PICTURE: Courtesy Small House Records

13th July, 2010

Melbourne-based singer/songwriter LEVI McGRATH is currently on a national tour sponsored by World Vision. Small House Records have just released his latest album, Children of War, written after McGrath spent five months in Uganda last year during which he was involved in rehabilitating child soldiers. Here, the musician reflects on his time in Uganda...

"African grass dances rhythmically in the hot afternoon breeze. At the end of the dusty track stands a smooth, round mud brick hut in a clearing of finely-swept red earth. Its grass-thatched roof – tightly packed bundles of straw and bamboo – sits atop the mud walls like a Chinese hat. Smoke from a charcoal stove fills my nose while scrawny chickens scratch the dirt at my feet.

     "The doorstep, made of clay, stands just high enough to keep rain out during the wet season. Here sit a worn pair of black school shoes with no soles. A buckled timber frame borders a weather-beaten, peeling wooden door. Twelve years earlier a rebel commander stood on this same doorstep, shouting and beating on this same thin door. Here my best friend, Paul, then only 12, was brutally stolen and made a child soldier.

     "Whether I stand there in person or in my memory, I hold my friend, now free. His story has changed my life forever. And so I share with you his hut, his door, and his worn, black pair of shoes baking in the hot African sun".

~ www.levimcgrath.com

PREVIOUS SIGNIFICANT SIGHTS...

KING DAVID'S CALCULATOR

27th January, 2010

KARYN MARKWELL finds an unlooked for treasure in Old Jerusalem...

In the labyrinth of Jerusalem’s Old City, just about any scene could have appeared around the next corner.

     Already that long, hot day I’d turned down a hundred different lanes - all seemingly identical to begin with. I’d slapped the soles of my locally-made sandals down many kilometres of smooth stone paths and had been disoriented not only by the maze-like layout of the ancient city, but also from the giddying sense of possibility: what would I discover next!?

     I hadn’t fully absorbed one marvel before I was rushing on to find the next, so anxious was I to squeeze out every sensation possible from this city which was my temporary home.

     I’d turned one way and had been confronted by a busy lane of market stalls, with vendors aggressively trying to sell me everything from frankincense and myrrh to Spongebob Squarepants T-shirts written in Hebrew. I’d turned a different way and had found myself suddenly staring down the barrel of a submachine gun, firmly held by an 18-year-old soldier keeping watch for terrorists. He had chuckled when he saw the startled expression on my face.    

     Yet another direction - an upward climb this time - brought me onto the flat roof of an ancient mud-brick building with a spectacular view of the Mount of Olives, where Christ had been betrayed and arrested 2000 years ago. Following a stream of locals and tourists through a metal detector had brought me to the crowded Western Wall, Judaism’s most holy site, where devout men and women mourn the loss of their Temple.

     The setting sun had started to paint the city with the distinctive hue that gives it the name ‘Jerusalem of Gold’, when I abruptly came face-to-face with a statue of the boy king David. This rather modest figure wasn’t the most striking or emotional sight I’d seen that day, but nonetheless I’ll never forget it. For not only did the giant Goliath’s severed head lie at the conqueror David’s feet, but also a distinctly 21st century calculator. ‘I calculated the risk,’ David’s confident poise - hand on hip - seemed to suggest, ‘and decided it was worth taking on Goliath.’

     It was just another one of those marvellously idiosyncratic moments in time - treasured by all travellers - which I gleefully captured in my camera for viewing long after the forgotten piece of office equipment would have no doubt been reclaimed by its rightful owner.

RETURN TO THE CON

22nd August, 2009

KRIS BATHER makes his second trip to Comic-Con in San Diego...

Last year was the first time I ventured to the spectacle that is San Diego Comic-Con. I'd always had a desire to go to America, but particularly to Comic-Con. For people like myself that grew up on comic books, and who devour pop culture with relish, the Con is the place to be. My first visit in 2008 was somewhat overwhelming, but although I was new to the city and didn't know anyone, it was still a very enjoyable experience.

     This year was very different. Thanks to the tremendous opportunity of writing for comics' site Broken Frontier as well as my on-line magazine, Extra Sequential, I had interviewed dozens of comic book pros, and formed good relationships with various publishers in the 12 months since my first Con extravaganza.

     That meant that this time at the Con, I was able to introduce myself to many people that I'd only known by name and was able to “talk shop.” I passed out almost 200 business cards and got loads of freebies for review purposes. I felt like a VIP! What a difference a year makes. However, within that year a lot of hard work had been done. Most nights at home after my day job in an architectural firm were, and still are, spent in front of my laptop typing away at the next interview or article, or trying to get images. There's a tangible sense of peace and purpose through it all though, and I can see His grace at work.

     For me, Comic-Con represents the fellow fans and peers in the industry I love and shows me what an awesome God we serve. He's given me a great opportunity to forge a sought after creative career. Amongst the 126,000 attendees at this year's Con was the Canadian publisher who has picked up Extra Sequential for print earlier this year. Myself and my ES partner, Dave are working on the first issue for release in January now. It's more hard work, but it's fulfilling.

     San Diego is a special place because it represents opportunities, not only for me but also for the tremendously talented writers and artists that show their wares amidst the sights and sounds of upcoming films, TV shows and games, not to mention the Hollywood celebrities that always have a presence there.

     On Saturday night I hung out with the friendly gang from CCAS (Christian Comic Arts Society) and we had a great time of fellowship. The CCAS team have been going to the Con for years and always make sure to shine the light in the crowded Con floor. On Sunday morning we also had our own service, which was a packed house. It served as a reminder that there's nowhere that God can't reach out to people, and even though we were all there for our love of sequential art, our love for Jesus also united us and created new friendships.

     San Diego is a city much like my hometown of Perth. It's sunny, the people are friendly and the cost of living is relatively inexpensive. Every year for 5 days in July however, San Diego transforms as swarms of people from across the globe descend upon the harbour town. News crews, police officers, volunteers, and people in costumes of varying quality are everywhere. Comic-Con owns San Diego during late July. Hotels and restaurants receive massive business and there's just a general welcoming warmth that permeates the streets. Strangers talk to each other and everyone is accepted.

     I'm planning on going again next year, which will be a different experience yet again, as I'll be a professional, and the third issue of the magazine I'm working on will hopefully be out. It's an exciting time, but it will also be an exciting place.

"EVERY DAY IN GHANA IS A GOOD DAY FOR BARGAINING"

30th May, 2008

CHOE BRERETON writes about the color and life of a Ghanaian marketplace...

What is it about the evocative markets of Ghana that urge me to shout "Eureka" in semblance to many an intrepid explorer? Perhaps it’s the tangible excitement of being introduced to one of the many dense social hubs that serve to collectively form the very heartbeat of the country. An apparent hive mentality operates within these markets where it seems the whole of the capital descend to buy their provisions on the very same day you choose to.

     Every day in Ghana is a good day for bargaining, and today the sun lies high over Medina markets, which splay out as far as the eye can see in a heaving throng of stalls, street vendors, hagglers and carrier women. Cars, trucks, and people, lots and lots of people share the same narrow roads with a degree of reluctance, and ducking and weaving, jostling and shoving is all I can do to escape being absorbed and flushed away by the thicket of bodies. Two fingers are all that connect me to Dominic my husband; there is not enough room to hold onto his whole hand. He is walking bare foot again, and hysterical howls and whoops of “Obruni - white man,’ and ‘Mungo Park!’ rise up from the women and children that sit dutifully selling their aromatic pyramids of produce by the roadside.

      Today we have come to find Alhajiah, one of the few Ghanaian women who have made a pilgrimage to Mecca and back; something rarely heard of among the country’s folk least of all the women. Her stall hugs the corner of the main road and continues down a narrow alleyway where every cubit of space is taken up by browsers and street vendors. My mother, Dominic and I fall into single file like trained camels as we literally squeeze past a convoy of sweating men that carve through the crowd hauling rumbling carts. They pull and push the large wooden wagons with the determination of blinkered oxen. “Argo” they yell, “Argo - excuse us, excuse us!” Outside Alhajiah’s stall we huddle close together and my mother yells her name. Alhajiah bobs up from behind a stack of chillies and dried fish and animatedly welcomes my mother with beefy open arms. Wrapped in white Kente, the traditional cloth of Ghana, she looks every bit the pais pilgrim save for the gold teeth and the very loud voice.

     After complaining for a spell that my mother has not visited in a long while, she then guides us up some stairs to the back of her stall and to worn nylon sacks of my mothers favourite chicken feed. It’s the best, mum tells me, and she won’t buy chicken feed anywhere else. Dominic and I stand in the cool dim room whilst mum barters on price. I watch the two women haggle like clucking chickens, doing best what is mandatory at all Ghanaian markets. They speak animatedly until Alhajiah throws up her hands, pulls a hurt face then walks away stiff-necked. “You’re killing me,” she yells. It’s all an elaborate role – play, a distinct part of our culture where no word is fully expressed without suitable gesture. There are lots of raised eyebrows and sucking of teeth. Hands flail, point and jab in every direction. They cross and uncross, sit on the hips only to be thrown wildly into the air again. It is mesmerising to watch. Ghana’s culture is beautiful, with an intricate medley of languages that communicate through a type of story telling. Mum leaves with her chicken feed at a compromised price and collars a thirteen year old girl who’s only job is to carry heavy goods in a large bowl for shoppers. She is younger than me, skinnier than me, and yet is able to balance about 10 kilo’s on her head whilst threading through the masses with the ease of a small rodent.

     We lose mum and our carrier girl for a while and find them a little way ahead standing in front of a stall with tomatoes and chillies. The sun is sweltering and some of the gutters are beginning to smell. Mum is haggling again, throwing back tomatoes and rooting through the pile to find the best ones. The lady who owns the stall stares quizzically at Dominic as he comes to stand next to my mother. She completely ignores me. The people on either side of her stare too.
     “He is my son,” my mother says matter-of-factly.
The woman smiles, and hands over the bag of tomatoes. Whilst mum fossicks in her bag for money, I take a moment to glance around at the children who should be in school but are instead helping their mothers earn a living. I look at the mothers, who nurse their stalls by sunlight during the day and by kerosene lamp after sunset. And everywhere there is so much food. I tilt my head back and sniff. I smell dried fish, fresh tomatoes, ripe plantain and fruit, lots and lots of fruit. The streets are speckled with colour; fire engine reds, and melting yellows, earthy greens and beckoning oranges. Women call to passers by to come and inspect their precarious arrangements. It’s a mathematical feat how they stack everything so precisely.

     Behind us a van slowly noses past, toots, then clips a passerby on the shoulder. There is an uproar as witnesses reprimand the driver by slapping the sides of the van with their open palms. Mum looks up, shakes her head and sucks her teeth. It’s time for us to go and rodent girl follows us to the van. Mum pays her and she smiles beautifully, gratefully, then evaporates into the crowd. Dominic brushes off his feet before climbing into the back seat. As I roll down the window to let some air in, I momentarily catch a stillness in time where I see more than just a market. Instead, I glimpse a gathering that encompasses all that is good about Ghana; the business, the beauty, the colour, the abundance, the serenity despite the masses and the hardworking mentality of its people. Mum puts the car into gear and toots people out of the way as we head back to our cool and uncrowded house.

RUSTIC DELIGHTS IN CORNWALL

17th February, 2008

CHOE BRERETON forgets her cares in St Ives...

The road that winds out of Hayle into St Ives slips by scenery that is almost as beautiful as the town itself. Tangled banks and brushes, glassy coastlines that escort the road a way, and stringy ribbons of tarmac the width of bike lanes that zigzag through locally governed settlements. Modernisation has left no footprint on Cornwall’s rustic charm much to the shared delight of residents and tourists.

     The entire Cornish region is studded with copycat towns that guide you dreamily back in time to antiquated beauty and wholesome simplicity. Without exception St Ives is one such area that delicately baits you into leaving your cares behind. The sight of the matchstick hamlet from the brow of the shrub lined A30 is a picture of history in stasis. The buildings, despite their ancient masonry, are deceptively modern inside, equipped to cater to the contemporary fancies of any punter from the big smoke.

     The town is set out like a tidy set of teeth; orderly with little space in between. From the air the architecture appears gapless, too dense for even a rabbit to squeeze through. Yet the closeness of each to their neighbour cumulates at the height of St Ives’ quaintness. There are cottages, not houses, and a disproportionate sway of bed and breakfasts to hotels. The streets are cobbled; narrow and winged with shops that Beatrix Potter herself would feel giddy in.

     Everything is cute, from the surf commodities that have evidently trickled down from neighbouring towns like Newquay, to the aromatic pastie shops that denote the grassroots of the Cornish. A seemingly isolated fishing village on the north edge of a rugged peninsula that kicks off to England’s south west, St Ives is one of many sweet spots frequented by thousands every year. The masses churn through like herded cattle, attracted it seems, by the very things that we are; space to breathe, space to reconnect, and the chance to savour a respite from life.

     My husband and I are at home amidst the starkly English pubs that hock stout and toad in the hole, and the antique granite and stone work that muzzle close to the town’s harbour. In rain or shine the district is beautiful, and we spend days shuffling excitedly down threaded cobbled streets to explore shops with muted lighting. On occasion we have caught the lugging in of the day's catch. Fishermen, with clichéd roving beards, rouged cheeks and woolly hats reel nets and lobster traps onto a beach secluded from the local tourist sunspot. Mammoth crabs snap huffily as they are hauled out of the sea and tossed into a plastic box or into the back of a truck. The sight looks like something out of a storybook, but it’s life for those who live here and an endless well of enjoyment for us.

     St Ives apparently has history, from virgin saints to death on the gallows; none of which appeal to me. Neither does the blip of progression in the form of the Tate art gallery, supposedly an offshoot of the Tate in London and the jewel of St Ives’ arts hub. What makes me giggle and spread my arms to catch the breeze are the old comfortable bedsprings at Audrey’s Sunshine Bed and Breakfast, and the bacon strips served every morning with pancakes and maple syrup. I love Audrey, I love the crackle of wood fires, and I love starring into the sunrise or sunset as it arcs out into the horizon beyond the harbour’s break wall.

     In that small enclave of British heritage you will find the things that we most love about life; the sights, smells and sounds that trigger carefully bundled memories, and the experiences that I long to one day relive.

REMEMBERING AUSTRALIA'S WARTIME PAST IN BORNEO

13th November, 2007

PHIL SMITH makes a pilgrimage to Sandakan...

Australians have become a pilgrim people.

     In recent years, an often ill-defined search for meaning has seen tens of thousands travel to places that have become shrines to an 'Australian spirit': the ANZAC heritage of mateship, sacrifice and significance beyond this life.

     The best known is Gallipoli. The Kokoda Track has become a magnet. Long Tan draws men back to their youth.

     But Sandakan, at the start of the Death March across Borneo, is the place that most mystifies. In 1945 more than a thousand men were forced by their Japanese captors to march 265 kilometres through the jungle to Ranau. Six survived.

     In Sandakan town is a church building that connects history and eternity and leaves visitors puzzling over matters such as forgiveness, purpose and peace.

     The banner outside St Michael's and All Angels Church announces the 'December Youth Camp'. The drum kit nestled in a knave adjacent the pulpit reflects today’s healthy youth ministry in this colonial era stone church.

     The young men who huddled on the hardwood pews and cement floor on the night of 18th July, 1942, would not have been much older than those who come here now. Some were only teenagers. Yet the prisoners of war were within months of death as they rested on arrival from Singapore. They had been sent as slave labour to build a runway.

     The church building holds many memories within its unique granite block walls. Since Reverend William H. Elton became the first rector in 1888, it has been a special place. The 19th century church fathers in England thought a timber structure would be sufficient, but the Province of South East Asia thought otherwise and colonial authorities used prison labour to quarry the stone for a building that has survived the tropical environment and the violence of men - including a world war.

    The solid stone and heavy timber building speaks powerfully of the actual church.

     Immediately after the liberation of Borneo by Australian forces, in June 1945, the surviving Christians gathered for worship, lead by 2/43 Battalion’s padre, Alex MacLiver. They gave him a home-made pulpit banner sewn with scripture verses. It hangs in the tiny chapel.

     Can anything separate us from the love of Christ? Can trouble, suffering, peril or the sword?

     Above the chapel, perfectly placed to catch the setting sun, are stained glass windows donated by public subscription and unveiled on ANZAC Day 2005. The Archbishop of the Anglican province of South East Asia, the Most Reverend Yong Ping Chung, unveiled ‘The Great West Window’, as a memorial to the British and Australian POWs and the people of Sabah who helped them.

     Inscribed, By the strength of your arm preserve those condemned to die, the beautiful work shows the Acts account of Peter in prison, the guards' dumbfounded and powerless.

     The deliberate and vital reference to the sacrificial generousity of the Sabah people is taken up in a depiction of the Good Samaritan.

     Endurance, Honour, Compassion, Courage & Sacrifice.

     More windows have been crafted in Sydney. They will be shipped and installed in coming months.

     According to local authorities, approximately 7,000 Australians visit the church and memorial gardens in Sandakan each year. Thousands of British also make the pilgrimage. Along with ANZAC Day and Remembrance Day, the people of Sabah mark the 15th August as Sandakan Day - marking the last execution of an Australian prisoner of war.

     The lively worship on Sundays, the sound of school children next door during the week and the silence of St. Michael's at sunset combine to challenge visitors with the present and everlasting significance of the past.

BERLIN - A PIECE OF HOME

REMEMBERING A PAINFUL PAST: Nils von Kalm at the site of the Berlin Wall.

12th August, 2007

NILS VON KALM writes about a homecoming, of sorts...

In 2003 my wife and I visited Berlin as part of a trip through Europe and the US. My parents grew up in Germany during the Second World War, so to go back to the capital city of their birthplace was a special time for me.

     With our base right around the corner from the Brandenburg Gate we set out to see the history of this amazing city. Places like the Victory Column, the Brandenburg Gate itself, the Reichstag, Zoo Station (made famous by U2) and of course the remains of the infamous Berlin Wall came alive to us as we made our way down the old streets where so much had taken place over the years.

    Throughout Berlin you can see bricks in the ground where the Wall used to run, literally cutting across streets and cutting families off from each other. When thinking of the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989, I have this lasting image of being in the kitchen at home with Mum, tears streaming down her face, watching it all unfold on the TV in front of us. Mum could vividly remember the Wall going up, as did my Dad, who never thought it would come down in his lifetime. We watched people dancing on the Wall, laughing and crying as they were reunited with loved ones from whom they had been separated for almost 30 years.

     The lady who was taking us through the city described to us how she used to feel when she would occasionally make the trip from East Berlin to the West in those days, and the relief she would feel as she crossed the checkpoint back into West Berlin. The day she was with us she told us how those same emotions came back to her as she literally stepped over the same line where the Wall used to be.

     I felt a mixture of emotions as I thought about my heritage in this old city, this city of division and now of amazing reunification. What happened in Berlin in 1989 was just part of a tidal wave that swept across eastern Europe as a whole system of government collapsed, seemingly overnight. In fact the build-up to it had been coming for months, but when it happened it was one of those moments in history that nothing was going to stop. It was a privilege to be there and experience a city reunited. Those few days in Berlin are ones I will not forget in a hurry.

AN UNDERWATER WORLD

DIVE IN! Rarotonga Lagoon in the Cook Islands. PICTURE: Richard Stowers (www.sxc.hu)

21st January, 2007

LLOYD HARKNESS recalls a visit to a tropical paradise...

Think crystal clear, aquamarine, tropical temperature water.

      Think snorkelling, where you only have to duck-dive three to four metres, or floating in liquid light where everything below you appears to be in arms reach.

      Think Finding Nemo opening up before you when you are no more than ten metres from the shoreline.

      And what can you see? Cod, clam, butterfly fish, staghorn coral, boxfish, anemone, sea cucumber, starfish, filefish, angelfish, hermit crabs and more.

      Having snorkelled in Hawaii and on the Great Barrier Reef the obvious advantage this reef has is its no cost accessibility.

      And where in the great Pacific am I? I'm on the island of Rarotonga in the Cook Islands.

      The colour and variety is amazing. I loved being able to dive down into a school of fish and anchor myself on the sand beside the reef for as long as a lung full of air would allow. The world became a liquid, ethereal otherness as curious fish took delight in checking out a goggle eyed oddity in their small domain.

      A significant sight? It was certainly great snorkelling and great fun getting there on a hired scooter with my wife clinging to the back.

REELING 'EM IN

CATCH OF THE DAY? Russell Stubbing's son Jacob reels one in.

25th August, 2006

RUSSELL STUBBINGS finds a fisherman's delight...

Narooma is a relatively untouched, picturesque town on the south coast of New South Wales, about 70 minutes from Merimbula. Still largely undiscovered by tourists, Narooma has managed to largely avoid the trappings of progress that have afflicted its neighbors Bateman’s Bay and Merimbula. You won’t find a McDonalds, or a KFC, or a shopping mecca, but what you do find is untouched beauty, pristine beaches, an inlet that snakes its way inland surrounded by bush, pockets of rainforest, and the lure of Montague Island some seven kilometres off-shore.

      Apart from its natural beauty, Narooma is a fishing hot spot. Offshore fishing can net species such as tuna, kingfish, snapper, flathead, shark, even marlin. The inlet is renowned for big flathead, mulloway, bream and mullet. But, for my family, it's the beaches that stretch endlessly along the coast that provide hours of fishing fun. While the male members of the family - myself and our lads Nathanael and Jacob - tend to do more of the fishing, the girls (my wife Rhonda and teenage shopping and fashion queens Emily and Grace) also like to wind in the occasional fish, or just enjoy the magnificent walk along the beach.

      On a recent holiday to Narooma we had opportunity to fish the beach at Dalmeny, only three or four kilometres to the north. This stretch of beach is one we were thoroughly familiar with from previous encounters. At times the salmon and tailor swarm along the beach, seeking food in the white breakers, deep gutters, and rips that form at various points along the beach. Dream fishing sessions are common. Salmon around the two kilogram mark and tailor of various sizes are regular catches. On one trip about four years back Jacob, who was only seven at the time, hauled in five salmon around two kilograms while his Pop was doing the same. This was within the space of about 90 minutes! Indeed you would be very unlucky to visit this spot and come home empty-handed.

      The fishing action was not as rapid as we would have liked on our recent trip but we still managed to pull some hefty salmon and a few tailor form the surf. The technique we favour (this is obviously top secret information) is to walk the beach casting lures just beyond the breakers and winding rapidly with regular twitching movements to simulate a baitfish. Inevitably the salmon cannot resist. They hit the lure at full speed and pull line off the reel. The effort to beach the fish is adrenaline pumping. The salmon often launch themselves out of the water like mini marlin. Bringing through the whitewash is a challenge that requires keeping the line tight. Any sign of slack line and the salmon will be off and swimming to freedom!

      Apart from the sensational fishing, Narooma for me is a place where I feel close to God. Surrounded by the breath-taking beauty of God’s creation, sea eagles soaring gracefully and effortlessly overhead, feeling the warm sun on your face, salt water swirling around your feet, and listening to the roar of the rolling breakers is a spiritual experience. Creation testifies to the creator! The consistency of the waves breaking one after the other, the regularity of the tides, remind me of God’s unchanging faithfulness. Narooma is a reminder of paradise, a small pocket of what the Garden of Eden may have been like, a fingerprint illustrating the creativity and majesty of God.

BETWEEN A ROCK AND THE OPEN AIR

PICTURE: Simon Mentz

4th August, 2006

ADAM KELSALL tells of a place where he goes to gain some perspective...

Mt Arapiles (in western Victoria) brings to mind bold elements of rock and sky; sandstone reds colliding with violent blue infused with native greens scattered by the wind in what appears an effort to soften the harshness. Jetstreams loom overhead signalling that I am in the middle of nowhere, yet this is the destination for thousands from all over the world every year.

      Once the home of the hardest climb in the world, it is now a pilgrimage for the ‘trad’ climber. Traditional climbers espouse the ethos of carrying everything you need to get from the bottom of the cliff to the top. This is in contrast to the modern style of sport climbing where bolts are placed in-situ in the crag and you don’t necessarily start at the bottom or even get to the top.

      'Trad' is focused on adventure - sport involving intensely difficult movements over rock. The guide book I have lists over 2000 climbs. Grades start at three (the easiest) and range up to 32 (stupidly overhanging and sloping bits of rock facing upside down and sideways). Each climb stands as a physical and cognitive jigsaw puzzle waiting for your hand and feet to connect the pieces. It is this connecting that is the magic of climbing. The huge world of noise and images, status and social norms, cars, phones, banana’s, petrol and money suddenly become zero as I focus intensely on a small ripple of rock under my finger, my rubber shoes smearing for friction on the glassy bulges. Climbing is a true paradox in that at this very second in time nothing is more important than hanging on and placing the right gear in the rock so it catches the rope I am attached to if I fall. I will invest significant amounts of mental, physical and even emotional energy just to get to the top. Yet it’s meaningless and unimportant.

      So why do I do it? I don’t know why. Especially harder to explain when most times you get to the top you fix a rope and abseil right back down to the start again! Maybe it’s unimportance is what’s important. There are other reasons I can think of such as the rare experience of flow which psychologists have identified as being key to good mental health. Or the night time campfire bravado where everyone gives details to the speck of the day’s climbs while listeners champ at the bit to relate their epics. Mostly, however I think the importance of climbing is overstated and overindulged. Mt Arapiles, to me, is a place to be quiet and gain perspective, to sit on a ledge shared with skinks and falcons, talk to God and high up on this cliff face be reminded that life is a big place in which to live.

ISLAND HOPPING IN TONGA

23rd May, 2006

LEANNE GRAY recalls an island experience...

This picture dates from September 2005, when our family took a trip to celebrate my husband, Geoff’s, 50th birthday to the South Pacific islands of Tonga.  We had decided to see as many of the 176 islands in Tonga as we could and ended up visiting four - Tongatapu, Eua, Ha’apai and Vava’u.

      The ferry to Eua from Tongatapu was easy and took us about two hours, although we were told it could be rough going. We did, however, have to wait a little while for our driver to pick us up once we got to the other side after a mix up that was eventually solved after a phone call. Once there we stayed at a quaint place called Hideaway right in front of the ocean where on several occasions, whales would pass by or stop to play in the water. We took a bike ride and hiked into the hills. This island stopover was to become known as the ‘fitness island’ by the youngest member of our family, Gretah.

      After Eua we took another ferry north from the main island Tongatapu to Ha’apai. This was also a smooth boat ride of about 13 hours, all day and into the night. Having heard later that the ferry’s nickname is ‘The Yellow Spew’, we did well to get the lack of winds. This island was small and a lot less touristy than the others. We spent time beachcombing and took a boat ride out to other beaches, finding some wonderful places to swim and snorkel. The water here was incredibly clear and clean and our accomodation - Fifita’s Guest House - was clean comfy and good overall value. Here we could do our own cooking so it was a chance to save a little.

      From Ha’apai we flew to Vava’u. This cost considerably more than the ferry would have, but it gave us a whole extra day of holiday time.There we stayed at a hostel run by a New Zealander called Adventure Backpackers which had lovely clean, large private rooms.

      While here we took a boat ride out to the other smaller islands in the hope of spotting whales and swimming with them. We eventually found a mother and baby swimming together which proved an exhilarating experience. These creatures are so huge and there we were, swimming just six metres above them. They would lie on the ocean floor and then come up for air and swim off again. We were able to follow them for over an hour. This is one of two places in the world where you can get this close to the whales in the wild. We also visited an underwater cave with water so pristine that you could see so clearly hundreds of fish and the rock formations. A beautiful place.

      Flying back to Tongatapu, we headed to the western side of the island to a place called Otuhaka. We shared this beach ‘resort’ with only a couple of other people. Along the water front was a reef which, with the right winds, produced a good wave for surfing. The rest of the time was spent snorkeling and fishing.
Tonga is a beautiful place to visit but be prepared for the unexpected if you wish to organise it all yourself. Still, its a great way to save money and gives you an opportunity to see the “real thing” and meet local people as you travel.

A LONG AND WINDING ROAD BACK FROM A HAWAIIAN BLACK BEACH

20th April, 2006

DAVID ADAMS recalls a visit to a black sand beach in Hawaii...

"I took this picture on my honeymoon in Hawaii back in 1994. It was late in the day and my wife, Linda, and I were on our way back to our hotel near Lahaina on Maui’s west coast. It was a wet day and so we’d decided to go for a drive to Hana on the other side of the island. The road was torturous with scores of one-way bridges and curves - in our minds it even made the Great Ocean Road in Victoria seem like a walk in the park.

      "After a relatively brief stop at Hana, we decided to head back to our hotel on the other side of the island. It was around dusk when we stopped at the black sand beach. Neither of us had ever seen black sand before so it was quite an amazing experience. It looked like mud in the half-light and it was only when feeling it’s texture that I could convince myself it was indeed sand. (I’m still amazed when I see black sand - we went to a black sand beach in New Zealand a few years later and that too was a pretty special experience.)

      "Anyway, having spent longer than we should have at the sand, we hopped back in the car. It was quite dark now and, unfamiliar with the road and driving on the wrong side of the road (for an Australian), we set off at a crawl. All the locals seemed to drive their 'pickup' trucks at 100 mph, headlights beaming straight into our eyes as they came charging around the tight bends - not a fun experience when you’re crawling around hairpin curves and across one-way bridges! We did eventually make it back safely to the hotel and it was only when flicking through a tourism brochure later on that evening that I spotted the message warning that the road to Hana was not safe for tourists to travel after dark."

SURF IN SCOTLAND?

25th August, 2005

SALLY HOLT will be packing her wetsuit next time she heads for the northern coast of Scotland...

"The travel guides on Scotland said nothing about packing beach gear. Or a surfboard. All I’d read were weather warnings, because this northern, nuggetty chunk of the UK is notoriously climatically moody. Scotland can wrap you in tendrils of sunshine then spit you out in a storm.

      "Driving through the north-west highlands a few years ago, there was nothing but sunshine and breathtaking scenery. Wild crags, tranquil lochs, foaming rivers and ancient castles. But the significant (and somewhat startling) sight was when we swung onto the northern coast. The beaches were stunning. Not the paltry waves and stony outcrops of England’s south, but long, warm stretches of golden sand and crashing surf.

      "The road that hugs the northern highlands coast contains a beguiling list of locations: Smoo Cave, Tongue, Bettyhill, Scrabster and John’O’Groats. But it also holds some of the UK’s finest surf. The most reputable reef break is said to be at Thurso where the North Atlantic swell creates world class waves. Apparently it’s this arctic swell, reeling off a narrow continental shelf, that makes the north Scottish coast one of Europe’s surfing meccas.

      "For many tourists, Scotland is all about castles, crags, tartan and haggis. But for me, it will always be significantly remembered for its surf. Not the least because it was surprising. Next time, I’m packing a wetsuit."

VICTORIA'S FORESTS

South Australian TERRY WILLIAMS writes of a recent visit to the forests of south-western Victoria...

"I have seen a bit of the world. I’ve enjoyed exquisite English countryside, been transfixed by Cape Town's Table Mountain, and savoured the Pacific’s tropical shores, but for me the most significant sights I have seen have been down in Victoria. Last year we toured the Grampians and the Great Ocean Road.

      "The combination of spending time with good friends, seeing great scenery and experiencing the glory of God made this a memorable trip. On so many occasions I had my breath taken away and simply wanted to linger longer and gaze on the beautiful scenery. The picture I have included is from the aptly named Paradise in the Otway Ranges but I could have picked any of the dozens of others I picked up along the way. I want to go back."

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