Two Memorable Drives: Route à Horaires, Saruman’s Road

On the third day after my arrival in Caledonia, I continue my travel along the East coast on the route à horaires. This is a road (in fact, a highly irregular dirt track) which you may drive northbound in odd hours and southbound in even hours. The road is so narrow, bendy and bumpy that it is often impossible to pass each other. As I experienced, some locals sitting in their comfortable and secure 4WDs give a shit about this rule. Fortunately, we did not meet at the really impossible points, but still...

The Kanak also have a natural optimism which seems to defy reason. I was unsure whether I wanted to take this road with a Peugeot 108. The lady in the tourism office encouraged me to do so: “the road is sealed up to the pass”. What she did not tell me is that the route à horaires begins after the pass. I should have known better.

Anyway, I embark on the trip and drive up from the coast into the mountains. When I ask the above question to another driver, just before the tough part began, he hesitates two seconds, and then says, “Oui, ca va”. Which means (once you are used to Kanak linguistic conventions) something between “I would not do it myself” and “Bloody shit, no!”

I survive the road in spite of my rusty driving skills. On the first 6km of the total 13km distance, I advance at an average speed of 5-10km/h. It would have been impossible to drive faster without running serious risk of damaging the bottom of the car. Huge potholes, dried stream beds, rocks and pebbles, … you name it. Since this is not exactly the place where you want to have a breakdown, my adrenaline levels are as high as when canyoning with Paul Griffiths. But also this time, no damage occurs, neither to me nor to the vehicle that surrounds me. I decide not to try my luck any more, and not to expose it to any further danger during the trip.



After that challenge, the road is sealed again and leads through the fertile valleys of the Canala region, a welcome change after the dramatic landscapes of the route à horaires. Although softer in profile, that road is also stunningly beautiful and--- perhaps even more important---it is in good shape.



Then, however, if you want to continue on the East coast, you face what I would like to call Saruman’s Road (the Caledonians call it "la route des mines"), and this is an experience of its own.

Between Kaouara and Houailou, there are 40-50 km of road which are usually passed over in the travel guidebooks in 1-2 sentences, if at all. “The road passes through an impressive landscape where you can also see what the mining exploits have done to nature.” While this description is correct and concise, it is much shorter than what is devoted to the other, in my opinion less spectactular routes transversales (i.e., roads which cross the Chaîne). Above all, the words do not do justice to the overwhelming and utterly bizarre experience of driving this road, especially in the Northbound direction.


It starts in the green valley of Kaouara, close to the sea, without any signboard that would indicate directions. Slowly, it passes through the mountains, getting ever more pot-holed as Nickel mines are in the vicinity, and crossing small rivers on ramshackle wooden bridges where I would even be careful with a bicycle. But what else can you do but to put your trust in God and to drive on? At some point, I ask myself whether I am on the right track, because I have not encountered a single vehicle in almost an hour. On the other hand, all side roads are mere dirt tracks, so I must be right. Also, I remember a word that I had encountered in driving lessons and that has had purely theoretical significance for me so far: Rollsplitt. Whatever this may be in English, it is all over the place. (Edit: "loose gravel" says my dictionary.)

At some point, the river crossings stop and the road starts to climb continuously upward, offering splendid views of the sea in the far distance, the green valleys below me, and the red rocks on the opposite side of the valley. All this lit by a radiant sun in a clear blue sky. At every moment you feel that this must be the end, but the road keeps climbing and climbing, curve after curve. I cannot help thinking of the endless and ever more grandiose melodic surges of a Bruckner symphony, where heaven itself seems to open to the listener.




Finally, at estimated 700m altitude, the summit is reached, opening up a panorama that pictures fail to express. From here, it is a sharp, unmitigated descent to the sea, passing through serpentines and proper mining sites.

This part of the road is a prime example of the power of what human greed can achieve when unabated by concerns for nature. That’s why I referred to Lord of the Rings above---it is the same story with the sorcerer Saruman who destroys the beauty of the valley he dwells in, in order to transform it into a giant industrial site and to extract the maximum for himself. There is a perverse, bizarre beauty in the mountains stripped of all vegetation that lie between the summit where I am, and the seaside where I am heading to. Their brownish red creates a most beautiful contrast with the deep blue sea water behind them. I pass through them with a feeling of sadness, again slowing down considerably for potholes and Rollsplitt. Which means that I have to drive at pedestrian’s pace, not unlike the route à horaires. When I reach the coast and the bends and turns come to an end, I am relieved.

My water reserves are finished and I am extremely happy to find a open grocery store in the village of Houailou. (I will suffer a light dehydration nevertheless: the wind from the windows provides a nice breeze on this 32°C day, but it also leads you underestimate the sun and the heat.) From now on, the road is in good state and passes smoothly along the green East coast, here and then interrupted by a tribu (=a Kanak village) where local farmers and hunters live. I stop at a waterfall by the road and take a refreshing bath in the cool waters. When I arrive around 17h in Poindimié, just in time before sunset, I have driven more than six hours and advanced 200km. Time for a proper bed, dinner and sleep.

Colonization

This was the name of a computer game in the 1990s that I greatly enjoyed playing. It is a round-based strategy game, cousin of the legendary “Civilization”, but the aims are slightly different. Representing one of the European nations, you embarked to the new world with some caravels and settlers. Then you did the usual stuff: you set up a settlement, started exploiting the natural resources of the new world, trading with the mother country, accumulating wealth and expanding your territory by founding new colonies. Occasionally, some natives would stir up things, but you could usually calm them down by the persuasive force of guns and cannons. Other colonizing nations provided more serious threats. But the greatest challenge consisted in repelling the formidably equipped expeditionary force of the motherland, that you would have to face after producing lots of liberty bells and declaring independence.

Back in those happy and innocent days, even educated adolescents such as myself would find colonization a very natural and inevitable process. True, the thing with the Indians… not very nice. But after all, hey, we have got the Statue of Liberty, the Golden Gate Bridge, Silicon Valley and Starbucks. (Task for readers: find the mistake in this sentence.) Decolonization? That’s presumably what was achieved when the fireworks were celebrating defeat of the expeditionary force, and my computer congratulated me with a new high score. After all, if we Europeans had decided to stay in good ol’ Europe, they might still hunt buffalos with spears these days.

New Caledonia, a French pays outre-mer in the Coral Sea (Southwestern Pacific Ocean) with ca. 268,000 inhabitants, is an excellent example that you can have both at the same time. (I will drop the adjective from now on. Since the locals call themselves “Caledonians” and also refer to “la Calédonie”, this strikes me as justified.) Some countries with colonial history have established a fairly homogenous standard of living and development across their territory, such as the US, Canada and Australia. Others, like Brasil, Kenya or South Africa, see a sharp gap between more and less developed regions. But these are large or very large countries. Few countries of the relatively small size of Caledonia (Grande Terre: 400 km length, 50km width) feel in the Western half like an average corner of Europe, and in the Eastern half like a place where Western civilization arrived not more than 50 years ago.



The geography of the place has facilitated this phenomenon. The main island, Grande Terre, is divided by a mighty mountain range, La Chaîne, which is up to 1,600 meters high. The entire country is thinly populated, with the exception of the capital, Nouméa, and its surroundings. Nonetheless, the Western side strikes the tourist as European: good roads, clear signposting, familiar retail shop chains, and in Nouméa, almost everything that you know from France. Including decent croissants, quiche lorraine, éclairs, and so on.

 Place des Cocotiers, Nouméa.

Centre Culturel Jean-Marie Tjibaou, Nouméa (designed by Renzo Piano).


French Breakfast in a Café at the Place des Cocotiers, Nouméa.

Almost all Whites (native Caledonians and metropolitan French, together ca. 30% of the population) live in that part of the country. So do the Asians and immigrants from other Pacific island nations (Fiji, Vanuatu, Wallis, …) who came to Caledonia during the Nickel boom. This metal is Caledonia’s main natural resource and it is either exported or processed in two large factories, one in Nouméa, one in Koné, both on the West Coast.

However, the places where the “green gold” is extracted in a process of ablating and tearing down entire mountains, are mainly on the East Coast. That notwithstanding, development has been minimal in those areas: roads are adventurous or nonexistent, even the most basic shops are rare (you may have to drive 50km or more for a bottle of water), economic activities are restricted to subsistence agriculture. The locals, predominantly Melanesians (“Kanak”), still live in clan and tribal structures, in homes that we would call primitive. (They do not seem to perceive this as a shortcoming; it cannot be about money alone, since they often own 4WD drives.) The year is structured around traditional celebrations; I am fortunate enough to witness the fête des ignames, where ignames, taros (=nutritious root-based vegetables, similar to our potato) and other frugal products are exchanged between different clans and tribes. Typically, these fruits and vegetables are accompanied by something that is typical of a particular clan: the ones from the mountains bring freshwater fish, the ones from the coast seafood or, for the festive occasion, three giant live turtles (not poached, but caught with special permission). Everything is laid on the lawn in front of the church, blessed by a priest, and shared between the clans.


In those regions, there is a feeling of spite toward the colonizers and the government in Nouméa that transports off the country’s natural resources without doing anything for the local population. The name “Côte Oubliée”---the part of the East coast south of Thio, which I visited in my first two days in Caledonia---may be more than telling.

As you can see, the landscape of the Côte Oubliée is solitary bordering on desolate, but strikingly beautiful. Like in no other country I know, two strong colors mark the Caledonian landscapes: the red of the soil and the green of the lavish, tropical vegetation, especially on the East coast. Here, you can buy the same fruits which are sold for horrendous prices in Nouméa for a shilling by the street. You just take what you want and leave the money in a box.

Back to politics. There will be a referendum on independence in 2018. Roughly speaking, the Melanesians or Kanak favor independence, while the other Ethnic groups (white Caledonians, Asians, Fijieans, Wallisians, …) oppose it. Metropolitan French are mostly not entitled to vote. Odds are on preservation of the status quo, nonetheless. “What would change if we were independent?” asks my Kanak host in Thio, a lady who leans toward staying with France. Yes, it is a shame that parts of the country are so underdeveloped, that liberté, égalité, fraternité are empty words, removed from Caledonian reality. On the other hand, France provides services (education, health, defense) which an independent Caledonia would struggle to deliver. There are few homegrown teachers, professors and doctors, and the country possesses a large maritime zone of exclusive economic exploitation, which is often perpetrated illegally by fishing boats from Vietman and other countries. Moreover, the Kanak community is plagued by internal strifes and disagreements, as well as a generation gap. The elders used to be authorities to whom one deferred; this has changed in recent years, also as a result of the arrival of modern media. Finally, the problem may be less with the Élysée palace in Paris, but with the inefficient and negligient government in Nouméa. An Australian acquaintance characterized the typical Caledonian civil servant as Captain Louis Renault from Casablanca: “I am just a poor corrupt official, what can I do?”.

On that night in Thio, I share my homestay with two Italians students who spend one semester in Caledonia for anthropological research. They argue that the status quo has failed profoundly, that nothing has changed in recent years. I bring up the example of South Africa, and the danger of disintegration and rising tensions in an independent state. “Yes, this may well be the case. But at this point, even the completely unknown may be better than the known misery.” Fair enough, I think, while noting similarities to how Brexit and Trump voters argue. Another question is whether the Kanak---the original inhabitants---should have some sort of privilege vis-à-vis the white Caledonians (“Caldoches”), the descendants of detainees who were sent to the island in the late 19th century, and other early settlers. Do the enormous wrongs done to the native population justify that they have a special say in determining the future of the country? It is an argument that often simmers beneath the surface, though it is seldom made explicit. Personally, I do not think that historical injustices are any reason to restrict the rights of later generations. What this means, however, is that Caledonia will stay French, and that the present situation is unlikely to change substantially: the coalition of the lately arriving nations (Whites, Asians, and other Pacific island nations) will carry the day for the remain camp and solidify the status quo. Accepting injustice may be the price that is paid for a democratic decision on the basis of equal participation.

The game of colonization, and dealing with its consequences, is more challenging than ringing the bells of liberty. Even in a country blessed with stunning natural beauty and resources.

Ausklang

For my last full day in Sydney, I had planned something special: attending a concert with Richard Strauss’ Alpensinfonie, preceded by a modern piece and two choral-orchestral works by Brahms (Schicksalslied, Gesang der Parzen), and performed by the Sydney Symphony Orchestra. After weeks of changeable weather, Sydney had put on a festive blue sky to bid me farewell. And I had also prepared a special route to the concert hall inside the opera house. From my usual swimming pool, I walked through the hipster neighborhood of Glebe to the Light Rail, which brought me to Darling Harbour. Paul Griffiths, head of the Sydney group I was visiting, aptly described it as “the place where urban developers have finally succeeded at destroying the natural beauty of Sydney Harbour”. The verdict is justified: there is a lot of commercial attire in this bay, and rather than integrating the water naturally into an urban landscape (or the urban landscape into the shapes of the way), the is a simple and bland concrete footwalk spotted with all sorts of temptations of modern life (cafes, bars, snacks, multiplex cinemas).

Fortunately, Darling Harbour also has a ferry stop: from there, you can get to Circular Quay (=the absolute centre with the Opera House) in about 25 minutes, cruising several parts of the Inner Harbour, west of the famous bridge. There are not many tourists who know about this route, and the ferry lacks the frenzy of the route to Manly or other popular destinations. The ride brings you to less well-known, but equally beautiful and less overcrowded parts of Sydney Harbour, and the views are just amazing.

 

Equally, the arrival at Circular Quay is overwhelming: first, the majestic bows of the Harbour Bridge open up above you, then, you float by the Opera house and the lively bars up to the pier.

The sun has set, leaving behind a deep-blue sky, the beauty of which renders me speechless and also incredibly sad to leave. I meet my colleague Stefan and his wife Vera and we enjoy the remaining time before the concert at the opera bar with its wonderful outside terrace.

Then we take our seats. While I usually avoid ranting about music in this blog, I will make an exception this time. On this last night in Sydney, it is hard to think of a better program than the Alpensinfonie. It is the description of a journey which starts in deep night, continues in the friendly mood of a sunny morning, and makes it up to the summit. Contemplative moments and a fearful thunderstorm ensue. With descent accomplished and the sun setting behind the mountains, time suddenly comes to a halt and the music adopts a serene, conciliatory tone, before dying away in a sombre mumbling. Night has fallen again. But the memories of the wonders of the journey persist. As you may find out yourself below.

Sydneysider

I realize I have written quite a bit about my excursions and travels and little about life in Sydney itself. As my travels slowly approach conclusion, I would like to make up for this.

First of all, the place where I lived. I had rented an apartment in Marrickville (in the Inner West), which almost every Sydneysider knows as a hip and happening suburb. This was no reason for my choice: the only affordable place that I could find for a short period of two months happened to be there. Rents in Sydney are insanely high, and this is also felt at Airbnb. It turned out to be a nice and spacious apartment with a great view of the CDB; the only discomfort was the continuous noise from the junction nearby and the planes who were approaching Sydney airport. You could easily discern the airline logos and guess where they come from.

Notwithstanding the hip and happening, after 23h, everything is closed---even music bars with live gigs. Australians habitually go to bed early. Even “Victoria’s Yeeros”, the meeting place for night owls just in front of my place, would shut their doors then, unless it was a Saturday night. Then it would be open until midnight, or one o' clock, if it was really busy.

However, I greatly enjoyed Marrickville. The combination of Greek and Vietnamese culture was genuinely exciting: excellent pho and Vietnamese buns, fresh seafood, and many cafe’s and kafenions where older Greek men would spend all the day talking to each other.

In Australia, coffee is very decent, but not always more than that. A really excellent one is served at Freepour’s, though. Their piccolo with its tangible espresso push soon becomes my favorite. Freepour's is also the cheapest place (espresso 2,50$, piccolo/macchiato 3$, rest 3,50$), confirming my old thesis that quality coffee is often cheaper than crappy one. If you have ever taken an airplane from the Netherlands or Germany to Italy or Croatia, you know what I mean. 

The squad at Freepour’s works hard: I have seen the manager (the guy to the left) on every single day I was there. And I was there often. At some point, we got into conversation and he explained that he had to make it via the price/quality relationship: other cafés could rely on their regular Greek patrons, or they had lofty spaces with nice furniture which would attract managers for talking business. To Freepour’s, people come for the coffee. A nice example for the thesis that true devotion delivers the best results---although I have to say that this probably means a very hard life. They are always very friendly, though, up to the point that they anticipate my habitual orders.

Second, my workplace. This is the Sydney university campus

and this is the interior of the Charles Perkins Centre (CPC), where I performed my daily research duties on the sixth floor.

The name “The Australian Guggenheim” may sound presumptuous, but it is at least a good first order approximation! An inspiring place with a large pantry and a small terrace on each floor, and a place where you like to work.

Third, leisure. The best thing about the Sydney campus is the outdoor swimming pool Victoria Park Pool close to the CPC! 50-meter-lanes!!! I signed up for a 20-visits package in the very first days after my arrival, and it was a great investme nt. Often, I completed my working days with a 45-minute swim, and directed by patient swimming coach Andrew, I even learned to crawl!

Directly in front of the CPC are also several sports grounds, even with their own stands. Once, we had a reading group there when the building was evacuated due to a small fire in a lab. Often, these grounds were used for rugby and Aussie rules footballs trainings, but on one evening, returning from my swim, I stopped there to watch a soccer match of a girls juniors side against a team of 14-16 year old boys. I took a seat in the stands. There were about twenty specators: 15 parents, 3 random university people including myself, and 2 retirees with their dogs. It was interesting to see the altogether differnt playing styles. The boys were faster, their movements were more fluid, and individually more gifted. As a consequence, they controlled most of the game, and it was hard for the girls to develop danger when they were to initiate an attack. This was not to say that they were without chance: their defense was focused and well organized, and when they conquered the ball, they ran intelligently, opening up spaces for counterattacks and on some occasions, becoming really dangerous. Also, the defense of the boys’ team was somewhat sloppy (the one and other half-hearted duel and catastrophic pass), confirming the old saying that the worst players are always found as left and right backs… In the end, the only goal that was scored during my watching time (by the boys) was canceled due to offside, but also as a 0-0, it was an enjoyable encounter.


In the end, all this became sort of home and I had a hard time saying goodbye. But I am confident that it will not have been the last time.

Caledonia Drivin'

As I make the updates on Australia below, I am actually in Nouméa, the capital of New Caledonia. There is a lot of interesting stuff to tell from this pays d'outre-mer (half France, half independent). Above all, it is stunningly beautiful and internet access is scarce. The last seven days, I have been doing a roadtrip around the main island, Grande Terre, which is actually... quite big.

Stay tuned!

Magic in the Red Centre

Perhaps in honor of the visitors from the Netherlands, this March in Sydney was the rainiest one in decades. I did not mind too much: I was busy with my work and the MuST conference, and on the weekend where I explored the Eastern beaches and the Ku-Rin-Gai Chase/Brisbane Waters NPs, weather was gorgeous. However, at some point its starts to get on your nerves. So I was happy that I could escape the pouring rain by a four-day camping safari in the Red Centre, which I had booked long in advance. 35+ degrees and blue skies were waiting for me.

As I may have mentioned earlier, my parents were touring Australia in the same period when I was in Sydney. They visited me there twice and we also made sure to be on the same trip to Uluru (=Ayers Rock), Kata Tjuta (=The Olgas), King’s Canyon, and so on.

Two times Uluru.

Valley of the Winds, Kata Tjuta.

Uluru just after sunrise, this time with (some people from) the group. My parents at the right hand side.

I won’t bore you with a detailed description of what we did when, but rather describe the general feeling I got. Two things stand out. First, landscapes are vast. Australia is a huge country, and even in a small corner in the center, we did roughly 1,300 km in four days. (Some groups, who did not have a 4x4-vehicle and could not take shortcuts via dirt tracks, did even more in three days.) Second, landscapes are magical. Bizzare, overwhelming rock formations in the middle of nowhere. (To the above, you can add Mt Connor and Haast’s Bluff, a huge meteorite crater.) Or a sudden richness of vegetation close to a river of waterhole in an unwelcoming desert landscape. It is hard to stay unmoved and not to get connected to the spirit of the place. You get an idea why they are sacred for the Aborigines who once lived there.


(Sad thought: Aborigines have been living their traditional lives in that region for ten thousands of years. It took European settlers only about 100 years to cut this tradition, by outright expropriation, but also by extensive livestock farming, degrading the soil, importing animals, interrupting food chains...)

Actually, the desert was not so deserty because there had been lots of rain in the months before. To the point that tours had to be cancelled because roads were no more passable. You often get this in the tropical North, where (southern) summer is the rainy season, but not so far south. For us, it was lucky, of course, because the intense red of the rock and the soil contrasted beautifully with the  green grass.

Everything we did was worthwhile. The only incident was a mice attack which haunted most tents in the last night and disturbed the sleep of a great number of people. I did not notice anything, but that was perhaps because I have an indifferent attitude towards these animals. 

If I have to name a favorite, it would be the walk in King’s Canyon. We got up in the morning hours (4:30!) in order to start the walk at dawn’s light and to finish it while temperatures were still bearable. Landscapes are remiscient of the grand American national parks in the Southwest (Arches NP and Zion NP in particular), but some things are special. In the middle of the walk, you can descend into a shadowy river gorge full of water, grass and trees. It is called the Garden of Eden, and for good reasons. Sunlight does not reach here, at least not in the morning hours. When few people are around, a magical silence calms down all thoughts of mundane affairs. You are left to yourself and the elements: the scorched soil from which green trees emerge, the dark, impenetrable water which searches its way between them, the crispy air beneath the blue skies and the fire of the Sun which lights up the red rocks up on the rim. It is a place where you only want to stay. But alas, you have to move on eventually. I finish with some pictures from that walk.

Not quite the Jihadi training camp. Just effective protection against the sun and extremely annoying flies.

The Garden of Eden.

Below and above: top of the gorge.

The Forgotten Gem (Royal NP)

Every visitor to Sydney makes it to the Opera House. Most of them cruise the harbor with the spectacular entrance at Manly, the Taronga Zoo, and so on. They also explore the various city districts such as The Rocks (touristy, but nice), Glebe (hipster, but nice), Newtown (used to be hipster, now primarily noisy), Kings Cross (only for backpackers without money), Bondi Beach (only for backpackers with money), and so on. In terms of excursions, the Blue Mountains are by far the most popular destination. Which is surprising since there is a splendid natural beauty directly south of Sydney: the Royal National Park. It does, of course, not match the mountains in terms of sheer drama, but according to what I can find in the internet, the coastline is still awesome, alternating between rugged cliffs, hills with meadows and palm-dotted, sandy beaches.

I decide to explore the park. Given that the weather forecasts for the weekend are mixed, I take a day off, and on a sunny Thursday morning, I make my way to the southern end of the park. The train takes lots of curves and slowly passes through beautiful eucalyptus woods, with small rivers and lakes inbetween. When I reach Otford train station at about 9h, the only other two persons who leave the train are two German girls. Could have been expected. First, we are many, second, we like nature, third, Australians get up earlier.

I walk for two hours through subtropical rainforest. The views over the South coast are awesome and temperatures are still bearable.

Finally the vegetation opens up, and I arrive at Burning Palms Beach. Well, this one has survived the fire.

From there, you can make a short detour to a famous spot just beneath the cliffs: Figure Eight pool. It is only accessible at low tide and essentially consists of stone ledges with deep water pools between them. (See also the blog background image on top.) After hours of walking, it is a pure joy to dive in, especially since barely anybody is there.

Then, however, a group of noisy Frenchies arrives and I decide that it is time to move on. I encounter more groups on the way back to Burning Palms beach and nod to myself for getting up at 6:30. After 1,5 hours of walking on, I am at Garie Beach.

It is past noon and I have lunch, followed by a bath in the sea. I have to decide whether to go for the German Infantry Marching Prize and to complete the Coast Walk up to Bundeena. A little bit less than 30 km in total---people normally do this in two days. Unfortunately, I would have to make it before 19h: then, the last ferry departs and if I miss it, I will be stuck in the middle of nowhere. Also, I don’t know the terrain, I can’t refill my water and it is 30 degrees in the shadow. I postpone the decision until after a nap. When I wake up, it is one hour later, and the choice has been made for me. Not without a slight feeling of relief I return and walk back (this time not at the coast, but on the ridge). It is still a very honorable 25km walk and I arrive home exhausted, but happy.

Whenever you make it to Sydney, be sure not to miss this beauty!

"I will be 15 minutes late"

Dozens, if not hundreds of people have received this message from me. In this case, I am about 15 days late with a blog update. But who cares---after all, there are more important things in life than to follow my travel blog. Enjoy!

In the next postings, I plan to introduce my Sydney neighborhood (Marrickville), my workplace (the Australian Guggenheim), the magnificent Royal National Park, just south of Sydney, and to tell about my trip to the Red Centre.

Weekend Excursion (2): Broken Bay and the Hawkesbury River Estuary

On Sunday, the weather is even better than on Saturday, and I manage to get up early (7 am). For me, this is a real sacrifice, but I want to spend the day at the Ku-Rin-Gai Chase and Brisbane Waters National Parks, which are some 50 km up the coast from Sydney, to the North and South of the Hawkesbury river estuary.

I do not want to bore you with long descriptions of what I did when, and I will just post some pictures from the trip. Basically, I took the bus up to Palm Beach (the poshiest of the posh Sydney sururbs) did a 4h ferry cruise on Broken Bay and the Hawkesbury river, and a light afternoon bushwalk from Patonga to Umina Beach. With incredible views of the river estuary and Broken Bay.

Pretty much paradise. At least with good weather.

Below are the pictures from the bushwalk described above. It winds upwards through light forest, with several magnificient lookouts on the river estuary. Then, it descends to a beautiful sandy beach with an ocean pool (Pearl Beach). In the forest behind it, rich Sydneysiders have bought their holiday home, presumably before the real estate rush. Now, these places cannot even be bought for money. From there, I conclude the walk by walking along the trips to Umina Beach, where the evening light throws a glorious golden shade over sand and water alike.

Checking in at the Ocean Beach Hotel---not a posh resort, but a pub and gambling center with rooms on the second floor---proves to be challenging. My credit card is in Sydney (after all, the payment was pre-authorized via a booking website) and they demand a 200 AUD cash deposit which I obviously do not carry. At some point, I consider canceling my booking and returning to Sydney. But in the end, I find an ATM and everything works out.

"I should get something in return", I tell the staff, who was friendly all the time, but deferred to company policy. "A free coke or so." The response is given with an open smile and utterly baffling after the previous hazzles.
"Do you drink beer?"
"Yes..."
"Let me fix you a couple of drinks."
"One is enough, thank you."
"Do you also drink spirits?"
 "..."

Probably I could have emptied the entire bar. But since I already had a glass of white wine at a pit stop in the afternoon, just before the bushwalk, I leave it with a large draft beer.  Fortunately, there is no company policy on free drinks for tired guests. May this remain so.