ideas: from the world

TRIP: If you never, never go…

DARWIN (DAY 1-2): To regular readers of this blog (and g’day Bryan and Susan, appreciate your support) you will find this entirely uninteresting and a betrayal of all my so-called big ideas. To colleagues, many of you will read this just so you can complain about having to read it when I get back. To friends and family, you know the deal. And a special shout-out to my grandparents, who I know will be reading printed copies of this supplied by my Mother because they think “go to my blog” is a deeply offensive thing to say. But here we go, my minor adventures around Singapore and Malaysia. Bad grammar, incorrect spelling, generally poor English and all. And just remember: nobody held a gun to your head; don’t say you weren’t warned…

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I have developed a theory on flying. There is such a big difference between a good flight and a bad flight, and it has nothing to do with business and first class. On the long flights it’s the little things. It’s having a vacant seat next to you so you can stretch out the broadsheet newspaper. It’s sitting in the row behind business class, giving you extra leg room. Or, as I write 22,000 feet somewhere above East Timor, it’s sitting in row 1 with room for a complete leg stretch, the entire row to myself, sight-seeing advice from the hosties, and a complimentary lemonade because I smiled at the right person (NOTHING is free on Jetstar, you understand – they’re charging people to use the bathroom!). Mostly, of course, it’s about a lack of turbulence, which I’ve also enjoyed. Because the turbulence does me in every time. These have been two excellent flights from the good people at Qantas. I don’t know what everyone whinges about them for…

To Singapore later. Because no matter what is to come, nothing tops Darwin for sights and sounds. There was the WWII oil tunnels (which were closed). There was the wharf district (which is under heavy construction, though I’m told it’s going to be great when finished). Cullen Bay (too far to walk, apparently). The harbour fish feeding exhibition (apparently I missed high tide). Errr…..

Me: So, what would you do with a morning in Darwin?
Hotel receptionist (kind to say English was a second language): Umm… You could walk around…?
Me: Err… Thanks.

So I did. I went to the State Parliament, far too grand a piece of modern architecture for a congress of such little consequence (it also houses the State Library, which mercifully has air-conditioning and free WiFi). I walked along the Esplenade, not a fellow human being to be seen often, peering at Government House through the trees, walking through these little slices of cool, lush forest to get to a “beach” (which at low tide resembles a sort of serene rubbish dump – not without its charms, mind you). I walked through the Smith Street Mall (not unlike every dead shopping mall in every dead Australian town). I saw the old Town Hall, left deliberately in ruin to show the devastation of Cyclone Tracey. I stood at various lookouts, staring out at anchored oil ships and pondering life (or at least how the oil tankers were ruining any hope of making these photos look beautiful). Umm… I went to the movies to see the Best Picture Oscar winner…?

(And incidentally, Slumdog Millionaire is a charming flick, but I’ve seen better this Oscar season. Far be it for me to question the collective wisdom of the Motion Picture Academy, but the contrived plot and blissful glossing over of the abject poverty, desperation and evil shown just didn’t sit well with me.)

And then you walk out of the cinema and one of the traditional owners of our land is begging me, his “brother”, for cash to have a bit of a tipple. Which is a mere hint – and there are plenty of them around here – of the abject poverty, desperation and evil in Australian slums a little further south. I don’t know, it’s an interesting juxtaposition…

There is a slightly creepy sense of death around here. A similar sense to what I had walking around Hiroshima in Japan, though on a smaller scale (is that place-name-dropping?). So much of the “tourist” aspect is built around memorials. People died in the WWII bombings; people died at the hands of nasty ol’ Trace – you can’t ever forget. Fair enough I suppose, if a tad morbid.

I think what all this shows, definitively, is that Darryl Sommers can’t be trusted. And I’ve always thought this. But all those ads he did spruiking for the Top End? Frankly, at least when it comes to Darwin, if you never, never go, what you’ll never, never know is possibly not worth knowing.

Seriously, this Singapore-based hostie has just delivered me a carefully-written itinerary, on a napkin, of a dozen different places I have to visit. She has put stars next to the ‘must dos’. God bless her.

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