Sometimes on my trips -- usually independent affairs involving destinations off the beaten path and activities I find on my own -- I actually behave as a tourist. One such day came last week near Cairns in my "vacation within a vacation."
Not surprisingly, it's the only time in Australia so far that I've run across any other Americans. Leave it to our tribe to suss out the Truly Tacky and call it Culture.
I'm speaking of the village of Kuranda in a rainforest high above Cairns that is billed as an Aborigines settlement with lots of native art.
Here's where your definition of "art" gets a bit murky. And it's when I suspect that my travel karma -- usually so excellent -- has started to slip.
You wouldn't have to go far to find a similar cluster of junk masquerading as "art": Think Gatlinburg, TN, or Glastonbury in England's West Country, or Haight-Asbury in San Francisco. These places have perfected the science of sucking tourists in and not letting them go.
Imagine hippies from the '70s stuck in time and opening a marketplace. "Authentic Australian Souvenirs" consisting of boomerangs made in China, and pouches allegedly made of kangaroo scrotums. (I'm not kidding.) All the usual tourist suspects: Glass beads and T-shirts and wind chimes and incense and skin care oils and mass-produced "original, authentic" watercolours of local birds. And if the retail merchandise doesn't grab you, there are the Butterfly House, the Koala House and Orchid House, a combo ticket for which goes for the stunning bargain price of $48.
In other words, shopping to kill time until your train leaves and you can escape. And about as Aboriginal an experience as a Puccini opera at the Met. Definitely not good travel mojo in my book.
Naturally, I was underwhelmed. Only a few minutes in Kuranda made me yearn and pine for the upscale mercantile trappings of Walmart. Not only did I feel like I was yanked back to the early '70s -- not altogether unpleasant, mind you -- but that I was a captive and my pocketbook was under assault by aliens. "Leave me alone, you rascals," I felt like screaming. "I'm not fooled by this crap! I have taste!"
Kuranda's shopping district aside, the highlight of the day was the journey up and back. The package I bought offered two choices: The SkyRail, which is an enclosed gondola suspended high above the trees by a cable, and the 100-year-old locomotive that lazily weaves through and around the mountain. I took the SkyRail up and the vintage train back down. Both were stunning -- what's not to love about waterfalls and virgin forest land? -- but I liked the daring SkyRail better. That sucker evermore gives you a ride!
OK, so I "did" Kuranda. It's what one does if one is in Cairns. I had ridden the sleek overnight Queensland Railway for 24 hours (in my own luxurious Railbed) to get there, so in for a penny, in for a pound. But to tell you the truth, I feel faintly embarrassed by it -- like the tourist rulers have taken advantage of me somehow. I want to claim to somebody, "You're not the boss of me! I know better!"
The next day I flew back to Brisbane, planning to take the Airtrain from the airport to Eagle Junction, where I was to catch a regular commuter train back to Petrie, the station closest to my house. From there I hoped to take a taxi back home, but the later I arrived, the less likely it was that a taxi would be available. Naturally, I missed the 8:00 train at Eagle Junction. It was cold and damp and by this time I was rapidly losing my enthusiasm for this journey.
The only other soul on the platform was a nicely-dressed gentleman who could have been a Qantas Airline safety engineer or an axe-murderer. Who knew? But by this time of night, I didn't much care.
"Excuse me," I said in my best Suzanne Sugarbaker voice. "Do you know whether the next train stops in Petrie?" Yes, said the maybe-axe-murderer. "Do you think there'll be any taxis around the station by the time the train gets in?" I ask. "I doubt it, to tell you the truth," said Axeman. "Where do you need to go?" Figuring I'd find out his intentions soon enough, I told him "North Lakes."
"I'm going nearby. I'd be happy to give you a lift," he said. And so my new best friend Gareth, a Qantas safety engineer who had a car at the station, and I chatted like long-lost buddies for the next hour. Found out he grew up in Shrewsbury in Shropshire, one of the English villages in which I've had a house swap! Small world, huh? As promised, he brought me straight to the house, and even carried my bags in before going on his merry way. How's that for courtesy? Is it any wonder I love the Aussies?!
And best of all, I found that my good travel karma is still intact.
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