centre and without access to country trains. Flinders Station is the busiest suburban railway station in the Southern Hemisphere—though I don’t know who its competitors are—and you feel like a solo sardine desperately trying to swim out of the net and find your way to the surface to get your bearings.
But back to the steps of Federation Square on which, although constantly occupied by school groups assembling before entering the museums, you will always have your personal space. Kitty corner from Flinders Station is St. Paul’s Cathedral, built in 1836. It’s tall spires seemed dwarfed against the skyscrapers, and its ancient beauty seems a little out of place next to the buildings that lie within Federation Square—those these weren’t added until 2001. But these are the buildings that should look displaced: tall, boxy and steel plated buildings jutting out of the cobblestone. And as you look at this strange mixture of architecture, you wonder what possessed a city to not keep with a common theme. But the tour guide says it all: “[Melbourne’s architecture is] irrevent, experimental, creative, collaborative and, above all, unrestricted by tradition.” And while the hodge-podge of architecture may throw you upon first glance, once you’ve gotten to know the city you’ll realize it couldn’t possibly be any other way.
I’ll admit I was a little more than worried in my first twenty-four hours in this city. It felt small with only a few attractions to offer. There was the must-see Tim Burton Exhibition at the Australia Centre of the Moving Image, the Titanic Exhibition at the Melbourne Museum, the ever-important Melbourne Gaol to end my Ned Kelly saga, and after that some cool restaurants that were recommended to me. But upon spending time here I’ve fallen in love—a term I try to use sparingly—with the city and hope to one day come back and stay for a very prolonged period of time.

After spending the first five days rushing through all Melbourne could offer, I’ve been able to take this city at a much slower pace on my own. Like being able to spend half a day in a museum. And each museum has such different things to offer. The Melbourne Museum is the more science and history based museum, with exhibits on the Aboriginal Civil Rights movement, to evolution in Australia, and even the taxidermy legend: Phar lap. Australian Centre of the Moving Image is all about television and movies, slightly over-whelming but still very interesting, and of course the National Gallery of Victoria is home to the city’s art. Each interesting and deserving half a day in its own right. But everything deserves its own time here in Melbourne.
You need to take enough time to befriend the locals. It’s not very hard. I already have my favorite bar complete with trivia night on Wednesdays and a bartender who’s obsessed with the American accent. I’ve got my favorite vintage shops who’s clerks gladly spill the secret spots scattered across Fitzroy. I’ve even got my favorite spot to sit and watch the city go by just outside Melbourne Museum. I can’t even name a favorite restaurant, as the dining here is superb, despite the fact its mainly vegetarian. There’s Trippy Taco on the corner of Smith and Gertrude which does all vegetarian Mexican food (seems like a paradox, I know. But just try their Tofu Asada Burrito and you’ll understand), Grumpy’s Green for a pint and some yummy Dahl, Bebida for tapas or a delicious Tower Burger, and that’s all just down Smith street. Within the city centre there’s more dining than you could imagine. From Italian on Lygon street to Chinese in an alley off Little Bourke, this city has more cuisine options that you could conquer in a year.
It’s such a wonderful city, full of life and culture. Upon hearing I’m from California, locals often ask if it feels like San Francisco. I find myself saying yes, but only slightly. It’s like San Francisco but even more laid-back (if you can get more laid back) with a European twist. I’d love explain it more, but I’d rather have you all come here and experience yourself. It’s a city I’m sorry to say farewell to, but I know it isn’t goodbye forever. I will be back here, and I suggest you come along when I do.

“Well you can always say the service was crappy was consistent!” Adrian’s laugh seems to be echoing through the Mercedes Vito at eight o’clock a.m. He’s poking fun at himself, as Australians do. I have yet to have some tea and am having trouble keeping my eyes open but I can already tell this tour guide and I are going to get along. What I didn’t know at that early hour of the morning was just how spectacular this tour guide really was. It’s not everyday you get a tour guide who calls the jungle his home. Adrian lives off the grid. No running water, no electricity. This man seriously lives off what the jungle offers. So it’s not surprise that after nine years he knows the land like the back of his hand.

After a quick stop off at  Alexander’s Point, where we impressed Adrian by already knowing who James Cook was (only to be embarrassed by forgetting his botanist’s name…), we scooted down the coast to Cape Tribulation. Adrian walked us down the slushy sands while explaining mangrove trees and pointing out a green Kingfisher sitting on a sand pile and then finally back through the vegetation to the supposed habit of some seawater crocodiles. We ran into a couple walking away and as Adrian asked them if they saw the croc they shook their heads with disappointment.

“I bet he saw you!” Adrian called after with another laugh. But I soon learned he wasn’t joking. As we approached the creek were the supposed crocodile couple lived it looked quite empty. Upon seeing the creek empty, Adrian distracted us with the pieces of coral on the ground. He told us to search for fossilized pieces and while we busily looked at the coral and shells, Adrian kept his eyes peeled.

Suddenly, I felt a tug at my fleece from behind.

“Look. There. Don’t stand up too fast.” His fingertips curled around my fleece and pulled me to my feet. And there she was: a metre long crocodile had floated to the surface and you could feel her eyes on you. She didn’t move. She just let the current drift her around and after a moment she disappeared underneath the murky water once more.

“See, I told those people. She was probably watching them.” Adrian then reminded us that this is an animal that isn’t sizing you up out of curiosity. You are a meal. One small slip into the water probably means you aren’t going to get back out.

On the walk back to the car, we asked about the most recent crocodile attack—a five year old was taken last Christmas. Adrian gets quiet and answers in a somber tone that he knew the family. Of course, the car full of twenty-year-old women gasps. “Well, everybody knows everybody up here.”

And he’s right. Adrian’s the kind of guy who’s allowed behind the register at the Daintree Ice Creamery where we stopped for delicious bush flavored ice cream after a dip in Cooper Creek. He’s the guy who people honk at on the small, windy road through the rain forest. He’s the guy who chucks lollies at the ferry workers and who gets the rejected lollies chucked back at. He’s friendly and funny and makes you feel as if you’re in on the inside joke, even though you don’t understand the strine they’re using.

Adrian achieves this affect by sharing his knowledge of the forest. Having lived deep in the Daintree for nine years now, Adrian is a resident expert. He knows every plant, animal, and fruit not only by name, but also by how it affects the rest of the forest. He explains the delicate ecosystem of the rain forest with each individual being.

For example, as he was explaining the dragon (lizard) that can drop its body temperature to zero if a python is near, he immediately launched into his explanation of why a baby cassowary had popped up behind us. Immediately, Adrian switched gears and began to explain how this baby had been kicked out of the nest by its father and was forced to roam the land alone. The cassowary was lonely and curious and kept inching closer to our flashing camera without flinching.

The afternoon was full of education and exploration. Adrian even quizzed us at the end of the day on what we had learned. Being the nerds we are, we all stumbled over each other to regurgitate what we had learned, which was a lot.  Daintree Discovery Tours supplied an excellent, secluded tour of a wonderful corner of the earth, often underestimated.

Until recently, I have to admit, kangaroos made me nervous. I mean, come on. Haven’t you seen that movie Kangaroo Jack (yeah, neither have I. I just saw the previews) where he goes around kicking everyone in the gut.  Red Kangaroos can grow up to six foot three and weight 200 pounds of mainly muscle. That’s a big animal with a lot of power. Be prepared for more than a couple of broken ribs.

But my opinion has changed, although I would still proceed with caution. One of the first pit stops on our two-week road trip was Pebbly Beach at sunset. Our teacher’s husband has sweetly purchased two boxes full of ice cream cones to feed to the little critters. After taking the bus down a winding dirt road around an unexpected detour, we arrived just outside the camping grounds and hopped off the bus and stretched our limbs in front of a breath-taking beach. The water was turquoise and the rocks were red. Add the kangas casually grazing on the white sand, and you’ve got your stereotypical Australian landscape. After a group of girls crowded around the sign that said “Don’t Feed the Animals” (with a picture of a person feeding an ice cream cone to a roo, I kid you not) we continued down to the sandy plains each with a cone in hand and approached the mob.

I still hung back. I mean, I didn’t want to be the first to try and make a peace offering only to get punched in the gut. But the kangaroos shied away from their treats, especially the joeys. They all hopped back, and then one of the larger ones took a few hops forward and strained his neck in order to get a nibble. Eventually he took another hop forward, alarming the girl giving him a treat so that she dropped it. Eventually we all got in on the deal, stuffing the kangas faces with ice cream cones that taste like cardboard.

Now, it should be mentioned that the Eastern Grey Kangaroo is significantly smaller than the red Kangaroo and that kangaroos are not actually territorial. They’re actually quite funny animals, the kangaroos. The females are constantly pregnant, except of course for the day they give birth, but they can also postpone their pregnancies—a skill which would probably be more useful in human society than that of the kangaroo. Diapause, to use the scientific term, occurs when the mother still has another Joey in the pouch or in times of drought. Even more bizarre is that the male kangaroos won’t produce sperm during a dry season—no pun intended. It’s nature’s very own form of birth control.

But I wasn’t thinking about any of this on the sands of Pebbly Beach, stroking a Joey behind the ears. I was just enjoying the sunset and these wonderfully furry creatures that keep one eye on you at all times. Pebbly Beach was definitely a favorite of everyone in the group and a wonderful way to see the happy hoppers in their natural habit up close and personal.

Today no horses inhabit the island but tourists are allowed to spend the night. The reserve has both guided overnight tours of the island where the tourists actually get to participate in some of the research. Guests help survey the penguin boxes to help count the penguin population, as well as paint the box covers white to reflect heat. Volunteers can also help reinstate native plants after burns of the Kiah grass invasive specimen introduced to the island in the 1800s to feed livestock. The trip is fully catered and guests stay in the old lighthouse keeper’s home. Guest can spend two to four nights enjoy the splendors of the natural world and make their imprint on the island but without leaving a carbon one behind.

But as the kickoff began the match millions were watching around the globe, I began to wonder why the United States doesn’t emphasize it more. Yes, there’s the information box on the opening page of the New York Times online, but no one back home emphasizes watching every game, let alone watching it live. Here the games are scheduled at midnight, two thirty am and four thirty am. If you don’t watch it then, be prepared to have the results spoiled for you in the morning. People go to these games. Last night, crowds swelled for US versus UK and tonight they’ll grow even more for Germany versus Australia, at 4:30am. People actually pull themselves out of bed at two to start prepping (aka get drunk) and watch the games until the sun rises. Now that’s team spirit. But back in the States the World Cup does not hold the importance it does internationally. My assumption—and this might a little unpatriotic—is that Americans, on the whole, disregard the football championship because we don’t stand a chance at winning it. We’re lucky to have tied England. But Australia doesn’t either. Germany dominates in the first round, every time. And yet it’s expected that about half the population of Sydney will be at Darling Harbour early tomorrow morning to cheer on their home team.

Seeing all this international spirit, and being able to participate in it makes me kind of sad to return to one of the few countries that pays it little attention. Here’s our chance to be part of the world, to join nations far and wide, rich and poor, and celebrate the peaceful competition in the great game of football. And yes, we have the Olympics, but I believe we should try and participate in every possible event there is because the world needs to be more united. And I safely say standing in front of the floating jumbo screen with people from anywhere and everywhere in the city Down Under is a real treat and America is missing out.