East Coast Expedition: Final Day of Fun on Fraser Island and Rainbow Beach

Jan 27, 2011

It was another early morning on Fraser Island. We woke, ate brekky, and packed up camp all before 8:00 a.m. Then we piled into Dolly and headed off to Lake Wabby, our final stop on Fraser Island.  Lake Wabby is both a window lake (when the ground level falls below the water table) and a barrage lake (when a sand blow blocks the waters of a natural spring). Getting to this splendorous lake required first hiking through a never ending forest trail and then climbing up a massively high sand blow. The real issue was that I had left my sandals back on the beach with Dolly because Monkey said "Nah, you don't need em." I should have known better than to listen to this superhuman. My poor feet were getting punctured, jabbed and scratched by the twigs, rocks and rubble lining the mile-long trail (and by mile I mean a couple miles. It was rough). When I finally reached the bottom of the sand dune I wanted to kick my heels up and shout. The soft sand looked so inviting. I dashed madly onto it and began the near vertical hike up to the top. And then my feet suddenly began to experience a pain unlike the kind I had endured in the woods. . The pads of my feet were burning on fire. The sand was hot. Scorching. I felt like I was walking across coals with no end in sight. Why, oh why, didn't I bring my sandals? I was practically dragging my body across the sand on my forearms when I finally reached the top and saw the water of Lake Wabby glistening below. Salvation! I tumbled down the other side of the sand blow and splashed desperately into the cool, refreshing water. It was glorious. We passed the morning floating in the lake among cat fish, turtles, and other little critters.

The peak: sighting my salvation

Lake Wabby

And then Monkey and Byron gave the "Let's go" signal. Unfortunately, getting back to Dolly meant going back over the hell terrain of scalding sand and rocky roads. Oye. The walk back would have been more bearable had there been a foot masseuse waiting for me on the other side. Alas, just Dolly was there for me with my sandals. The Dream Team piled into Dolly for the last time (tear). Then we took off down the sand highway to the ferry, which carried us to Rainbow Beach. Back at the mainland we had the daunting task of cleaning up poor Dolly, whose inside was a disaster full of sand, crumbs and lord knows what else. With a brush in my hand I swept every last granule of sand out of Dolly. Then Monkey dropped us off at the hostel, passing on the way one of his amigos at the gas station. After honking at him, Monkey turned to us and said, "That's Luigi. He's getting married Saturday to our other friend Guido. The entire town is coming to the wedding. It's gonna be awesome. If anyone is still gonna be around you're more than welcome to come too. Everyone is invited!" We looked at each other slightly confused. "Wait," I said, needing clarification."They're getting married for real?" I am a complete supporter of gay marriage, but wanted to make sure I had understood him correctly. "Oh no," Monkey replied. "They're both straight. We're just throwing together a wedding for them for fun. It's a reason for everyone in town to get together and celebrate." I was dying inside with disbelief and laughter. Only in a small beach town in Australia would an entire town gather for a placebo wedding of two best guy friends (who happened to be Italian, not Australian) just so they could dress up and drink the night away with friends. That needed to be filmed for a television show. Sure enough, back at hostel there were posters hanging all over announcing the upcoming Luigi-Guido nuptials taking place that weekend. It was too funny to bare, and so I retreated back to my room for a much needed shower and power-nap.

The Dream Team and Dolly. Are we cool or what?

Around 4:00 pm that afternoon the Dream Team regrouped and set off in search of Monkey's abode. He had offered to take us to the Carlo Sand Blow which was right past his house, and so we made plans to swing by his place before continuing onward to Rainbow Beach's most exquisite spot (which I will get to in a minute). Monkey's crib was located at the very top of a steep hill (its no wonder he has buns of steel walking up that thing every day) that had the most amazing view of Rainbow; definitely the best of any resident in that town. You could see the greenery and beach stretch on for miles in every direction. I wish I could have detached his front porch and the view from it, and slapped it on the front of my home here in New York. What I wouldn't give to wake up each morning, walk onto my front porch barefoot and in pajamas, and sit gazing at the stunning scene I saw that evening. Little did I know that the scenery was going to get better atop the sand blow.

The view from Monkey's pad

The Carlo Sand Blow is a enormous sand mass that offers a 360 view of towering cliffs of colored sand, the rainbow beach, Fraser Island and the other surrounding landscapes. Monkey insisted that we couldn't leave Rainbow Beach until we had experienced a sunset atop the Carlo Sand Blow. He didn't have to twist our arms. We arrived to his house like a group of giddy 5th graders about to go on their first school field trip. An onlooker would have thought that Monkey was some celebrity and we were a bunch of obsessed groupies following him around like enamored puppies. For whatever reason, I found this quite amusing. Monkey took us to the reservoir at the top of Cooloola Drive (what a cool name) and then through a rocky, winding forest path (thankfully I had worn my sandals this time) that eventually lead to the sand blow. Wow. That was the only word I could sputter when I set foot on the sand blow. It was incredible. I was standing amidst a sea of sand that extended endlessly on both sides of me, one leading to the ocean and the other to the lush forests below. We wandered towards the beach side first, where I gazed in awe up and down the coast and out to sea. If I had been in a a harmony bubble earlier on Fraser Island than I was in a harmony globe now, a globe at least three times larger than Disney's Epcot Center Globe (you know, the one that looks like a massive golf ball? Google it.) Being there was really indescribable. I felt the urge to throw my arms out widely, open my mouth and belt the Disney classic "Colors of the Wind" from the movie Pocahontas (I apologize for my numerous references to Disney children's movies, but I can't help it. They are classics, and best express what I can't.) I refrained the urge and sang it in my head instead: "We need to sing with all the voices of the mountains. We need to paint with all the colors of the wind." Someone mastered this technique, because Carlo Sand Blow was a wind-painted masterpiece.

The Carlo Sandblow

Checking out the incredible view

In my harmony globe

The sand blow overlooking the forest

Gradually the sun began to set, but on the opposite end of the sand blow. Monkey lead the pack up and over to the other side facing the forest. I felt like the Von Trapp family from The Sound of Music climbing over the Swiss Alps; we were one big happy, hiking family. We frolicked and played in this nature-made sand box, tumbling around and goofing off. At one point the group decided to spell Monkey's name with their bodies (yes, I told you they were obsessed). As the older, more mature mother of the group, I of course refrained from this silly behavior and offered to be the camera gal instead. My eight darling kiddies sure did know how to crack me up! Once play time ended, we settled our bums into the sand and witnessed the most spectacular sunset. It was breathtaking. Heck, I think it even took my soul away momentarily. As the sun sank lower and lower, the sky changed every color of the rainbow. Perhaps Rainbow Beach should be renamed Rainbow Sky...

My lil monkies spelling Monkey. See it? Yea, no- I didn't either

The mesmerizing sunset

With my E-team kiddies

More sunset

Afterwards, the Dream Team headed back to the hostel where we spent the evening playing pool, darts and ping pong. Then Monkey extended an invitation to everyone to join him at his friend's house party where Merve and his other co-workers were gathered. I said "Count me in" the instant I heard Merve was going to be there. I was excited to get one last dose of "Be cools" from that wonderfully wacky man before I left Rainbow Beach the following morning. Joe was the only other Dream Team member who came with me, as well as our English friend Patrick and two Irish gals who were on the trip with us, and some random dude from Canada who nobody knew (I mention him only because he will come into play again in a future blog post, so make a mental note).  I wasn't sure what to expect, but when we arrived at the house I was pleasantly surprised to find a group of people on the back porch having a jam session with guitars and bongos. The group warmly welcomed us; we sat intermingled among the locals and joined in the singing session which was lead by none other than Merve. Asides from being a skilled speaker he is also a semi-skilled guitarist. Then one of their Kiwi pal, Habs, picked up the guitar and played some acoustic classics by the likes of John Mayer, Oasis and the Beatles. It was so much fun to spend time with this close-knit group of townies, and a nice change from being stuck in a hostel with a bunch of foreign backpackers. I felt like one of the locals. Oh, and I met the near-famous Luigi and Guido. I congratulated them on their big day and gave them both my sincerest apologies that I couldn't attend the event. I truly was disappointed I was missing the big wedding; something tells me that it would have been an quite a peculiar experience.

Finally, around 3:00 a.m. everyone had reached their peak of singing and bongo banging. It was time to go. I gave Monkey a heartfelt hug goodbye. He told me that I was the best American he had ever met and that "you fly your nation's flag well" (something to that affect). He even mentioned interest in coming to the states to see what all the fuss was about. I was happy that I had helped shift his impression of Americans towards a more favorable light. Let this be a lesson to you all: you can't judge an entire nation or people on one or two rotten eggs you've had the unfortunate displeasure to meet. And you certainly can't judge a people based on what you see on television. Jersey Shore is NOT America. I repeat: Jersey Shore is NOT America. (I curse the day that show hit the airwaves, but I'll save that rant for another day).

Joe and I dragged each other home, exhausted from our jam-packed adventure we had these past three days on Fraser Island and Rainbow Beach. This evening was the perfect cap to a fabulous trip. Each tour I went on seemed to get better than the last. I was truly grateful. Unfortunately, this was the final trip I had pre-booked. From this point forward I would be winging it, something I was both excited but nervous about. There was now one looming question: where, oh where, in Australia was I to go from here? Forwards? Backwards? Up? Down? I decided I would sleep on it, hopeful that the answer would be delivered to me by an angel in the middle of the night. Or perhaps the big man above would paint the answer for me with the colors of the wind. And if not, well then I would just deal with it in the morning. That's the appropriate, care-free attitude one is suppose to have on these sorts of adventures. After all my meticulous planning, I decided now was the time to embrace spontaneity.

East Coast Expedition: Fun on Fraser, Day 2

Jan 26, 2011

I was up at 5:30 a.m. this morning. I couldn't sleep a wink. The second the sun rose, I did too. The rest of the camp woke an hour later and we went about making breakfast, a much easier task if you opt for a bowl of corn flakes like I did (a more difficult task if you attempted to make scrambled eggs). We set off at 8:00 a.m. for a nearby beach where Monkey and Byron lead us on a hike through brush and tall grasses up to the top of Indian Head, a coastal headland (aka- a cliff) overlooking the Fraser Coast. It reminded me a lot of the ledge that Mufasa stands atop in the movie Lion King when the "Circle of Life" song plays, except that this one overlooked the ocean, not an entire animal kingdom. I sat perched on a jagged, uncomfortable rock taking in the stunning view and enjoying the wind whip through my hair and brush against my skin. I was in my own little harmony bubble that couldn't be popped; not even a dingo could have disturbed my zen at that moment.

Indian Head from up high

The hike up Indian Head

Monkey debriefing us about the place

The drop below

View from the cliff

It began to get hot atop the rock, so we returned back down the slope and took off for the Champagne Pools for a swim. The Champagne Pools (named so because the foaming water looks like champagne) are popular swimming holes that result from the ocean crashing over rock barriers and forming shallow, sandy pools. After working up a sweat climbing Indian Head, I was looking forward to diving into the Champagne Pools to cool off. Once there, I realized to my disappointment that these weren't the type of pools one could dive into, nor cannon ball in for that matter. In fact, it was a challenge just to wade into the pools because of all the uneven and sharp rocks that lined its floor. I wasn't interested in acting like a beached whale laying awkwardly in these big beach puddles (pool was a misleading term. Giant puddles is more accurate) with rocks jabbing into my spine. So I headed over to the other side of the pools where Monkey, Byron and their friend Joe (he was Dolly's mechanic) were chilling by the beach. We chit-chatted for a while, relaxing on the beach until the E-team returned from the pools to prepare lunch. My darling children kindly made mine, ringing the lunch bell when it was ready (another sandy roast beef sandwich, but made with love).

The Champagne Pools

Or a very big, rocky puddle

The E-Team preparing lunch (see me lounging in the background?)

Once nourished, the E-team and another English lad on the trip, Patrick, attempted to teach me how to play cricket. They had come equip with a cricket bat and ball and so we took to the beach for the humorous lesson. But not before Monkey gave me some of his heavy-duty, SPF 1,000 + sunscreen. We had been blessed with clear skies, and Mr. Sun's rays were shining powerfully down on our delicate skin. Monkey said this was the stuff surfers wear for protection. We all know my not-so-secret desire to be a surfer chick, and so I automatically squeezed out a dollop and smeared it all over my face. Cool, I thought. Until I peered in Dolly's rear view mirror: my face was ghastly white! I knew this wasn't the type of sunscreen that one rubs in fully, but I misjudged just how white it would be. It was like a clay mask one would apply at a spa. I looked like a mime. Not exactly a look that enhances my surfer chick persona. Oh well, at least I knew that not a single skin cell on my face that was going to burn. No skin cancer for this girl! Now it was time to play ball (well, cricket. You know what I mean.)

Hanging out on the beach

The concept of playing cricket was a simple one to grasp: hit the ball with the bat. "You mean like baseball?" I inquired as I imitated my best David Wright stance with the bat elevated above my shoulder ready to strike the cricket ball. "Ah, no," Patrick replied. "Well, maybe. I don't know, we don't play baseball really." He then proceeded to show me the proper cricket batting stance, which looked more like someone gearing up to strike a golf ball. Damn, I was awful at golf, but I gave it a go. Likewise, I was awful at cricket. Granted, it was my first time ever playing the sport, but it was clear I was not a born natural. Still, I had fun practicing with Patrick and pretty soon got the hang of it. Soon everyone else joined in and we played a modified cricket game. I rotated playing catcher, pitcher and outfielder. I most enjoyed being catcher because it primarily required chasing down lose balls and throwing them back to the pitcher. Throwing was something I could do, and well, so being catcher negated my awful batting performance and boosted up my self esteem. It was especially fun playing cricket on the beach because the waves would randomly come crashing over us, cooling us off and adding a surprise element to the game. Had we been standing in a grassy field without waves cooling us off, I might have been less partial to the game.

Playing cricket

Batter Up!

After our afternoon ball game, we piled back into Dolly and headed to the Maheno Shipwreck, one of Fraser Island's landmark attractions. The SS Maheno was one of the first turbine-driven steamers built in 1905. The Japanese bought her in 1935, and while towing her back to Japan a nasty cyclone broke the tow chain, leaving the Maheno stranded at sea until she drifted ashore Fraser's beach where she has remained untouched ever since. Monkey explained that the military use to use the shipwreck for training. Now it is just a cool artifact that inquiring minds like myself get to "ooh" and "ahh" at. A few yards inland from the ship was a beautiful stream that we all went for a dip in. Patrick, Joe, Kit and I took to playing skim ball; this was quickly becoming my new favorite pass-time activity. Then it was back to camp for dinner and the evening festivities.

The Maheno shipwreck

Just a tad rusty

With Kit

The stream where we took a late afternoon dip

I forgot to mention something important: today was Australia Day. So, HAPPY AUSTRALIA DAY! How rude of me, please pardon my lateness. Australia Day is the equivalent to our 4th of July, a holiday that I love. There is no better way to pass a summer day than with parades, barbeque's and fireworks. When in Australia, you most definitely celebrate Australia Day so we made certain to throw an Australia Day bash at camp that evening. First we prepared our chicken stir fry dinner (this was much less popular among the dingos). The Joe, the outgoing lad he is, gathered the entire camp together in one large circle for a game of "Never have I ever." The premise is you say something that you have never done before, and anyone in the circle who has done that thing must drink (for those of you who may not be familiar with the game). So if someone said, "Never have I ever gone sky diving" then I would drink because I have. Get it? You should. It's easy. It was the only game we could think of that a group of our size could play together in an effort to bond everyone outside of their smaller teams. It was the merging of teams A-E.

Olivia and Nicola with their Aussie Day bottles. Aren't they cute?

Circled up for Never Have I Eve.

Afterwards I was pooped. My watch read 9:00 p.m. but it felt like 3:00 a.m. to me. It must of been all that cricket playing. I quietly snuck off and crawled into my tent where I took a quick power nap. I emerged two hours later, re-energized to join back in the Australia Day celebration. "Mummy!" Kit exclaimed. "Where did you go?" Crap. I was caught. I was glad someone noticed I was missing, but what loser takes a nap at 9:00 on Australia Day? Last time I checked I was 24, not 124; I was in the prime of my youth. This was unacceptable behavior. "I was just down at the beach," I fibbed as I tried to nonchalantly wipe off the crusty drool that was cemented to my cheek. Nicola looked at me suspiciously. "You were sleeping, weren't you?" she asked. Damn her. Now I was really caught. "Shhh," I said winking at her. "Don't blow my cover." We giggled as she passed me her goon-filled Australia Day water bottle (she had bought one specifically for the occasion). Goon is the cheap Australia wine that comes in a bag in a box. It is awful. I think you'd probably be better off drinking your own piss than that stuff. But piss doesn't get you pissed (the English way of saying "drunk"). Goon does. And so it is the go-to beverage of all travelers.

A quick word about the word "pissed." My foreign friend's use of this word confused me more than any other. "I'm pissed," someone would state and I would inquire why concerned that I had done something to anger them. My reaction always amused the English or Aussie person I was speaking to. I had to explain that where I come from "piss" is something you do over a toilet and "pissed" is what you are when someone pisses on you instead of the toilet. I warned them that use of the term in the states could result in someone handing them toilet paper or a diaper. Speaking of piss (isn't this a fun topic?), there were no toilets at our camp site. Our toilet was the sand beneath our feet. If we had to piss we were instructed to do so in the foliage somewhere away from camp. You just had to squat and go, and give a little shake afterwards. This was easier for the gentlemen than it was for the ladies. However, both sexes were faced with the same dilemma when it game to going number two (the doo-doo). This act required grabbing a shovel, digging a hole in the sand a good distance away from camp, sending up a quick prayer that no one would round the corner while you relieved yourself, and squatting and going. Then one had to cover up the hot mess to keep the dingos away (apparently they are attracted to poo), and to maintain some level of sanitation around camp. Fortunately, I never had to do the dirty deed while at camp. My beloved digestive system was on its best behavior and I was lucky enough to be around an actual toilet whenever I was in need of one. I think I'll leave it at that. Moving on...

My Australia Day celebration culminated with a hearty discussion with Monkey about the most random topics. In addition to talking about our lives, we spoke about British currency; who actually owns the US (I'm still not sure who the who is); Bush and the Twin Tower conspiracy (can't avoid that topic, no matter where you go outside the US it will come up); and the Haiti earthquake being a man made disaster (I recall something about a massive harp instrument that generates vibrations and facilitates earthquakes. Or maybe that was something I dreamed?). It was an enlightening conversation to say the least. By the end of it, Monkey said that I had totally changed his perception of Americans. Mission accomplished! It was pitch black out, and so I slyly patted myself on the back. I could now go to sleep a happy camper.

East Coast Expedition: Fun on Fraser, Day 1

Jan 25, 2011

This morning I met the E-team for hostel-made pancakes, which were surprisingly delicious (the E-team is the nickname I'll be using to refer to my favorite English pals: Joe, Kit, Olivia and Nicola. Not to be confused with the D-team which encompasses the ten of us in group 'D'). These were the first pancakes I had eaten since leaving home back in August, no wonder they were good. Olivia and Nicola showed me the English way of eating them, by sprinkling lemon juice and sugar atop each cake.  I think maple syrup is still my first choice pancake topper, but this sweet and sour option makes for a fabulous alternative should the world ever endure a maple syrup shortage.

After brekky we headed out to the parking lot where Merve was waiting alongside a row of 4WD vehicles. I was psyched to see my new amigo, until he said, "Good morning Stephanie!" My D-team pals burst out laughing, and insisted that they were going to call me Stephanie for the rest of the trip. This was something I just couldn't bare (no offense to any Stephanie's out there). I politely corrected Merve. "Ah yes, Sarah! Sorry about that," he said, as it dawned on him who I was. "Sarah Speers," he muttered (I told you liked to say my first and last name). Then he proceeded to call me "Speersy," a nickname I much prefer. Fortunately the D-team preferred this name too, and for the remainder of the trip I was "Speersy." That or "Mum." Since I was 3-7 years older than everyone else, I quickly became the official mother of the group. I quite enjoyed this role, and referred to my teammates as my "kids" and "kiddies." It was the start of a beautiful relationship.

The Dream Team (from left to right): Coco, Alex, Me, Eva, Joe, Nicola, Olivia, Kit and Claudia

Each team gathered their equipment and food for the weekend, and loaded it into their assigned 4WD along with personal baggage. I peered inside our packed vehicle and wondered how on earth all ten of us were going to fit inside. It was going to be a tight squeeze. I just hoped no one had awful body odor, otherwise it was also going to be a rough ride. Merve gathered everyone around and after a few parting "Don't be a wanker," "Be cool," and "Peace to the world" comments, he gave us the green light to cram into our vehicles and take off.  And cram we did. Most of the D-team was squished like sardines in the back of Dolly (it was only fitting to name our 4WD, and so the group settled on Dolly. So don't get confused and think Dolly is a person. No, Dolly is our beloved 4-wheel drive vehicle) with their legs stacked on coolers and backpacks piled on their laps. I, on the other hand, was squished Dolly up front in Dolly's passenger seat which I shared with Kit. Less than half of my left buttocks was actually on the seat, the rest of me was hovering above the clutch which I tried tirelessly not to hit for the sake of our driver and all my fellow passengers.

Packing up Dolly

Kit and I in the front 

And everyone else crammed in the back

The designated driver of Dolly was Monkey, one of the two guides leading us on our Fraser Island adventure. The other was Byron, who was stationed at the end of our 4WD caravan. Our Dolly was the leader of the pack. The Dream Team (we also gave our team a more appropriate 'D' name) had been placed in Monkey's vehicle by chance, for which I was extremely grateful. Since this was a self guided trip, it meant that any traveler with a drivers licenses could rotate driving their assigned 4WD around the island on its sand roadways. The thought of this frightened me a tad. During orientation, Merve had told us of a deadly accident that occurred in the past due to reckless driving. I wasn't fond of my life being in the hands of some stranger who had never before driven on soft, sandy roads that at times were overcome by the powerful, incoming ocean tide. I certainly wasn't comfortable getting behind the steering wheel. This wasn't even an option for me, however, since I didn't know how to drive manual. Now certainly was not the time to learn. Hence I was relieved when I learned we were with Monkey for the entire trip, an experienced driver who knew how to maneuver Dolly over the sandy terrain we were going to face. Plus, I had the added bonus of getting to know Monkey who was hands down the most fascinating person I met during my entire time in Australia.

Monkey 

A brief bio on Monkey. Monkey was born and raised at Rainbow Beach, where he spent his days surfing and exploring Fraser Island. He traveled the world for 12 years as a professional long board surfer, worked as an electrician in mines for a bit, recently started his own paddle surfing company, and has a house in Bali (random, yes, but interesting nonetheless)- and all before the age of 30.  Monkey was a tan, towering monster who stood well over six feet. His beyond buff and chiseled body was covered in tattoos and had impressive blonde dreadlocks that reached the top of his bum. It just now occurred to me that nearly all my tour guides thus far have been tattoo covered, dreadlock donning dudes; but Monkey easily wins the award for "Aussie Tour Guide With The Most Tats And Longest Dreads."  It quickly became apparent during out trip why Monkey was nicknamed Monkey (no, his parents didn't legally name him after the popular animal). The man, if you can even call him that, moved agilely on his bare feet through every landscape we encountered- just like a monkey. Except that he wasn't a monkey, and I'm not even sure that he was a man. In fact, I'm pretty certain that he is an otherworldly being roaming this earth among us mere humans. After much contemplation, I have decided that Monkey is a cross between Hercules (he can lift anything), Tarzan "King of the Jungle" (he practically leapt and swung his way through the forest), King Titan from The Little Mermaid (he swam laps in a lake at least three times the size of an Olympic pool), and a Centaur (you know, those half human, half horse creatures? If you don't, go watch Harry Potter. He is like that, only without the awkward horse attachment). I'm pretty certain that everyone on the trip was enthralled with Monkey. Girls drooled over him and boys emulated him. How could you not? The Dream Team was psyched to have this immortal monkey-man, whom we developed a healthy obsession with, as our personal chauffeur on Fraser Island.

Monkey (second from the left) and the boys literally acting like monkies

Once on the road, our 4WD caravan headed to the ferry crossing. We drove our vehicles on board, climbed out and enjoyed the brief ride to Fraser Island just yonder. Once there we climbed back in the 4WDs and took off on the sandy roadway that was Fraser Island. It was awesome! What a fantastic place. It was neat to be passing cars and other vehicles on the beach as if we were driving down the New York State Throughway. Except this highway didn't have guardrails, mile markers, or yellow lines down the middle. The road was pretty much whatever part of the sand you wanted to make it. Our first destination was camp, where we were to have lunch before embarking on our first adventure that afternoon. On the drive I chatted with Monkey who gave me a hard time about being a New Yorker.  "There are no skyscrapers or fog here," he teased. He kept making wisecracks about how we, New Yorkers and Americans in general, are unfriendly and have attitudes. Monkey had never been to the U.S. himself, but mentioned he had had a few unpleasant interaction with some a-hole Americans in the past which understandably left a sour taste in his mouth and tainted his impression of our nation as a whole. I assured Monkey that we were a good people (well, most of us) and told him that it was mission to change his mind about "us" by the end of the trip.

The ferry crossing

Driving down the "highway"

We arrived to our camp site and went about setting up our tents which would be home for the next few days. Then we made lunch: roast beef sandwiches. Sandy roast beef sandwiches. I learned quickly that it was impossible to make anything to eat on a sand-island without getting many, minuscule bits of sand in it. It added a crunchy texture. Merve and his crew had put together a meal plan for us which detailed what foods we should eat at what meals (sand was not included on the menu). This was merely a guide; we didn't have to follow it, but it was important that we rationed our food because what was in our cooler was all we had for the next three days. Dream Team decided it was wisest and in our stomaches' best interest to follow the plan. The thought of running out of food was not an appealing one.

The Camp

At 2:00 p.m. we "hit the sand" en route to Lake McKenzie, one of the most popular natural sites on the island. Lake McKenzie is a "perched" lake, which means it contains rainwater only, no groundwater. The sand here is the made of pure silica, just like at Whitehaven Beach at the Whitsunday Island, which acts as a filter making the water so pure and so clean that very little life can survive there. The Dream Team (which now includes Monkey) passed the ride to Lake McKenzie by pumping up some jams and singing along at the top of our longs. We turned Dolly into a mobile karaoke lounge, and we rocked the house. At this point I was sharing the front seat with Joe, because poor Kit was so bloody sunburned that he couldn't tolerate the sand beating down on his arm. We nicknamed him "Sebastian" because of his lobster red skin color. When covering himself with a towel proved to be a less than effective sun shield, he swapped with Joe. Joe and I became the vehicle DJ's. Anyone who watched American Idol knows how important song selection is, and let me tell you, we aced it song after song after song. Our Grammy winning performance, however, was to the Seal classic Kiss From a Rose. Oh yes. You know it, and you know you love it. "Baby, I compare you to a kiss from a rose on the grey. Ooh, the more I get of you the stranger it feels, yeah. And now that your rose is in bloom, a light hits the gloom on the grey." Sigh. I get goosebumps just thinking about it. We let it all out, pouring our hearts into that sing-along. It was a life changing moment.

The Dolly karaoke lounge

Finally, we arrived at Lake McKenzie. Talk about incredible. The vast lake was a blend of stunning blues and greens alongside the strikingly white sand which was so soft to the touch. We spent two hours swimming in the refreshing water, building human castles (I was the top person) and playing skip ball on the water surface. It was fabulous fun. I didn't want to leave (surprise, surprise), but we had to get back to camp to cook dinner before the sun set.

The stunning Lake McKenzie

Playtime in the water with Dream Team

Who needs a beach when you can go to the lake?

Back at camp it was time to tackle cooking dinner, which was a much bigger challenge then making lunch. On the menu was steaks, potatoes and a salad. We had a working table the size of a chess board and a "stove" the size of my laptop. None of us had ever cooked with kitchen gadgets this ridiculously small. It made for an interesting culinary experience. I felt like I was participating in a nightmare challenge on Top Chef or some crazy cooking show on the Food Network. The real problem, however, appeared once we started to cook our steaks. I'll give you a clue: they stand on four legs, are hairy, and have sharp claws and teeth. Yes, the problem I'm talking about were dingos. The instant our steaks began to simmer on the grill these wild dogs began to flock around us, salivating to devourer the meat we were grilling. I hadn't even noticed them, until an Irish gal on a different team began shouting that we needed to put everything away immediately because there were dingos. But that was just plane silly- we hadn't taken a single bite of our food yet. There was no way we were just going to throw everything out because some scrawny dingos were eying our five star feast. And so we carried on with our cooking, slightly more anxious than before. By now the sun had set and we were faced with the added challenge of cooking in the dark. This is when I started to get a tad freaked out because now I couldn't see the dingos, but I knew they were lurking. Those suckers were scary. I knew from orientation that they weren't interested in my flesh but still, at the end of the day there were wild animals that could potentially do anything. Fortunately, we managed to cook and eat our dinner that evening with out any dingo disasters.

The dingos- not your average dog

Cooking dinner. See "Sebastian" on the right? Poor Kit. 

After doing the dishes, we headed down to the beach where we lied on the sand gazing at the spectacular, star-filled sky above. I have never seen a night sky like that before. I felt like I was lying inside a planetarium. There was not one cloud in the sky, nor a single light on land, making it possible to see every inch of the seemingly endless sky. There were almost as many stars in the sky as there was sand on the beach. I lied still for what felt like hours, gazing in awe at the starry sky. Then it occurred to me that there was one key player missing from the scene: the moon! Baffled, I asked those around me if they saw the moon. No one else saw it either. I was stunned. How could I see every single star in the sky but not the massive moon? It is a mystery I have yet to solve. At one point, a dingo unknowingly snuck up on us. I almost jumped out of my skin when I turned and saw it standing just feet away. That was my cue to go to bed, and so I scurried into the safety of my tent where I curled up next to Olivia and Nicola, my tent-mates, and tried to catch some Z's. "Tried" is the key word in that sentence. The firm yet soft sand made for a rather uncomfortable mattress, and the nylon tent walls made the air hot and stuffy. Anytime I cam close to falling asleep, a vicious dingo howl would roar through the air, strike my eardrum and wake me right back up. The thought that this flimsy tent was the only thing standing between me and the dingos was not a comforting one. Needless to say, it was another long, restless night's sleep.

East Coast Expedition: Following the Rainbow to Rainbow Beach

Jan 24, 2011

I left Agnes Water at 6:30 a.m. I thought I was the only soul awake in the entire town, but while I was waiting at the bus station a white van drove by, started honking, and then pulled up next to me. At first I was a tad freaked out, until I realized it was none other than William, my surfer pal from the day before. What a relief. I was amused that the one person I knew in all of Agnes Water just happened to be the only other person in town awake, out and about. William was on his way to the beach for a morning surf. He spoke of his near future plans to travel around Australia moving from one surf competition to the next. How cool. If I was a real traveling nomad I would have asked him if he had a spare seat for me to come along. Of course, if I had more time I'd also be working on the Ocean Spirit Cruise in Cairns, sailing the Whitsunday Islands on the Tongarra again, and working at the Agnes Water hostel with Richard. If only I could clone myself and embark on all these adventures. I would just have to let my imagination take me on these trips, while the Greyhound bus took me further down the east coast to Rainbow Beach.

Rainbow Beach (Although not the view I saw when I arrived. I think you need a helicopter to see this)

Rainbow Beach, named so for its colored sands, is located on the Cooloola Coast in Queensland, Australia. When I first arrived, I wasn't all that impressed with the small town. It's name was much brighter than it was, or at least brighter than the miserable staff I dealt with at the hostel. However, I hadn't come to Rainbow Beach because of its name or beach. I had come because it was the gateway to Fraser Island, the largest sand island in the world. Fraser Island is listed on the World Heritage List up there with Uluru and the Great Barrier Reef, so it was a must-see in my book. That's why I booked a 3-day, 2-night 4WD (4 wheel drive) guided tour of the island. The Fraser Island website described the island as follows:

"Fraser island is a precious part of Australia's natural and cultural heritage. It is a place of exceptional beauty, with its long uninterrupted white beaches flanked by strikingly colored sand cliffs, and over 100 freshwater lakes, some tea-colored and others clear and blue all ringed by white sandy beaches. Ancient rainforests grow in sand along the banks of fast-flowing, crystal-clear creeks. It's the only place in the world where tall rainforests are found growing on sand dunes at elevations over 200 meters. The immense sand blows and cliffs of colored sands are part of the longest and most complete age sequence of coastal dune systems in the world and they are still evolving."

The orientation for my Fraser Island trip was scheduled for 2:00 p.m. that afternoon. I gathered in the hostel lobby with about 50 other travelers, where we were divided into groups. I was assigned to group 'D' along with four English kids (Joe, Kit, Olivia and Nicola) and four Dutch girls (Coco, Alex, Eva and Claudia). Each was a group of traveling friends, and so I immediately felt left out. It didn't help that I had to sit on a secluded step because their skinny butts filled up the whole table. No one even realized I was a part of team 'D'. All that was left was for someone to turn on a flashing sign above my head that said "Loser" in neon lights. At least then they would have noticed me.

Orientation started out a snooze fest. First we watched a safety video which, aside from the bit about avoiding wild dingos, was as dull as could be. What followed, however, was a one-man entertainment show named Merve who gave the most amusing orientation I have ever had the painful pleasure to sit through. Merve was the big man in charge of the Fraser Island 4WD tours. He looked like the identical twin brother of Pirate Barbossa from The Pirates of the Caribbean, but with the swagger of a hippie from the 60's. He had an afro of a beard that that hung inches from his face, a snaggletooth or two, and a wee bit of crazy that tinkled in his eyes. But what I loved most were his epic, random remarks: "Don't be a wanker," he would remind us frequently. (A wanker, is the Aussie word for idiot or moron). "I hate wankers! As long as no one acts like a wanker than we'll be cool." That was another one be loved to say: "Be cool." He would also randomly throw up a peace sign as he said, "Peace to the world." I loved this guy. We need more pirate-hippie Merves in the world who throw up peace signs and advocate being cool instead of being a wanker.

Merve laying down the law. Followed by a "Be cool"

I wanted to give Merve a standing ovation by the time he had finished. Instead, I gave him my I.D. so he could check me in. For some reason he kept calling me by my first and last name, no one else. "Sarah Speers," he said, peering at me inquisitively. "I'm going to Disney World next year, you know." No wonder I loved this man, he had his priorities straight. "See you later, Sarah Speers." I wanted to reply, "Stay cool, Merve" but I settled for a friendly wave goodbye. By this time group 'D' realized that I was in it. When they learned that I was a solo traveler they went out of their way to include me. I very quickly grew very fond of the bunch, more so than any other travelers I met during my month and a half long expedition. I accompanied Joe, Kit, Olivia and Nicola to the supermarket to pick up some goods for our upcoming island adventure where we ran into none other than Merve. By his side was the most adorable blond-hair, blue-eyed little girl (I think ever Australian child starts out this way. It's creepy), who turned out to be his daughter Daisy. How this angelic Cindy Lou Who II (the little girl from The Grinch, in case you didn't pick up on that) came from Captain Barbossa is a mystery to me, but her adorableness further enhanced my love for the kookie dude. And he was taking her to Disney World! She didn't know what a treat she was in for. Somewhere beneath that beard was a man who dearly loved his little girl. I had to compose myself before I started crying in the produce isle. "Be cool" I told myself.

The remainder of the day isn't really worth relaying. I spent some time at an internet cafe, went for a jog along the beach, read a book, and packed for the trip. That night I drifted somewhere over the rainbow (in other words, fell asleep) to the tune of "It's A Small World After All" as images of Mickey, Captain Barbossa and Cindy Lou Who danced in my head. I had a feeling the next few days were going to be quite a memorable trip.

East Coast Expedition: The Town of 1770 in Agnes Water

Jan 23, 2011

I slept on the bus all night long until I arrived ten hours later to Agnes Water, a small coastal town located in a secluded, natural environment surrounded by beaches, coves and bays. I stopped in Agnes because a) it was the midway point between Airlie Beach and Rainbow Beach, my next destination, and b) Andy back at Travel Bugs in Sydney recommended it (although, by this point I was starting to question his veracity). The moment I hopped off the Greyhound bus I was greeted by a friendly Aussie who was there to take me to the hostel, which turned out to be a mere kangaroo hop down the road. During this brief transport, he said that he worked at a surf shop down the road and would be giving a three hour surf lesson at 10:00 that morning for only $17 bucks. What a bargain! I hadn't touched a surf board since surf camp back in October. It was time to give the whole surfing thing a go again, this time in the idyllic summer weather.

Agnes Water's Bustard Bay

I glanced at my watch; it was 9:45. I hopped out of the van, hurriedly checked into the hostel, threw my bags on a bunk bed, changed into my bathing suit and load on the sunscreen as quickly as I could. Then I pranced out the door and dashed up the road to Reef 2 Beach, the Agnes Water's surf shop and school. There were about 20 people congregated outside the place when I arrived. Phew, I made it just in time! The two surf instructors, T-Bone and Whitey (my chauffeur), instructed us to walk to the beach down the street where they would meet us with boards and wetsuit shirts. At the beach we gathered in a circle around T-Bone as he explained and semi-demonstrated how to surf. That lasted maybe 10 minutes. Then he told us to grab a board, get in the water and start surfing. I was surprised by how quickly his instructional "how to surf" lesson lasted. Had I not gone to surf camp previously, I don't think I would have had a single clue about what to do. Fortunately, I did go to camp and so I had at least a few cues of what to do. Still, camp had been months ago and so the question remained: would I be able to actually stand on a big 'ol surf board again?

The answer, I am thrilled to say, was YES. It was like riding a bike. Well, sort of. I don't take dozens of spills off a bike before I can finally get a good ride going. While I did tumble off the board here and there, I caught a bunch of good surfs which I rode all the way to the beach. What an exhilarating feeling. At one point I rode a wave ashore right next to an older surfer dude who was watching the lesson. "This isn't your first time, is it?" he said to me. My face lit up with a smile, while my insides erupted with joy. This meant I looked at least half way decent surfing, right? I instantly felt like a surfing pro, and I guess compared to most of the first timers around me who were flopping around helplessly like fish out of water that I looked like one too. This man had just said so. Boy was I was grateful that I had had a proper surf lesson prior. We continued to chat a bit on the beach, as I told him about my travels through Australia. His name was William, and he looked exactly how you would picture a beach bum: tanned and toned with blondish, ratty hair running down to his shoulders. He was a cool dude, and I enjoyed talking with him. Before I headed back into the water to continue surfing, he told me, "Make sure you smile when your on the board. You have a nice smile and you stand up more than most of them." I was flattered, not about the smile but about the "you stand up more than them" comment. My surfing confidence shot through the thin ozone layer above.

The surf lesson looked a little something like this.

By the time hour two rolled around I was starting to get frustrated. First off, there were way too many people in the water trying to learn how to surf at once. Flags marked off the small section that we were permitted to surf, which wasn't nearly large enough for 20 people to safely surf in without taking each other out. Thank goodness the boards were made of foam, otherwise I think I might have severed off several appendages in collisions with other wanna be surfers. Second, the ankle bracelet I wore to keep myself attached to the board kept getting tangled around my other leg. This made the kicking and standing part of surfing quite difficult. Third, I kept dipping the nose of the board under the water whenever a wave came which resulted in my body getting dumped into the ocean. I ingested a lot of salt water and was starting to get peeved. It seemed the more I tried to correct this problem, the worse I got. I will blame this on physical exhaustion. Regardless, I had a blast surfing. Considering I only paid $17 I got precisely what I paid for, and what I paid for was three fun hours surfing at a gorgeous beach in Australia. It was great.

I was exhausted when the surf lesson ended. I dragged my body back to the hostel and crashed for a bit. Then I did laundry, something I hadn't done in an embarrassingly long time. While hanging around the hostel, I met Richard, the hostel owner. He and I chatted for a bit in the common room. I told him that I was leaving the following morning to head south to Rainbow Beach. When he learned this he tried diligently to coerce me to stay there longer. He said that I needed to change my New York mentality of "Go, Go, Go" and stay and relax with nature. He even offered me a job at the hostel. I explained that my working visa had expired, which was of no concern to him. Richard said he would just pay me under the table. "I'll keep it in the back of my mind, " I told him. He replied, "No, no. Keep it in the front." I chuckled. Richard told me I needed to learn that I don't always have to be moving. And he was right, which was precisely why I moved to Australia in the first place: so that I could live the Australian life of leisure, as they say. He had no idea how slow my pace of life was now compared to back home. I had mastered the art of relaxation. And that's exactly how I spent my evening, relaxing with a book and talking with the two English girls sharing the hostel room with me. Again, they were so shocked that I was from New York. "I've never met anyone from New York before!" the one girl exclaimed. "You have to tell me all about." They were sweet, and I gladly answered any questions they had for me about life in the "concrete jungle where dreams are made of." Then I hit the hay. I had another early start the next morning, and I was eager to sleep in a real bed finally.