To understand Australia's
convict past, I asked a Swede named Bjorn to lock me into a haunted solitary
confinement cell, the light as black as oil. Disobedient prisoners, transferred to the penal colony
of Van Diemen's Land, would spend as much as 30 days in this small cement hole,
losing their mischief and their minds by the time it was all over. It had only been a few seconds,
but the depth of silence and sensory deprivation, coupled with the tortured
souls of evil men, blew a sticky wind down my neck. Port Arthur, after all, has a reputation as the
most haunted site in all of Australia.
"Bjorn, open the door!" I
hollered, but it was shut, no light at all emerging from the cracks. If authorities wanted to kill a
man's soul, they knew how to do it.
"OK, I apologize for that
remark about your rancid fish, and maybe Swedish tennis players don't have the personalities of flaking paint," I
continued, because by now, that wind had turned to sweat, and it felt like I
was about to be victim number one in some cheapo ghost flick. I was about to start, em,
screaming in fear, when Bjorn
opened the door, and blessed freedom flowed in. Tasmania is blessed with the some of the cleanest air and
best light on the planet. Despite its
somewhat sordid history, I was determined to enjoy it from now on.
Tasmania, an island state in
an island country. Home of the devil, sanctuary for the wombat. Until the last ice age, it used
to be connected to the rest of Australia by a land bridge, but now it sits
apart in the southeast corner, protected by the wild seas of the Bass
Strait. It's not a must-see
for most visitors who come to Australia, but then Modern Gonzo does not
represent most visitors. The
thought of battling hordes of backpackers for a space on a beach up the Gold
Coast was as appealing as covering myself in a chocolate and gatecrashing a
Weight Watchers party. I
wanted peace, I wanted quiet; I wanted nature and rivers and waterfalls. That's why according to my notes,
I was having a conversation about the middle-eastern politics of lesbian
bricklayers with a flamboyant homosexual named Peter at the Pickled Frog. With the cheapest beer in Hobart,
Tasmania's capital city, it was always going to be a challenge not to get pickled
myself at this vibrant hostel.
It was well into the wee hours, and the conversation was flying like a
tennis ball, with Peter making a racket against gay marriage, and his plight for having to slum in a
hostel because his billionaire Swiss boyfriend couldn't find him a room at one
of the better hotels in the city.
It was all getting a bit much until Tracy, a geologist from Melbourne,
said, "Don't think because you're gay you understand what it's like to be a
woman!"
Ouch. In a few hours
I would have to get up to mountain-bike down Mount Wellington, the impressive
mountain with rocky organ-pipes that overlooks Hobart. According to Tracy, it could be a
pin-up in a geologist's porn mag, but then geologists are a funny lot.
Now I'm flying down the
mountain, courtesy Mount Wellington Descent ("it's all downhill from here").
The ride stretches 20kms back into Hobart, but you could be back in minutes if
you didn't pause to check out the scenery. The view from the top was exquisite, across the city,
port, islands and forests.
Tasmania was discovered as early as 1642 by a Dutch navigator named Abel
Tasman, who promptly named the island after his boss as sure-fire way of
sucking ass and getting a promotion. Not much happened in Van Diemen's Land until the
British decided to settle convicts on it in 1803, turning part of the island
into a penal colony for criminals, including women and children. Australians used to be quite
sensitive about their origins, but these days they are rather proud of their
humble beginnings. After
all, most of the founding convicts were involved in petty crime, such as
stealing loaves of bread, or making out with the magistrate's daughter. Van Diemen's Land however was
reserved for the hard-core and repeat offenders. It was a tragically brutal experiment in prisoner reform and
punishment, and one that failed utterly. Originally, prisoners would be assigned to work and
support the free settlers, but this was not deemed harsh enough. Before long they were put into
hard labour camps, worked as slaves with only gruel and God for
sustenance. Port Arthur, the
most infamous prison on the island, was created as a "machine to grind men
honest." But that
machine ground to a halt by the mid-1800's, the British stopped dumping its
trash in someone else's garden, and harsh Van Diemen's Land became beautiful
Tasmania, and lo, it was good.
So good, in fact, that more
and more backpackers and Aussies are heading south to get in on the
action. With a population of
about half a million, Tasmania is the outdoor lover's paradise; full of hikes,
beaches, biking, fishing and climbing.
I didn't have much time to figure this all out myself so I hopped aboard
a three-day tour of the east coast, courtesy the aptly named Devil's Playground
Escape Tours. The Tasmanian
devil is synonymous with Tasmania, as ubiquitous as Mickey Mouse in
Disneyland. Not that you actually
see the world's largest carnivorous marsupial all over the place - they are
nocturnal and shy, not to mention ugly, bad-tempered and smelly. But Tasmanians love this hairy
critter more than Warner Bros, who have minted millions exploiting Taz the
Tasmanian devil but have apparently contributed little to ensure the species
survival. For all is not well with
the little devils. A rare
form of contagious cancer has wiped out an estimated 90% of the population in
just eight short years. The
spread of facial tumours threatens to wipe out devils in the wild, not helped
by their propensity to scavenge on road kill - it's common to see a dead wombat
a few feet away from a flattened devil. And while the road kill was impressive in Western
Australia, in Tasmania the sheer amount of dead kangaroos, wallabies, wombats, possums,
devils and other indigenous wildlife amounted to nothing short of a
massacre. "It's unfortunate that
the first animals most tourists see in Tasmania are dead ones," says Matt, our
enthusiastic guide for the three-day tour. Fortunately we visited a nature park where I
could check out a few live ones.
Now there are many things to be grateful for in the world; hot chocolate, marital aids,
glowsticks, avocados, Little Einstein videos for babies, and the fact that
kangaroos don't hunt and eat human beings. Forget the cute and cuddly. Forrester kangaroos are enormous,
built like heavyweight boxers with sharp talons that could tear a man to shreds
like a used lottery ticket. I fed
one particularly friendly beast, and when he grabbed hold of my arm with his
claws, cute was the last description that came to mind. Later that day I ordered a
kangaroo burger just to reassure myself of my place in the food chain.
Watching baby devils feed
was fascinating, listening to their grunting and groaning familiar to anyone
who's seen Looney Tunes.
This is how they got their name - early settlers thought they sounded
like the devil. Their sharp
jaws clamp four times harder than a pit-bull, but babies are babies and all I
wanted to do was pick up one and cuddle it. Then Matt showed me his scars from when he tried to do
the same. On second thoughtsŠTheir close relative, the Tasmanian tiger, is not
a tiger at all but a marsupial, and was last seen alive at Hobart Zoo in
1936. In 1986 it was declared
extinct, but locals swear they have seen a couple running around, and
authorities are currently checking out a German's claim to have photographic
evidence. "There are parts
of Tasmania where the bush is so thick, no human has ever explored it,"
explains Matt. "I'm sure the
tigers have found somewhere safe to hide." Killer marsupials, rabid kangaroos, cannibalistic
tiger snakes, this is Australia after all. I warned the rest of the group (comprising Swedes,
English, Dutch, Scottish, Japanese, Belgian, and a particularly unnerving
fellow from Germany who looked like his eyeballs were about to explode out of
his skull) about the mythical hoop snakes and drop bears. I understand exactly why locals
love terrifying tourists - it's simply terrific fun. The tour left Launceston in the north and headed for
the east coast to the beautiful Bay of Fires, where settlers discovered
indigenous tribes using smoke signals, presumably shortly before the settlers
hunted down and killed them all.
In a part of the world where the founding fathers were convicts, it's a
truly dark secret that British settlers committed genocide, brutally murdering
aboriginal men, women and children. Fortunately, the attempt to wipe out the
indigenous population was not successful - several families managed to get
through the notorious "Black Line" of 1830 that swept across the island killing
everything in its path.
Historians have recently revised old theories and nowadays suggest that
just as many settlers were killed in the wars. Still, of 8000 aboriginals estimated to be living on
the island when the settlers arrived, as little as 300 are thought to have
survived. According to
the World Book, the last full-blooded Tasmanian aborigine died in 1876. I pondered this
crossing a land bridge to a small island as waves crashed on either side of
me. A good adventure,
especially when I could peer into nooks and check out little penguins waiting
for momma to come home with the fish. Thousands of penguins live in this
part of the world, and ever since I saw March of the Penguins, well, I think
less about how they would taste and more about how they fall in love.
We drove along the blue-blue
coastline (by now I think I've exhausted my adjectives when it comes to
pool-clear seas), past the town of St Helens, to a small village named Bicheno,
where the drinks came thick and fast and I ended up at a small town pub
surrounded by bikers, blind-drunk locals and a mulleted old timer performing
rock songs on his guitar. We
raided another backpackers, stumbled around, laughed a great deal, looked at
the crystal clear stars, and succumbed to other forms of buffoonery (you have
to watch those hammered Swedes with their tennis war cries). I decided that I like small
towns where everyone calls you "mate".
Highlight of Tasmania was Freycinet
National Park, home of Wineglass Bay and striking red granite mountains. Simply breath-giving. The weather was living up to its
notorious schizophrenic nature, blowing hot and cold, like a 6 month-old baby
(like say, my 6-month old baby cousin Phoenix, drooling just a few inches away
from me as I type).
Spooky clouds were floating in from the sea, revealing the spectacular
bay, free of car parks or Coca-cola vendors. Wineglass Bay got its name from the shape of the inlet, and
the fact that whalers used to herd whales here to slaughter them, turning the
colour of the water into a ruby Cabernet-Sauvignon. But those days are gone, replaced by a national park.
"This is why people come to Tasmania," said a local guide, as I put my shoes
back on for the hour hike back to the van. "You may have beaches like this on the mainland's east
coast, but here we have it all to ourselves." So many people I have met on my journey
tell me they are inspired by nature.
Out here, I know exactly what they mean.
Next day we hit the former
penal colony Maria Island, named after Van Diemen's wife (Tasman just didn't
know when to stop kissing butt).
More beaches, a lovely walk to see some natural sights, whoops, watch
that tiger snake. Everything
was gray, on this black and white day, when the sun decided not to come out and
play. A BBQ, some
pondering, and back on the road towards Hobart.
Last day, and the obligatory
visit to Port Arthur, about an hour and a half outside of the capital. Located on the Tasman Peninsula,
inmates were told the waters were shark-infested (they're not) and a line of
vicious dogs guarded the narrow land bridge to the main island. After two bushfires, all that remains
are the ruins of the various buildings, but the authorities have injected huge
cash to turn it into a veritable convict theme park. After recent visits to Cambodia's Killing Fields
and Auschwitz, I found it difficult to sympathize with the plight of the
prisoners. Life was hard for
every prisoner in the 1800's, no matter where they were located. I've stayed in houses older than the
ruins, and the "haunted" aspect seemed like one more joke to scare the
tourists. Far more disturbing was
the 1996 Port Arthur Massacre.
A young Hobart local went into the coffee shop, took out a video camera
and a semi-automatic rifle.
By the time the carnage was over, he had brutally murdered 35 people,
including several young children, and had become the most notorious spree
killer of all time. For a
shocking recount of the day's horror, check out this website http://www.crimelibrary.com/serial/bryant/. If Port Arthur wasn't
haunted by tragedy before, it definitely is now.
One last walk along the cliffs
near Waterfall Bay, marveling at the rock formations carved by a rough ocean at
the Remarkable Caves and Tasman Arch, and time was up for Hobart. My decision to head south, if not off
the beaten track than at least a few steps from it, was vindicated. I'll get to Byron Bay and Fraser
Island next time I go down under.
My month in Australia is coming to an end, so with a pit-stop for a
wedding in Sydney, it's time to pack the bags, book the flight, and take Modern
Gonzo into its final month, and the Great Big Gonzo Blowout in New Zealand.
The Radus House
Dover Heights, Sydney
26 January, 2006