Travels with George

by Vivien Fallows

  Sadly, the story should be different as the Carnarvon area is made fertile by the waters of the Gascoyne River hence the region is known as the bread basket of Western Australia. Although there is little or no rainfall in the region, the river floods periodically from its source 600km away thereby enabling fruits such as paw paw, pineapple, melons and bananas to grow in abundance. For most of the year the river runs deep underground so the life-giving waters remain unseen.

  The last jaunt of the day was a visit to the Westoby banana plantation once run by John Cleese, one of 180 plus such plantations in the region. On reflection, I’m not sure if I believe the John Cleese link as sitting here looking at the postcard of the current owner/manager Paul Nevill, he looks a tad like JC. Mr Nevill signed the postcard for me with ‘G’Day Baby’… and “no” I don’t think that was a unique ‘just for me’ form of address. Mr Nevill was a garrulous cheery man but it was a little hard keeping the ear to ear grin in place as he burbled away merrily about the joy of banana farming.

  Oh, dear, my hotel room in Carnarvon was 1930s grim. The solid bars at the window made me feel that I was being kept in rather than interlopers out. But for one night, it didn’t matter…

  Wednesday 1st May: the month begins at Coral Bay

  Coral Bay is the point at which Ningaloo Reef is closest to the shore making it one of the most accessible reefs in the world. A cruise, a snorkel, a turtle and lunch…

  Back on the road, heading north, without a backward glance at sadly dreary accommodation and with camera battery charged and underwater camera at the ready. Our ‘elevenses’ stop for tea and cake was timed for our arrival at the Tropic of Capricorn, with usual photos taken of aged tourists jumping backwards and forwards over said invisible line. Arriving at our Coral Bay destination, a tiny settlement to which tourists are drawn, we hastily piled out of the coach and onto a rather rickety looking glass-bottomed boat. What a fabulous trip! Peering down, so many different corals revealed themselves seemingly millimetres away from the glass: brain, cabbage, antler, etc. Perhaps not overly colourful, but packed densely together the corals provide shelter for all manner of fish and a playground for rays and turtles.

  And a playground for me! I couldn’t resist! The Cook Islands seemed so long ago. Snorkel in place, I spent a blissful time wallowing in the water… all on my own except for the turtle which drifted along beside me as if sensing I needed company. No one else on the boat wanted to get wet. What? How many opportunities would there be to drift amongst some 220 species of coral and 500 species of fish? Ningaloo is without doubt spectacular. Of course I wish I’d seen a whale shark, although my reaction had this leviathan swam towards me would certainly have provided my ship-bound audience with an unscheduled slice of entertainment. With my audience in mind, I reluctantly said “cheerio” to my turtle and heaved myself back on board.

  After lunch, I again took to the water pushing off from the sandy shore and felt oh so happy to be back in a marine wonderland. This time, others in our party joined me… it would have been weird if they hadn’t: this was the purpose of all those hours on the coach. Eventually, with the watery business of the day concluded, we trundled back south with plenty of stops for the plentiful scenic photo opportunities. Some of the feathered wildlife proved too difficult to photograph, wedge tailed eagles, emus, lorikeets, parakeets and numerous galahs weren’t interested in posing, so instead it was peaceful just admiring their antics. Sometimes it’s better just to look and enjoy. And realistically, the open spaces presented my limited skills with too great a challenge. So I contentedly continued to gaze through my window on the world as on we rolled, until a particularly bleak vista came into view. All around the earth was scorched. An extensive blackened area disappeared over the horizon, the result of a devastating bush fire, on this occasion caused by careless individuals.

  Hello… how remiss of me, I had forgotten… as Coral Bay was the most northerly point on our itinerary we had to turn around, head south, and at six o’clock in the evening here we are again, back behind bars in Carnarvon for the night…

  Thursday 2nd May: from Carnarvon to Geraldton

  Now it’s time to bid farewell to Carnarvon, which sort of grew on me second time around. My guide books states that ‘Carnarvon has few tourist pretentions’, make of that what you will.

  We continued our journey south to visit Kalbarri and explore the deep red river gorges of the Murchison River. The route followed the dramatic coastal cliffs and on the way I watched as wedge tailed eagles, Australia’s largest bird of prey, caught the thermals and circled looking for food – or perhaps simply having fun? I’d like to think that they were enjoying the moment. Lost in this reverie, I apparently missed assorted kangaroos and emus, except for one old veteran roo. There he was, just waiting for us to roll by, lolling beside the road amid mountainous termite mounds and eucalypts the colour of pretzels. Thank you, sir!

  At some point we obviously arrived at our Geraldton destination, which is as the tourist information proclaims the area’s largest town and Western Australia’s major winter tourist resort. In addition, it is base for the multi-million dollar rock lobster industry and the local waters teem with fish.

  Apart from that little snippet, my journal lay untouched…perhaps jotting down all that Hans told us, has taken its toll.

  Friday 3rd May: this might be the last day on the tour bus, but…

  … there is still a lot to see between Geraldton and Perth, including limestone spires resembling an eerie moon landscape.

  I started the day proclaiming lots to see, but once again the pages of my journal lay undisturbed. Perhaps conversation was picking up on board the coach? What was memorable was the trip to see the Pinnacles. Turning slightly inland at the fishing port of Cervantes, we headed for the Nambung National Park. I had seen pictures of what I was about to view in person, but even so the dramatic limestone formations piercing through the burnished sand of gently undulating dunes was a breath-taking spectacle. The scattered shapes, some tall and slender others jagged and irregular, looked as if they had been arranged by man. Apparently in springtime the area abounds with flowers, but in the dry heat of May it was hard to imagine anything growing in such an arid spot. As a tourist attraction, the Pinnacles did not appear on the tourist circuit until the 1960s when the area became designated as a national park. That really wasn’t very long ago.

  All trip I have been keeping a sharp lookout for the iconic Western grey kangaroos but have failed to see much in the way of roo activity: yesterday’s inert chap could easily have been a stuffed example to keep passing tourists, like me, happy. To rub salt into this particular wound we walked over virgin sand to get closer to the Pinnacles and then on turning to retrace our steps our footprints had been over-trodden by a large kangaroo. You turn your back for two minutes… how could I miss one again? And a large one at that? The best I could do was photograph a limestone formation which, uncannily, looked very much like yesterday’s large specimen. The Western grey is common southwards from just below Shark Bay and although they remained uncommon as far as I was concerned, I forgive them as I do rather like their Latin name: Macropus Fuliginosus.

  Macropus Fuliginosus

  Back in Perth, I only vaguely remember saying “cheerio” to my travelling companions when I was dropped off at my hotel and I do hope that my thanks to Hans were earnest enough. Still a bit vague about ‘what next’, but knowing me, I spent the evening doing my washing. The bit I do remember is that George and I shared a very tiny basement room. Anyway, it really didn’t matter because the next day I was off to Tokyo to catch up with Kevin, my amazingly tolerant and generous husband. Now it was his turn for some travel fun.

  The next morning I phoned Matt from the airport and felt very sad to be leaving him and his diverse country of adoption. Now I could really understand why having travelled half way round the world he was currently showing no sign of completing his circumnavigat
ion. On the up side, I was looking forward to seeing his sister in her new environment and sharing the Japanese journey with my husband… who I would probably bore to bits with tales of my adventures.

  A day later, I landed at Tokyo’s Narita airport and courtesy of Japanese efficiency, made my way effortlessly via public transport to the New Otani Hotel. Standing at the reception desk in the ultra-smart hotel lobby, I happened to glance down at my feet… the shoes which had caused problems all those weeks ago at Heathrow were once again flashing neon signs: I had transported an impressive quantity of the Nambung National Park across the skies and was now leaving footprints on a pristine Japanese carpet. George too, showing signs of travel fatigue, seemed similarly to be letting the side down. Looking up sheepishly from this sandy tableau, the sight of a very tall European striding towards me across the crowded lobby banished all thoughts of the illegal cargo of sand on my shoes.

  Reaching into my bag to dab on some perfume from the dregs of my much travelled bottle, I was metaphorically, if not actually, home.

  Further Travels with George

  … I raided the ever-more apprehensive piggy bank…

  Some eighteen months later, a further opportunity arose to travel on my own with, once again, Sydney as the ultimate destination. My previous journey had whetted my appetite and I wanted to see more of Australia’s rich diversity as I made my way towards the capital of New South Wales. Spoilt for choice, the Northern Territory, Queensland and unexplored tracts of Western Australia all beckoned. But what was feasible?

  The goal was to spend a family Christmas in Sydney, and I would be the ‘advance party’… but how ‘advance’ was not specified. So I pushed my luck by just happening to say in a vague way, “Wouldn’t it be lovely to head off a little earlier to see a bit more of the country… perhaps mid-November might be a good time to go?” Somehow this suggestion got the thumbs up and once again I raided the ever-more apprehensive piggy bank and was on the phone to those helpful people at Trailfinders…

  Having gone west from Heathrow last time, this time I travelled east choosing Kuala Lumpur for a brief stop-over. Was I subconsciously recalling the trip on the Swan River listening to Peggy as she chatted about life in this city? Whatever the reason, I didn’t bother to consult the weather charts for KL, or for any of my itinerary, instead I just trusted to luck, packed a slightly grubby looking George and headed off.

  Kuala Lumpur

  Wednesday 19th November: here we go again…

  The adventure begins with another early travel start and a dawn farewell to my kindly chauffeuring husband at Heathrow Terminal 4. Unlike my first trip, the check-in was smooth and swift allowing me one and a half hours to sort out my new mobile phone. Managed to keep the old number, but failed to ensure that I could phone home from distant lands. Seem to remember last time it was a new camera that caused constant technological stresses, so technology could become an over-used motif in my writing endeavours: will try to rein it in. Perhaps I should adopt the same discipline towards food?

  Anyway, the flight was virtually full – mainly English rugby supporters heading for Sydney and doing their best to emulate the worst of English football fans. Fortunately I had one of the few empty seats next to me in a row of three which gave some welcome breathing distance between myself and a none too fragrant gentleman from Macclesfield. He had thought he would be sitting in an aisle seat but was allocated a window seat – not of his choosing. So before we had fastened our seat belts we had one unhappy passenger on board, he simmering by the window and me serenely on the aisle (the seat I had requested after my last loo-visiting shenanigans with the gentleman in 19B).

  At one stage, between Mr Macclesfield’s frequent trips to the loo I did offer half-heartedly to swap seats but he declined and stayed curled up by the window except when getting me to put up my tray table, untangle myself from the headphone cable and generally clear a safe passage so that he could get out (think an excess of beer could have been the root cause of all this to-ing and fro-ing). It seems that there are loo drawbacks irrespective of which seat you sit in. Unfortunately though, each time he got up he lent heavily on the back of the seat of the chap in front of him – who by about Istanbul was in a simmering rage, refusing to help matters by ensuring his own seat was as far back as possible, thereby making Mr Macclesfield’s manoeuvring even more difficult. This finally got his goat and he flipped, ramming the intrusive seat forward with such a jolt that it must have been truly painful for the unrelenting “I’ve paid for my seat… I’ll position it as I want” bloke in front.

  My wimpish attempts as peace and reconciliation failed dramatically. Thankfully, sensing my discomfort, by approximately Nepal the Cabin Services Director magically managed to find a more spacious and secluded seat for Mr Macclesfield and I was left in peace, with a soothing gin and tonic. After the seat-ramming incident and before his relocation my neighbour had morphed from curled-up recluse into a non-stop chatterbox and I was beginning to mentally shout, “Enough!” As was the chap in front who continued to simmer in an obtrusive way. Not sure why, but I did feel a bit sorry for Mr Macclesfield, and did wonder how he got on during his stopover in Singapore prior to going down to Perth to visit his sister. For her sake, I hope he arrived sober.

  As for me, I arrived at Terminal 1 in Singapore and transferred across to Terminal 2 and during the long trek felt that at least the exercise would diminish any chances of a deep vein thrombosis cutting short my vacation. More time was spent playing with my phone before embarking for the short flight to Kuala Lumpur and its elegant new airport. The 70km journey into the city centre was completed painlessly on a fast train and then a taxi took me to the Swiss Garden Hotel, chosen for its location in the centre of KL sandwiched between the hustle and bustle of Bukit Bintang and colourful Chinatown (an area in any city worth a visit).

  Thursday 20th November: a case of jet lag

  Feeling weary after a twenty-four hour travel extravaganza, with added seat-rage, my eager anticipation of flopping exhausted onto a bed, in a half-decent room, was a little bit crushed. Opening the door to my room, I heard myself let out an audible gasp as I surveyed my surroundings: it was an unexpected hovel. The room was drab and depressing and the air conditioning unit must have leaked badly at some stage as half of the wall in the lobby area was coming away and bits of ceiling were hanging down: charming. Back down to reception I trundled George, the trusty guardian of my possessions, where Janet appeared to be quite upset that I should consider one of her rooms to be ‘dreadful’. Fortunately she agreed to move me without the need for a prolonged discussion to a room which was infinitely better. Although not exactly 5* it did at least appear to be structurally sound and I thought I would eventually get to grips with the temperamental kettle and why should I worry if the bath plug was useless?

  A short snooze followed by a quick shower had the desired revivifying effect and I set off, out for a night on the town. Found a shopping plaza where I mooched around and bought a necessary umbrella before sauntering off in search of food, finally settling on noodles, duck with ginger and pak choi, in a basement noodle bar. I felt reasonably proficient as I tweezered up mouthfuls of pak choi and ginger with my chopsticks, but the duck was mainly bones and bits that were unfamiliar to my delicate Western palette so I wasn’t really sure that I wanted to play chopsticks with them. I know slurping is the thing to do, but I did struggle with the noodles as they slopped and slithered around in the stock/gravy/soup which I tried hard not to splash all over the place, without much success as it was greasily dripping down my chin and onto the table. It was one of those meals where the sheer exertion of getting edible food into your mouth actually makes you hungrier and hungrier. The cool beer was happily manageable and very welcome. When the noodle struggle got too great (probably to watch) a spoon and fork appeared as if by magic! My first meal, with beer, in KL had cost the princely sum of 17 ringgits, which converts to just a little under £3
… that’s how we backpackers like to enjoy ourselves.

  Sort of replete, I wandered out into the night under the shelter of my new umbrella and immediately thought that a bigger brolly would have covered everything and dark trousers wouldn’t have shown the rain splatters quite like my light ones. I had forgotten how tropical tropical rain can be… raindrops like sharp silver bullets. Fighting off tiredness, I wandered a little longer before falling into the clutches of one of the shops in massage row. I thought that perhaps the foot reflexology might be just the thing to disperse any imagined signs of DVT (or perhaps, on reflection, it was the one activity guaranteed to shift any lurking blood clots in exactly the wrong direction… happily I’m still on my perch some twelve years later). Scrambling onto a rather grubby massage table I decided that my surroundings were not quite on a par with the Doha Ritz-Carlton (thank you Kate), but the ensuing pummelling and squeezing was equally effective: “Ooh-ouch, yes it hurts, but ignore my squeals, I’m sure… aaargh… it’s good.” So impressed was I by the fiver’s worth of prodding that I splashed out another fiver for a head and back massage.

  I floated back out onto the streets and into a clothes shop where I tried on an irresistible black outfit – cropped trousers and a slimming top – behind a tiny scrap of modesty curtain. For only a few ringgits more than my supper I made a purchase which lasted years and nearly made me weep when it finally fell to bits.

  The feeling of euphoria continued as I made my way back to my room ready for bed and at midnight my massaged head finally hit the pillow. Drifting off to sleep I decided that KL was really rather okay.