I can’t quite see the tops of some of the towers on the other side of the river, such is the thick, eerie quality of the smog in this city. Also, I had expected to see some old Chinese folk practising Tai Chi as I strolled along the famous Bund. But as dorm-mate had warned me earlier, “the Bund is pretty. but you’re just walking along the river.”
Shanghai, on first impressions, did not overwhelm me with character or bustle, just with its size.
I made my way around the bohemoth, however, and found some quaint charms.
One of the highlights was strolling along the Bund, very aimlessly, breathing in the thick pollution and admiring the stunning colonial buildings clashing with the stark modernisation on the other side of the river. By itself, this could appear a rather dull pursuit and indeed it was not superbly exciting.
The best part of this morning walk was being snapped out of a reverie by a group of Chinese tourists waving their hands in such an animated fashion I thought one of them may have just laid an egg. A few blank looks, smiles and hand gestures later I realised they wanted a photo with me. Sure, I thought, flattered.
We passed their cameras around snapping as if the camera had just an inch of battery left. Then I bought out my camera to grab a photo of them and I thought their faces may just burst from their exuberant grins.
I walked away thinking Shanghai might not be so bad, after all.
Then, it happened again. Cameras were passed around like damper at a campfire. How great is this, I thought as I took on my new role of mini-celebrity.
And then, it happened again. My head swelled a little more.
Throughout the day I clocked five experiences of photos with Chinese tourists and I really have no idea what’s going on with the combined tourist shost, but I love it. The sense of community and knocking down of cultural barriers is beautiful.
However, I was more than a little perturbed when my mate told me later on, rather awkwardly, that my fly was undone. Oh dear!
Month: April 2012
Gold fever.
“There’s plenty of gold there. I reckon we just head down to the creek and try our luck.”
That’s the first thing I hear on Easter Sunday.
I’m politely ignoring my brother in favour of my bacon and eggs. Then my mother chimes in.
“Do you think that’s going to be the best place to find the gold?”
“Yeah, that’s what the guy said yesterday at the festival. He said he got 100 pieces of gold at the creek near Nundle,” he replies.
“OK, well what are we going to use. We don’t have a pan.”
The seriousness in my mother’s tone alarms me. “Hang on,” I say. “We’re not seriously going panning for gold, are we,” I ask, disbelieving.
My mum assures me that we are indeed going prospecting.
“Down Fossickers Way, Pen, that’s where we’re heading,” my brother declares, referencing a local road that has obviously taken his eye.
It’s always alarming when you are forced to wake up before you are ready, but it is even worse when you discover your family fancy themselves as nugget hunters.
There will be gold, my brother assures me. There’ll be plenty to go around. It’s just waiting for us to find it.
Yeah right, I think.
He fancies himself as some sort of modern-day pioneer.
I wanted to say something witty and cynical, but the savvy part of my brain stopped me. What if we actually found some gold? They’d laugh and say they told me so and I’d be gold-less and they’d all be rich.
This is what happens with gold fever, it sucks you in like a half-price packet of donuts at the end of a long day
My brother’s enthusiasm, as usual, is contagious.
And so the search begins for appropriate tools. We do not have a pan with the proper ribs on the side for jiggling the gold around, but a barbeque pan and a water filter will suffice.
A quick Google search reveals that plenty of optimists have tried their luck around Nundle. The prospects have even evoked the ire of a notorious land-owner enigmatically named Nundle Guy. He is not a fan of prospectors and has a history of threatening people wishing to cash in on the 160-year record of gold finds.
The hunt has become even more ridiculous as we concoct stories of what Nundle Guy will do when he hears about our nugget. Surely enough, I’m pulled into the expedition.
We improvise a few tools and head off to have a quick barbeque on Chaffey Dam, which is between Tamworth and the gold-hunting spot, before our days as middle-class folk are traded for a nouveaux rich status.
The snags are lovely and as I’m sitting amongst the gum trees quietly reading Mao’s Last Dancer and, of course, enjoying the serenity, I begin to think of how exciting it would be to find a large gold nugget.
Earlier today we had discussed some famous discoveries, such as the Welcome Stranger Nugget that was found in the 1800s in Victoria. It weighed about 71kg.
I imagined myself really excited, like when a Mangrove Jack is on the end of my line or when I find an eggplant in the fridge that I had forgotten about. If those sorts of events make me scrunch up my face and jump up and down, what would happen when my brother and I dug up a big nugget?
I could not even imagine how many dumplings such a nugget would buy.
I find in luck-centric money-raising ventures, the money is often spent before it is found. Mum had already picked out her camper van and dad was purchasing a winery in the Hunter for me to play on. Naturally, I would trade in my old car for a sexy motorbike.
On the way to the creek it was peak hour at Nundle. “You guys look like a pack of dudes traipsing off to the creek with your shovels, a barbeque pan and a water filter,” my mum commented about our crude equipment.
Indeed, we were a ragtag bunch.
Snake-fear was paramount as we waded through knee-high grass to find a suitable creek bank.
We fell down the narrow, muddy banks straight into the icy water. With high spirits, we waded across the jagged rocks, sensing gold just beneath our bloodied feet.
My brother and I could barely keep our excitement at bay. Concentration levels were akin to eating fish with bones in them.
We panned and panned with little idea what we were doing. The rocks bounced about in the big old water filter and I was certain I was propelling a large nugget to the bottom of the pan.
I’d scour the bottom of the makeshift pan as if I was searching for a $2 coin in the bottom of my bag. As usual, the search was fruitless.
We did not find any gold on Easter Sunday.
We returned to find mum and dad in their deckchairs on the side of the road. People had stopped to ask if they were ok, “yes, we’re just waiting for our kids. They’re down panning for gold,” my mum told the friendly strangers. Wickedly, she said to us later; “they probably thought we were very irresponsible parents, leaving their kids to go panning alone.”
“The might not have expected to find a 30-year-old and a 24-year-old by the creek,” my dad remarked, ever so proudly.
And so we ended the day laughing at each other for heralding such child-like, hopeless ambition. We were jovial, but, ultimately, defeated.
For now, anyway. I suspect the gold may not be so elusive next Easter.
A festival with a flogging.
Street theatre, gold panning and local honey. The Go for Gold festival at Nundle, about 15 minutes from my folks’ house or half an hour from Tamworth, shot to pieces my expectations of a country shindig. I know these people like to party, but I did not expect the show-bag collection to outdo the Sydney Royal Easter Show.
I also didn’t expect to find a Chinese festival in the middle of the New England, especially five days before my flight to China. But, as sure as my brother can light a fire, the Chinese rolled into Nundle to celebrate the gold rush in years gone by.
Of course, there was dancing. The Chinese rocked out their dragon costumes to an adoring crowd.
I was delighted by the Chinese lanterns strung up across the town. The country pub, especially, was a paradox. It looked like a timeworn establishment being dragged, reluctantly into multicultural Australia.
But, if the difficulty getting a park is anything to go by, it was good for business.
For a town with an official population of less than 300 people, it was 289 at last census; it has its fair share of amenities. This included the aptly named Mount Misery Coffee Shop. These guys had a gold panning gig happening with sediment from the local Peel River. As if on cue, we passed a few local kids with pans on our way to the festival. This place is the Real Deal.
On the back of a helpful volunteer’s tales of finding 100 pieces of gold while panning yesterday, my brother has found a new career.
“It’s lucky you weren’t born in the 1860s,” my mum remarked, “because you would gone chasing gold as soon as you could walk.”
We left him at BCF looking for a pan.
I thought I’d be better suited to a career as a witch.
The local woollen factory, which looks like an antique museum from the outside, is a carefully-crafted, high-class shop on the inside.
Plus, the novelty value of the looms is irrefutable.
Unsurprisingly, the Chinese festival attracted a few foreigners. By a few, I mean a handful, but check out this beautiful Pakistani family who were ambling around.
The ten-gallon hats and country music was abundant. My dad, an avid connoisseur of country music, could not shift from the front bale.
And those bales do not make comfortable chairs, of that I am certain. Seriously, spiky hay, who thought to sit on that?
But, my dad’s shirt sums up why he can hack the hay bales and I cannot sit for more than a moment on them.
That’s not to say the music wasn’t rockin’.
The band had this lady’s foot tapping. She said the colourful vest came from a stall at the festival.
Further down the street I came across the obligatory honey stall. Dorothy and Max are manning this stall. These guys are a very cute, country couple.
I introduced myself as Penny, “like the coin,” I said, trotting out the usual cliché I employ for almost-deaf folk. I underestimated Max. Instantly he came back “you may be called Penny,” he said. “But you look a million dollars.”
It’s the hat. Some people in Tamworth will love you instantly if you’re wearing an Akubra.
Dorothy was not going to be outdone with the country hospitality. She wondered if I was related to Betty Langfield. “She lives just down at the end of the no through road. She used to be married to Fred, but he passed away a few years ago. I think her family is from Grenfell.” I am not certain of how my heritage could be linked to the lovely-sounding widow, but Dorothy’s bachelor son sounded slightly more interesting.
And the best, of course, was the street theatre we caught on our way out. Watching a man being chained up, stripped and given 14 lashes was highly entertaining. I was even enlisted to count the lashings.
The Cat of Nine Tails whistled through the air delivering a sharp blow that gave a macabre touch to the afternoon. “This flogging has been bought to you by the Nundle Festival,” the Sergeant at Arms yelled through the pedestrian-filled main street, lightening the mood.
“You were the best counter we’ve had all day,” the Sergeant told me. I skittered off, delighted at my booming voice.
This place, it is deeper than it looks at first glance across the lucerne paddocks. Its history, the charming folk and the ubiquitous flowering poplars are enchanting.
Country music aside, I am besotted, already, with Tamworth.
It’s not all beer and skittles.
We’ve all had them and we’ve all hated ’em. I’m talking about those day. Those days that need no explanation except a shake of the head, a shrug of the shoulders and a frown to explain.
You know the ones. I’m talking about the days when plans of mooching around and getting an all-over tan are replaced with plans for a mercy dash to see a sick relative. That’s never great news, but it does not always spoil the day.
It can deepen, however, when you smash a precious heirloom while vacuuming. Mum still does not know about that one.
If, at that stage, your day still looks redeembale, you should probably go the the hairdressers and spot the gray hair in the your fringe.
To be clear, this was my reality a few days ago. It’s not my first gray hair, but certainly the first one I’ve seen from a distance, not from combing back my hair with a magnifying glass searching for some subtle hint that I could be growing up. It was a shock and it did not improve the day.
It’s not over yet.
A five-hour drive from Tamworth to Sydney at night was waiting for me after I’d done the school run and picked up my mum.
Driving at night on a winding road where drivers see it as a personal challenge to drive as close to your bumper as possible adds another edge. That’s not a good time to put on the this-is-how-hard-Chinese-Mandarin-is-and-you’ll-never-learn-it CD. That does not really bolstered confidence. I guess I should have started earlier learning that particular language.
This is not a day which will end with a deep blue cheese, a vintage Merlot and the sunset.
So, clearly, not every day is a winner. And if it’s going downhill, chances are it will pick up speed. Attitude is everything on these days.
When I was working as a barista, I remember one customer splashing coffee all over herself. A big, piping cup of brown milky goodness was splashed across her white shirt. She shook her head in resignation. “It’s been one of those days,” she said, clearly reigned to the fate of her day. I was having a splendid day and imagined her missing the bus and tripping over her dirty clothes, but I sensitively tried to hide that.
The best part about one of those days is that they finish. And the next day, you can make it a winner – that’s the trick!
The Everest surprise.
When I thought of visiting Mount Everest I truly thought I was headed to the peak. Oh yeah, I had my Aussie flag packed to stick into the summit. I was even concerned about whether my camera would work in such harsh conditions.
Alas, I did some further reading and realised that journey would require a better jacket and infinitely greater experience. I would not be getting so deep in the snow.
My expectations of the hike to Everest base camp and the Cho-Las Pass nearby were limited by my ignorance and lack of research. Looking back, it was definitely the hardest, most gruelling physical challenge I have ever taken part in. That was not superbly surprising.
There were a feww surprises. The enthusiasm the porters showed for shovelling snow was top of my list.
The porters in the Khumbu (Everest) region blew my mind. Originally I had planned to carry my own backpack, but I struggled to get it off the conveyor belt and through customs and I didn’t rate my chances of getting it up a mountain. Reluctantly, I decided to particiapte in the Nepalese systems which demands the men and women carry huge loads on their back and heads, often wrecking their spines. I saw one sturdy young chap carrying 116kgs. In thongs!
I’m still not sure of the moralities and wonder whether I made the right decision to hire a porter. What I am happy about is that I met Manbadhur. He was a real character with a twinkle in his cheeky eyes, a penchant for the local rice wine, a very handy sense of direction, a deviousness with cards and a bag of roasted corn that he’d share.
Often the porters help out at the lodges. I’m not sure if this was community spirit or to earn their keep. But, on day seven, the snow shovelling that was entertaining the rabble of porters enticed me. It seemed a good team-building exercise.
It’s a suprisingly satisfying activity, if a little precarious in thongs. An honest day’s work, Shorn Lowry would probably say.
Nepalese people are habitually hospitable, I reckon. I passed one sign in Kathmandu that read “Tourist is God.”
I was not entirely comfortable with the approach. My egalitarian nature took over and produced some interesting results. Manbadhur and I had a ball with some shovels and a decent patch of snow that needed to be moved. We might as well have been slugging back tequila shots and eating tacos, it was that fun.
But, the owner was quite embarassed and begged me to stop helping. Naturally, I obliged, at least once the good photo opportunities were exhausted and the bottoms of my last pair of fresh pants were sopping wet.
And, with all the snow gone, the next day Manbadhur joined us for the day hike up the Gokyo Ri, a spectacular mountain overlooking the world’s highest freshwater lakes (at least that’s what the sign says).
I enquired about taking a dip in the lake, but our conservative guide informed me that’s it’s Holy and swimming, of course, would contaminate that Holiness. I guess I can get my hypothermia fix elsewhere.
And, even though I did not stand atop the mighty Everest, I did glimpse it a few times. The first was after the gruelling pre-dawn, pre-breakfast hike up Gokyo Ri.
The surprise here was how close it looked. And how barren Everest is compared to its close neighbours.
Of course, Manbadhur was by our side. He may have forgotten his shovel, but could still pose like a Playboy model.
Mooching made easy.
I can almost hear the vegetables and the grass growing out here. It is luscious near Tamworth at the moment. And the ardent agriculture provides the perfect backdrop for some mooching.
Early in the mornings I like to go out and check how much rain we have had. I see little sense in this country routine. I guess it’s more spectacular when there is something in the gauge to check. For now, it seems like polishing boots and putting them back in the cupboard. An utterly useless pursuit that makes you feel like you’ve done something useful.
After I have confirmed that, yes, my suspicions were correct and, no, there was not a spectacular weather event in the night. I will ponder the horizons for a moment. Mostly this involves walking around the house very aimlessly.
It’s not a bad view, really, for my morning espresso. Strangely there are no men in lycra in these parts.
Inevitably, I’m drawn to dad’s vegies like a kid to vending machine. This is dad’s killer tomato that I mistook for a pumpkin. I think he is waiting for the Tomato Festival so he can show it off to all the other vegetable-growing freaks around here.
The other garden is still in that phase I liken to a baby before it is crawling. It looks so neat and tidy, but it is not actually able to bring anything to the table, yet.
The day is broken up when Ma and Pa return from their jobs in Tamworth City. This means dad sits in an office and dreams about his country music career that has been cruelly halted by his love for mowing the lawn. As soon as he is home it’s straight to the mower for my dad. He is never happier than when he’s just had his afternoon fix behind the Rover.
After this, we watch the sunset. Out here they seem more crisp.
The colours don’t linger quite so long.
And, as soon as the sun disappears behind the hay shed it is instantly chilly.
Hibernating at my parent’s house is, obvioulsy, fairly relaxing. It’s also nice, because it gives me an insight into their lives. I’ve been blessed with some pretty awesome parents. They’re great fun and nicely open-minded. As their kid, I’m lucky in that they still seem to genuinely enjoy each other’s company.
All around the house I have spotted the places where Ma and Pa (I used to call them mum and dad before they moved to Tamworth, FYI) hang out. It’s very cute.
This must be where they sit and have fires, I have surmised.
And this is the sunset-watching possie.
Or, as it happened yesterday, that’s also the spot Ma and I took up to watch dad mow the lawn.
So, you see, there’s plenty to do in the country
A country life.
Birds were trilling outside my window as I woke up in my idyllic new neighbourhood today. Of course, a tractor was humming too, but it was refreshing to breathe in the crisp country air. Such is life beyond the city limits.
I grew up in the country and have always considered myself a bush rat as opposed to a city puppy. It’s a mindset, really, being a Country Girl, and it comes with a learned set of eccentricities.
My heritage was called into question recently when I was escorting an elderly gentleman to an appointment. “You must be from the country to have a car this dirty,” he remarked as he got into my Apollo.
Then, while he scraped bits of toast, pens, carrot stubs and my horse whip from the front seat to spruce it up a little, I basked in the idea that my country inheritance has given me a lifelong excuse to have a filthy car.
However, after living in cities for six years, I have a greater affinity with metro living. I still love the open paddocks that stretch for miles and the silence that is broken only by the wind whistling through the trees and a tractor making hay. For instance, today I was thrilled to wake up and realise I had sporadic phone reception. I loved that my view was not interrupted by an overpass or a tall building.
But my inner-city-theatre-going-latte-swilling side came to the fore as I switched on my laptop and connected to the web. Thank God there is internet out here!
I dragged my espresso machine out of the car and got down to the business of checking news headlines, Facebook and, of course, blogging.
I emailed a few mates then got on the blower and called a few others. Clearly, I’m happy to live in the bush, but less impressed by the idea of going it alone. Or maybe I’m just easing myself into the new way of living.
The best part was that I could be sitting outside, overlooking a succulent crop of hay or lucerne or rice or something like that, and be chatting to my mates about the shenanigans at the party on Friday night. And so the divide between city and country lessens.
It astounds me that when I’m engrossed in my city existence, which I’m already romanticising into a life filled with art gallery visits, top-notch restaurants and non-stop parties, I forget so easily about what’s on offer elsewhere.
I have seen three people so far today. One was on a tractor, another was in a truck and the third in a boring old car. Without prompting, all three waved at me as they passed.
Not an exuberant wave-goodbye-as-i-drive-off-into-the-sunset-and-pop-your-should-from-its-socket type wave, but a laconic subtle wave. Just four fingers coming off the wheel to say ‘you’re here, I’m here and ain’t that great.’
I love that gesture and the sense of community I feel even though I’ve been here for all of five minutes.
Or perhaps I’m being all city about it and over-thinking a wave. Typical.
But, to me, that’s what the country is all about. I find it slightly simpler lifestyle and that’s a good thing. It’s waking up in the morning and not hearing a thousand SUVs rushing to get their kids to school, but instead noting the bus trundling past.
It’s the ease of trotting out to the garden in the morning to grab some lettuce and tomatoes. I have to add here that my father’s vegie garden is prolific. I came across a pumpkin today sitting up with some flowers about a metre above the ground. “That’s not right,” I thought. “Pumpkins grow on the ground.” A closer inspection revealed that, in fact, it was a tomato grown on my dad’s secret compost mix.
It’s all so lovely. Maybe it strikes such a chord because it reminds me of my childhood, sitting in a garden and devouring an entire crop of beans in one sitting.
Anyway I’m not going to question why I love it so much. I’m just going to indulge in one of the delightful pumpkin scones my mum picked up at the Pumpkin Festival yesterday – yes, that’s right, a festival for pumpkins. It was one of the better festivals, according to my dad. It was certainly much better than the Brussels Sprout Festival.
So, I’ll enjoy my scone, but I’ll tell you all about it on the internet. And maybe next time I’m driving through the city I’ll try waving at every passing motorist.
Let the adventure begin.
Driving out of BrisVegas this morning after saying a final farewell to an era, a seven-hour abyss stretched before me. I was a mixed bag of emotions, but I had plenty of time to sort the Wizz Fizz from the snakes on the way to my folks’ place at Tamworth.
Herein lies the brilliance of a road trip. Time is your friend. I could indulgently ponder saying goodbye to Brisbane, the great mates I had there and other important issues, such as whether tequila shots would be ok with limes or if it definitely has to be lemons. Of course, due to the driving I could not test out the limes versus lemons issue, but I could certainly think about it at length.
I’m a big fan of car trips. It’s a product of my childhood. Every school holidays Ma and Pa would lug my brothers and me to Sydney or Cowra or Bundaberg or Pindari Dam. They would go anywhere, as long as it meant at least eight hours a day in the Commodore.
Cricket season was the best, at least according to my Dad. We would start the driving about 20 minutes before the first ball and stop for sangers when the cricketers were called in for lunch. The cricket commentators were great company.
Sometimes we’d arrive at a location, park a few streets away and listen to a nail-gripping finish, all packed in the car like prisoners being transported to a new facility. At least it felt like prison to a young girl keen to play with her dolls and get away from her stinky brothers after eight hours of noogies.
Today, there was no cricket. But I managed to get through with help from Triple J and a bit of ABC Radio National. There was one rather interesting radio documentary about why humans have hair and why women get it waxed. It was incredibly interesting. And the best part was I could dedicate the entire stretch between Tenterfield and Gen Innes, which takes about an hour, to thinking about why a woman should or should not get a Brazilian wax. Fascinating stuff.
I had time to think about the mammoth clean we did at the house yesterday. Ten hours of wall scrubbing wore Shorn, Amber and I to thin shadows of our former selves. Today I marvelled at the sense of achievement you get from cleaning and Lowry’s ability to turn anything into a game.
Cleaning the fridge, for example, involved seeing how far away you could be from the Westinghouse and still stick a magnet on it through Frisbee-like throws.
A pile of rubbish on its way to the tip becomes Junk-enga.
Reflecting on those sorts of shenanigans and the underlying optimism took up a good 20 minutes.
The scenery and sunset also impressed me. Of course, it’s no Tasmania but the area around Warwick is stunning as it looks out to the ocean. The shadow of Bluff Rock near Tenterfield was eerie. Luscious pastures turned to burnt brown grass like a game of Wheel of Fortune as I meandered south. Further into the New England hinterland the lanky poplar trees in a stunning autumn-yellow reminded me of my time at university Armidale. Recalling the goon-fuelled shenanigans took up at least an hour.
I even drove past an entire field of sunflowers. That was like staring at a sea of smiles.
Stopping in for a few cuppa at the Driver Reviver, that really put a smile on my face. I mean, it’s tea and it’s free. Wow!
And my car, a 22-year vintage Holden Apollo, she purred down the highway, pleased to be unleashed from the shackles of city driving.
The whole trip was lovely really; exciting, thought-provoking and relaxing. It was all of those good things until I was about 50 kilometres from Tamworth. That’s when time stood still.
I busted open my second bag of carrots (emergency rations) and called my Mum. She was getting dinner ready. “Anything you’d like,” she asked me, excitedly. “Yeah, maybe some tuna and steamed vegetables,” I replied.
“Well you’ll just get what you’re given, Pen,” she says. Looks like it’s oven-roasted spuds.
So after saying goodbye to my mates and a few hours behind the wheel, I drove into Ma and Pa’s. Dad came out in his boxer shorts and directed me into the yard as if my car was a Jumbo Jet. “Penny! Welcome home,” he yelled. I was so pleased to see him.
I know in this adventure, indeed in our life, it’s all about the journey, not the destination. I know that, but seeing my folks tonight put the field of sunflowers to shame.
Penny's Cheeky Adventures 