The Nature of Tasmania

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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

Gonzo Gallery for The Nature of Tasmania

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