The Magic of Oz (part 3)
McCAFFERTY'S BUS FROM ALICE SPRINGS TO DARWIN
FEBRUARY 9-10
OVERNIGHT, 20 HOURS
The ride from Alice Springs to Darwin was easy -- the bus was less than half full, and there were frequent breaks. Sometimes, we'd slow down and stop, literally in the middle of nowhere. An aboriginal family would disembark and disappear down a small vague path, in spite of there being no apparent destination. The Outback was brutal. I wondered how they got by.
20 hours to Darwin
Weird insects splattered the bus windscreen, and the driver kept up a steady stream orf comedic chatter every time we slowed down to have a break. I was getting pretty good at sleeping on the bus, and had learned to carry a change of shirt in my daypack, in addition to my standard supply of socks, sleepsheet, jacket, water, toothbrush, and hairbrush.
The Australian guy behind me was a country bumpkin. He was from a farm, and though New York was freezing cold year round. He couldn't understand why his cell phone didn't work in the middle of nowhere, and he told me a funny story about the first time he went to the big city of Adelaide.
He'd gone to McDonald's. He knew it was takeaway food, and all takeaway food was the same. He'd ordered a schnitzel pack. The cashier had informed him that "we sell burgers, mate."
The bumpkin had then asked for fish and chips. "Sorry, just burgers." He'd then read the menu, caught on, and been really embarrassed. "I don't tell many people that," he said. I neglected to mention that he'd just gone public with the info.
I tried to call Mark Norman again. He was still in Dili. I was getting worried. Would I have to go to the seamen's club and hitchhike?
DARWIN
FEBRUARY 10-12
It was Saturday morning, and the McCafferty's bus was approaching the city of Darwin, famous for its port and its mangos. The driver/comedian/tour guide made an announcement.
"It's raining in Darwin, but that's to be expected as it is The Wet. There is also," he paused for emphasis. "A cyclone warning."
Great. I was spending two days in a city where the rainy season was notorious enough to be nicknamed simply "The Wet." And now I had to worry about my little pig too, so to speak.
Top End Wetlands
I checked into a single room with shared facilities in the YHA (pronounced WHY-HAYCH-A in Australian). After a shower, I studied my budget. I was $1039 over budget for Jan-Feb, and there was still 18 days left in February. Maybe I needed to quit getting single rooms and start sharing with other backpackers.
Unfortunately, I had an irrational dislike of other backpackers. Ever since I'd been to Thailand and watched the hordes of prancing backpackers parading down Khao San Road in their baggy pants, exposed pierced tummies, and singlet tops, I'd made a practice of avoiding them. This was ridiculous. I needed to get over my bias if I wanted to save some cash and make friends on the road.
I wandered around Darwin's CBD and worked up the nerve to call Mark Norman on his mobile phone (on a weekend, no less). He answered immediately.
My ride was on. I could go to Dili on Monday evening and with any luck I'd be looking at Komodo dragons early next week. I'd have to sleep in the ship's office -- this was a small ship with a crew of ten, but it was only a 36 hour trip.
"I do want to make clear," said Mark. "that this is not a usual thing. You are the company's guest. Perkins Shipping is in the business of transporting goods and materials to the UN's East Timor efforts. We don't take passengers."
They didn't take passengers. I was lucky. I was also a compulsive planner with some nice-looking propaganda and internet skills. I'd e-mailed every shipping company that traveled between Australia and Indonesia until I'd found one that said maybe. I had started six months early, and now it looked to be paying off.
Unfortunately, my internet skills and compulsive planning hadn't helped me figure out how to get out of East Timor. Pelni.com, the website of the Indonesian public ships, was MIA. No one seemed to know when the ships still visited Dili, or if the land border with West Timor was open.
On Sunday, The Wet was still very much in force. Crocodiles, however, like The Wet, so I went 64 kilometers on a small tourbus to see the "world famous Adelaide River jumping crocodiles."
The tour guide referred to the crocs as "salties." In Australia, everything gets shortened. So freshwater crocodiles were "freshies" and saltwater crocodiles were "salties."
Salty croc
The salties in question were not fat, overfed crocs in a crocodile farm. They were wild beasties, these salties, and we were to view them from the "Adelaide River Queen," a small two-story cruise boat. The top deck, far from saltie's reach, was open except for a canopy to protect us from The Wet. The lower deck was covered by bullet-proof glass. I wondered whether crocs were stronger than bullets, and decided to spend most of my time upstairs.
Adelaide River Queen
A croc specialist on the top deck tied pork chops to giant fishing poles, which he then dangled above the water as the Adelaide River Queen motored along. "Croc at ten o'clock," he'd say, and we'd all rush over to the railing. Using his tail, the croc would propel himself out of the water to where he was standing nearly straight. He'd grab the pork chop, swallow it whole, and disappear.
Croc bait
We met Stumpy, and Bogart, and assorted other crocs, all of which were missing limbs due to territorial disputes. Up close, they looked deadly. When the salties were sated, the sea eagles and black kites were lured in with smaller pork chops.
Stumpy
On the way back to Darwin, our bus pulled over three times. Once to see a baby dingo, once for two bounding wallabies, and once for a look at a dead water python. The snake viewing caused unexpected trouble, as we all stepped into a hill of ants and brought several of them back onto the bus. Three Italians pulled out their insecticide and sprayed enthusiastically, nearly suffocating the rest of us, but giving us a good bonding experience as we all teamed up to give the Italians hell.
Back in Darwin, I visited the Indonesian Consulate. They assured me that crossing to West Timor was safe -- but they would, wouldn't they? I had really learned nothing. I went for an expensive meal. From Dili to Java, I knew what I'd get to eat. Spicy noodles or spicy rice, topped with an egg. In the mornings, I'd get some strange greasy dough thing called banana pancakes. And from Ubud to Singapore -- same thing. I could hardly wait.
NEXT: THE EAST TIMOR SEA AND DILI.