Many Rivers To Cross (Wunambal Gaambera country, Mitchell Plateau, King Edward River, Mitchell Falls Wilderness Lodge, WA)

Despite the thin walls, dear reader, we had a relatively good night's sleep. The continuing issue is connectivity. Even in areas that profess wifi internet access, the speed is reminiscent of the old dial-up days and not commensurate with NBN or satellite speeds. Access may be available but the bandwidth was as narrow as my appreciation of country music. Actually, no, that's non-existent. It was as narrow as Dutton's vision for Australia, no, also non-existent. As narrow as a racist's understanding of Indigenous culture. And as frustrating.

By now, my astute reader, you will have realised that I am in fact not in the wilds of Western Australia, admiring the endless blue sky of the Kimberley. I am sitting in the comfort of  my own home in Sydney. The long days, lack of connectivity and the corrugated roads severely limited my ability to blog on a daily basis. Now that I am home and following my own timeline, I am catching up with the blog.

There were flowers everywhere.

The first stop today was at Munurru campsite for morning tea where we met some very cheeky pied butcherbirds who were so tame as to expect to be fed by passing tourists. As soon as they saw us eating, down they flew and waited expectantly until they were fed by hand. Sorry, no pictures.

Zarieka explaining the story.

This is Wunambal Gaambera country and we were here to visit the Wandjina rock art site through which we were escorted by a local indigenous ranger.  It is quite amazing the number of 'indigenous experiences' we have had over the years that were conducted by non-indigenous guides. As Capes (our indigenous guide) said at Monkey Mia when telling his story, only those from country have the right to tell their story, so it was gratifying to meet Zarieka (I hope the spelling is correct) and hear some of the stories related to the art.

Of course the Bradshaw art movement was named by a white fella, after himself, because he was the first European to see this particular style. He wasn't an artist, just someone with a big ego.

Wandjina. Spirit beings.

Zarieka told the story of how the scaly-tailed possum got his scaly tail and how the echidna got his spikes. As always there is a lesson behind the story and the moral of this one is not to steal. The echidna was trying to steal the possum's food and was caught and pushed from the pandanus tree. As he fell he gripped the possum's tail and tore the skin from it. He landed on his back on the spiky pandanus. These became his spikes and he was destined to walk the ground and never climb again - as punishment from the Wandjina.

The echidna.

After an informative tour of the rock art site, we went to the Ranger Station where we were able to purchase books about the artworks and dreaming stories as well as T-shirts. We already possess a book on Gwion Gwion Art so we bought an illustrated version of the possum and echidna story and a T-shirt. You know I can't resist.

Back in the truck we drove back to Munurru campsite for lunch by the King Edward River and the mandatory refreshing dip. The King Edward was just one of multiple river crossings spawning today's title from a favourite, Linda Ronstadt from her 1975 album Prisoner in Disguise. There was even a metal pool ladder attached to the rock ledge to allow for easy access between the water and land. It was another beautiful vista which we shared with three families travelling together and one unfortunate couple who were invaded by the rest of us. Jayne sat down to enjoy lunch and was asked by the couple next to her where we had been. I could see the questioning look on her face and told her that they were not a part of our tour. "Oh," she exclaimed laughing. "I thought it was strange that someone from our group would ask where we've been." 

Before the peace was shattered.

Downstream from the swimming hole was another waterfall and the evidence of the impact of the wet season on the surrounding area. Sandstone rock polished smooth by the relentless force of the water.

The falls beyond the pool.

The other entertainment for the afternoon was a Wedge-tailed Eagle slowly climbing the thermal air currents high into the sky, being pursued by two ravens. It was amusing because the ravens appeared to be quite earnest in their attempt to drive the eagle away and it was totally unconcerned and leaving their airspace anyway.

I heard something in there ... no I did not investigate.

After a relaxing lunch and swim, we boarded the bus to once again re-acquaint ourselves with corrugated roads and red dust as we drove to Mitchell Falls Wilderness Lodge, another tented, glamping accommodation site owned by APT. The wifi proved as woeful as we all expected, but, just over the ridge was an Aboriginal community and they used Optus. As do I. Happy days, I could at least hotspot in our tent.

Until next time.

Prisoner in Disguise - Fiji, Malolo Island, Musket Cove

There has been one constant battle since we arrived, dear reader, and that is us versus insects. I mentioned earlier the midges that make life uncomfortable from time to time. We have fought skirmishes with mozzies and other biting bugs. A can of Aeroguard, (I told Jayne we didn’t need to bring insect repellent), at the local supermarket cost about the same as the GDP for Tasmania. Money well spent when you consider how Jayne’s skin reacts to bites from the scheming little blood suckers. The damage is done; all we can do now is prevent further attacks.

Last evening, as we were preparing to leave for dinner, I thought I could hear the silvan sounds of a leaf blower. If ever you doubted the existence of evil in this world, you have not heard a leaf blower early in the morning. Peering through the louvres of the bathroom as the sound became louder, I espied a man walking along the road wearing a large backpack that contained some chemical which he was blowing onto the shrubs and into the undergrowth. Even now as I write this, I have a strange taste in my mouth. Given the state of Jayne’s bites, one can only imagine that we would have been carried off the island by the bugs, had this preventative measure not been in place.

A frangipani that has not been sacrificed for personal wear.

Today promises a reprieve from the heat. Not with a drop in temperature but with a rising wind. It provided respite yesterday afternoon and made for a much more pleasant evening. The adventure today, aside from anything the Musket Cove people have planned, is to walk to the eastern side of the island. Making this simple idea a complexity, rivalling the Burke and Wills expedition, is that (a) the map runs out before we reach our destination, (b) the map is not to scale and (c) there is a spine of possibly insurmountable mountains/hills running through the centre of the island. My best guess is the road runs parallel to the airstrip, similar to Lord Howe Island, meaning it is the lowest, flattest point of egress. Time will tell.

Breakfast brought the mundane. The cat came to visit, mooching unsuccessfully for food from our table. Jayne returned to type and her second successive omelette. We logged into the wi-fi and cleared rubbish email, hoping for an email from Lotto. The cat and I have something in common. Neither of us got we wanted.

The post-breakfast walk proved as I believed it would. The road was flat and stretched from one side of the island to the other down the length of the airstrip. While the wind was predicted to get up in the afternoon, it was still around 15 kph in the morning and we were walking straight into it. Any thoughts of swimming on the eastern side of island dissipated as we were buffeted by the growing wind.

The road petered out about half-way down the airstrip and ended where the staff accommodation was situated. No, dear reader, not on the airstrip, on our side of it. The track beyond was boggy and we were forced to create our own path. Reaching the beach was anticlimactic. The tide was still reasonably high so there was precious little sand. The blustery conditions were not conducive to enjoying time on the sand. It was totally exposed which is why all the resorts are on the other side of the island. It offered views of the main island and Cloud 9 which is as close as I care to get to it.

The Eastern beach

Proceed with caution. Rant ahead.

The most disconcerting thing, though, was pollution. To be specific: plastic pollution. I walked a section of beach maybe 100 metres in length. In that short walk I came across: lego, pegs, a washing basket, a nail brush, a tooth brush, margarine containers, bags, bottle caps, bottles, Tupperware lids, chip, Twistie and noodle packets, an asthma puffer, parts of children’s toys, buckets, lolly containers and a toilet cistern. A cistern! Complete with internal workings. All plastic. And that is limited to the detritus I could recognise and remember. 

The Eastern beach looking south

It is an absolute crime that we cannot look after our planet. It’s a self-evident statement, I know, but then look at the climate deniers that inhabit Australian politics and adopt a position purely because they believe it will gain them votes. If I was 40 years younger, I’m not sure I would want to bring children into a world where it is hard to see hope of a positive future. We are being screwed by the quest for power by people who don’t know what to do with it when they gain it and a distortion of capitalism that equates greed and excess with success. Sorry. I’ll step down from my soapbox now and go for a walk and calm down a bit.

Still not over it.

On the walk back from the Eastern beaches, we were caught unawares by a resort worker, presumably on his way to his shift, who sailed past us on his bicycle, calling out the usual greeting, “Bula!”, just as we reached a sign that warned no bicycles beyond this point.

As we continued into the resort precinct, we stopped to check out the “What’s on?” notice board for the daily update of activities. Adult activities today – “Relax.” Child activities today – “Relax.” Well, it is Sunday…

A couple of dips in the lagoon, a cocktail at Dick’s Place, where dinner is served and that was about the day. As we sit on the verandah and read and watch the day while away, the distant noise of a dance party at the Plantation Resort is pushing across the water on the back of the afternoon breeze. A dance party. Well, I assume that is what’s happening; mostly all I can hear is a thumping baseline. Although the lyrics and cheers associated with the Macarena are quite audible. The Macarena? Wasn’t that the 90s? Move on people. It is obvious, dear reader, that we have landed at the right resort.

The remainder of the day was spent reading. Although Jayne did remark, when I suggested she join me on the verandah, that she was worried about the biting bugs and felt like a prisoner. "A prisoner in disguise," I quipped, hence today’s title. A track from the (1975) Linda Ronstadt album of the same name. Classic stuff. I produced the $17 can of Aeroguard so Jayne could rejoin the world.

That brings us to dinner. Sitting on the verandah as the dinner hour approached, there was an inordinate number of people heading in the wrong direction. Hmmm. Was this to be the surprise today? Dinner at a different venue? Just to be sure, I walked down to Dick’s Place. They were set up for dinner. All good.

In the meantime, we learned that Dan had sold our car. Don’t panic, dear reader, it was already for sale; he was looking after enquiries while we are away. A reason to celebrate, tonight it would be champagne with dinner. 

Yes, it was another buffet, but it was pizza and pasta night. Happy days. After scoffing pizza and pasta, I thought I should lighten the evening and balance my meal with some salad. A couple of scoops of tomato later I was back at the table. My first mouthful was surprising. What I thought was tomato and feta actually turned out to be watermelon and I know not what. Regardless it was refreshing. A few minutes later Jayne overheard the conversation at the next table. Someone also thought it was tomato.

It was very quiet tonight, comparatively. When I remarked on this to one of the staff, she replied, “It’s always quiet on Sunday.” The people in the burés either side of us appear to have moved on. However, the Island Bar has attracted a larger than normal crowd and their laughter and merriment is carrying across the water.

The sun has set. The colour has gone from the sky. The stars are resplendent. There is a gentle breeze keeping us cool. It’s 8pm and almost bedtime. The real world is only a few sleeps away.

Until next time.