Exploring the Top End, part II

After I had been to Litchfield and Kakadu, there was one more national park in the Top End for me to go to: Nitmiluk. Formerly called Katherine Gorge National Park, Nitmiluk is owned by the Jawoyn people, and jointly managed by the Jawoyn Association and the Parks and Wildlife Commission of the Northern Territory. The name Nitmiluk, according to Aboriginal legend, was given by Dreamtime creature Nabilil, who came to the entrance of a gorge and heard the 'nit nit nit' call of a cicada. The name means Cicada place. (Wikipedia gives the meaning as Cicada dreaming, but I would rather believe Nitmiluk Tours, the Jawoyn owned and operated tour company of the park.)

To reach Nitmiluk, I caught a Greyhound bus to Katherine and hired a car. I had looked at tours to the area, but all the tours I could find raced through, most of them being daytrips from Darwin. So I decided to become a so-called independent traveller.

Accommodation options in Katherine are pretty limited. It seems to be either camp at a caravan park or in the national park (if you have a car and camping gear) or pay $80 per night. Hardly a backpacker option. So of course I did neither and couchsurfed instead. My couchsurfing host was a fabulous woman and I had a great time.

There are two areas in the park that visitors usually go to: Leliyn or Edith Falls and Nitmiluk or Katherine Gorge. I decided to go to Leliyn first, as it was a good half-day trip, after which I could go south to Mataranka for the afternoon.

Leliyn is a word of the Jawoyn people and means frill-necked lizard. It is a river valley of red sandstone with several picturesque waterfalls. The frill of the lizard is the sandstone rising above the lower falls.

I climbed to the higher and therefore safer pool first. As in Kakadu, the waters were beautiful. The swimming hole is actually made up of two pools, connected by two shallow passages around a pile of red sandstone. By crawling over the shallowest and narrowest part, one could swim right around. I, however, preferred the pool with the waterfall. I had it all to myself for a good ten minutes. A few people came along to take photos with their phones, but they didn't jump in.

Then, as I was swimming around lazily, a man came up with an SLR. Something in the way he pointed the camera, then lowered it again immediately told me that he was a photographer spirit; not just there to snap a photo of a beautiful place he had been to, but to capture the perfect shot. And I was ruining it. I swam out of his shot and concealed myself behind a rock. Some minutes later I saw a thumbs up rising above the rock between us. I swam out and he raised his hand in thanks, then was on his way.

I walked back to the lower pool along the other side of the valley. The walk was only about 1 km, but it was hot, and by the time I got down, I was dripping with sweat again. The lower pool with its wide, flat river looked awfully like crocodile territory to me, but there were people swimming in it. Though nobody ventured very far out, I noticed. Not that staying close to shore would be protection against a hungry saltie, but I guess there was a feeling of safety in numbers. So much so that I changed back into my swimmers and washed the sweat off me before heading to Mataranka.

Mataranka is 110 km south from Katherine, unfortunately in the opposite direction to Leliyn. Mataranka could have been a day trip in itself, but I had limited time, so I opted to only go to Bitter Springs. They are advertised as 'hot' springs, but the water is not actually heated. It comes out of the ground at a pleasant 32°C, which is the ground temperature in those parts. Nevertheless, the water is warmer than, well, most places I've swum.

''You'll need a noodle and thongs," my host had said when I said I was going to Bitter Springs. She meant a foam swimming noodle, of course, to put under my arms to float down the gentle stream. Most people swim, but floating on a noodle is more relaxing and allows one to concentrate on staring into the crystal clear water, admiring the colours of the place, or on looking up at the green foliage curving over the stream and enjoying the peace.

"Put the thongs [flip flops] on your wrists when you float down," my host said. Bitter Springs is a one way swimming spot: there is a bit of a pool at the springs, where one gets into the water, and fifty metres down the stream some steps to get out and a little bridge over the stream to get back to the other side. The path back to the start is gravelly, so having thongs is definitely an advantage.

I ended up spending half my time on the little bridge looking at turtles. Little freshwater turtles lived on the side of the bridge away from the swimmers, but they were very shy. A German woman pointed them out to me, and I, like her, spent long stretches just waiting quietly on the bridge for the perfect shot. We had to wait until the swimmers had all cleared out and it had been quiet for five minutes. Then the turtles would swim around in plain sight. At the smallest splash from upstream they would skuttle away again.

A few impatient tourists with snorkelling gear swam under the bridge to have a look at the turtles. The poor creatures tried to hide themselves under fallen branches and in the darkness provided by floating algae. Once the tourists were gone, they didn't come out again for a long time.

The next morning I headed to Nitmiluk Gorge, another sandstone formation. Nitmiluk is actually a series of gorges, with a walking track up to the eighth gorge and canoeing possible - weather dependent - up to the ninth gorge. Going beyond the second gorge (walking) or third gorge (canoeing) requires an overnight trip.

What had been part of the experience at Kakadu became quite annoying at Nitmiluk: the heavy rain had closed the gorges to swimming and canoeing, due to the resulting strong currents and a risk of crocodiles. 2-hour boat cruises visiting 2 gorges were rather too expensive for my taste, costing as much as my full day tour to Litchfield. Therefore, I decided to walk instead.

The day was incredibly hot and the path was mostly exposed. At the first water tank I stopped, stripped off my shirt and ran it and my hat under the tap. It provided relief for about half an hour.

I had time for three lookouts. The tracks between them were mostly unremarkable, but the lookouts provided dramatic views over the first and second gorge. Beautiful as they were viewed from the top, I would have loved to have seen them from the water. I can't help thinking that I missed out on something spectacular.



Just before the second lookout there was a turnoff to the southern rockhole. After getting my view of the gorge, I went back for the rockhole. The path descended into a lovely shaded gully, and some way down it was a rockhole with a waterfall flowing into it. All the rain hadn't been enough to overflow the rockhole, so the water was rather dirty with leaves and algae. Nevertheless, as I went down, an Aussie man was just drying himself off.

I had assumed that all the swimming at Nitmiluk would be closed, so I hadn't brought my swimmers. Looking at that blessed water I regretted it. There was obviously no current - weak or strong - in this pool, and looking at the steep dry stony gully that must run into the first gorge during the wet season I voiced my thoughts aloud. "How would a croc even get here?" I asked.
"They can't," the Aussie man confirmed.

We chatted for a while, he emphatically told me to visit the Cutta Cutta Caves and I didn't have the heart to tell him I wouldn't have time. As soon as he disappeared up the gully, I stripped off. I hate walking in wet underwear (not that it would have been wet for very long in that heat), so I did what I thought was only reasonable and stripped naked. The cool water on my hot skin was one of the most wonderful experiences of my life.

I had been in the pool for about two minutes when I heard voices up the track. Too late to get dressed before they arrived, I decided to do what was only natural - pretend that skinny dipping in the middle of the day at a rather busy national park was normal. As the family of four - with two teenage boys - came closer, I almost laughed. Win! They were Germans. "Is the water nice?" the mum asked. "No crocs?" By the time I was getting dressed, she was skinny dipping.

I was hot within minutes of coming out of the shady gully, despite having dunked my shirt and hat in the pool. I overtook the Aussie man before the third lookout, Jedda's Rock; he was walking barefoot, with thongs in his pack for short nasty bits and boots in case an area was really stony. ''Training my feet for the summer," he offered by way of explanation when I marvelled at it. Some training ground he chose.

Jedda's Rock gives views of the second gorge. More spectacular than the first gorge, the views from Jedda's rock still don't seem like the best that Nitmiluk could offer. I could only imagine how awesome the gorge would look from the water. I had my lunch at the lookout and the Aussie man caught up to me there.

Ignoring the warning signs, the Aussie man climbed down onto a ledge to take a photo. He didn't fall the 100 metres down the precipice into the gorge and was on his way again before I'd finished lunching and admiring.

I overtook him again later. He had stopped and was looking at some rocks and I wondered if he was waiting for me. It seemed like he wanted to show me something. "There's an old beach just there," he said, pointing at a rock about a metre away. "See those ripples in the rock?" 100 million years ago the Australian inland was covered by a shallow inland sea. The sandy bottom of a body of water, maybe a river, at Nitmiluk had been covered by other sediments and had fossilised.

I had hoped to get up to Butterfly Gorge, but the heat defeated me. At the turnoff, all I could think about was aircon or a swim. The trudge back to Nitmiluk Visitor Centre was drudgery. I would like to say it was beautiful, but in reality it was 4 km of unremarkable scrub with unbearable heat and no shade. There was one hillock that yielded a 360° view of the bleak landscape away from the gorge.

When I got to the Visitor Centre, I went and stuck my head under a tap.

That evening I went to the Katherine Outback Experience show. It was one of those things that elicited a polite but unconvinced "if you're into that sort of thing" response from my host, the local. A local horsebreaker had decided to diversify his business by seeing if visitors were interested in coming to see his work. It was a good decision, as it turned out, because a five-year drought was bringing down stations and consequently other businesses in the area.

Tom, the horsebreaker, worked with an almost disappointingly calm colt for about half an hour, then had a trick horse pick up his hat and roll out his swag (bedroll) for him. He played a guitar and sang his own compositions from horseback, first sitting, then standing on his horse. He had a mechanical calf - real ones being too expensive to keep - to train horses in blocking cattle. The calf was a burley sack attached to a slider. Tom's partner made it slide back and forth on a wire, with the horse following, trying to make the calf change direction.

Tom, his partner and a helper brought out other animals, like a donkey, a mule and a buffalo with a calf. A bullock had decided to go walkabout and couldn't be found. He turned up later wandering around the lawn where Tom caught him. The bullock didn't like women, but let Tom catch and handle him without drama. There you go; sexist cattle.

The last part of the show was dog training. Tom had half a dozen dogs running around clockwise and anticlockwise, jumping back onto their allocated drums and herding goats. At the end, Tom's partner let out a puppy with an adorable instinct for working animals. Rather than rushing the goats, he stalked them like a lioness.

For dinner that night, my host and I went to the Savannah Bar & Restaurant to eat crocodile springrolls. When we had demolished our meals, my host said, "Not bad for two vegetarians." I had wanted to taste crocodile for the exotic value of it, but to me it tasted the same as any meat. Having been a vegetarian for almost eight years, with only a few exceptions on special occasions or under duress (there's nothing else available), meat tends to taste strange at best and make me sick at worst. Only very high quality and well prepared meat can make it into the 'delicious' category. Crocodile springrolls went into the 'ok but overpriced' category.

After dinner we watched a film called Beasts of No Nation, a film about child soldiers in an unspecified (imaginary) African country. My host, who knew something about the matter, said that the film was disturbingly realistic in its depictions. It was certainly no Hollywood. I recommend it, but the recommendation comes with trigger warnings about violence, war and (implied) child (sexual) abuse.

In the morning, I had just enough time to go to the Katherine Hot Springs before returning the car. Again, these springs do not pump out heated water. My morning swim was lovely and refreshing.

As so often, it was lovely people who made my trip to amazing places so memorable. The reason I remember Katherine with warmth is not because I enjoyed the Hot Springs but because my couchsurfing host made me feel so welcome. The reason Nitmiluk stays with me is not because of majestic gorges but thanks to the Aussie man and the German woman. And what I will always think of when I think back to Leliyn is not just the beautiful waterfall, but also the simple silent acknowledgement of thanks from a fellow photographer when I swam out of his perfect nature shot.

Exploring the Top End, part I

Florence Falls at Litchfield NP.

In mid-September, I spent 10 days in the northern part of the Northern Territory. I flew into Darwin, but only spent two days there. I don’t have much to say about Darwin itself. If you know how to calculate the volume of an arched oil tunnel, let me know. There could be a prize for it. Also, go to Mindil Beach Markets and see eMDee, the didgeridoo+drums duo.

On my second day in the Top End, I went on a day-tour to Litchfield National Park. Our guide was called Joey. He was awesome. The only hiccup was that the company neglected to tell Joey that there was a vegetarian on board, so my lunch was late. However, there was vegetarian lunch and it was tasty and plentiful, which is not always the case with veggie food on a tour, so I'm not complaining.

Litchfield doesn't have any phone reception, but it does have wifi...

I specifically picked a tour that didn’t include a jumping crocodiles river cruise. I’m interested in crocodiles, but not in a circus. Instead, we went to three beautiful swimming holes. I had been warned against swimming anywhere, even if the guide says it's ok. There could still be saltwater crocodiles, and there are stories of lives lost in 'safe' swimming holes. However, with 20 other people in the water I figured the risk of there being a saltie was very low, and the risk of me being the victim if there was a saltie only 1/20. A risk worth taking for the experience - those waters were beautiful.

At our last stop at Buley Rockhole, Joey took the more adventurous passengers on a barefoot adventure. Originally - Joey says - it was a barebum adventure, but he'd had to tone it down. People are so conservative nowadays. "Barefoot is the Aboriginal way," Joey said. "The reason for it is that if you step on a snake, you'll feel it." We headed off the path and into the creek, where we swam and crawled ("like a crocodile - not like a monkey") among little jumping fish, water dragons and king fishers. At the end of our swim we ran back along the scorching path, burning our soles, to jump into the swimming hole and massage our shoulders under the waterfall.

Baiting crocs at Wangi Falls.

A few days later I hopped on a tour to Kakadu. It turned out to be easily the best tour I've been on in Australia. Three reasons: Kakadu is innately awesome, I was lucky, and our guide, Justin, and the tour company, Kakadu 4WD Safaris, did an excellent job.

Kakadu National Park. Some people call it Kaka-don't and reckon that Litchfiel-do is better, but I really don't understand why. I suppose they are the ones with a 2WD, a fear of crocodiles and a dislike of wilderness. What they are doing in the Top End in that case I can't fathom.

Kakadu NP, all 20 000 sq km of it, is jointly managed by local Aboriginal communities (the traditional owners) and Parks Australia, a federal body under the Department of the Environment and Energy. Because half of Kakadu is owned by Aboriginal land trusts, access to many parts of the park requires special permits. Some of these are easy to obtain; others require considerable merit in the eyes of the local communities and years of applications. Entering these areas without a permit carries a hefty fine. Just like other private landowners can refuse entry to their land and - perhaps a more appropriate analogy - just like states can refuse visas to visitors, so do Aboriginal communities have the right to decide who enters their country. One excellent reason to join a Kakadu 4WD Safaris tour is that they hold special permits to visit some amazing places in Kakadu.

I thank Luck for having put me on this tour. I tried to book two other Kakadu tours, both of which were refused as 'not available', before I booked the Kakadu 4WD Safaris tour. I then tried to change the date of that booking, but it didn't work out. Seems like Luck wanted me on this tour, and I thank Luck for their kindness.

The tour I was on was an overflow tour with only 4 people + the guide. We were all like-minded when it came to hiking, swimming and adventure, packing up camp and making dinner. In other words, we worked as a team and were all up for hiking up to the top of waterfalls. Except when it rained, but more on that later. Apart from myself and Justin, the guide, there was Diona, from the Netherlands, and Matt and Jo, from England.

Our first day was a cultural day. We visited Ubirr, one of the largest Aboriginal art sites open to the public. A Bunidj Elder called Bill Neidjie had the vision to preserve traditional culture by increasing tourism in Kakadu, thus bringing employment to people who would otherwise leave their communities in search of work. Bill Neidjie, also known as Big Bill, also wrote a book, called Kakadu Man - another way of preserving his culture. My reading list of Australian books just keeps growing.

An 'x-ray' drawing of a white man: wearing clothes and smoking a pipe.

The rock art at Ubirr is fabulous and made even more so when explained to us by someone who has actually studied Aboriginal cultures and rock art, such as our guide, Justin. Some of the stories that go with the art have been lost and some are secret, but a few have been revealed for us to know. There was a story of two girls who turned themselves into crocodiles and the story of a clan who died because some of its members stole some fish. Small transgressions from the ancient law can have far-reaching consequences. It's a harsh conception of justice for a modern lawyer, especially one from a lenient justice system. "The law was harsh but it needed to be," is always the explanation. No one ever says, though, what or whom the law needed to be harsh for. I'm sure the tyrannical autocrats of 17th century Europe would have said the same if they'd been asked.

Mabuyu with his dilly bag, barbed spears, spear thrower and goosewing fan. One version of his story: when his catch of fish was stolen, he followed the thieves to their tribe's cave. Being too shy to confront the entire tribe about the theft, he waited till night and then blocked the cave with a huge rock. The entire tribe perished.

Two girls who liked to turn themselves into crocodiles. One day, they planted their teeth on the river bank and turned permanently into crocs. The teeth grew into pandanus palms. This story is told to remind Aboriginal girls of the area that where the pandanus grows, there be crocs. Beware. 

In the afternoon we went on the Guluyambi Cultural Cruise also featuring crocodiles. These were not of the jumping variety that get fed pieces of chicken for the benefit of ogling tourists (although of course these crocodiles can also jump), and our boat did not have a metal grate to protect people from crocodiles that have been taught to eat anything hanging outside a river boat. Not that crocodiles have to be taught that - whether or not crocodiles are used to bits of meat being dangled outside a boat, it is wise to keep oneself completely within the confines of the boat. Basically, if you get on a cruise with things you'd like to go home with, such as hands and elbows, don't dangle them in front of a crocodile's snout. The boat did have security features, such as lifejackets, though with up to eight salties visible in the water and on the banks at any one time (and probably another eight out of sight somewhere close), one is mystified as to what protection lifejackets would provide in case the boat sank. Apparently crocodiles like bright colours too.

The cruise was excellent. Our captain and Aboriginal guide pointed out a paperbark tree that can be used for just about anything - medicine, clothing, wrapping the dead in. His one stop shop, he called it. He showed us how to make a paintbrush from a reed of some sort, and - because Justin who was a good mate of his whispered a special request in his ear - did a spear throwing demonstration. Using a spear thrower, his spears almost reached across the river, an impressive distance for an old technology.

So close.

"So what animals would you like to see while you're out here?" Justin asked as we sped along the gravel road towards camp.
"Brumbies," I said.
"Brumbies?" said Justin in a voice that said, "You're a nut. Why would you want to see wild horses that don't belong here rather than native Australian animals?"
Too many bush stories, I suppose. I've been reading everything I can get my hands on from an author called Kerry McGinnis, who has written fiction about life on cattle stations as well as a memoire of her life droving (driving cattle over long distances) with her father and siblings. To the young children, brumbies were like mythical creatures and they waited eagerly for their first glimpse of them. That was me.
Diona wanted to see turtles.

Our first night's camp site was not busy. There were only two other camps, a third one that cleared out late in the evening, plus the ranger. One of the other mobs was a father with his young son. They became very memorable, first because they had a swimming pool on the back of their truck, and next because the poor kid screamed his head off in the middle of the night. The swimming pool was a big plastic tub filled with water. We regarded it with envy as the muggy tropical heat of the Top End in September oppressed us. Only Justin, wearing long sleeves, long trousers and boots in contrast to our t-shirts, shorts and trainers or thongs (flip flops), was used to it.

In the middle of the night I was woken up by a shrill cry, "Daddy, I need to pee!" Daddy was asleep right next to the boy, but did not stir. I got out of my tent and wandered over to their camp. Matt, who hadn't slept because of the heat, joined me. Unable to wake the dad or make any connection with the child (who might have been asleep for all the reaction we got out of him), we wandered over to Justin's tent. Because that's what tour guides are for, of course, to take care of problems one can't be bothered to solve oneself. Justin took some waking up, but once he was awake, I went back to sleep and was no longer bothered by the screaming kid. Matt kept walking.

Dawn, at last.

Day two was the best. Anything could have happened that day, but as long as we got to the top of Maguk, it would have made up for it. But I'm getting ahead of myself. First we went to Jim Jim Falls. We were lucky with our timing to Kakadu. Some weeks earlier there had been a storm that had closed the track to Jim Jim, one of the most famous if not the most famous waterfall in Australia. However, Jim Jim had just reopened for viewing. No walking to the plunge pool or to the top, no swimming, but viewing. Due to the storm, Jim Jim was flowing, too, which is unusual considering it was technically still the dry season.

The road to Jim Jim involved 50 km of unsealed road and 15 km of 4WD track. On the road, Justin was driving like an Aussie, that is, with skill. I would have been going at 30 km/h, half the speed limit, but then, I'm not an Aussie who knows how to drive on the dirt. Going faster than that on the dirt takes some practice, so don't try it at home - or in Australia. It was bumpy, and so loud it wasn't conducive to conversation. Matt slept.

We saw it, Jim Jim. More exciting, though, was the golden tree snake that slithered away almost from under our feet. There was a rustle in the bush that Matt had just been standing next to, a moment of alarm and then Justin's excited voice telling us it was a harmless tree snake. We all tried to get closer to have a better look and a better photo, but the poor frightened snake couldn't wait to get away from us.

Jim Jim.

Golden tree snake.

There was a polystyrene ball in the water that had the teeth marks of a small saltie - one way of checking if there are crocs around, and of what type and size. Inquisitive creatures that they are, crocs will come and bite things that float in the water, especially things covered in fish oil. Of course, a negative result on the bite ball shouldn't be trusted. There was also an empty croc trap. Only a dum croc swims into a trap to get a leg of pork. Their brains may only be the size of a walnut, but most crocs are not dum. Just as well we didn't see the croc (although it might have seen us), because we were separated from the water's edge only by a metre or two and a flimsy orange plastic fence.

And then we went to Maguk.

Maguk, from the top.

Maguk, or Barramundi Gorge, is a steep-sided gorge in the southern part of the national park. Access is by 4WD only. Most people only get to swim in the large gorge at the bottom of the waterfall. We walked to the top, to series of deep plunge pools, with beautiful water to swim in. "100 % no crocs," Justin said, "because crocs can't climb cliff faces." We took some great photos and had a shoulder massage under a little waterfall. Matt and I tried in vain to climb a rock (Justin did it twice with no noticeable difficulty), before clambering the long way round to explore further up the gorge.

At the top of Maguk.

"I could spend the rest of the day here," I said. Then corrected myself, "Hell, I could spend the rest of my life here."
"It is one of those places, isn't it," Justin said.
To be fair, we did pretty much spend the rest of the day there. Darkness wasn't far off by the time we got to our camp that night. As we tore ourselves away from that little piece of paradise, I felt like a baby whose mother is going away. I wanted to scream.

As we drove away from Maguk towards our campsite at Gunlom, another waterfall, I sat in the back looking glumly out of the window. Matt was asleep again, lying across the seats. He got a fright and jumped when I suddenly yelled, "Brumbies!" There were three of them, walking among the trees. One turned to look at us as the others trotted away; maybe a stallion thinking, "What are you doing on my land? Get out of here!" Then another four came into view, cantering after the others. We watched them until they disappeared from view. I felt a lot better then, almost forgetting my grief at having had to leave Maguk.

I got my wish, seeing brumbies. After my trip I read McGinnis's fictional novel Out of Alice and laughed at a scene where Sara, a city-bred governess at a remote station, is thrilled at having seen some. Helen, a retired woman who married a cattleman and spent her life on the land, remarks drily, "They're a pest." I could have been Sara. Except with a bit more knowledge of the bush lingo (language) from all those bush stories. I know they're a pest, but they're still beautiful.

Not long after that I interrupted sleep and conversation again with a much more muted, "Buffalo." There were two, a black and a brown, with horns that would skewer anyone who tried to get too close. As we sat in the vehicle watching them, a bush by the side of the road started to shake and out came a dingo pup, small and skinny.
"What's it doing alone?" we asked each other.
"I've never seen one so young without its mother,"Justin said.
"Maybe mum is on the other side of the road?" someone suggested.
We drove a little way up the road to be out of the way, but the mother didn't appear. We will never know the fate of that little one or its mother.

We stopped on the way to collect firewood, Kakadu being one of only two national parks where collecting wood is allowed. When we finally got to camp, we got a fire going and made burritos. All our food was cooked on the fire. The team worked perfectly again, cooking took 20 minutes from start to finish. We had the tents up in no time, too. There was a light drizzle, so we put the outer flies on as well. Hopes that the rain would fizzle out turned out to be laughable. After dinner I threw a couple of bigger branches on the fire and we went to have a look at the waterfall. We couldn't see it through the rain, but we could hear it. After the storm, it was flowing well. We were standing on a sandy beach (yes, all natural), and I could imagine that in better weather and the light of a full moon, the place would be magical. Not that I'm overly fond of sand.

We weren't far from camp when it suddenly chucked it down. Not a full monsoon where you can't see past your nose; we could still see the vehicle and the light ahead of us. That is, until the transformer blew and the light went out.

The heavy rain didn't last long. The others sheltered under the open trailer doors, but for me there was no point. I was soaked already, and the rain was actually nice and cool - the sun might have set, but the heat lingered, kept in by the thick cloud cover. Everyone was in surprisingly good spirits. It was part of the experience. A taster of what nature would throw at you in the wet season. Except that in the Wet that campsite would not even be open.

Sheltering under the trailer doors in the morning. All smiles!

When the rain eased a bit, I blew the fire back to life and stood near it, on the earth warmed by the blaze. The rain didn't bother me - I had strong faith in Justin's vehicle (and his driving skills) to get us out along the dirt road, the rain and the swim had cooled me down and there was nothing I could do about it anyway. And I had a fire. And a drink in my hand. And after all, I was used to cold rain in a cold country, where wet footwear is a serious issue. So actually, the rain was rather exciting; another face of Kakadu.

We had three very wet tents. Matt had had the initiative and foresight to do some earthworks around his and Jo's tent, so they were spared the worst of the soaking. My tent was in a little lake. We had one spare tent which we pitched on a well-drained bit of ground. Not that it made much of a difference - they were fair weather tents and the outer flies leaked. It took me ages to fall asleep. It got hot inside the tent with the outer fly on and I kept playing the days events over in my head. The bumpy ride to Jim Jim, the snake, Maguk, the swim, the rain. I was happy.

The proud and slightly less wet engineer.

The camplake.

In the morning we faced a changed itinerary. We were supposed to climb to the top of Gunlom, to another fabulous swimming spot at the top of a waterfall. Of course, there was no way to do that now; someone would have slipped and died climbing on the wet rocks of the path that wound around the edge of a precipice. In the evening, we had used a wash basin for washing our feet, filling it ankle-deep with water. In the morning, the basin was full. Some 166 mm of rain had fallen overnight, they reckoned, and the rain was still falling. Kakadu was getting closed: Jim Jim was no longer accessible and even Ubirr, which is accessible by a sealed road, was closed for a time. The campsite at Gunlom was emptied and closed for the season. Our timing had thus been impeccable.

We went to see the waterfall that morning. It was a raging torrent and half the beach had disappeared. Pretty lucky, really. We may have missed out on climbing to the top, but the waterfalls that day were beautiful.

The drive back to the main road was interesting. The rivers and creeks we had crossed the day before had swelled ten-fold, making us drive through them rather than over them. We stopped for a short walk but got no further than the creek: a flood had swept away the bridge. The rain kept falling, and I spotted another brumby, standing forlornly among the wet trees.

Warning: attempting to cross may end up in a dunking.

We went to yet another waterfall and swimming hole, in one of the secluded areas of Kakadu. "No sunscreen," Justin said, "this is one of the most carefully conserved waterways in Kakadu." He need not have warned us - I doubt any of us had even thought about sunscreen that morning. The water was colder this time, with a heavy current. Swimming against it kept me warm, but I was unable to power myself right up to the waterfall. It didn't look like a big creek with a strong flow, but after all that rain it defeated me.

By this time the only dry clothing I had was a shirt and my pyjama bottoms. When we stopped at the Adelaide River Inn to have a look at a famous stuffed buffalo (while still alive, 'Charlie' had featured in Crocodile Dundee), I started feeling a little self-conscious. I had previously returned to civilization in various degrees of dirtiness and smelliness, but never before in my pyjamas. Although when I walked into my hostel in Darwin, I doubt anyone even noticed.

Those days in Kakadu have been the best three days I have spent in Australia. Whatever was left of my heart since New Zealand, Kakadu has now stolen. I will never forget it.

Rickshaw riding in Cairns

For a month, I was a sole trader. I rode a pedicab in Cairns. 

Considering how many things could have made it a really bad experience, I really enjoyed it. When I was riding, I was happy.

Risk 1: The Customers

One meets all sorts of people riding around Cairns at night. Most customers are nice, of course. One night I saw a man carrying a woman in his arms and thought to myself, “They need a ride.” I was right; she had blisters on her feet and they were grateful to hop on. The next weekend they came for another ride with me, that time with their children. In my first week I took around a retired couple who had been sailing up the East Coast of Australia since October. “We don’t want to go home,” they told me. On my last night two Pokémon hunters hopped on my bike. A website had told them that a rare warrior turtle was lurking on Spence Street and had about eight minutes left. “I’ll give you a tip if you get us there in six minutes!” One of the guys caught the turtle (“YUSSS!”) and I got my tip; the other’s phone crashed. One night I had three cheery Scots who gave me a big tip because they were afraid they were too heavy. A lot of people were concerned about being too heavy, but I told them the bike is on wheels, I can cope. Some people commented on my legs - “Look at those calves! She can do this.”

Another bunch of people commented on my ass. That was always charming [insert sarcastic tone here]. One chap on a Friday night even asked me how many people had done that. “With you, about ten.” It wasn’t only men; one night a very drunk woman spent the whole ride telling me how sexy I am and how fabulous my ass is. She was married with several children. A tour guide I met when I went to Cape Tribulation for a few days said he was under the impression that pedicabs were treated pretty much as low-cost strip dancing, the rider’s bum working just a metre away. I did once have a customer who shouted, “Stand on the pedals!” at me. I didn’t. His mate threatened to knock his teeth in for the disrespectful tone. At the end of the ride, they asked me to arbitrate, and I told them both off; one for being rude, the other for threatening violence. Some men, going to a strip club, said they would pay me double if I took my shirt off. When I said, “I thought you were going to the strip club”, their reply was, “You are basically a stripper.” Yeah. Right. 

Lots of people offered me money for them riding the bike, which I never allowed, of course. Another surprisingly frequent demand was to ignore road rules: run a red light, go down the wrong way on a one-way street or even stopping in the middle of a roundabout so the customer could get a lighter from a friend on another pedicab.

One couple offered to pay with a physio check up (one of them was a physiotherapist); one guy, who had consumed rather too many mushrooms, invited me to smoke weed with him (he was low on cash). The one I didn’t even deign to comment on was the handjob. I told a couple of people outright that they were sexists: a couple of guys who said they would pay me more because I was a woman; a drunk man who said he would feel bad having a woman ride him around and wanted to pedal the bike himself (he was the annoying gentleman sexist type). After that he offered me money if I came and had a drink with him. He didn’t seem to realise that I was in the pedicabbing business, not the escort business. The worst one was a guy who, on hearing that I would charge $15 for two people for a 850 m ride, asked if that included “you sucking me off”. Though I guess I was “lucky” that I only had one person ask for a blowjob; one colleague had that happen to her on every other ride on a Friday night.

Enough with the sexists, this is a travel blog after all. Most customers were very nice. Children often got very excited to be riding in a rickshaw. I received many good tips about places to go in Australia and had many engaging discussions about law and legal practice. I might even have changed one Australian’s opinion about refugees. On average people tipped by about 25%, although most of this was made up of a few very generous tips. When people asked me whether it was hard work, I replied, “Yes, but I love it.” 

Risk 2: The Work  

Of course it was tiring. Physically demanding work at night means aching muscles and poor-quality sleep during the day. Some nights at 1 am my legs (already) felt like jelly. During the day - after I woke up between 11 am and 1 pm - I didn't feel like doing very strenuous things, especially ones involving leg muscles. I went for a walk in the Botanic Gardens, though, and to Kuranda for markets and bush walking. Overall, I didn’t ‘achieve’ very much in Cairns; for having spent a month there, I didn’t go to very many places.

There was always the stress of the sole trader. After about the third week I stopped stressing about whether I was going to earn enough to pay off the rent, but even then my mind would be calculating the size of my travel budget. It was not a job to make you rich, but it paid the bills, including snorkelling at the Great Barrier Reef and a trip to Cape Tribulation. The hourly rate was not fabulous, though, and not much was left over for when I left Cairns.

Even when I knew the job would pay off, I could still feel the pressure of being a sole trader in Australia on a Working Holiday visa, with no social security. If I fell ill or had an accident and couldn't ride, I would be in trouble. Those things didn't happen though; my only ailment was tiredness from the night work. 

Sometimes it got monotonous as well. I didn’t even try counting how many times I heard “This will keep you fit” or said that I'm from Finland or explained why I speak “very good English”. Some nights I’d be waiting for two hours without a single ride; possibly due to the unusual amount of rain in Cairns this season, customers were sometimes thin on the ground.

Waiting around for customers on a Sunday night (early hours of Monday).

But on the flip side, being my own boss I chose my own hours. Usually I started around 7 or 8 pm. On Sunday to Thursday nights I finished between 12 and 2am, on Friday and Saturday nights around 3 or 4 am. On some nights, when I was tired and had made a bit of money already, I just knocked off at 10 or 11 pm. On Tuesdays I didn't work. One week I took both Monday and Tuesday night off and went to see the Great Barrier Reef. Four hours of snorkelling, a turtle and a reef shark later I was happy for an extra night off.

I also loved riding. It just felt good to be back on a bike after almost five months of not even sitting on a bike. With nice customers in the back and a few coins rattling in my tip box, it was so worth it.

Risk 3: The Taxis

It takes a while to get used to riding a pedicab. Because it is on three wheels, you don't need to put your foot on the ground when you stop; the bike stays upright without your help. Also because it is on three wheels, the bike will be tilted on an incline, such as the kerb. A bike rider's first instinct is to turn towards the incline to right the bike, i.e. ride into the kerb. At first I had to consciously tell myself to keep the front wheel in my desired direction of travel; by the end I didn't even notice that I was adjusting my body for the tilt of the bike. A side effect is that it is more strenuous to ride closer to the kerb, as it takes more strength to push the front wheel straight.

I tried to maintain good relations with cars. When I could, I pulled over to the side to let them pass. Often they would wave thanks. I don't think the drivers really appreciated that riding on the incline closer to the kerb was harder for me and also that if I had to slow down for them, all my re-acceleration came from my muscles alone. That's why I didn't pull into every empty parking space there was. I got beeped at a few times, but most drivers were surprisingly patient. 

Risk 4: The Boss 

The contract I signed was absolutely awful. Under Finnish law, I doubt it would even be enforced as was, it was so one-sided. It was a list of obligations that I undertook for the company that owns the bikes. Mostly it was about paying money, but also about checking the bikes and such, something we were not shown how to do. The contract didn’t contain anything about the company’s obligation of maintaining the bike in working condition (although they would bear the cost of normal wear and tear on the bike); there was no provision for a rent reduction if the bike was not rideable one night. There was, however, a provision that the company could terminate the agreement for no reason and keep the deposit I’d paid. For no reason. I had to commit to a certain number of weeks or I would forfeit my deposit. I was told the company wouldn’t keep the deposit unless I did something stupid, like ride drunk, sell drugs on the bike, let a customer ride my bike or simply not give them a week’s notice before leaving. However, it would have been better to have that in the contract, rather than taking on faith the words of people I’d never met before. I didn’t have any problems in the end, but not everyone was so lucky. 

Overall, I’ve been lucky. I took with me happy memories and would ride a pedicab for a job again, if the right conditions presented themselves. 

The most beautiful place in Australia

Sunday 19th June. A rainy, miserable day. The day I went to the most beautiful place in Australia: the Wentworth Falls.

The Wentworth Falls are in the Blue Mountains, west of Sydney. I arrived at Wentworth Falls railway station around 1.30 in the afternoon. It was raining steadily.

There was a 3 km track from the train station to the Falls, called the Charles Darwin walk. The track followed the Jamison Creek downstream. The path had standing puddles, some of them ankle-deep, but I had waterproof boots, a waterproof jacket and waterproof trousers. Near the beginning of the track I encountered three male travellers wearing jeans, hoodies and trainers. They were soaked.

The stream was flowing nicely from all the rain we've had lately. There were some pretty rapids and small waterfalls, and a few bridges over the stream. The gradient wasn't very steep at this point, so it was easy going. The main sediment being sand, the track was thankfully not muddy. At one point there was a rock overhang right above the river, with ferns growing all over the rock face. The surroundings were mostly woodland.

I got to Weeping Rock, a small waterfall (maybe 3 metres or so), where the track skirted the edge of the rocky river bed. With the water level so high, the track was underwater. There were two photographers at the bottom of the falls. We didn't have a conversation, as we would have had to shout over the roar of the fall. A few comments were made about the wetness.

I continued on. At this point water was seeping through my waterproof trousers at the knees and my arms were wet, either from a failure of my jacket or by gradual creeping up from my hands.

I wasn't expecting the Wentworth Falls themselves. I didn't really know what I was going to see when I set out, so I was overawed.

The path crossed the river via stepping stones at the top of the Falls. There was a fence across the river on the downstream side and a warning sign saying not to climb over the fence - there was a 100-metre drop on the other side. From the top, the river plunged down three great drops into a bowl-shaped valley that was hidden in mist. The valley sides were almost vertical, of prettily coloured sandstone. The path wound down the side, hugging the cliff, with a switchback of steps disappearing from view. The valley was hundreds of metres below me. I could not see the bottom for the fog.

My awe made it worth every drop of rain now seeping through everything except my boots - including my hat.

I descended the Great Staircase towards the bottom of the valley. The original track had been cut out by five men over two years, finishing in 1908. Apparently the different villages in the Blue Mountains were all competing about who could offer the most beautiful walking tracks, to attract tourists. A hundred years later, in 2008, a major refurbishment of the track had been completed, and eight years after that, I thought Wentworth Falls had definitely won. I thought briefly about the inevitable ascent back, but the place was magical so I didn't care.

I got to the bottom, where the track crossed the river again. Except it wasn't the bottom. I had got to the bottom of the second drop, and there was one more below me. There was no fence or rail at this crossing, only stepping stones, and it occurred to me that the water level would keep rising from all the rain, possibly rapidly, so I shouldn't go too far on the other side. It was also 14.30, so I had to be mindful of it getting dark, in a couple of hours. It was winter, after all.

I stood watching the waterfall for a while before crossing. The water sprayed my face, the wind blowing it in my direction. It was another magical moment. The place reminded me of Milford Sound in New Zealand - the real magic of the place came out in rainy, foggy weather. Normally the Falls are just a trickle.

I hopped (ok, walked) over the crossing and followed the path on the other side until I got to the intersection of the National Pass track with the Wentworth Pass track. There were overhangs along the track. One was so low I had to crouch when I walked through. Another had a waterfall flowing over it, created by all the rain, so I could walk behind the waterfall and watch the world from behind a curtain of water.

The ascent back to the top was shorter than I thought it would be. It was also beautiful. The crossing midway was still fine, the water hadn't risen noticeably.

Back at the top and across the river once more, I followed the interestingly named Undercliff track for a while. There were many overhangs on this track, all of them awesome. I love cliffs. The trails in that part of the national park were incredibly inviting, but eventually I had to turn back.

As I headed back towards Wentworth Falls Station, I noticed that there was indeed more water in the river and on the path. The path now resembled a tributary stream, with long stretches of flowing water. The parts that had been ankle-deep were now deeper and many other parts were ankle-deep. I discovered that there was a limit to walking in a stream with impunity, as my boots soaked through.

The river had risen as well. A sandbank that I had walked onto for a better view of some rapids was now underwater - by about 10 cm. The river must have risen 20 cm in places. The rapids that had had a good flow before were now raging torrents.

I walked back briskly and entered a cafe near the train station. As I was dripping on the floor, a barista said to me, "You want a hot drink, don't you." It was not a question.

I took off my soaked jacket and overtrousers and took out my tablet, phone and changer. Thank goodness I had not brought my camera. Everything was wet. However, I was lucky as well as I was ill-prepared - everything still worked. I wrote this blog post on the tablet.

There was a group of people leaving the cafe as I explained to the barista how beautiful my experience had been. One of the women said to me, "I have a spare umbrella in my car. May I give it to you?" People are so kind and amazing.

As I sat on the train to Sydney, it occurred to me that I had never before been in a situation where everything I had was soaked. On hikes and scout camps, no matter how much it rained, I would have some spare dry clothes to change into. Now everything was wet, even the sleeping bag I had with me that I snuggled into to keep warmer on the air-conditioned train. (Some people looked at me strangely, but that's ok.) It all started with me leaving my backpack cover on my floor at home and continued with me not asking for plastic bags to put my things into until I got to the cafe. There I asked for two plastic bags to put my miraculously survived electronics into.

I realised just how important it is to have dry clothes. I would not have any until I got home or the clothes on my back dried. Underwear takes an awfully long time to dry through all the layers.

The Wentworth Falls were worth all of it. The view was just breathtaking, the most beautiful thing I've seen in Australia so far. I will carry this memory with me wherever I go.

An experience not for the faint-hearted

I spent a week in Fiji. There’s only one experience that’s really worth writing about. I spent a night, two days in the Fijian mountains with a Fijian farming family. Here are the characters of the story:

The horse man. His job is to sell horse rides on the Wailoaloa beach, where the backpacker resorts are. This is how I ended up going to the farm in the first place.

The nephew, though a few years older than the horse man, who is his uncle. The nephew’s daughter, two years old, and his wife, who did not speak English. 

The old man, the horse man’s father, living out his days with his family.

The horse man’s brother, the owner of the place, I never met; he had had an asthma attack and had been taken to hospital in Nadi the night before I came to the farm. He stayed there for several nights. His wife, who sold vegetables in the market and could understand English but did not speak it.

One prearranged morning I met the horse man at Bamboo Backpackers and we took a taxi into Nadi. We walked around the market, he bought some food and bartered for a carrier to the mountains. Riding in the back, I got a glimpse of Fijian life; gravel roads, no seat belts, a cooling breeze going through the compartment. 

That first morning nothing much happened. It was hot, we lay in the shade and talked and napped. I put on suncream and insect repellent. The nephew’s wife made us food, with lots of chilli, and we drank milk tea from tin cups. We sat on the floor and ate with our fingers. We dipped into the river to wash off the sweat. It was, as the locals call it, Fiji time.

The family was of Indian descent. They spoke their own language (which they themselves called “Indian”) and didn’t distinguish between ‘he’ and ‘she’. They were Muslims, though the only external indications of this were the veils that the women wore and the calendar of the Fiji Muslim League on the wall. The food was Indian: curry, roti and puri, dahl soup. With so much fresh chilli. My stomach roiled for two days afterwards.

Roti, rice and spinach curry.

Making puri on a wood-burning stove.

The house was large, built of corrugated iron sheets and stone. The kitchen was a separate stone structure, to reduce the risk of a fire spreading to the rest of the house. The toilet was a pit, with slabs of concrete around the hole to squat on and corrugated iron sheets as screens. The house was definitely not mosquito proof, but more about that later. This experience was definitely not for the faint-hearted.

There were five dogs, definitely not pets. I didn’t see anyone touch them, not even the little girl, and the dogs got out of people’s way as soon as they approached. Chickens roamed the place, getting shooed away if they tried to come indoors. The chicks were kept in a cage until big enough to roam around with their parents. Goats had a large pasture to roam in during the day, being shut into their goat house at night. The small kids could squeeze through the fence, but they didn’t wander far.

In the afternoon the nephew came back from the hospital, where he had stayed with his father. He was the farmer of the family. He loved his goats, his bulls, his horse. He loved the mountains. He had worked in Suva, the capital, for a few years, but then came back to the land he loved. 

He took me to the waterfall that was the promised attraction of the trip. I rode bareback and with a rope halter on a 23-year-old mare. We left the horse tied to a tree at the top of the waterfall and clambered down, barefoot, over rocks and on an overgrown path to the bottom, where huge boulders sat in the stream. It was the beginning of the dry season and it hadn’t rained in a while, so the stream was only a trickle. We followed it down a ways, it was beautiful. He had a drink from the stream, I was too paranoid about catching a stomach bug.

 

View from the top of the waterfall.

Following the river.

Riding back from the waterfall.

In the evening, we had more Indian food and after that, kava. Kava is a popular drink in Fiji; it is made from the roots of the kava plant and has sedative and anaesthetic properties - and according to Wikipedia, also euphoriant and entheogenic properties, but I didn’t experience these. I could, however, feel my tongue going numb. 

Kava roots being sold in the market in Nadi.

I had been told that kava is the most disgusting drink ever invented (or words to that effect), but I didn’t think so. I actually rather enjoyed the taste; the earthiness of it brought me closer to the land. Spiritual nonsense, perhaps.

I didn’t sleep much that night. As the house was not mosquito proof, I hid underneath my blanket. And when I say hid, I really mean it. I only kept a small opening through which to breathe, otherwise I was covered head to toe. The problem was that it was incredibly hot. A few times I sat up for a few seconds to cool down, then it was under the blanket again. Once, I got up and went outside. It was blessedly cool. The landscape was hidden from view in the dark, but I could see the stars and the milkyway. It was beautiful and peaceful and if it hadn’t been for the mosquitoes I could have stayed there for hours.

Spot the Southern Cross.

The next morning, the first task was to fetch water. The nephew caught his working bulls and harnessed them in front of the water drum, which sat on an old car tyre. Then he drove the bulls to the waterhole. Literally, that’s what it was: a hole dug into the ground which tapped the water table. A well, in other words, though with no supporting structure around it. The nephew drew water with a bucket. The water looked clear despite the muddy environment and I felt obliged to have a drink of it for courtesy’s sake. I did not get ill. 

Fetching water.

After that, it was ploughing the field next to the house. The bulls pulled the iron plough round and round the field. I had a go at it and, unsurprisingly, it was hard work and required a substantial amount of coordination between directing the bulls (especially around the corners) and keeping the plough upright and digging into the ground. The nephew told me that his dream is to have a farm with one tractor and one car.

 

The horse man had a three-hour nap after “second breakfast” (a meal around 10 am), so again it was the nephew who took me for a horse ride. We went up the road to a high spot, from where you could see the whole mountain landscape. We sat there, the horse tethered to a tree, and talked about life in Fiji, families and marriage, plans for the future. The brother, who was still in hospital, called his son and wanted to talk to me. He asked me whether I had had a nice stay to which I replied, “Your son has taken good care of me and I love the mountains.” I wished him a speedy recovery. 

That afternoon a carrier picked up me and the horse man and he returned to Nadi, I carried on to the next valley and the (by comparison) luxurious Stoney Creek resort.

Privilege. I know this next list may seem like a list of clichés, but I’m trying to give you a sense of my own feelings when I spent two days with a farming family in Fiji. Even though we know what poverty is and that, for the most part, our own material existence is pretty well guaranteed, being surrounded by constant reminders of small and large privileges has a curious psychology. How to balance the feeling of powerlessness with the urge to do what you can to help? How to maintain respect and build friendship rather than succumb to either pity or anguish? 

Privilege is having two pairs of shoes and a pair of flip flops - and that’s just with me on the trip. Washing yourself in a hot shower rather than a river. Having another set of clothes to sleep in. Privilege is having a washing machine and owning a headlamp. Having a carpet rather than a sheet sewn together from old bags of “Punjas Flour”.

Privilege is having to say “I don’t actually have a smart phone” (which I had to repeat over and over in Finland) and digging out an old Nokia with a broken screen because I prefer it, rather than because the Nokia held together by tape is the only option. Privilege is the feeling of relief that I left the smart phone at home, so I could pretend I didn’t have one. 

Privilege is being able to flick the lights on without having to first turn on the diesel generator. And not having to listen to the noise of my electricity being produced. And being able to charge my mobile phone at any time of day rather than only in the evening, when the generator is switched on for lighting. 

Privilege is not having to worry about the $15 that the asthma inhaler costs. Claiming to be “the poor student” on holiday in Fiji.

Privilege is being able to walk to the supermarket and buy cucumbers, rather than having to wait until the ones you planted are ripe and picking them in the dark using a borrowed headlamp. 

Privilege is being handed the pencil when writing down a phone number is too arduous for a 36-year-old man who only went to school for three years.

There is a certain kind of privilege also in living in Fiji time, owning a waterfall and being surrounded by gorgeous mountain views. I still know exactly which kind of privilege I would rather have.

Mine is the privilege of choice.

Sugar cane and the house.