That gently undulating downhill feeling continues unabated, possibly even sharpening with a gentle cooling off and some wet stuff from the sky. I remember February being the most miserable of months back home, blessed only in its brevity. Here it has better prospects, but still quite aint January! My efforts to even up the slope are taking on more extreme measures, which will culminate in a trip in a couple of weeks time to Tassie (disparate times call for desperate measures, where at least if nothing else I will temporarily acquire two heads). For now though, time has been perked up by Brodburgers, interspersed with multicultural vibrancy and equally dampened and delighted by some holes in the ground. Read on to find out what the hell I am harping on about.
Now, just when you thought Canberra couldn’t get any more true blue dinky di strewth me crikey woogoobabbalugga down woop creek, the place turns things on its head and goes all multicultural on us. Which is partly a means to make middle class whitey say ‘Look, at me, I’m not a racist, I’m eating gozleme’ but also a chance for people from various backgrounds to come together, show us what they call proper tucker, and do a few dances. Thankfully the many cultures of the multicultures trumps the monoculture through colour, sound and smells of the multicultural festival... though I’m not quite sure how authentic the same BBQ chicken and lamb skewers are in Thailand, China, Macedonia, Poland, Fiji, Saudi Arabia and Finland.
Beyond the similar sizzling smells, one of the most striking features of the multicultural festival is the number of people in a small area in what is usually a spacious, soulless part of Canberra city. This becomes even more dramatic after the sun has gone down, the samba beats backed by a constant throb of love, life and laughter transporting the mind to Rio... for a few seconds... before you run into the youths hanging outside the kebab shop with their stylised bed hair, short shorts and rising intonations.
All these people, all this diversity, all this choice. Too many people... too much choice... not used to it... can’t decide which of the skewers to queue for. There is a shining beacon on the way home. Thank Brod. No ordinary burger van.
Like the burger disappearing into my mouth, I too disappeared into a cavernous black hole with uneven surfaces and a slightly stale smell on Sunday, transporting myself through cloud and drizzle and downpours and cloud and drizzle and no sun and more drizzle to Wombeyan Caves, two hours to the north of Canberra. I figured if it was going to rain all day I may as well head underground and forget about it. I’m becoming a bit of a cave aficionado these days, and Wombeyan ticked all the criteria of Cave Environment 101. A narrow, precipitous road leading down to an even narrower lush valley, like a hidden world from
Jurassic Park. Holes in the hills leading down and around stalag-thingeys and whatsamitecallits. Droplets of water drumming a regular beat in cavernous caverns. Cheesey narrations scaring the bats from their bat caves. And the dazzling light at the end, a sky glaringly grey and still drizzling.
The caves had it all, but I think the highlight was actually a walk through the beautiful bushland around this area. I wasn’t expecting anything quite so lush and wonderful, all deep greens and flowery whites, the smells far superior to the skewers of yesterday, and brought out more by the persistent rain. I actually got quite wet on the walk, but it didn’t seem to bother me too much (in fact, in a sadistic British way it was oh so rather pleasant). Even the churning muddy waters of what are probably usually beautiful still pools of water didn’t seem to matter too much.
That evening, all dry and cosy, I was reminded how so different it was exactly one year ago. We’d reached the 40s, my washing was drying on the line in a matter of minutes and, down south, Melbourne was smashing records. Victoria, and Australia, was about to experience its worse natural disaster in history as fire upon fire exploded and wreaked a path of unforgiving, indiscriminate destruction. In parts mesmerising, and in many parts harrowing, the account of that day retold on the ABC certainly gave some perspective. Rain, and post January downhill meanderings, aren’t so bad after all.
Now, just when you thought Canberra couldn’t get any more true blue dinky di strewth me crikey woogoobabbalugga down woop creek, the place turns things on its head and goes all multicultural on us. Which is partly a means to make middle class whitey say ‘Look, at me, I’m not a racist, I’m eating gozleme’ but also a chance for people from various backgrounds to come together, show us what they call proper tucker, and do a few dances. Thankfully the many cultures of the multicultures trumps the monoculture through colour, sound and smells of the multicultural festival... though I’m not quite sure how authentic the same BBQ chicken and lamb skewers are in Thailand, China, Macedonia, Poland, Fiji, Saudi Arabia and Finland.
Beyond the similar sizzling smells, one of the most striking features of the multicultural festival is the number of people in a small area in what is usually a spacious, soulless part of Canberra city. This becomes even more dramatic after the sun has gone down, the samba beats backed by a constant throb of love, life and laughter transporting the mind to Rio... for a few seconds... before you run into the youths hanging outside the kebab shop with their stylised bed hair, short shorts and rising intonations.
All these people, all this diversity, all this choice. Too many people... too much choice... not used to it... can’t decide which of the skewers to queue for. There is a shining beacon on the way home. Thank Brod. No ordinary burger van.Like the burger disappearing into my mouth, I too disappeared into a cavernous black hole with uneven surfaces and a slightly stale smell on Sunday, transporting myself through cloud and drizzle and downpours and cloud and drizzle and no sun and more drizzle to Wombeyan Caves, two hours to the north of Canberra. I figured if it was going to rain all day I may as well head underground and forget about it. I’m becoming a bit of a cave aficionado these days, and Wombeyan ticked all the criteria of Cave Environment 101. A narrow, precipitous road leading down to an even narrower lush valley, like a hidden world from
Jurassic Park. Holes in the hills leading down and around stalag-thingeys and whatsamitecallits. Droplets of water drumming a regular beat in cavernous caverns. Cheesey narrations scaring the bats from their bat caves. And the dazzling light at the end, a sky glaringly grey and still drizzling.
The caves had it all, but I think the highlight was actually a walk through the beautiful bushland around this area. I wasn’t expecting anything quite so lush and wonderful, all deep greens and flowery whites, the smells far superior to the skewers of yesterday, and brought out more by the persistent rain. I actually got quite wet on the walk, but it didn’t seem to bother me too much (in fact, in a sadistic British way it was oh so rather pleasant). Even the churning muddy waters of what are probably usually beautiful still pools of water didn’t seem to matter too much.
That evening, all dry and cosy, I was reminded how so different it was exactly one year ago. We’d reached the 40s, my washing was drying on the line in a matter of minutes and, down south, Melbourne was smashing records. Victoria, and Australia, was about to experience its worse natural disaster in history as fire upon fire exploded and wreaked a path of unforgiving, indiscriminate destruction. In parts mesmerising, and in many parts harrowing, the account of that day retold on the ABC certainly gave some perspective. Rain, and post January downhill meanderings, aren’t so bad after all.
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