Let's Call The Whole Thing Off

My Australian coffee menu knowledge got another addition over Christmas - muguccino. Cappuccino in a mug. As opposed to a cappuccino in a glass or cappuccino in a petri dish or some other unsuitable receptacle. Rather than just asking for a large cappuccino, you must choose between a cappuccino (small) or a muguccino (large). Madness. (I feel like I could let it go if a cappuccino was in fact a cuppuccino - there would be some sense to that). I fear I caused another coffee house scene, especially after Romy went on to order a muguccino and enjoy it in front of me while I petulantly sipped at my inadequately sized cappuccino, having refused on principle to order a muguccino. No point in encouraging them after all.

I did not take photos of coffee or hills hoists

 
Many more eyebrows were raised over Christmas when I was with the Packards and exposed to a whole host of new words. Some perfectly acceptable while others were closer to the muguccino incident and not just from my side - the Aussies were not happy either. Romy, my main slanguage sparring partner certainly did not always find the inconsistencies between UK and Australian English interesting or amusing. They slightly infuriated her and my often incredulous reactions to discovering these new terms probably did not help. For instance, a rotary washing line is called a hills hoist. Not just a washing line. Hmm. It is hard for me to accept that she would call it anything other than a washing line. But, for her, why would it not be a hills hoist? We end up staring at each other in disbelief and frustration. She says thongs, I say flip flops; she says 8.15, I say quarter past eight. Let's call the whole thing off, eh?

It is not like we are ever going to give up and start saying things the other way. But perhaps Romy's attitude comes from a 'When in Rome...' type notion? Although that would probably be giving her a lot of credit since we had these arguments long before I came to Australia. The  classic extends back to Hanoi and possibly even the first week we met; I say "duvet", she says "doona." . Then the Americans tried to chip in with "comforter" but they were told to pipe down. When you share a bedroom with someone this word comes up so many times it becomes exhausting so it is an argument we largely try to avoid. 
 
 There was a temporary true called over the pepper v capsicum battle. "But then what do you call chilli peppers?" asked Romy. "Chillis." "Oh." But then when we actually decided to roast the damn things (very yummy, stuffed with feta, chilli and basil) and it flared up again with Romy 'correcting' me with "capsicums" every time I dared to refer to the "peppers." But it would be unfair to say it was all her; many a times she will use a word that despite knowing exactly what she means I will pretend to be confused so she has to explain it, allowing me to say "Oh, you mean ..." 


However, there were many things I was genuinely clueless about and it went beyond words alone. Often I felt like a small child in a zoo wandering around Guerilla Bay having to ask a series of questions to get a basic understanding. What was making that noise? And what is that? Oh, really? So what does it do? I spent half of this time amazed, half of it terrified. Some of the creatures and plants I had never heard of before while others I had a completely misguided idea of what they actually were.  (Did everyone else know that a kookaburra was a bird? Huh.)  

The ever present wildlife

Escaping The Great Outdoors is not always a relief as even the supermarket is a place of confusion. If you want meat or cheese from the deli counter they expect you to know the grams/kilos  (I still live in Imperial Land when it comes to this). If you want cash back you ask for "cash out". If you want to top up your phone you have to ask for a "recharge." If you want to buy alcohol, there is not an aisle for it, but instead you must go to the nearby "bottle shop." On the upside the chocolate aisle is stacked with a familiar tasting Cadburys but even here there are some discrepancies - sure there is Freddo but chilling out beside him is his Australia cousin Caramello Koala.  


But it is easy to come around - the beaches are beautiful and the BBQs are tasty. Koalas are the cutest creatures ever and kangaroos are not too bad either (especially when they are not dead on the side of the road). The people are friendly and easy going, the weather is pretty damn nice and holding schooners does not flare up my RSI as quickly as holding pints does. Plus I have stopped constantly pondering the grammatical intricacies of being asked "how you going?" (Any thoughts on this? The Aussie "how are you?" that fails to be a "hows it going?" or a "how are you doing?" If Friends was set Down Under this would have been Joey's pick up line). From my perspective it is good to note down all these differences now because something tells me that in another couple of months I will be roasting capsicums and hitting the bottle shop up for some goon like I have been doing it my whole life, blissfully unaware that these words used to melt my brain. 


I do however ask that if I ever cosy up in a doona with a muguccino that someone shoot me.

Some Like It Hot

In all the excitement of coming to Australia and being warm, it was very easy to forget that the Christmas season was upon me. Sure there were Christmas trees, tinsel and the like but there were also open air festivals and bikini clad beach goers. Very confusing indeed. I spent Christmas 2010 in Hanoi where outside of my Western Hostel Bubble they did not really celebrate Christmas - decorations are put up around the city but if you asked the Vietnamese what they were going to do on Christmas day the answer was not very much. But whilst hardly traditional, last year still managed to feel like Christmas thanks to the WHB and the weather being suitably grim (if only compared to the previous months).


Now I always enjoy the argument that a hot, sunny Christmas is the most traditional of all if you play the Christ in Christmas Card. Yes, the scene of the very first Christmas was essentially a desert aka hot and sunny. Fair enough. But do not champion this notion and then put polystyrene snowmen in the window and play Let It Snow! If you get to spend Christmas being warm and working on your tan it is unfair to simultaneously get in on the iconic aspects of a Northern Hemisphere Christmas. You, dear Australia, appear to be having your brandy pudding and eating it too. Besides, the surfboarding Santas in red tank tops and sunglasses are much more apt - even St. Nick needs a vacation.

The view from the Packard Coast House

Thankfully, I was whisked away from my Christmas confusion by Romy (a very dear friend from my Hanoi days in case you live in a cave and have never heard of the unstoppable force that is Romdom) to be treated to a traditional Aussie Christmas with her family on the coast in Guerilla Bay. Situated on a small peninsula, the house has access to not one, but two beautiful beaches and stunning views all around - pretty damn spectacular. The massive Packard Family considerately arrived in small groups to allow me to learn their names and were warm and welcoming without exception. Suddenly, despite the amazing weather, it was feeling a lot like Christmas.


The 25th itself got off to a concerning start when I was rocked awake about 9am by a grinning Romy who cheerfully announced that I had to get up because I was ruining Christmas. The family had started getting up at 6am, sweetly unable to shake off the Christmas excitement that so many of us lose over the years and Packard tradition is to wait until everyone (around 25 people) is up before opening even a single one of the presents in the ridiculously large pile. (Seriously, never seen anything like it. All of the presents could not be put under the tree until everyone was going to bed on Christmas Eve as the pile took up the majority of the living room). In my head this many people with this many presents was going to be pure mayhem but far from the standard Christmas morning picture of people frantically grabbing every Christmas present in sight and ripping it open, a lovely little ceremony took place. The oldest and youngest members of the family distributed the presents in a completely orderly fashion, calling out who each present is for and who it is from e.g. "To Dom, From Rom." I must ask, are other families this civilised on Christmas morning or am I just disgustingly greedy? Regardless, I loved it and will definitely take my time with presents from now on.


Then of course, we went to the beach. Access to the 'back beach' is only possible by practically abseiling down a dirt track/cliff, clinging to the ropes the family have put in place over the years. I made it down very slowly with much help and teacher-like encouragement from an amused Romy who could have made it down in a fraction of the time if she did not have to babysit my own descent. However, those "good job buddy!"s really helped and I felt victorious, if not exhausted, when I hit the ground. It is completely possible that no-one other than the Packards know about this little gravel beach which made it a particularly special place to spend Christmas Day as there was no-one on the beach other than us. Oh and seven dogs. I mean, OK, all seven dogs probably were not on the beach, but it seems as good of a time as any to mention the huge canine presence and allow you all to picture how on edge I was a lot of the time. 


And dogs certainly were not the only animals present during my Christmas. Some played in the sea with what was thought to be 'harmless, flat jellyfish' and actually turned out to be two mating stingrays. Bouncing on them probably was not the smartest move. (You understand that I took no part in this as the second 'jellyfish' was uttered, I swam for the safety of the shore). Never mind keeping your wits about you in case the local wobbegong showed up - do not be fooled into thinking that's a cute or silly name, as it is in fact a shark. But in the distance some spotted dolphins or whales or something cute like that. Back on land, despite numerous stickers on the windows on the decking, kamikaze birds managed to fly smack-bang into them on a daily basis. And these were not standard pigeons but beautiful lorikeets; colourful, parrot type things that we would have in an aviary for sure. They knocked themselves out so hard they would  pass out on the grass below barely moving for 20mins. Black cockatoos flew overhead regularly but managed to avoid the window. Then there were the goannas and possums supposedly scampering around the deck at night time. Just ridiculous amounts of wildlife fluttering around for a simple city girl like myself! 

The scene was set

But despite intrusions from the animal kingdom we had a completely lovely Christmas. Once back from the beach, everyone got cleaned up and stuck into dinner preparations. The strawberry on top of my Aussie Christmas (I don't like cherries) was seeing the giant (and mouthwatering) ham come in from outside....could I dare to dream that they had BBQ-ed it? Disappointment temporarily sank in when I was informed it had been done in the smoker but inspection determined that the smoker was in fact a small, charcoal BBQ! (All fancy gas BBQs in Oz). All my Aussie Christmas dreams came true in that very moment. Dinner was amazing, with a few additions I would not normally see on my plate such as rice stuffing and sweet potato but everything was insanely delicious and as always I ate until I was fit to explode. 


Dinner was followed up with flaming puddings and lashings of very brandiey brandy butter and people whipping out a guitar and a ukulele for some sing alongs. I was dragged into the entertainment after serious pressure for an Irish Jig. Yikes. While I have drunkenly 'treated' many a club with my 'Irish dancing' when they foolishly play Tell Me Ma or something by B*witched it is not something I do with remote seriousness since I am in fact incapable. But a few glasses of wine and Christmas cheer was sufficient enough for me to embarrass myself so up I got to drag up my vague memories of an Easy Reel. Ultimately, it was good fun and like Tinkerbell and Rachel Berry before me I got applause which I do in fact need to live so it worked out in the end. Then to wind down a wonderful day we played a number of different games and even though no-one wanted to be on my team because I did not know who Julia Gillard was (whoops!) I muddled through. 


Basically I had an amazing Aussie Christmas and I cannot thank the wonderful Packard family enough for taking me in. As long as you are with good people (and eat until you feel sick) where you are or what the weather is like is inconsequential. Besides, some people still had red noses - sure it was from sunburn rather than Jack Frost nipping at them but as long as we all look like Rudolph, it does not really matter. 

No Speak Americano

Sydney skyline from the harbour

Being in Australia has been a pretty weird experience so far - you travel for what feels like a week only to emerge in a Westernised country where everyone speaks English. Does not compute. If you were to see a photo of Sydney city centre (or CBD as they refer to it) you could be forgiven for guessing it was a scene from an American city. Probably not by actual Australians but I am sure fellow tourists would readily accept your apologies. The city is organised into blocks by wide, smooth roads and pavements with skyscrapers towering over the busy commercial district amongst new, shiny buildings and only a sprinkling of older ones. (The oldest residential building in Sydney was built in 1816 – as our tour guide said to our largely European group, “Yeah, I bet you are all impressed. None of you have anything as old as that in your countries... ahem...”) But what I am saying is that for all that flying life is easy, nothing is particularly foreign feeling (except the warmth, oh sweet warmth!) and you will fit in nicely since you already know all the quirks of the Aussie slanguage; thongs go on your feet, good things are bonzer, drink too much and you will chunder, everything comes in heaps, etc. I became accustomed to most of it randomly enough in Hanoi due to 'heaps' of Aussie staff. 

So when exhausted from the Sydney sun (when the shy bastard decides to pop its head out from behind the clouds that is) you flop down in a cafe for a caffeine fix you do not expect things to go wrong. “Regular americano please,” I ask the waitress, but rather than whisking off to give the barista my order she just stands there looking at me like my neck has had a spontaneous and rapid growth spurt and decided to produce an extra head. “An americano?” Assuming she is just double checking the order to ensure my accent has not caused any confusion I give a polite nod and return to my book. No such luck, she continues to hover. She admits to me that she has no idea what an americano  is and from the expression on her face, it is clear she thinks I am the ludicrous one. “Just a standard, black coffee?” I cannot help but pose this as a question. Realisation dawns. “Oohhh, you mean a long black, OK.” No I did not mean a long black but if it means she is going to bring me a cup of coffee then I am not going to correct the girl. So I mutter “sure” and off she swishes, clearly bemused by the whole encounter. 

Seriously? Even disregarding the fact that Long Black sounds like the name of the lead male character in a porno movie, how ridiculous is it that coffee names have not been standardised over the world? I feel a petition coming on. Resultant peering at coffee menus suggests that the rest are the same (although I fear an espresso has been dubbed a Short Black, Long Black’s midget and probably moustached sidekick) so why mess with a classic? The real issue here of course is that Aussie stereotypes are useless. Why have we been introduced to largely useless words like Sheila and didgeri-flipping-doo when what we should be taught are slanguage survival skills like how to successfully order a coffee! 

A schooner or pot - somewhere between a half and a pint

And once you notice one thing, it all starts piling up. For instance, when casually strolling around you are thinking ‘wow, there are a lot of hotels with pubs in the reception.’ Now, I know, in retrospect that this was a crazy thing to think but as it is slowly dawning on you just how different things are you go with it! Finding out (several days later) that in this upside down land hotel = pub clearly makes more sense but still blows your mind a little bit. I mean, how did that happen? When the colonists got here were they so bored they thought ‘hey, let’s mess around with the dictionary?’ I have yet to discover if I can go into an establishment which advertises itself as a pub and book accommodation for the night. And once you're in the supposed hotel, more madness comes at you in the form of stubbies, schooners, middies and the chunder inducing goon. You feel like shouting "I just want a flipping drink!" but it is best to accept this will not get you very far. 

I have yet to successfully navigate my away around most of these hurdles, having chosen to drink spirits as an altogether safer option. Thankfully, today I head to Canberra to meet up with Romy. While it's staying with a friend, I can also think of it as an Australian homestay; hopefully some sort of cultural exchange will occur, my slanguage skills will improve and all that other stuff that is supposed to happen when you go on an exchange and stay with a foreign family. Besides it is not all bad, 'bogan' is one of my new favourite words. 

Culture Vulture

I am one of those people who are perfectly content in their own company. I guess growing up as a much envied ‘only child’ contributed to this as at an early age I was suitably proficient at playing a variety of games against myself. (Yes, I always won). Do not get me wrong, I was far from being a sad, hermit kid. I had plenty of friends and looking back on it, it was good that when none of the other kids came out to play I was capable of entertaining myself. It is a mindset that has translated well into later life - some adults are still not comfortable being by themselves, if only for a few minutes, preferring to wait outside bars until their friends arrive while I just go in and wait with a pint.

Sydney Botanical Gardens

So during this awkward ‘making friends’ stage of solo backpacking I am happy enough to head out on my own during the day to take in the sights and explore the city; visiting museums, libraries, taking tours and finding out about the history of Sydney. You could say I turn into a bit of a culture vulture. Even when I was travelling in Thailand , one of my favourite ways to spend the day was to hit the temple trail visiting as many Wats and Buddha gardens as possible. These activities whilst not everyone’s cup of tea (which is fair considering tea is not my cup of tea, yuck!) are how I like to spend my time in a new place – the culture is part of where you are.

But wait, what's the difference between Australia and a yoghurt? A yoghurt develops a culture. (Libby if you're reading this, I don't care how biologically inaccurate that is, it's my standard Australia joke and yes, they love me here). My point being that on the rare occasion that the question of Australian culture arises, inevitably what comes to mind are BBQs, beaches, bush tucker and well…not much else. Which when you consider that there are beaches and BBQs all over the world is somewhat damning. I have yet to BBQ on Australian soil or try some bush tucker (preferring to indulge my cravings for Asian food in Chinatown, oh how I have missed phở gà) but by going to museums and the like I am slowly gaining some understanding of Australian history.

A highlight of my time in Sydney thus far has been the exhibit on Australia's indigenous population in the Australian Museum. (Apparently, 'indigenous people' is the official term as while indigenous the Torres Strait Islanders are not Aborigines.) Starting with information on traditional culture and the importance of spirituality before moving on to the effect of the colonists on their way of life (not to mention wiping out half their population with smallpox) and progressing right up to the indigenous rights movement and contemporary Aboriginal life, the museum really added to my very limited knowledge of Australia's first people. What really struck me was the display on 'The Lost Generation'; Aboriginal people who as children were effectively kidnapped from their families in most cases being told that their parents were dead, to be raised with white families or in institutions and learn how to be white. It was a government run initiative which has since been described as 'attempted cultural genocide.' Seems apt.

The Barracks

The Rocks Discovery Museum was another favourite with stacks of information on Sydney's first colonist settlement (named The Rocks because the land which it was built upon was rocky - imaginative) including what early life was like for those who had arrived. Stick a pile of convicts on a single patch of land and make rum your settlement's official currency and shit is going to go down. I have also been to the The Barracks which originally housed convicts but later provided a home for Irish orphan girls who were sent to Australia during The Famine (or The Hunger for the nationalist in you). There is even a Famine memorial in the grounds of the Barracks. Another Ireland shout out – the first colonist ashore was an Irishman! Sure, it was because he was carrying a Brit who did not want to get his shoes wet but still. 

All very interesting, no? But then a fellow backpacker asks you what you got up to that day. Suddenly you go from being a proud culture vulture to a sad loner. People presume you have not actually chosen to spend your time in this manner, but rather that you resigned yourself to sight-seeing because you are travelling alone and have not made any friends yet (in part due to your disturbing museum going tendencies). When the truth is that I indulge in sightseeing because the Botanical Gardens are incredible and filled with animals and plants that would be in a zoo at home, the State Library is a beautiful building with several interesting exhibitions and The Mint is...well, mint. And alone time is precious when you are living in communal dorms! Alone is not lonely and hey, the museums close at 5pm leaving plenty of time for us to get our drink on. So for as long as my backpacking pals are not interested, or in some cases have been here a while and already seen the sights, the culture vulture in me is happy to fly solo. 


(I am not responsible for any of the 'facts' in this. I go to museums, I didn't study everything and I was hungover when I went on that tour.)

Australia Landing

It really does exist

Well I have decided to give this whole blog thing a shot to keep you all updated on my travels. Although I doubt it will be remotely blog like as that would involve these entries having some sort of purpose or structure. It is much more likely that this page will be filled with my thought vomit, which lets be honest, is what you're really here for. (Also, since I managed to lose my Asia travel diary on my very last day in Asia this seems to be a much safer option).

Well I've been Down Under a few days now and have yet to fall off the world (as a tiny bit of me suspected I might - crazy, upside down southern hemisphere). It was a bit of a shock getting off the plane as all my travelling instincts were prepared for the unfamiliar and so clear signs I could read and the crazy westernisation of it all made them wary...they were expecting a struggle. But despite their unease they dutifully got me from the airport to the hostel despite the train line I needed being closed for construction. After SE Asia's largely laughable transport system navigating Sydney's trains was a breeze. I was even confident enough to help out a distressed Swiss girl who was heading in the same direction as me.


My experienced traveller bravado came to an abrupt end upon opening my backpack to find that an entire bottle of shampoo had decided to empty itself. There is no way to continue feeling like The Dog's Bollocks after this sort of incident. If I wasn't quite so pissed off I may have been impressed with it. Not only had it opened, the entire lid had came off it and there was not a drop left in the bottle. Despite being in a plastic bag it had managed to leak out and smear the entire compartment and its contents in its thick, blue gunge (Herbal Essences - looks pretty but the effect was visually more devastating than a regular shampoo would have been). It had also managed to get into my shower gel - the shower gel bottle was not even opened! Even after a few uses there is still some shampoo coming out with the shower gel. But all of this was OK since cleaning this sort of mess is exactly what every one wants to do after 30 hours or so of travelling. My dorm mates had great sympathy for me, who after a grunt of a greeting inquired if I was planning to turn the light out any time soon so they could sleep. You think they would have been pleased - the smell of my shampoo was really helping to mask the faint stench of a boys locker room that the seven boys who were staying there had managed to create.


Dragging my jet lagged ass out of bed the next morning was not as bad as I had been expecting, largely because I was gasping to head to Sydney Cove for a postcard perfect view that would prove to myself I really was in Sydney. I decided I was going to walk everywhere which not only made financial sense but would also help counteract the winter- induced hibernation style eating I had been doing at home. Having spent months covered up in chunky duffel coats, my bikini body was nowhere in sight and frankly, I applauded its decision to hide out until it could better itself. Also I find that walking  allows me to find my way about the city quicker - it is much easier to remember which street leads where if you have taken the time to stroll down it rather than whizz pass on a bus. It also gives you the freedom to be distracted by something shiny and wander off in a direction you had not planned (don't worry, this is end of my Ode to Walking). Which is how I ended up getting the best first view of Sydney Cove I could have hoped for - a walk through Botanical Gardens which as it turned out, had a nice little pathway leading straight to the Opera House.

Before airbrushing

I had one of those strange moments that generally accompanies the first sight of a famous landmark - to quote Hugh Grant, "surreal but nice." Like The Eiffel Tower, Statue of Liberty, Ha Long Bay, etc before them, (note - blatant flaunting of being well travelled) I could not stop staring at Sydney Opera House and the Harbour Bridge. It is the gradual realisation that this scene does in fact exist, it's not just an image featured in movies, on postcards and throughout Australia Tourism advertisements to make Sydney instantly recognisable. The first thing that struck me about the Opera House was that it was tiled; it had always looked so smooth and polished (is Australia the sort of country that airbrushes its landmarks to make them look younger and other landmarks feel haggard and inferior?). Even though it was a cloudy day its peaks somehow still managed to catch the sunlight and as I strolled around it, I found it difficult not to be fascinated by its unusual shape. After about ten minutes, the sun properly broke through and the whole harbour lit up (yes, I'm aware that sunlight does in fact light things, but you know what I mean). The boats bobbing along at the docks, the beautiful houses built into the slope, the CBD skyline, the amusement park across the bay and the Harbour Bridge arching across them all - it was a perfect travelling moment.