For many Australians and international visitors, Queensland's Gold Coast is a magical place where beautiful men and women do nothing but tan their perfectly sculpted bodies, and children run amok the beaches, happily chasing each other and collaboratively building sparkling sandcastles.
Caroline Zielinski writes: For many Australians and international visitors, Queensland’s Gold Coast is a magical place where beautiful men and women do nothing but tan their perfectly sculpted bodies, and children run amok the beaches, happily chasing each other and collaboratively building sparkling sandcastles.
Of course, let’s not forget the four amazing theme parks, offering their visitors more than their share of entertainment: who wouldn’t want to see live tigers performing tricks, happy dolphins gurgling their amusement and terrified children walking on shaking legs after a heart-attack inducing roller-coaster ride?
And what about the amazing beaches? The sandy dunes? The warm weather? And acres of clubs, bars and shopping malls, created to suit every drinking and shopping whim imaginable?
The first time I visited the Gold Coast at the age of 13, I loved it. Despite the agonising purple sunburn I received on my second day, I couldn’t get enough of Wet’n’Wild, Movie World and Sea World. The tropical weather and the fresh, salty breeze passing through the windows of our rented beach side apartment filled me with wonder and a lust for the Queensland lifestyle: why couldn’t I live in this city of sunshine? Imagine going to school in your shorts all year round! The possibilities were endless. But alas, after 10 days, my journey was over.
Until this year. Continue reading “When the Gold Coast lost its shine”
Dec 24, 2010
Towering transvestites in immaculate dresses with pin-point stilettos; the ‘queer nuns’ of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, an order armed with Christmas glitter set to banish rather than farm guilt; Rev. Nobuaki Hanaoka, a survivor of the atom bomb; a comedian Marga Gomez, and a jazz rendition by Veronica Klaus.
Binoy Kampmark writes: The much admired rotunda is filled with anticipation. The audience gathered within San Francisco City Hall awaits the annual Tree of Hope Lighting ceremony. They are in for a treat of contradictions, a pastiche, a pantomime.
Towering transvestites in immaculate dresses with pin-point stilettos; the ‘queer nuns’ of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. It’s an order armed with Christmas glitter set to banish rather than farm guilt; Rev. Nobuaki Hanaoka, a survivor of the atom bomb; a comedian Marga Gomez, and a jazz rendition by Veronica Klaus.
Any ideology, when taken into a marketplace, becomes boutique. Trends are cultivated. We live in a climate of hope, and San Francisco has always been at the forefront of promoting that commodity. Is it curious to have cross-dressing, transvestite delights and a survivor of the atomic bomb mingle and promote a creed? No. This is tragedy and camp, promotion and propaganda. Conservatives might regard this as grotesque, though this is nothing if not comic, a drag show in high stage endorsed by the city’s mayoral office.
The political stance of the audience is obvious. This is a gathering for the converted and GOP members and followers are not to be found. Gomez lashes out with her sharpened tongue, talking about Sapphic Latina fantasies. From lust, the topic turns political.
The tongue turns to lashing with relish the Republican figure Sarah Palin, the keenest and perhaps softest of targets. “I wish Sarah Palin were adopted by a family of bears.” A few more comments aimed below the belt of the Alaskan hockey mum, and its time for the sisters to come on stage. Continue reading “Blessed Sisters and cross dressing: Christmas in City Hall”
Rebecca Arnold writes: “Chicken heart! Chicken heart! You eating chicken heart!” The two girls next to us giggled and pointed to a picture depicting a person and the various cuts of meat one could have.
My boyfriend and I looked at each other and then back at the meat on the plate suspiciously.
“It looks like beef,” I whispered to him. “I think they’re just having us on.”
I pushed the meat off the skewer with a chopstick.
“You first,” he said.
Gingerly, I put it in my mouth. Yep, tasted just like beef. Tender and delicious. Definitely not chicken heart.
We were in a small Japanese restaurant in Hiroshima, and after a fairly emotional day making our way through the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum we were after somewhere to enjoy a tasty meal and see how this city had rebuilt itself into the modern place it is today. Wandering through the small laneways near the river, unsuccessfully trying to decipher Japanese menus, we peered into one restaurant, saw lots of people inside and decided this was the one. Continue reading “Chicken hearts for dinner”
An Expat Opinion
Dec 20, 2010
The first song on the CD my husband puts on happens to be Paul Kelly's Leaps and Bounds. "I'm high on the bridge, looking over the hill, to the MCG...", he sings the opening line. And I'm surprised to find tears pricking my eyes.
The first song on the CD my husband puts on happens to be Paul Kelly’s Leaps and Bounds. “I’m high on the bridge, looking over the hill, to the MCG…”, he sings the opening line. And I’m surprised to find tears pricking my eyes.
As I write this it’s 13 outside my apartment in Warsaw, Poland. Minus, that is. It hit 25 last night. Minus. When I tell people here that the top temperature in Canberra in winter is about 7 or 8, they always ask, “is that minus?” I used to think that was odd. Until I moved here.
I remember joking with my flatmates about the “balmy Canberra weather” on the exceptional winter morning it would hit minus 2 or 3. Except that does seem rather warm now. OK, maybe not exactly balmy. But, after all I’m Australian. One of the many things I’ve learned after two years in Poland is that we’re a comparatively optimistic bunch.
It’s fair to say I never expected to end up in Poland. So much so that when my husband told me his job was moving him there (and by extension me), I replied, “Great! Umm… where’s that?” “Glad you asked,” he replied, pulling out the map he’d printed off for exactly that reason, and we spent the next few hours poring over all the amazing places we could go, talking about the things we’d see, and wondering what the next few years would hold.
I’ve been here in Central Europe for two years now and all I can say is that, if I’d had all the time in the world, I never could have imagined some of the things I’ve gotten up to. (Note: Poland is in Central, NOT Eastern Europe. It’s one of the first cultural gaffes I made. There have been many since. Luckily Europeans don’t expect much from us in the way of culture. I more than live up to these expectations).
I never imagined I’d end up in the Ukraine with a friend on a dodgy visa run (hers, not mine), in the process discovering there’s a country where you can feel completely overdressed in a bikini.
Or that I’d spend the summer solstice in Lithuania jumping over bonfires and singing the sun farewell on the shortest night of the year.
Or be asked to give a lecture on representations of Indigenous Australia in contemporary Australian film, followed by judging an ANZAC Biscuit competition. (Since I’m Australian, I’m obviously an expert on everything regarding the country).
Or a road trip to see the opening of the World’s Biggest Jesus (which, as of November, is in Świebodzin).
Or the completely humbling experience of finding myself among the VIP guests at a dinner for Holocaust survivors.
Mind you, not everything I have now discovered is in the ‘expat spouse’ job description (which, incidentally, I’m still waiting for my copy of) has been quite so great. Like my first official function, which involved showing our community spirit by picking up rubbish along the river. In the driving rain. Continue reading “An Expat Opinion: The opening line”
I’m pretty sure it was just a straight scam. But when there is a violent sectarian militant group involved, it is hard to be sure.
To begin with, I should have been tipped off by the fact that he knew people in Wangaratta. Not that there is anything wrong with Wangaratta as such, but making reference to a small town in your home country is a classic tactic for any con being played on foreigners. ‘Wang’ was a good choice. I once bought a very nice hat from an op-shop there — so he had me from the get go.
I was walking through the middle of Nairobi, on my way from somewhere to somewhere else, when Morris attached himself to me. As a Mzungu — or white guy — this isn’t uncommon. Sometimes people are after money, sometimes they just want to have a yarn, maybe practice their English. Morris struck me as the latter. He seemed like a nice guy. And besides, he knew people in Wangaratta.
After a couple of minutes conversation, weaving our way through honking mutatus, I learnt that Morris wasn’t from Kenya at all. Actually he was Ugandan. Morris was from the northern part of Uganda, near where Idi Amin was born. This is part of the world where civil war has raged for the last twenty years, largely carried out by child soldiers. The instigators are the LRA — the Lord’s Resistance Army — an apocalyptic Christian sect regarded as the most brutal group in Central Africa. So when Morris told me he was on the run, he had my attention.
Morris was a history teacher — a good one by the way he knew his stuff. Just a few weeks earlier his school had been torched and six teachers had died. Morris had escaped with nothing and fled to Kenya. He was a bit vague about who the perpetrators were but given the LRA have a track record for this sort of thing I made my own conclusions. Morris offered to tell me more about it over a coffee. I bought him a coffee.
So we sat at a café and I quizzed him about the destruction of his school. This is when things stopped checking out quite so well. Morris was very firm on some things but very rubbery and evasive on others. I guess it was a pretty traumatic experience. Also, for someone who had just had his life destroyed by fundamentalist Christians he tended to talk a lot about troublesome Muslims and the dilemmas of tribalism. He offered to put the full story in an email and send it to me. Continue reading “Gentlemen of Leisure: Scammed by terrorists?”
Nicola Heath writes: We arrived in St Jean de Luz at the same time as a blustery squall. It was the afternoon and all we could do was find a place to stay and literally batten down the hatches. The following morning the storm persisted and the furthest we ventured was to one of the cafes that line the Place Louis XIV. The town was deserted, and leaves and branches whipped across the square.
St Jean de Luz is a port town in the Pays Basque in the far south of France. The town sits at the mouth of the river Nivelle, and has a long seafaring history. According to Mark Kurlansky’s superlative The Basque History of the World (which I read on a previous trip to the Basque region in Spain) the Basques became the first commercial whalers in the 7th and 8th centuries. By the 14th century they had ventured far beyond the Bay of Biscay hunting whales and schools of cod, which salted fuelled Basque voyages to fishing grounds as distant as Iceland, Norway and eventually Newfoundland in North America. Faces to the gale as we struggled past the harbour, I could readily imagine what a dangerous enterprise whaling would have been for the medieval Basque adventurers. Continue reading “The light of St Jean de Luz”
Crikey intern Alison Drew-Forster writes: The December Australian Traveller issue has been released and features the “The hottest destinations for 2011” as well as the top 10 “Warming Up” destinations for the coming year.
Predicably many of the winning destinations are in Queensland, with the Sunshine State scoring one of the top 10 destinations, and three in the ‘warming up’ category (next big thing).
Even the Gold Coast scores as number one on the “warming up” list. Apparently it’s now retro rather than tired. Or as Australian Traveller says: “The old tart is getting its mojo back.”
But what if you’re the parents of tweens, who have already travelled to many of the winning locations. What if you want to holiday somewhere a little different?
As our daughter is to start her final year of primary school, we have decided to embark on the great family adventure in 2011. We’ve been saving up the annual leave in anticipation, if not yet the necessary funds (damn those rising fuel bills).
Our criteria are loosely based around wanting to take the children out of the ‘privileged bubble’ of life in middle class Australia, to take them somewhere children don’t have the same sense of entitlement as our Aussie Gen Z’s.
At the same time, some fun in the sun is a prerequisite for this family whose history includes lugging all our belongings across the Nullarbor in an old Holden wagon, in search of a life in a warmer climate.
So I’ve come up with a plan. Destination: Indian Ocean. Stops at Cocos Islands and Indonesia. Possibly Bali tacked on at the end.
You might not have heard of the Cocos Islands, and even if you have, you probably have no idea where they are. If you have heard of them, it might be to notice they are the other islands, besides Christmas Island, where asylum seekers are processed offshore. Continue reading “A family holiday outside the box”
Dec 10, 2010
At one stage I counted ten young street children injecting heroin in the alley around me. Monks slowly walked by on their morning alms. For a Westerner it was an unexpected juxtapositio
At one stage I counted ten young street children injecting heroin in the alley around me. Monks slowly walked by on their morning alms. For a Westerner it was an unexpected juxtaposition.
We had arrived on motos some time earlier carrying small sporting bags packed with clean syringes, sterilised water, medical supplies, condoms, empty oil bottles, BBQ tongs and food packages soaked in sugar. One by one, children appeared from flimsy doorways and alley corners. Some brought cane baskets filled with used syringes. Others arrived empty handed, took medical kits, food and began injecting not even a metre away.
Some of the young children spoke with the outreach teams about their problems or asked for specific medical treatment. Others wanted to just share a joke and converse with somebody outside of their world. The children, always polite and courteous, seemed fully aware the outreach team was there to help. Several children took rubber gloves, empty oil containers, BBQ tongs and begin clearing used syringes.
That afternoon I was exposed to many confronting images but none more horrific than the sight of a young male who had two seriously infected wounds on his left calf. Each wound was roughly sixty millimetres in diameter and five deep. The areas surrounding the wound were black and when the outreach doctor squirted a clear solution it sent each wound bubbling in a pool of white foam. The doc applied mercurochrome and bandaged the wounds. The patient did not flinch. I asked the doc if the patient should be in hospital to which he replied in broken English “He not want to go. We do best we can and come back next week to apply more treatment.”
As bleak and hopeless as the situation seemed, it wasn’t. Continue reading “The slums of Phnom Penh: working with child drug users”
Crikey reader KR writes: Wandering along the wide, green leafy streets, everything seems in place. Towering white terraces framed by exquisitely manicured hedges; a cat, warming his belly on the bonnet of his owners BMW in the driveway. This is the South Yarra you’ll remember. Proud, established, refined.
Dodging an excited golden retriever along the way, I meander down towards the main drag.
Toorak Road realty has long been exclusive to designer baby shops, chic cafes and an unusually high number of hair salons; bar a florist or two, that’s basically the retail breakdown, which was just how the residents liked it. Perfectly tailored for the demographic.
But something is different. France Soir is still up the top to the right, as it has been for the last 22 years. But the teetering pavement tables of Jean-Paul Prunetti’s French brasserie aren’t packed as they so used to be on a sunny Saturday afternoon.
Past the world’s most expensive dry cleaner (that has been known to charge $74 to remove the night before’s misguided kebab from a dress) and I stumble across the newest Toorak Road resident: The vacant shop window. Continue reading “From manicured hedges to Asian massage parlours”
Dec 6, 2010
Dr Terry Cutler writes: For the serious traveller the only time to go to the island of Mallorca off the Spanish Mediterranean coast is in the off season when
Dr Terry Cutler writes: For the serious traveller the only time to go to the island of Mallorca off the Spanish Mediterranean coast is in the off season when all the tourists and temporary residents have disappeared.
The scale of the annual summer migration to Mallorca is reflected in the size of its airport. Approaching the city of Palma from the airport one of the first sights is the huge cathedral building sitting proud on the ridge over the port. Even from a distance it is clear that its rose windows are enormous, and the warm stone glows in the sunlight. The building stretches 121 metres in length, and is unusually wide, with the nave and aisles measuring 55 metres across. Which seems appropriate, since Catalan Gothic is notable for the scale and openness of its interior spaces.
Unlike other Catalan Gothic structures, Palma’s La Seu cathedral may be pleasing to the eye but it is not exactly an engineering triumph. Continue reading “Following Gaudi to Mallorca: an architectural guide”