I’m now a certified SCUBA diver. Plus I’ve now had showers in two moving vehicles. But I get ahead of myself.

Cairns is a city set up for diving. No, really. Want to leave tomorrow at 7.45? No worries, you can book less than 12 hours in advance. Not certified? No worries. You can do escorted dives, “no school” scuba, or learn right on the Reef, no pool work required. But wait — you need a physical before you dive. No worries, there’s an office with docs 24 hours a day — no appointment required. (In my case total visit time was under 20 minutes.)

So it was that early Wednesday morning I took a ship out to Hastings Reef, on the outer Great Barrier Reef. The hour didn’t amuse me, but my outfit did. I’d donned a Nautica “Great Barrier Reef” shirt that had never been this close to the Reef, a pair of Ripcurl surfer thongs, and Billabong boardshorts. I’d chosen it all because I found the prospect of a landlocked Iowa boy decked out in the stuff to be delicious irony.

When we arrived at Hastings, I took a launch to the catamaran that would be my home for the next few days. I was doing a “personalised instruction” course that would allow me to get certified in a short amount of time.

After dumping my stuff in my room, I met my instructor, Damien. He was young, enthusiastic, and experienced as hell — over 4,000 dives before he stopped counting. Things were looking promising. He said we’d begin the instruction later in the day, and why don’t I go for a snorkel before we get into it?

So I did. And I sucked — water, that is. The trick to snorkeling is to get the head at the right angle (supposedly 45°) such that you can peer down whilst still drawing in air. That’s the theory, at least, but in practice it seemed to be that I was taking a mouthful of seawater every second breath. Since my brain was severely unimpressed by the concept of ducking my face underwater, and thus “every second breath” seemed to be quite rapid, I was taking in a lot of saline.

Then the fish came.

I was minding my own business, wishing I had one of those flash snorkels that have a purge valve at the bottom and a flap at the top, when I noticed this huge fish — and it noticed me. Its huge bugged-out eyes made it look permanently terrified, but its behavior was precisely the opposite: it made a bee-line towards me.

Now I won’t say I was scared, but I will note that I am unsure of the precise protocol as to how to behave when a big-ass fish suddenly seems to think he’s Sam the Wonder Dog coming for to carry me home.

Rapidly relocating seemed a sound choice — but did I mention I’m basically crap with fins? Yes, other than breathing, moving, and dealing with the wildlife, I’m a natural when it comes to bodies of water that can’t be found within a thousand miles of my hometown.

But I’ll tell you a little secret: scuba is actually easier than snorkeling. Once you get past the first few holy-crap-I’m-underwater moments, you don’t have to think about keeping your head a certain way or how to remove seawater from a particularly persistent wave.

And that’s how you’re free to focus on things such as Wally, my aforementioned fishy friend. Seems Wally actually “went mad” (as the Captain put it) a few years ago and will now come to the instructors when they raise their hands a certain way. Not that he needs to be called; as I found out, he’ll approach snorkelers, though he prefers divers. In both cases, he doesn’t mind one bit when you “pet” him. He really does think he’s a puppy.

The other life in and around Hastings and Saxon reefs wasn’t quite as tame, but still beautiful. I was able to experience it with Damien as we swam around over the course of 6 dives, taking in tons of fish, varied coral, the enchanting way that other divers’ air bubbles looked like drops of mercury — plus the odd shark and sea turtle.

It wasn’t all sight-seeing, as along with 3 Brit boys I did drills such as the “Controlled Emergency Swimming Ascent.” It wasn’t all diving, either, as I had plenty of homework to complete before I could get my card. (Including a few videos to watch on the ship’s WEGA. But I also managed to slip in some pleasure viewing from the onboard video library.)

Still it all seemed to go by quite quickly, and after a final lunch I was back on a launch, again headed to the “day boat” that would be my taxi to the mainland.

Once I climbed aboard, I noticed the vessel was doing a good business, with hardly an open bench to be found. I moved out to the bow and stood in the foremost part of the ship, which was empty. Soon it was clear why, as a bunch of spray from the port side drenched me. I looked up to the wheelhouse, where the crew was laughing, and I grinned right back — then flipped around, making motions as if to offer my dry side to the water. (I wasn’t convinced the first splash was pure chance.) Seconds later, I had no dry side. Unfortunately, this time I wasn’t wearing my boardshorts (which, I’d come to find out, have a purpose above merely being dead-sexy: they actually dry really fast.)

The logical approach when one is being buffeted by wind and surf is to get thee to shelter. However, as MJG once pointed out, one should never assume that I will always follow the logical course of action. I stayed planted right there, wind and water be damned.

Moments later, I was rewarded. I caught a glimpse of something long and silvery beneath me. It was a dolphin, skimming just beneath the surface, right in front of the ship. As I watched, the first was joined by another, and the pair zipped along together, closer to me than to any other person aboard. When they disappeared below, I looked up and caught the smiles and grins of the crew, who high up in the wheelhouse had been the only other people to notice the dolphins. I gave them a wide smile and a thumbs-up right back, thinking what a way to end my first visit to the Reef.

Note on photos: I took a roll, but they’re not so good. It’s a combination of too-fast film and too-slow operator. Plus I really needed a light source. The water leaches away color even more than I expected. In the photo of me, for example, the weight belt is actually hot pink, the snorkel an iridescent yellow, and I’m actually tan (well, burnt.)

Tomorrow I’m off to see the Great Barrier Reef for a few days. I’m hopeful it will be an awesome experience, and will provide a full report when I get back. Look for it Friday-ish.

Have a good week!

Ladies and gentlemen, my forearm.

OK. Yes, I am over 1,000 miles from the nearest Rugby World Cup game. But if you’re in Australia, you just can’t avoid it. So why not get a nice airbrushed “tattoo” and enjoy it? I chose Welsh Rugby Union, because they were the underdogs, and hell, I did live there. One less subtle gentleman who went before me chose FUCK ENGLAND, large enough to go almost ¾ of the way around his neck. (As he was all in green, I assume he was frustrated from Ireland’s loss to France earlier in the day.)

The whole World Cup thing is really a bit of a pain if you’re looking for accomodation in the city and haven’t planned ahead, but otherwise it’s good fun. The place is packed with people who’ve flown down just for that purpose — one guy I met flew 25 hours and didn’t even have tickets!

Anyway, it’s a fun time to be in the host country when it has such an international flavor.

Queenland is where Australians go on vacation. This afternoon, I jetted in to see what all the fuss is about. The timing was nice: despite warm days earlier in the week, Sydney was a bit brisk this morning. Up here in Cairns, however, the temp is much more accomodating. (The 10-day forecast, for example, predicts an overnight low that won’t drop below 72°F.)

I’m going to work my way down the east coast with the intention to land back in Sydney just before 25 Nov. To that end, I’ll be taking my first bus — probably on Sunday. You can bet I’m looking forward to that.

It’s been something of a week. Since Halloween, I’ve made it to bed before 5 once (and that was 3.30.) There was the Halloween party, the pub crawl, the Matrix showing…

…but I get ahead of myself. Monday was the quiz, for the first time in a long time. Keef rang* and suggested we give it a go, and it turned out quite well. True, we didn’t win. But the pair of us did place second, with a 47. (Winners: 47½.) Keef found it amusing that while I knew “the local (i.e., correct) name for the Italian cities Venice and Florence” immediately, I didn’t get beyond “New Jersey” for “Which state is immediately to the north and which is immediately to the south of New York state on the Atlantic seaboard?”

What can I say? I’m a man of the world, not Connecticut.

Tuesday: another day, another quiz. This one was insufferable, with a quizmaster named “Pommy Andy.” I’ll veer off here from complaining about Andy’s tendency to, say, belch into the microphone, and instead note the Australians’ strange embrace of “POM.” One source claims the original term came from the convicts who were the first Europeans to settle here. Supposedly they were branded Prisoners Of Mother England. Snopes doubts this. Whatever the term’s origin, it is now widely applied to Brits, for which they are less than grateful.

The Wednesday following the quiz was shaping up to be a rather laid-back one, until someone pointed out that the 6am LA time (1400 GMT) worldwide premiere of Matrix meant a 1am AEDT showing in Sydney. I’d long planned to see the picture, filmed in Australia (and ending with credits thanking Sydney and the NSW Film Office) here at the world’s largest IMAX. But as a cursory comparison of IMAX.com and IMAX.com.au will show you, it’s not playing here. Damnit. (George at IMAX: “It’s just too expensive to run.” I guess Bugs in 3D is the bigger moneymaker.)

After the movie, Gotham felt like roaming around Sydney until the trains started running again (at 5.33), so I obliged for as long as I could. After all, I won’t be seeing him again until I get back on 29 Nov. But more on that later.

* …Simon, who rang me and then waited for Keef to ring him back. Hands up if you think Keef needs a mobile.

Several of you have reached out and touched in the past few weeks, for which I am quite grateful. One of the snappier sentiments forms the headline for this page.

Sorry about the lack of news of late, but I’ve been a bit boring. Took in a few more cities, but generally kept a low profile. Since then I’ve returned to Sydney and have been plowing into some work in advance of a 1 November contract milestone.

Not to worry, however — the site is far from dead, with November fully scheduled and December starting to fill up. Stick with me a few more days for the details.

Oh, and Happy Halloween.

The shuttle dropped me off at the hostel at 8.45, which gave me just enough time to drop into an internet café and see if anyone had e-mailed me recently (thanks, Matt!) Soon enough it was time to pop back, as another bus with another trailer was coming to pick me up as well as a guy I met on the Rock trip.

What were Tom and I off to do? Why, quad riding in the Outback, of course!

And what a blast we had. The two-hour trip involved a nice variety of terrain, and a small group size (just four of us plus the owner/guide.) Ripping through the desert, we threw up huge dust clouds, against which I employed my visor just in time — barely three seconds after I first pulled it down, a large insect slammed into the plastic just in front of my left eye.

I started just behind the leader, but eventually worked my way to the back of the pack. This was in part because I wanted to let other people ride in different positions, but also because I quite enjoyed falling back for awhile, getting some distance, and then balling that jack to the max to catch up. It was just totally invigorating, and I had a great time.

Judging by the "after" picture*, it also looked like I got a great tan, so caked with red dust was I. (But you should see the other guy.)

Anyway, dust be damned, it was so worth it.

* I’d post it, but I blinked. So it’s a bit sub-sly. If you still want to see it, just e-mail.

Four. Fucking. Fifteen.

That is the ungodly hour at which I was going to be picked up for my latest adventure, making it the third day in a row I was on the road before 5. This time it wasn’t a drive down Stuart but a smaller trek out of town in a bus with a large trailer, upon which sat the morning’s vessel.

I was going ballooning.

I’m not sure what the logic was behind our brutally early departure time — something about the winds and seeing the sunrise — but once again I was shocked at how mind-boggingly cold it was in the Outback. I was wearing jeans, a jacket, sneaks and socks and still I shivered as we all got out of the bus and pitched in to unfurl the "envelope."

I ducked back into the bus to try to warm up, but by this time the pilots had finish deploying huge fans to fill the envelopes and were making use of the burners. I thought standing near the long flames sounded like a good idea.

It’s a really simple concept, inflating a balloon. First you use a big fan to fill the balloon with (cold) air. The basket sits on its side, and you basically juice it up until the balloon starts to lift and then rights the basket. Then you have your people jump in and you’re on the rise:

Soon enough you’re leaving the buses far behind.

So simple, and so smooth. I took a picture of the basket resting on the ground, sort of a "before" shot, (here’s an after, with horses) and then fooled around with the camera. Next thing I knew, we’d risen twenty meters into the air. I’d felt nothing, and indeed throughout the whole journey never felt as though I was absurdly high, though we peaked at 1,000 feet.

The other amazing thing was how quiet it was. When the burner wasn’t firing, you could hear everything. It was incredibly peaceful, and just a little bit amazing when you looked up into the empty balloon:

I mean, I know the principles at work here, but it still gives me pause when I look up and see no visible means by which we are being supported. Just hot air.

The trip ended too soon, and then we had to pack up the envelope and jump in the buses to go to our champagne breakfast, which consisted of hot chicken, quiche, various breads, fresh fruit, crackers/cheese, and chocolate cake. I skipped the fresh fruit and had double helpings of everything else.

Except for the champagne. I had to stay sober for the next activity.

The night passed far too quickly, and I was amazed at 1) how incredibly cold it was and 2) how the moon was bright enough to be annoying. Not as annoying as Keith, however, when he came to wake us at a shocking 4.30am. I fear I may not have greeted him pleasantly at that hour.

However, all was forgiven when we entered the national park and watched the sun rise and spill red on the Rock. Finally I could take a proper photo:

(The dot in the sky on the right is the moon; it actually looked a lot larger that morning.)

After photo time, we were going to split into two groups: those who would climb the rock, and those who would walk three-quarters of the way around its 9.4km girth. However, wind conditions meant we were all walking. This gave me the chance to take some up-close photos of the rock I found interesting:

It’s sometimes a difficult thing to take photographs of Uluru, because portions of it are fenced off, with signs warning that they are sacred, and entering the area or taking photos would result in a combined A$6,000 in fines.

All of the areas seemed a bit arbitrary to me, and a few weren’t clearly delineated, so sometimes I was confused as to which areas were kosher and which weren’t. Still, the have-it-both ways philosophy was consistent with the way the Aborigines played it, welcoming tourists but telling them very little. Some signs actually said that a given area was important to their mythology "but we can’t tell you why." (Video and photo equipment is also banned in the cultural center.)

Most contentious of all was the climb, which actually opened when we completed our trek ’round the rock. You can barely see its track in this photo:

The gray and white bit in the lower right is a sign reading "Please Don’t Climb the Rock," next to one reading "Nganana Tatintja Wiya (We Don’t Climb.)" These are copied verbatim on page 6 of the Visitor Guide, which notes: "The ‘climb’ is not prohibited. But we prefer that, as a guest on Anangu land, you will choose to respect our law and culture by not climbing. … The ‘climb’ is dangerous and over 35 people have died [half from heart attacks, the other half from falls] while attempting to climb Uluru, and many others have been injured." The next page quotes a traditional owner: "If you worry about Aboriginal law, then leave it, don’t climb it…"

That’s nice and all, but I was a bit annoyed. I was a bit tired of being told to respect Aboriginal law, while simultaneously being informed I couldn’t be told it. So when Keith said that even though we were a bit behing schedule, those who wanted a taste could have ten minutes on the rock, I charged as far up its 384 meters as I could get.

And I actually got pretty far:

(Note my knee in the right corner. My left leg was straight out against the bar, holding me in place.)

Getting down was a bit tricky, but it wasn’t the hardest part of the day. That would have been sitting through the 500km drive back to The Alice. In fact, in the course of two days we covered a full 1,500km.

Good thing there was free pizza when we returned.

We arrived at our campsite with plenty of time before sunset. I was excited
because it was to be our first real glimpse of the Rock. The group of us dutifully
went up a path to a designated viewing area, and saw it in a distant
haze.

It looked good, but this was clearly not the best angle. The real action,
photo-op wise, was happening with the ranges behind us, so I took a few shots,
including:

Soon enough it was getting dark. The sun didn’t really cast any intriguing
shadows on the Rock, as it was mostly obstructed by the ranges behind us.

So we all returned to the camp and feasted on sausages, steaks, and a
wide assortment of other things that could be grilled.

Following our meal, Keith gave us a little rundown on the "swags." These were
a sort of squared-off quasi-mattress meant to envelop your sleeping bag and
provide some additional cushioning. They’re also meant to help you
keep warm, which works best if you sleep out on the ground, Keith said. Oh,
and naked.

Yeah, some deal about your clothing keeping sweat close in, but the sleeping bag/swag wicking it away, or some such nonsense. All I know is I opted to sleep in the swag under the moon and stars — but with some clothes on.

Naturally, I selected a place near the fire:

(My swag is there on the right, between the two benches. I never actually
went in any of the tents. I like this photo because it’s actually a 20sec long
exposure using only the fire as a light source.)

After a 5.30 (!) pickup, my 12 fellow trekkers and I (plus our guide/driver,
Keith) were on the road to Kings Canyon, our first destination and
a hearty 450km away. Along the way, Keith was only too happy to point out a few sights:

Camels were probably the most common animal we saw on the journey, both in
farms and in the wild. (Cattle would be the runner-up, but there were some others as
well.)

The Kings Canyon trip was basically a lot of walking, with little stops where
Keith would explain things like vegetation, recent bushfires, and which places
were used for the Priscilla, Queen of the Desert shoot.

I just took pictures.

These stairs became infamous. Keith had asked fairly early on if anyone
was "allergic to heights." The oldest person on the trip, a Swedish girl’s
mother, indicated she was — a little. As soon as we hit those stairs, though
(which in fairness, were quite narrow), she had some intense stress. She tried
to come down by sitting down and sliding, but she only made it part of the
way.

Keith suggested she and her daughter retrace their steps and rejoin us at
the bus. That was for the best, because what we climbed down later would not
have pleased her:

The Northern Territory is big and small, with a sixth of Australia’s landmass
and just 1% of its population. This is evident in the town of Alice Springs,
a community of just 27,008 people (roughly the size of Fort Dodge) that is
situated 1,500 km south of Darwin on Stuart Highway, the only North-South highway in central Australia.

"The Alice," as it is known, certainly isn’t close to Darwin, but it isn’t close to much else either:

(Kulgera is the first city in South Australia. Its population: 50.)

Alice originally sprung up as a telegraph repeater station, but of course
now it lives and breathes on tourism. (You won’t find many other towns of this
size with highway signs in 5 languages.)

It was here that would be my base for a foray into the area known as the Red Centre.

Well, a highlight of my stay here in the Top End would have to be the Mindil Beach Sunset Markets. This was made especially cool because I happened to be wandering around the area earlier in the day, so I could see what it looked like at mid-day and then later when the market was in full swing.

And was it ever! There were tons and tons of food options, a live band, craft (and god knows what-else) sales and even pony rides. As befitting a fair-like atmosphere, I started with a “Pluto Pup,” which is basically just their name for a corn dog. (Any guesses what “Fairy Floss” is? Hint: it’s bright pink.)

Having satisfied the requirement for Iowa-style fair food, I next decided to mix it up with something perhaps a little more Australian: crocodile satay. (Other choices: possum satay, camel sausage, kangaroo…)

Now that I’ve had both a kangaroo burger and crocodile-on-a-stick, I can definitively say that neither tastes like chicken.

There were two things that drew me to Darwin: the heat and the cyclone. The
heat was easy to comprehend upon arrival, but I filled in what little I knew
about the cyclone with a visit to the Museum & Art Gallery of the Northern
Territory. In a fascinating display that included samples of home construction
and even a room with recordings from the storm, I learned the story:

In the early hours of Christmas 1974, Darwin became the site of the worst
natural disaster Australia has ever known. What first began as a weak tropical
lull some five days earlier began to pick up steam and was named Tracy by meterologists
on 21 December. Tracy was on track to hit Darwin with a vengeance: just after
noon on Christmas Eve, a "Flash Cyclone Warning" went out warning residents
that the storm would bring very destructive winds.

After midnight, Tracy landed with 100 km/h winds, gusting to 195 km/h.
(Three hours later, the anemometer was broken after recording a gust
of 217 km/h.) Later analysis suggested that winds reached 260 km/h, with others putting the figure as high as 320km/h. Winds in excess of 100 km/h continued until 7am.

Most of the city’s 48,000 people became homeless. Hardest hit was the suburb of Nakara, where 97% of homes were destroyed. Throughout the city, communication, power, and utility links were disrupted. Over the next several days, the Australian military took things in hand, patrolling for looters as an RAAF/USAF joint
airlift took nearly 26,000 people out of the city. A further 10,000 left by
road.

When all was said and done, the death toll officially stood at 49, with a
further 16 "missing at sea." (Unofficial estimates were much higher.) The damage
was tallied at between A$500 million – A$1 billion in 1974 dollars.

The greatest contributor to the damage was the construction style common for
the time. An open-air design featuring glass louvers and elevated homes was
well suited for the tropical temperature, but lethal when the debris began
flying about. A federally-established Darwin Reconstruction Commission set
new standards — informally called "the Cyclone Code" — that were
designed to ensure Darwin was never again destroyed. The regulations demanded that new houses contain their own cyclone shelters and be able to withstand winds of 65 m/s (234 km/h.) This has since been relaxed to 55 m/s due to the expenses involved.

And it’s not the first time that widespread reconstruction was taking place:
Darwin was also destroyed in 1942 by the Japanese.

The flight here from Sydney was long. I mean long — over four and a half hours, and though I secured an exit row, I was seated in the middle with a portly, bearded guy to my left and a frigid woman to my right. (Chick could have moved to the middle seat across the aisle to sit next to her husband, but nooo…)

I told everyone I wanted to go to Darwin — which, at about 90,000 people, is by far the smallest capital city in Australia — because it was hot. When we landed, I was not disappointed. Though it was nearly 1 am ACST (a mere half hour difference from Sydney) the heat was still firmly asserting itself. This during the pleasant time of year; in addition to temps in the 90s, the airport shuttle driver cheerfully informed us (when he wasn’t putting down the mic to switch gears), we could expect 99% humidity to come as soon as “the Wet” arrived. (As I write, it’s a mere 55%.)

Oh, and “the Wet”? The driver claimed one recent storm brought 15″ of rain in 15 minutes. “It’s something you really have to see,” he said dryly.