Just slept in the smallest hostel room ever: 9x12 feet, with two beds; fortunately, all mine.
A sweet and comfortable little town at the end of a curving promontory with a sheltered bay like Provincetown and below an ancient volcanic plug, Stanley represents so many aspects of Australia. From a British-chartered exploitation by the Van Diemen's Land company with the aid of transported convicts to contemporary tourist draw. Now known for incredibly neat streets, old colonial houses, a substantial old hotel, a large number of restaurants from fish and chips to a place as well designed as anything in Sydney or Boulder -- tea shops, and a Tasmanian specialty food store -- and two huge, spotless beaches, one on the bay with a large sterile caravan park (and the YHA with the prison cell room) and another facing wild Bass Strait.
In the town center, a statue of an Anzac soldier, Aussie hat with upturned brim on bowed head, hands resting on the butt of his inverted rifle, as if the Great War had just ended. I see these monuments in every town in Australia and NZ to their dead of WWI. Odd that WWII is barely hardly mentioned, tho this one does have extra metal plaques for Vietnam dead.......obviously WWI was an enormous shock to these small provincial places, physically but not emotionally separated from Mother England. 60 men went from this area, Circular Head alone, including two brothers named Cranswick. Always seems more touching and greatly sadder that only the initials of their first names used, as if their lost individuality was far less important than their family connection.
A. Innes
W. Coffey
R. Cross
F.C. Ross
C.R. Dixon
All good solid British names, so unlike the names in American cemeteries that speak our pan-European heritage.
Notes:
aussies, brits and kiwis don't rinse hand-washed dishes; today i poured a glass of water and was disgusted to see the surface of the water covered with soap bubbles.
the SUV conceit here is a plastic air-intake snorkle coming out of the engine compartment and up along the driver's corner of the windshield, implying -- just like in America -- "I could take this baby into serious bush and cross rivers, if i WANTED to."
walking back to the Hostel: pitch black, air smell gloriously strong, oxygen high.
Group of 7 motorcyclists from Melbourne comes into hostel; one Harley with the license plate Cerdo -- hog in Spanish -- couple of large Honda crotch rockets, and the smallest -- and bravest -- guy on a 250cc Honda Nighthawk. Touring on that is probably only a tad better than a Vespa scooter; how does he keep up?
The usual rider's conversation begins: where you been, how long you been in Tasmania, what do you ride at home, and again i can again barely understand their " 'Strain". I'm in a small room with seven big men guys saying what sounds like
"whadyatiningbuatmorrah?"
"onohatogulatry....buhmaktlet effy'waarnn...."
"yeiah! bawenggabtah forhebugahs."
"godunyahh! kentntmakhtlaat! nuddabeeeir?"
i discover that of them three are immigrants: from Canary Islands, Portugal and Austria, but that has nothing to do with my lack of comprehension because i can actually understand the Portuguese guy's English the best -- and he's been here 25 years.
***
tomorrow: past Cape Grim toward the great Tarkine, home of the thylacine and Arthur River, a town that calls itself the "Edge of the World" -- and a nocturnal visit with Tasmanian Devils ripping up dead flesh' courtesy of Geoff King
which means i probably will not have email or mobile access for a few days.
ANY THOUGHTS ON A SLIDESHOW, BELOW, VS PIX WITHIN THE TEXT AS I HAVE BEEN DOING UNTIL THE LAST TWO?
click on slideshow to enlarge
If only we'd stop trying to be happy we could have a pretty good time - Edith Wharton
