I’d Paul, fellow hosteller back in Cairns, to thank. Sharing the story of World War Two soldiers billeted in tents in fields and woods throughout the Atherton Tablelands. A little respite from the oppressive coastal heat and humidity. Thousands. Waiting to depart from Cairns. Across the Coral Sea. Many never to return. The occasional roadside sign the only reminder of innumeral troops based on the plateaux.
Beyond the crest of the Kuranda Range, an undulating descent onto the Atherton Tablelands plateaux. Wisps of cloud. Distant. Dense, lush rainforest fading away. Gradually. Giving way to more open woodland.
Coffee stop a little short of Mareeba, the first settlement. A small coffee plantation. Warm and humid, comfortably so now. Civilised affair. Sitting on the veranda. Mellow jazz playing gently in the background. Breeze barely perceptible.
Pondering the map. Far too early to finish the day at Mareeba, despite the advice of yet another dubious guidebook I’d picked up in Cairns. On to Atherton I decided. But left wondering if a brief foray into Mareeba would be worthwhile. Turn right at the next junction? Or left to Atherton?
I sought Joanne’s advice in the cafe. "What was there in Mareeba?" I enquired. "Subway, KFC, Red Rooster" she explained. Left turn.
Recent spate of natural disasters seems to have woken the conspiracy theorists from their slumber. Beginning to think they’d been abducted. By aliens. Or a sinister Government organisation. Usually with some suitably intriguing initials. HARPIC. MENTOR. Internet buzzing. Providing the advocates of doom with a readily accessible platform for their musings. Just like this one I suppose..
Start to get a following and you’re quickly blessed with a modicum of credibility. Add some colour. I’ll refrain from using the term "evidence". Videos. Photos. Grainy ones are ideal. Open to favourable interpretation. All lending weight to your ramblings.
The clever ones are very persuasive. Their arguments coherent. Like clairvoyants. Believable. The facts, such as they are, seem to fit. Surely there must be something in their assertions? Surprisingly, there probably is. Mathematics. I’d want to ascertain which facts they’ve excluded. Invariably those of similar merit to the ones they’ve admitted. The inconvenient ones. Those that either don’t support their case, or just plain undermine it.
For, truth is, assemble enough of just about anything – facts, coloured beads, tea leaves – and you’ll see patterns. Subconsciously excluding those elements that don’t fit. Seeing what you want to see. Even if it isn’t really there. Like the sky at night. Billions of stars. Just a few forming recognisable patterns. Like the Plough. But hardly evidence of farm implements in Outer Space.
Sceptical? Suspecting I’m simply spreading dis-information. Seeking to undermine credible conspiracy theorist. Those that are actually on to something. Sorry to disappoint. Rather, let me leave you with a rather terrestrial example. From my own travels.
Over the last eighteen months I seem to have just missed riots in Bishkek, bomb attacks in western China, a whole host of natural disasters in Queensland, devastating earthquake in New Zealand. To the extent I’ve been asked, on more than one occasion, how many lives I’ve got. Evidence of a sixth sense? Not at all. No doubt influenced by my proximity to these events, I’ve subconsciously excluded all those of similar nature from across the planet that don’t fit the pattern. Dull I know.
It’s not rocket science. And, trust me, I think I’d know if it was…
A welcome sign. Allaying my fears of a particularly large elephant roaming wild.
Tropical rainforest. I’d expected venomous snakes, spiders, even scorpions. Be sensible – no shoving your bare hands into rotten tree trunks – and the risk they pose is fairly small. You’re as likely to die in France from a snake bite as you are in Australia. That’s continental healthcare for you I suppose…
What you’re much more likely to encounter are irritations. Plants with hooks on their leaf edges. Fiendishly difficult to remove from your clothes. Or that smart umbrella you borrowed. Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean the flora isn’t out to get you…
But my favourite is a small hairy caterpillar. That of the bag-shelter moth – ochrogaster lunifer. These little critters live together in a silken bag, either on the ground or up in the canopy. Apparently. Not actually seen them. Didn’t need to. Their irritating hairs spreading like pollen. Landing on unsuspecting victims. Swollen feet in my case. Nothing serious. Just some antihistamine. Once I’d learnt what the cause was most likely to be.
Legal advocate. Former journalist. Feisty. Passionate. Following a path shaped by circumstances. Adaptive. Sharp and intelligent. Focused. Careful in her choice of issues. Making a difference rather than pursuing lost causes. Resilient. A formidable ally. An unenviable opponent.
I’d met Karin quite by chance. A wrong turn. Sort of. Drawn away from the usual tourist tat on the main street. Down into a small alley. Craft shops mostly. Curious. She’d spoken first. Engaging. Conversation flowed. Drawn to a close only by my need to do a few jobs. Return to my campsite before dark. I’d suggested a sociable coffee the next day. She’d accepted.
Not afraid to challenge boundaries. Or be constrained by borders. Arbitrary divisions. Dual national. Two Western nations. Affinity rather than allegiance. Much of her life spent elsewhere. Europe. Asia. Amongst very differing societies. Australia now for a while. Contemplating her next move. Writing a book about some of her earlier experiences tackling a very personal injustice.
Conversation with breadth and depth. Refreshing. Politics. Sarah Palin. After Obama. Democratic models. Religious fundamentalists. Education of the masses. Ruling elites. Porous borders. Journalists. Writing for discrete, subscription only publications. Notions of Justice. Wikileaks release of diplomatic cables. Right to know or an inhibitor of frank exchange of views. Twists and turns. But always respecting the opinions of others. And not hopeless idealism. Rather, views shaped by a healthy cynicism. Reflecting a very international outlook.
Kuranda. Little town in the forest. Thousand feet above the coastal plain. Noticeably cooler. Much wetter. Made the mistake I was sure many did. At first saw just the nik-nak shops. Small eatries. Aboriginal Art. Quiet in the wet season. A few tourists drifting around. Mostly Japanese. Arriving by scenic railway from Cairns. By three the streets deserted bar a few locals. Pavement tables cleared away. Chairs stacked.
Spend a few days here. Quietly observing. Chatting with gallery owners, cafe proprietors, fellow travellers. Learning of a town who’s tranquility you’d be hard-pressed to resist. Gentle slumber. A few drifters. Unwilling to work. Content to take sitting around money from the State. Misguided belief that society owes them.
Beyond the obvious, a well-educated middle class. Masters. Doctorates. Making a living as best they can. Shop work mostly. Not a 60’s counter-culture. Rejecting materialism. Bar a few wandering around bare foot. Long, flowing beards. Orange robes. Caricatures. Rather, intelligent, savvy individuals. Choosing a different existence. For some transient. For others a settled lifestyle. Drawn to Kuranda, presumably, by the desire to be amongst like-minded folk.
[With especial thanks to Karin’s wonderful blog – Blue Globe – for providing inspiration for the post title]
Skippy has teased out some very generous donations. Hugely appreciated by Emma, my trusty steed, and I. And The Outward Bound Trust. But most of all, by the young people able, as a result, to undertake nothing short of life-changing courses with the charity.
Skippy’s a socially aware critter, conscious of tough economic times back in Blighty. So time to introduce fellow marsupial Wallace the Wallaby. Like a kangaroo, just smaller. Far less chance of one disembowelling you. So no need for the gloves.
Wallace can be yours for safe keeping. Once we’ve got the Australian continent in the bag. Plan is to give Wallace to whoever leaves the most witty comment when making a secure donation via my JustGiving page. Doesn’t matter how much you give. Few pounds. Or a lot more. Because it all helps. Just need to make me smile. The most.
Inevitably the legal types require some terms and conditions. Conveniently, these are the same as for the awarding of Skippy to a good home. See 5 March 2011 blog entry entitled "Hostage to fortune". With one important difference:
"Awarding of Wallace
Wallace will be awarded to the person making an eligible donation, between 9 April 2011 and Ken’s completion of the Australian stage of his expedition, deemed to be accompanied by the most witty comment. Ken’s decision will be final and no correspondence will be entered into."
Please remember, the making of a donation is considered to be acceptance of these terms and conditions.
[Neither the awarding of Skippy or Wallace to a good home is considered to be a lottery as defined by the Gambling Act 2005. But, even if it was, then it’d be an incidental non-commercial lottery. Which doesn’t require a licence. Or registration with a local authority. So, either way, perfectly legal. Well, this is an ethical venture. So you’d expect me to consider these things]
Rush hour in Kuranda from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Kuranda. Truly a tourist town. Once the last of the visitors has left on the late afternoon train back to the coast, the lights go out. Shops close. Streets deserted. A few drunks. And a police presence.
Chocolate addiction. Hardly intravenous drug use I admit. Undermining the very fabric of society. Addicts turning to crime to feed their habit. Actually, that might be said of both. In Australia. For, whilst the first world is never cheap, the cost of living here is eye-watering. And, even allowing for the strong Aussie dollar, this is an expensive country. Compounded by the lack of free lunches. You pay. For everything. Inclusive notably absent from the Australian lexicon.
Never mind the basic necessities. For which, to be fair, the savvy shopper can keep down at a cost broadly comparable with that of the UK. But take non-essentials like confectionary. Wide variety of well-known brands. You’d be lucky to get much change out of the equivalent of two pounds for just one small bar of chocolate. So, if you do need encouragement to quit the sugary stuff, try Australia. Especially the tropics. Turns to liquid in minutes.
[With especial thanks to Claire in Cornwall for the inspiration to write this piece. Teasing mention of After Eight mints]
