Crocodile Rock (Arnhem Land, East Alligator River, Hawk Dreaming, NT)

I know you've been waiting for this title dear reader, it was an inevitability given all the references to crocodiles. At some point I had to go with the obvious and reference Elton John's classic song from 1973. You know you love it, enjoy. And yes, I'm pretty certain I've used it before but with almost 400 posts I'm not backtracking to see where or when.

Before I dive too deeply into today's exploits I just wanted to make an observation or two. Firstly, some of my commentary will probably be overtly political in the remaining few posts. Yes, I know, my long suffering reader, I have always been political. I'm just flagging it. If you don't like my politics, well, too bad, it's my blog, write your own or go watch Sky News.

Secondly, since we crossed the border into the NT, one of the major differences between here and WA has become blindingly obvious. In the NT, the legacy, the history and story of the first peoples of Australia are put right to the fore and celebrated. In WA it appears as an afterthought or at best, tokenism. Except in Durack country. Nothing existed before the Duracks. I'm sure I read that in Genesis.

As supporting evidence of my previous assertion, I tender the expected announcement, as reported by the ABC this week, from the WA Government (Labour ... shame) to repeal the Aboriginal Cultural Heritage Act 2023. It was enacted in July 1, 2023. Last month. They are reverting to the previous act that allowed the destruction of Jukkan Gorge by Rio Tinto. Cool and normal.

Anyway ... you've been warned.

We had something close to a sleep in, a 7am breakfast. Luxury, particularly after the excitement of our smoke alarm. The local blue-winged kookaburras were hanging around hoping for some kitchen scraps. It was not to be.

They are so much more colourful in flight.

Today we are travelling from Kakadu, across the East Alligator River, into Arnhem Land. Our regular guides were getting some well deserved downtime and we were punted to a "local" guide. Local is an interesting word. He was local to the extent that he had lived in the NT and was available, but not local in that he now lived on the NSW north coast and was born and raised in Sydney.

Like most of the guides we had come across, he was well versed in information to share about the local wildlife, the indigenous art works, the geography of the area and so on. He was also happy to share his thoughts on the upcoming Voice referendum as well as his perspective on the Aboriginal people. While everyone is entitled their own twist on how they view the world, it never ceases to amaze me how many people in this country want to make money out of the Aboriginal history and culture of this land and yet are happy to deride them. I've seen and heard it so often before. It is tedious. And generally ill informed.

It's the same with the misinformation being spread about the Voice. No really. OK, not now.

The truck/bus we were spending our day in, was not as big as our regular vehicle so two of us had the fortune, good or otherwise, to travel upfront. The roads in Arnhem Land weren't any better than any others we'd been on recently but being in the front cabin made the ride marginally smoother. Greg, my co-passenger and I decided we would coordinate our body/head sways lest we collide and give each other concussion. We rocked. We rolled. We bounced. We survived. Unharmed. Greg (not the driver) is a champion.

Sandstone worn smooth by the original inhabitants.

We crossed the East Alligator River at Cahills Crossing, a causeway that notoriously attracts tourists who are keen to be crocodile bait. I would have waited to watch that, but we were on a timeline. The river is so named because explorers were often stupid, oh sorry, poorly educated. This incorrect naming of the river system because of a lack of knowledge has remained unchanged. Why? The usual bureaucracy. When it was realised that the animals in the water were crocs, not alligators, some bean-counting desk-jockey said it would too difficult and expensive to change the name. So it remains. Gotta love Straya.

It's very different country in Arnhem Land.

First stop after crossing the river was to view some indigenous art. This country is so different. Sandstone cliffs and plains that go on forever. Waterways that look tranquil but harbour hungry locals. Real locals, not those visiting, armed with a rote-learned script. It's best not to ask too many questions, going off-script can induce panic. Or bullshit. Or both.

I'm just pretending not to notice you. Come closer.

There is an obvious shift in the style of painting from the Gwion Gwion art of the Kimberley to what is often referred to as x-ray art because of the incredible amount of detail included in the work.

Barramundi. Yum.

Arnhem Land, like most of the country we have travelled through, is stunning. It is home to an amazing array of flora and fauna. It is also home to burgeoning numbers of feral animals. I mentioned the cane toads earlier, today we saw wild horses and buffalo. While we didn't see any feral pigs, although the damage they cause is evident everywhere and has a major impact on the condition of the roads.

Are you looking at me?

It seemed like there were artworks on every rock surface, telling the story of generation after generation of the first inhabitants of Australia. Around 65,000 years of continuous association with the land. Absolutely amazing and yet we dismiss it out of hand. We get more excited about pyramids or some aqueducts built by the Romans. It is high time we recognised our own people and the contribution they have made to the world. A population that lived in harmony with the land and the water, until Europeans arrived. They have much to teach us still and we have so much to learn.

One area we visited had been tagged as the Indigenous Olympic site because it was where spear throwing contests were held. I can't vouch for the validity of this, but the rock they aimed at had multiple spear points embedded high up in a crevice. It might not have been the Olympics, but it would have taken skill, talent, athleticism and strength to leave a spear point behind in the rock.

Look closely. Truly amazing!

Around us, as we travelled in different areas of Arnhem Land, the cool burns continued and smoke rose lazily in the distance to remind us that land was still being cared for by its original owners. 

We stopped at Gunbalanya to check out the art gallery and to have lunch by the river. It was a beautiful spot and the water was enticing on such a hot day. While we couldn't see the crocodiles, we knew they were there and were probably watching, as we enjoyed a meal of Pad Thai noodles, again provided by the talented Rung.

Not as tempting as it seems.

Back on the road, we visited more art sites on the way back to Kakadu and Hawk Dreaming where we were staying.

Speaks for itself.

While I enjoyed Arnhem Land immensely, I would have been much happier had our guide been indigenous. I don't know why this tends to be a rare occurrence, but an indigenous guide adds so much more to the experience. Their reflection, their thoughtfulness in every response, the fact that they are not just parroting a learned script, makes such a difference. If you doubt that, ask a guide a question that takes them off-script. A good guide will admit their deficit of knowledge. Most will bluster, bullshit and carry on. I've travelled with both. The latter is more common. Sadly. However, you can't challenge them, no, no, no. That's how the system works. You just sit quietly and know they are wrong.

A grindstone below one of the artwork overhangs.

Our day was not done yet. After a brief respite we were heading to the rock formation that gave its name to the lodge, Hawk Dreaming. Before that, Rung decided to put some food out for the Blue-winged Kookaburras. That got me very excited. And, just quietly, pretty happy with the photos below.

Is that the dinner bell?

Watch your fingers.

Brilliant colours.

Hawk Dreaming, the lodge, was named after the Whistling Kites that constantly circle the nearby outcrop of sandstone. There are areas of rock art around the region, reflecting the indigenous habitation and involvement in their country. One more recent piece of art depicted the plane from a Qantas advertisement from the 1950s, clearly demonstrating continuous association with the land.

Not a hawk, or a kite in sight.

The photo doesn't capture it very well. Qantas.

We then moved to a nearby rock platform to enjoy the changing colours, as the sun went down. And a couple of glasses of wine. It is just such special country. Seriously, if you get the opportunity do it. 

Nice place for a sunset drink. Swimming not advised.

Then it was time to head back to the lodge for another sensational Thai dinner prepared by Rung. After dinner, it was time for some formalities. Tonight, while not the final dinner, would be the last occasion when our tour group would be together in a venue that was exclusively for our use.

Our elder statesman, Ken, spoke eloquently on behalf of us all, acknowledging our guides as well as our fellow travellers. After this, it was time to retire to prepare for tomorrow and the final leg of our adventure, heading into Darwin and back to civilisation.

Bobo.

Bombora (Hamilton Island)

Welcome to day three my dear reader. All the photos in this post were taken yesterday in the intermittent afternoon sun. It gave old Hammo an opportunity to show herself off a bit.

Looking down the hill at the marina

The pattern was set yesterday and we are adhering to it, at least for today. The Stone Curlews returned around dawn to serenade us. Oh, you don't know what a Stone Curlew sounds like my inquiring reader? Click here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qi1GX_VRaM0 I'm sure that will rectify the deficit in your knowledge of this Australian bird.

There was rain overnight, but today is proving the best to date. We had our breakfast in our room watching the fast moving clouds, occasional shower and the build up of people on the beach. 

Easter, it would appear, is not the time to travel to Hamilton Island. The weather is not ideal, well at least at this time, and it is very, very crowded. Perhaps the confluence of Easter and the Queensland school holidays has facilitated this, but all I know is that every restaurant we have tried to book has had nothing available. Or if they did it was at 8:30pm or later. As I am sure you realise my dedicated reader, I am turning 60 later this year and 8:30pm is my bed time - far too late to be entertaining dinner. Anyway eating that late will give you nightmares. We did have two restaurants organised for dinner, the Beach Club on our first night and Bommie tonight. (Hence today's title, Bombora by The Atlantics, a classic surf song from the '60s). Both were booked from Sydney two weeks ago. I'm supposed to be on a relaxing holiday - who thinks about booking dinner two weeks in advance?

When the tide goes out, it really goes out.

But I digress. Breakfast was lovely. We then continued in relaxation mode on the verandah - reading. Time for some activity. We walked the beach, thankfully the tide was at mid-point so there was plenty of sand. The crowds seemed a little smaller than yesterday, either that or the hordes of marauding, noisy children were amusing themselves with activities away from the beach. A wander into town supported the theory the children were not around. If it was the Pied Piper, I would happily pay the fee.

After calculating the wardrobe requirements for the remainder of our time, it became apparent I would be one shirt shy if we jagged a lunch or dinner reservation at the Golf Club or the like. Resort casual means a collar. Why not go all the way and insist on a tie as well. The fashion police are alive and well. A shopping expedition was incorporated into our morning walk and I am now the owner of a new Oakley shirt.

Glad I bought my reef shoes

Back at the resort, it's time to read on the verandah and contemplate the most serious problem for the day. What time to open the champagne? We have dinner at 6:30 tonight so the bubbles need to be moved forward.

Lunch is champagne and a charcuterie plate on the verandah, listening to the waves, background noise from the beach and rustling palms fronds as they sway in the breeze. If I close my eyes and ignore the sound of the palms I am transported back to my teenage years lying on Elouera or North Wollongong Beach being lulled to sleep by the waves, drowsing in and out of consciousness, thinking about life changing issues, like girls and sex and when I'll go and get some chips and a can of Passiona, the sun baking me brown. The only thing missing is the smell of coconut oil and the crackle of the loud speaker playing Crocodile Rock by Elton John. Ah the good old days. If I'd known then what I know now, I'd have been sitting in the shade under the kiosk verandah, covered with a towel avoiding the skin cancers I have cultivated so carefully over my lifetime.

The charcuterie plate was delightful; prosciutto, salami, grilled zucchini, eggplant, pickled onions, greens, sour dough and sun dried tomato relish. The champagne of course, was the highlight. The rain came and left again. The sun has returned and the tide is still slowly ebbing away. Perhaps time for a siesta before the next round of activity.

Skippy having an afternoon feed

Siesta time was interrupted by tonight's favoured restaurant calling to confirm our booking. Our 6:30 reservation is now 7:15 and ... you are aware, it is the degustation sir? ... yes, that's fine ... and of course we have a dress code: no thongs, no beach wear and no singlets ... of course, do you mind if I go commando? ... and one more thing sir, purred the British accent, only people carrying Queensland passports or photographs of Joh Bjelke-Petersen or Clive Palmer are welcome. Long live the the right wing and white shoe brigade! I'm not really sure why I'm dining here, it really doesn't suit me. The last restaurant to question me about a dress code missed out on my dollars. Yes, I do have a jacket and no I'm not wearing to suit you (see what I did there?) - that was Dallas, Texas. The dining post-mortem will be posted tomorrow.

Until then.

It was so then, still not sure about the high rise.

Sorry seems to be the hardest word

We are back together dear reader and once again I am voyaging into the unknown. Are you able to discern from the title of this post where I might be headed? There are many song references using the word sorry, I don't think I will exhaust them all. This is an Elton John classic from 1976. I was still in high school. So young. I digress. Yes, the sorry word should be enough to indicate that Jayne and I are travelling to Canada to celebrate the boy wonder's 30th birthday. Where does the time go?

I've never really been a fan of shopping at airports, the exception being duty free alcohol. However, Jayne's birthday is next week and I've been looking for a suitable red handbag for a while. Last week breezing through Sydney Domestic I espied a range of bags at Oroton and that is where we headed after negotiating security. Birthday present sorted. Two beautiful red bags, a tote bag and a crossbody bag.

As is my want, this first post is coming to you from the Qantas Lounge at Sydney International. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves because our flight has just been delayed by an hour. That puts at risk our connection in LA and that is the last place in the world I want to be stranded. Anyway, as tradition dictates it's time for pre-flight bubbles. Yes, it is before 8am and I don't care. Cheers.

Flying to Thailand for work earlier in the year the flight was delayed by 4 hours. I had a connection to make to Laos. When we arrived there was someone waiting to escort me to the gate and we ran through the airport to make the connection. I arrived in Vientiane sans luggage. My previous experience with LAX indicates there will be no such customer service. And because it's paranoid America our bags aren't being checked through. Oh yay! I hear you say, security check! More time swallowed by security. I am not confident of making the connection.

An old adage in public speaking suggested you should always begin with a joke. So, let's try to bring that into blogging shall we? Here goes: One day Canada will rule the whole world ... then you'll all be sorry! 

I'm sorry? You didn't get it. Never mind, but in the next three weeks we shall truly find out if the Canadians are as polite as stereotypes suggest or if it is myth. We might count the number of 'sorries' we hear in a given period. Very scientific. I could even graph them to cater to the numerate side of your brain. 

To the itinerary. Sadly we fly Sydney to LA. LA airport is my least favourite place on the planet. Happily we are flying Qantas in Premium Economy. Jayne wouldn't let me "waste money" on Business Class. Sad face. We have a connecting flight from LA to Vancouver, or Van, as the locals refer to it. We have a few nights in Van and Jayne celebrates her birthday there. Sorry folks, no numbers, there are some things a gentleman never reveals. Nothing to see here. Move on please. Then it's out to Vancouver Island to explore Van's playground. Whales, bears, wineries, gardens all the usual things you look for in a holiday. I'm not sure about the food, but I'll return to that in later posts.

From the island it's back to the mainland and up to Whistler where Dan has been living for almost 2 years. It will be good to see what the attraction is. Everyone tells me Canada is beautiful, well Australia is beautiful too and it's not a 14 hour plane flight just to see your son. #justsaying. We'll be in Whistler for Dan's 30th, staying at the Lodge where he used to work. We might pop in for a spa at his new workplace as well.

Then it is into the wilds of BC in search of Dudley Do-Right of the Mounties. "Don't worry Nell, my horse will save you" (google it kids, actually I'll do it for you: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q83Jqd2h0Yg). A few days in Kelowna and then on to Banff to explore the Rockies. We end up in Edmonton via Calgary. We won't be able to do everything but Dan is adamant that he is staying in Canada, so I guess we'll have to alternate our European sojourns with visits to Canada.

So stay tuned my dear reader. I will, as always, attempt to post a new blog every day. Spending time with Dan is sure to provide a few laughs so take care not to spit your cornflakes across the table when you get to the funny bits.

Until tomorrow. Or whatever they say in Canada.