Werrong Beach Track

I didn't intend to spend my afternoon at a nude beach, but that is indeed where life took me today.

Receiving the tip from a local that the Royal National Park is an excellent location for a picnic, I eagerly packed a sandwich, filled my re-usable water bottle, and set off towards the train station. While the trip was set to be three hours, a lapse in my directional judgement caused an additional two-hour delay, allowing me to view a dull portion of New South Wales, the kind that causes one to imagine homeowners washing their clothes at the local river and still being excited about the prospect of, one day, viewing cable television. So close to the thriving city of Sydney, it was baffling to see such blank, abandoned land. Bill Bryson wrote in his book In a Sunburned Country about how, many years ago, a man released 20 rabbits into Australia, simply for fun. Having no natural predators in the land down under, the rabbits, in turn, bred like... rabbits. Within years there were hundreds of thousands of them hopping around and feasting on Austria's native plants, thus leaving the once beautiful and unique scenery bland and empty. I wondered if this blank area the train was leading me through was once abundant in greenery, also, and was saddened by the thought. 

Eventually, one bus and six trains later, I arrived at the correct stop: Otford Station. I emerged from the bus onto undeveloped land, as if I had walked off the train into a town that was one big campsite. Featuring that wonderful woodsey smell, birds chirping freely, not a car to be heard or paved road to be seen, it was pure bliss. 

The only problem was, with the lack of roads and signage, I was unsure of where exactly to go. While Google Maps is always a lifesaver, the software was pointing me in the direction of a seemingly vertical hill, which I didn't want to believe was true. After a brief standoff, eventually the inevitable occurred and Google Maps emerged victorious, and I began a slow, painful trek up the hill. 

Finally, I had reached my intended destination: Royal National Park.

The views were spectacular. After enjoying my picnic, I realized that, like any good, glutinous American, I wanted to see more. Dancing between the line of curious and reckless, I gave one last glance to the rapidly lowering sun, and, with a confirmed resolve, plunged into the Forrest track to make my way to the ocean's edge.

The trek down to the beach was less of what an American may call "Hiking," and more of what an Aussie would call "Bushwalking." I spent most of the hike wondering if I was indeed on the path, or if I was simply wandering aimlessly about through the bush. At one point I reached a giant, uncrossable pond, and after a long stretch of staring at it, willing it to move, I realized that I in fact had gone the wrong way. I shivered at the thought of what beaty eyes of lethal creatures were staring at me from their camouflaged homes and quickly made my way back to the path. 

Over time, the sound of ocean waves became increasingly loud and my steps quickened as I knew I was approaching the bottom of the hill. My steps quickly came to a screeching halt, however, as I spotted and read the sign announcing the beach.

Hell Hole Beach. You may or may not notice the subtle message at the bottom of the sign, "Werrong is an authorised nude bathing beach." I certainly did notice this warning. After a moment of analyzing my feelings and deciding whether to fight or flight, I figured I had already come so far and, making a conscious effort to point my camera at the ground, cautiously emerged out of the bushland and onto the beach. As I had suspected, I was the sole attendee at Hell Hole this late afternoon. 

As much as I would have liked to spend several hours beach-side, reading a book or simply listening to the waves, I enjoyed only a few minutes before heading back into the bushland to make it back before sunset. I figured I had better not tempt fate; I could practically see the headlines in the next day's papers: "American lost in bush, killed by giant Australian lizard (or worse - a nudist)." I could practically smell the bacon on the plates of Aussies laughing about the story at brekkie the following morning as they were reading the morning paper. "Bloody Yanks," they would joke. I quickened my pace as I trotted back up the mountain, and sure enough made it back with daylight to spare.

I may have spent only a few minutes beach-side, but I'd be willing to bet they were a few minutes longer at Hell Hole than any other tourist perhaps in the history of Australia. 

Palm Beach

What a day. Feeling like embracing the final-days-of-Autumn sun with a hike, I remembered a recommendation I received of Palm Beach from an Aussie local. This particular individual doesn't generally allow many positive endorsements, so I had a feeling the scenery would be spectacular and geared up for a beautiful day.

 

I partook in a little research prior to my departure, as often anonymous Internet bloggers provide the most helpful inside tips of things a traveler wouldn't otherwise have discovered if left to their own devices. Sure enough, a specific hike up a mountain to view a lighthouse received a shockingly high 4.7 stars by previous partakers. Sold, I threw on my "runners," (tennis shoes); I had planned my day. 

Palm beach is an extra treat, as it involves an approximate three hour public transportation commute, including multiple bus transfers. While this could be discouraging to a person with a strict agenda, I quite enjoyed the trip as it allowed me to view much of New South Wales I haven't seen before, and probably wouldn't have experienced if I didn't embark on the trip. I was able to discover a few restaurants I could potentially indulge in some time, such as the esteemed "Hog's Breath Cafe," and another whose name wasn't promoted, but instead its front door featured a large inspirational sign stating, "Life's a beach, the Universe is your oyster." I brought the written words of my good/ imaginary friend Bill Bryson along (I am currently reading his spectacularly hilarious book, "In a Sunburned Country"), but when I discovered the bus pulling into its last stop I hadn't even opened the first page. 

My initial impression was that the beach was stunning, of course, but I couldn't help but wonder what made the difficult-to-impress Aussie I spoke with claim it to be their favorite. It was simple, scarcely populated, and featured a relaxed atmosphere, which are all nice aspects, but I couldn't grasp what would deem this destination of such high praise that it would be chosen, without hesitation, as their number one pick over the hundreds of other beaches in New South Wales. I was soon to find out. 

I stopped at the first cafe I found, ordered a takeaway meal of a chicken burrito with guacamole paired with a "Flat white," which, I am told, is a coffee with milk sans froth (it seems to be the go-to local drink here, a habit I quickly picked up). I took the doggy bag across the street to the beach, found a quiet place to sit, and enjoyed the little piece of heaven derived from eating my delicious lunch in paradise.

Eventually I was ready to set off towards the mysterious lighthouse I had read about. Not knowing where to begin searching for it, I looked up and easily spotted a small figure across the beach that, with enough squinting, could be made out to look like a lighthouse. That was easy. Small and insignificant in appearance from the distant side of the beach, it was an item I never would have noticed had I not been specifically searching for it. Shout out to the Internet bloggers out there, improving lives of tourists everywhere!

I reached the base of the mountain, and to my surprise, I discovered it featured hundreds of steps winding upwards. I weighed my resolve and decided the scale weighed slightly more heavily on the "Yes" side, and set off upwards, step by step. 

My favorite kind of workout is one where you're having so much fun you forget about the physical exertion you are partaking in only until you feel your sore muscles the next day. This, however, was not one of those workouts. Winding slowly upwards, one step at a time, frequently pausing to stand off the path so other tourists could pass - some from going down the one-way stair route of the mountain, most from moving much quicker upwards. After what seemed like an eternity, I spotted what I thought may be like the promise land. Triumphantly, I took my last shaky step, clinging on to the mountainside for balance, as it would appear the construction workers decided a handrail would not be necessary to set a hiker up for success, only to reach the top and abruptly realize I had merely arrived at the halfway point.

Miraculously, I made it to the top. After a quick check with my emotions to decide if they would rather first have me first view the lookout from my treacherous work, or go hide in a corner somewhere and pass out for a few minutes, I decided as long as I wasn't doing any more climbing it would be okay. 

A sign instructing hikers on the history of the lighthouse was posted, but it must not be of very high historical importance because it was like pulling teeth trying to find something interesting. Here is the best I've got: it is one of only two lighthouses on the New South Wales coast left unpainted, in order to show its natural stone finish (the other is at Montague Island). I hope that news changes your life for the better somehow. 

Despite the lack of historical importance, the views were spectacular; the hike allowed me to discover an additional beach behind the mountain, which was an unexpected treat and I think the pictures speak for themselves as to why this is a favorite destination of many locals and tourists alike. 

Another day in paradise!

Chinese Garden of Friendship

Sunday had arrived and I realized I should probably spend the day unpacking and getting organized, as I had just moved into a new house. I should probably go to the grocery store and meal prep for the next week, since my cabinet consisted of one unopened bag of quinoa. I should probably walk around Parramatta and become acclimated to my new location. My to-do list was longer than the hours in the day, but... I didn't want to do any of it. 

I woke up at my leisure - as much as I want to continuously do and see everything amongst my everlasting euphoria from living in this country, I try to make an effort to keep up with health and fitness, as well. No tourist activity is ebjoyable when you're struggling to keep your eyes open or feeling under the weather from a weakened immune system. Moreover, and perhaps more importantly, as I am employed on an hourly basis, I definitely do not want to be missing work due to illness. So, I allowed myself a full, good-night's sleep in my new twin bed before rushing off to Sydney the moment I woke up. 

Feeling fresh, I decided to embark on the day without a heavily planned agenda, and see where life took me. I was delighted to discover that I am living a mere stone's throw away from the Parramatta River, so I decided to make my way over to the ferry wharf. As things go, the ferry was cancelled due to flooding by the torrential downpour we experienced a few weeks ago, but since taking the ferry had now been engraved  in my mind, I took the bus to Rydalmere (yes, the opposite direction) and took the Captain Hook cruiser in from there. I did not regret this decision. 

I've lived in Sydney two months now, and am starting to feel more like a local each day - which means I can delight in frequent unintentionally humorous tourist remarks. For example, Sydney offers roundabouts rather than stop signs in most instances, which is efficient, as it allows traffic to move quickly. What is not as self-explanatory is that the contraptions were specifically built so that busses could ride over them, as looping around in such tight circles would be impossible. I believe my first reaction to this occurrence was an exclamation along the lines of, "This driver is crazy!!!" Now that I am 'In the know,' however, I can sit back and allow myself a chuckle at the expense of visitors who remark such sentiments as, "Wow, we must really be in a hurry!" or "I think this driver has been drinking!" I have come full circle.

The Parramatta River has always reminded me of the California Delta in appearance, thus bringing a nostalgic, homely feel to this new life I'm living, but the ferry ride allowed me to discover the two are more alike than I initially realized. From the view of the ferry we were able to see houses lined up against the water's edge, their backyards overlooking the water, almost identical to the Delta.

I unloaded the boat at Circular Quey, which meant I was to hike a little over a mile to reach my intended destination: the Chinese Garden of Friendship. I stopped when I noticed a gathering of some sort was taking place, littered with police who looked wary from their attempts to prevent a riot. I viewed a sign a young woman was holding: "Stop Cutting Benefits for Aboriginal Affairs." I couldn't help but to smile - same story, different side of the world, different minority group. Young people feeling deserving of tax dollars for events that occurred in the 1800s - before even their grandparents were born. I'm not one to get involved in politics, and I do understand paying families for acquiring their land, but the question at hand seems to be: for how long? In this instance, so many generations have passed that the aboriginal rioters were indistinct in appearance from the Caucasian policemen monitoring them. I couldn't help but wonder if these spunky, rioting youths are genuinely upset that they do not live in accordance with their distant ancestors' lifestyles, wandering around unclothed and eating freshly speared eel from the Parramatta River for dinner. Yes, surely the aboriginals would have evolved over time, but I think it is agreeable to state that they likely wouldn't have been able to transform Australia into the thriving first world paradise it is now without British intervention. Wouldn't it be nice if we could all take a moment to simply appreciate what we have, instead of always wanting for more.

I arrived at the Chinese Garden of Friendship and enjoyed aimlessly wandering around, viewing the spectacular scenery. I learned from various informational posts displayed that the garden was designed by the Chinese city of Guangzhou, which is Sydney's Chinese sister city. The gardens were opened in 1988 as a symbol of, you guessed it, the friendship between China and Australia.

Fun fact: the garden was used in a scene for the 1995 superhero film Mighty Morphin Power Rangers: The Movie. 

I spotted a tea room and delighted in a leisurely, tranquil lunch of Pork Sticky Buns and Mellow Cream tea (oolong tea with mallow blossoms, safflowers, and almond pieces) before heading back home to Parramatta.

A day's work touristing complete!

Moving Day: Baulkham Hills to Parramatta

I am officially a resident of Parramatta!

While I enjoyed the subtle beauty of Baulkham Hills, its distant proximity from most things began to make the low rent prices seem like more of a cost than a benefit, especially when you have to rely on public transportation. My bus route to work was of particular concern, as it involved an hour commute each way, including a bus transfer, which is more time spent standing in one place waiting for busses than enjoying Australia. 

I toured my new home several weeks ago, and met my new housemate/ landlord. I remember being immediately struck by the modern design of the clean, white home, and delighting in the fact that the room had its own private balcony. I was overjoyed to find the location allows for a simple fifteen-minute bus commute, or 40 minute walk along the Parramatta River, allowing me a gorgeous sunrise hike on days I feel particularly energetic. 

As with clothing shopping where my philosophy is to leave the clothes that spark my interest in the store, and return to make the purchase if the item(s) remain in my mind several days later, I couldn't stop thinking about this house. The woman who gave me the tour was around my age, and very kind. She moved to Sydney two years ago, and what was supposed to be a short stint studying abroad turned into her forever home when she met her husband. 

I had made my decision. I texted her, discovered the room was still available, and just like that, I was in. 

(Picture from www.m.news.domain.com.au)

Parramatta, home to around around 20,000 individuals, has a unique feel. Not booming enough to feel like a city, such as Sydney or San Francisco, yet not quiet enough to feel like a suburb, such as Baulkham Hills or San Ramon. Blend the two atmospheres together, and I suppose you have Parramatta. 

The oldest inland European settlement in Australia, Parramatta was founded by the British in 1788 - the same year, in fact, as Sydney. It is the economic capital of Greater Western Sydney and the sixth largest central business district in Australia. And it is now the place I call home. 

Before European settlers invaded the area, it was occupied by indigenous tribesmen called the Darug people. They referred to the area as "Burramatta," meaning "Head of Waters," or "Eel Waters." Apparently plentiful sea life inhabits the river I walk along every day during my lunch break, which is how the tribe was able to thrive in the area. When the Europeans took over, "Burramatta" became "Parramatta," and that's how the city was given its name.

In 1803, a historical event of particular interest occurred within city limits. One sunny afternoon, Joseph Samuel, a convicted English murderer, was scheduled to be hanged. At the appropriate hour, he was taken to the gallows in the park where, as per standard, a large crowd was eagerly viewing the entertainment from the surrounding seats. While completing the procedures publicly was meant to caution townspeople and, as the saying goes, 'Scare them straight,' locals generally showed up in spirits we may relate to if we were going to spend an afternoon at the local movie theatre. Hanging was standard at this time, multiple would be completed each day, and there were seldom any complications. So when Samuel was dropped and his rope broke, allowing precious seconds to be added on to his life, it was quite odd. The guards hastily tied him up again, placed him in the appropriate position and dropped him once more, and, to the crowd's astonishment, the rope actually slipped off his neck. Two failed hanging attempts! Ashamed, the policemen grabbed a new rope, tied Samuel up tightly and securely, double-checking their work, and dropped him a third time. Inexplicably, the rope broke once again, for a third failed attempt. Governor King was alerted of this unimaginable circumstance, who decided to chalk the event up as a Divine Intervention. Samuel was untied and walked home a free man.

 

When I arrived at my new house I was finally able to meet all four of my new housemates, as I had only yet met the woman. Her husband, along with the married couple they had taken in, remained a mystery. I cautiously entered the home with my suitcases, gingerly taking off my shoes, attempting to be extra polite in the inevitably awkward situation of moving in with people I'd never before met. 

"Hola!" The man affably exclaimed, "Como estas? Me llamo Jose Luis."

"Hola," the woman said amongst a welcoming smile, "me llamo Vanessa."

And that is how I discovered the tenants do not speak English. I had not thought to ask this particular detail during the inspection. 

I'm not sure who was more surprised - me, to hear the entire house speaking Spanish, or them, to hear me respond in a choppy, yet understandable version. I learned that the couple had used much of their life savings to move here from Venezuela to start a new life. Former accountants, they are now working as cleaners to improve their English so they can eventually get back into some kind of trade. 

To compound the surprising factor of moving into a house full of Spanish-speakers, I discovered shortly after arriving in the country that, in Australia, it is extremy rare for a person to speak Spanish! French, yes. Chinese, definitely. Italian, sure. Spanish, however, is not even generally taught in schools. My Aussie coworker did not recognize the word "Hola" when I used the greeting one morning - it's that foreign. What are the chances that I would move into a house where Spanish is not only understood, but the first language?! While I noticed I am more than a bit rusty from the progress I made during my time living in Costa Rica, I am looking forward to this opportunity to refresh and perhaps grow the skill. 

Another development is that the couple who owns the house has a sister who will be moving to Singapore in the upcoming months. Coincidentally, I also plan to move to Singapore - on May 17, 2016 to be exact - so perhaps this contact will give me a starting point in the country.  You never know who you will meet or what connections you will make in this life! 

Needless to say, I am greatly looking forward to this new chapter.

Cremorne Point to Mosman Bay Hike

Things have been going so smoothly in this beautiful country that I've been wondering if my posts have started to become boring to anyone other than my mother. Remembering my months living in San Rafael, Costa Rica, I have been  remembering my tales encountering adversity through language barriers, transportation issues, and my host family's demon-dog, Peter. Australia, however, has shaped up incredibly well, leaving me with wonderful days that I fear don't so easily translate into interesting stories. My experience today, however, will allow me to stray from the rut I have been falling into and stretch my writing skills once more. 

I had planned my Sunday well and down to the minute. I was going to wake up at 5 a.m., take a blissful sunrise ferry ride to Cremorne Point, hike to Mosman's Bay, grab a leisurely lunch on the rooftop of the Mosman's Bay Rowing Club, meet a friend in the city for "Xtreme Gelato," bus home to shower, meet some friends at church to assist in planning our small group's "Balcony" (the church after-party), and attend the 5 and 6 p.m. services. What I was given, however, was a reminder that the world is out of my control. 

Responsibly heading to bed early to prepare for my full day, I was abruptly awoken by the noise of a house party. Groggilly popping my ear plugs in and shutting my window, I was surprised to find that those measures did not work to block out the noise. At all. Soon I realized why - the party was at my house! I checked the time: 11 p.m. Voices from the outside made their way to the inside, people were screaming, quickly occupying both the upstairs and the downstairs, leaving the lights on in their wake. I pinched myself - am I back in college? Was this whole Australia trip simply a vivid dream after a long, tiresome finals week? Aren't my nearly 30 year old housemates old enough to know how to have a basic level of decency? Sure enough, to my dismay I discovered this was, in fact, reality. I sighed with acceptance and opened a book, the understanding washing over me that I would not be getting to sleep for a while, and thus not taking a sunrise ferry, after all. 

However perplexed I felt, I became an equal amount happy upon realizing that, while it had trickled down to midnight my time, it was 7 a.m. U.S. time! I quickly took a moment to ponder if my brain could function well enough to hold any sort of meaningful conversation, decided to take the risk and called my parents. After short chats with each, I hoped it was socially acceptable timing and called my grandparents, also. It was the highlight of my day to speak with them, and caused me to feel glad for the house party allowing me the opportunity to be awake at the same time. There was even mention of them joining me in Fiji next year (I heard you, grandma!) which I would LOVE. 

Hours later, the people left and I was able to fall back asleep (other than my good night's sleep, I later discovered a devastating casualty of a chocolate bar I had in my pantry). Soon the morning came and I decided I wouldn't let the selfish actions of others ruin my day. I dragged myself out of bed, excited to embark on the first part of my adventure - the Cremorne Point to Mosman's Bay hike! 

Along my bus trip, an Asian family with, say, ten children under the age of five trickled in, accompanied by two parents and an elderly grandmother. Noting the full bus, I immediately stood up and my seat was occupied by three of the children and the grandmother. (Tangent time: I never cease to be dismayed by the non-country-specific phenomenon of individuals not standing for others on the bus. Young people not standing for elders; men not standing for women; anyone in the bus not standing for someone juggling several bags of groceries. It is a simple action that can make a big impact on someone's day. I challenge every reader to stand for someone on public transportation this week and see if the feeling of causing a wake of goodness in your community, however small, outweighs the minor discomfort of standing. I bet it will.) 

Soon I noticed a young boy, perhaps 7 years old, who seemed to have been forgotten by his adult keepers and was standing in the area clearly marked "No standing," and leaning against the inward-opening doors, which seemed like a bad idea. Feeling as though I should step in, as his parents clearly had their hands full and I wasn't convinced he could read the English warning signs, I offered to share my holding pole with him in the safe zone. Upon his refusal I advised him to be careful, as the doors open inward. I was able to herd him towards me just as the doors automatically opened into a formation that would have undoubtedly crushed his small body, or in the very least caused everyone involved a good scare. A day's work completed, I hopped off the bus and headed towards the ferry station.

"Excuse me," I heard a voice call and felt someone touching my arm. Turning around, I discovered an older man was speaking to me. Wondering if I am local enough yet to give directions, I was shocked as he began to commend me on my actions in the bus with words so kind they gave me goosebumps. I assume he must have been sitting near enough to see me stand up for the family and help the child. Not knowing how to respond to such a sentiment, I was so taken aback that I simply thanked the man repeatedly, telling him his compliment made my day. That conversation put more of a spring in my step than the large latte I ordered to accompany me through my travels. It also reminded me of the life lesson that positive reinforcement cures more ails than negative - you can scold, say, a child, a dog, or an employee so many times, but the moment you give them a treat, a raise or a simple pat on the back they will tend to be more inclined to work harder. I'll never sit on the bus again.

I took a ferry ride into Cremorne Point; the sparkling Sydney waters of never cease to put a blissful smile on my face. Stepping off the boat, I was relieved to find a blatantly marked path and set off, quickly noticing the trail featured the beauty of bushland combined with the relaxation of walking along the water. This is my kind of Sunday. 

The path soon ended at "Cremorne Point Reserve." As my end destination was planned to be Mosman's Bay, I did what any good tourist would do: I waited until a sweaty man walked by, clearly out exercising, and followed him through the city, hoping he too would be embarking on the second part of the hike and could lead me to the path connection. After a few minutes of hiking, however, I gained the distinct impression that he, in fact, was not headed towards the path, and his increasingly frequent over-the-shoulder glances led me to believe he was becoming suspicious of my behavior. Disappointed that what I thought to be a clever strategy had failed, I let him travel alone into the distance, finding myself at a four-way crossroads, none of which specified the way to Mosman's Bay. 

Opening my Google Maps, the voice of Siri's unnamed competitor led me through residential neighborhoods and families' backyards until, sure enough, I had landed back onto the beaten path. 

After another short stretch of hiking, I discovered the rest of the hiking trail was blocked off due to construction, but a ferry station was easily accessible that would get me to my intended destination. As my latte began to remind me of its presence, I hopped onto the ferry upon its arrival and made a b-line to the bathroom. Within an unbelievably short amount of time I felt the ferry slow. How long was this trip? It couldn't have been longer than a minute or so. Panicking as I began to confirm that we had already reached the destination, I rushed to grab my belongings and charged out of the bathroom towards the exit. As I was about to hop off, reaching the queue just as the last of the passengers were leaving, I realized I couldn't find my phone. Yes - my phone that holds my credit cards, public transportation pass, identification, and is the force behind my lifeline - Google maps. "Slow is smooth and smooth is fast," I thought, imagining the voice of Modern Family's Phil Dunphey speaking to me as I threw my backpack onto a chair and frantically began dumping everything out. As people had commenced exiting and a new wave of tourists were now entering the ferry, I confirmed my phone was not in the bag. And so my nightmare became reality as I began serving as the in-boat entertainment, lapping back and forth from the entrance to the bathrooms, wondering where it could have possibly gone.

'Which bathroom did I go in?!' I began to psych myself out, 'Did I push the door open or did I pull??' 

When the ferry driver could no longer wait for me, it started off to the next destination as I continued retracing my steps, over and over, my phone being nowhere to be found. People started helping me, even offering to call my U.S. number (to no avail, as I keep my phone on airplane mode to conserve the battery). "The only place I've been was the bathroom!" I kept telling people, wondering where it could possibly be. Low and behold, it had been stolen. As we were arriving at the next stop I wondered how I was going to get home, having lost all of my most crucial possessions simultaneously. Suddenly an elderly woman came forward holding my phone up in the air, my mind picturing it glowing brighter than a golden ticket and imagining angels singing harmoniously in the background. Apparently she had picked it up on the bathroom shelf before I had realized it was missing and embarked on my desperate search, having intention of turning it in to the ferry crew back in Sydney. After "rescuing" it, she then proceeded to sit on the top deck to score a seat in the sun, where she was unable to see my hysteria. I gave her a big hug, and my endless string of thank you's were interrupted by the ferry attendant telling me I had better get off or they were going to leave again. I could almost see the narration of his thoughts painted across his face: "Bloody Yank." I imagined his tone would be serious, featuring a hint of comedic pity. Elated that my crisis had been averted, I hopped off the ferry, thus ending the show, and realized I was right back on the same platform I had loaded the ferry from in the first place. 

A local advised me of a walking path, and I ventured along and finally reached the beautiful Mosman's Bay. I sat on a bench to write, but soon as the wind began to pick up and the clouds began to darken I figured I had better start heading back towards home.

Arriving back in Baulkham Hills in time to attend the 6 p.m. church service, allowing me the opportunity to hear a sermon so brilliant that, coupled with exhaustion, it caused me to experience the full emotional spectrum throughout the hour and a half - often simultaneously. I mark the day up to a success. 

Cockatoo Island

As I am unsure of how many weekend days I have left in this beautiful city before I embark on my Melbourne adventures (after a brief holiday in Canada), I have entered a phase I like to call "Extreme touristing," where I am cramming as many activities into each day as my energy will allow. 

This morning I planned to explore Sydney Harbour's largest island, the empty-land-turned-prison-turned-girls'-school-turned-shipyard-turned-tourist-area called Cockatoo Island. Hearing about the island as a popular venue for events such as church retreats, paired with Lonely Island's review stating it is "One of the world's most spectacularly located campsites," I eagerly packed my sunscreen and hat, excited to purchase an informational audio walking tour and learn about the intriguing lives of the convicts as I explored the island. 

(Picture from www.sydney.com) 

Viewing advertisement pictures such as the one above, I imagined I would find an exotic island covered in trees, humming with the sounds of birds (perhaps Cockatoos?) and overall experiencing a beautiful, magical place, as I find most of Sydney's destinations to be. I was surprised, however, to step off the boat and onto bland, militant/ prison-esque grounds. It felt as though I was entering the real-life version of Shutter Island, the Leonardo DiCaprio movie. (Fun fact: the film was actually shot in Massachusetts.) 

I was then hit with the second setback of the day by discovering the audio tours, which detail the lives of individual prisoners, had sold out by a large group reservation. Bummer!

I took a moment to ponder taking the ferry back into the city and embarking on another activity, saving the island for another day, but I figured Google could tell me sufficient information about the island's history. As I have limited weekend time left in Sydney, I decided to trek on. 

Cockatoo Island is certainly a fascinating place. Discovered by Europeans (one of the few sites they can take credit for, as they did not poach this particular piece of land from Aboriginals), it opened as a Convict Penal Establishment in 1839 which lasted until 1869. The prison hosted criminals labeled as the worst-of-the-worst, often second- or third-time offenders. Pictures displayed inmates to appear savage and possessed, hardly recognisable as human beings. The prisoners are said to have lived in terrible conditions: the 300-capacity stone rooms were packed with 500 offenders, and the meat they were shipped was often so old it would have to be thrown out. They were supplied two meagre meals a day, and had to pay for a third portion out-of-pocket, with money earned through hard labor, if they were extra hungry. Prisoners were not taught by positive reinforcement, either. In 2009, an archeological dig on the island uncovered convict-era punishment cells under the kitchen. Woah. 

While most prisoners did not have the ability to swim, thus making escape from the island impossible, there is one success story backed by no substantial physical evidence, but is spoken of as truth. In 1856 Frederick Ward was sentenced to seven years in the Cockatoo Island prison for stealing horses. In 1863, it is said that his wife, Mary, swam to the island and delivered tools he could use to escape. Two days later, Frederick and his mate, Fred Britton, used the tools to break free and make it to the ocean. While Fred drowned, Frederick successfully swam across, where Mary is said to have been waiting for him with a fast white steed. Living under the alias "Captain Thunderbolt," Frederick wreaked havoc on New South Wales until he was shot dead by police in 1870. (I have to wonder, why would Frederick choose to partake in a risky escape the very year he was set to be released? Perhaps pride? Perhaps some elements of the story were lost in translation? Perhaps it is just that, a mythical ghost story told in children's camps while roasting s'mores, the storyteller shining a flashlight under their chin? Either way, I find the tale fascinating.) 

In 1869 the prison was shut down, and a few years later in 1871 a girls' school opened called Biloela. The school was comprised of two sub-divisions; the Biloela Public Industrial School was for girls who had been orphaned or neglected, and the Biloela Reformation School was for girls who had broken the law. There was one major flaw in the organisational system: the two schools were bunked together! Severely abused children and impressionable orphans would be living amongst petty criminals. The girls were treated like animals; they were locked in dark stone cellars for 12 hours each night, forced to lap water out of communal troughs, and we're not given silverware to eat with. Punishment was also severe. Often girls would have their beds removed, forcing them to sleep on cold, hard, dirty stone. One story detailed a teacher unlocking the girls one morning and noticed they had carved pictures in the walls. (what else were they supposed to do with 12 hours to kill?) He beat them and smashed their faces and hair against the stone to rub off the artwork. I reminisced on my childhood, remembering when my third grade teacher tore up my quiz for doodling in the margins, and thinking that punishment was cruel and unusual. A little perspective goes a long ways.

Additional havoc was wreaked on the iand when a young men's school for shipbuilding moved in across the island, and as you might imagine, all Hell broke loose.

The schools were re-located in 1888, and the island once again became a prison that accepted overflow from other jails, once again providing in-humane conditions. Finally, in 1908 the prison was permanently shut down. 

In 1913, the island was morphed into one of Australia's biggest shipyards, which was maintained until 1991, serving a stint as the Naval Dockyard of the Royal Australian Navy. The first of its two dry docks was built by convicts, as most infrastructure on the island was. The shipbuilding portion of its history is what caused the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organisation, UNESCO, to list Cockatoo Island as a World Heritage Site, meaning a place with cultural/ physical significance. 

Now, Cockatoo Island is a thriving tourist location. It hosts frequent venues, and is littered with tents for people to enjoy a few days camping. While I found walking through the island eery, kids seem to love the vast openness, allowing them to scooter, bike, and run free while their parents enjoy a glass of wine overlooking the ocean. There is even a preserved tennis court that was made for the Governor of the prison that people are allowed to use, boasting some of the best views in Sydney. 

 

A historical day ended with an afternoon in the Sydney Museum learning about the faces behind the names of the city's various streets and buildings, a thankful prayer that I was born in the 20th century, and a good night's sleep on my queen-size, cozy bed.