Bula!

Bula!

That’s how they greet you here in Fiji. A hearty welcome with a big toothy smile.

The Fijians also introduce themselves immediately – they don’t hold their names close to their chest like we do back home. It’s as if we believe the fairytales that tell us our names hold power so we don’t give our names unless absolutely necessary. When I get home, I’m going to be more welcoming with my greetings, just like the Fijians.

I’m also going to make a concerted effort to operate on what the locals call “Fiji time.” It’s an excuse and an apology, an explanation and a mantra – the answer to all time related questions:

What time does the dive start tomorrow? After breakfast – Fiji time.

When should we have our bags ready for the porter? When you’re ready – Fiji time.

Cyclone Pam is coming close. When are the ferries leaving? Today, tomorrow, the next day – Fiji time.

There’s something to be said for operating on a flexible time clock. It relieves a lot of stress because you no longer worry about things you cannot control.

Do you think the patrons will be able to embrace the motto?

When is the internet back on? When it’s ready - Fiji time.

Outlook says my interlibrary loan is coming. When will it get here? Tomorrow, the next day – Fiji time.

When will the next book in my series be in the system? This year, next year – Fiji time.

I’ll try it and let you know how it works out.

And now, without further ado, I give you The Shark Story. It has been quite a conversation point over the past 24 hours. Rob has had to retell the story a dozen times, mostly to the locals, because they have never heard of this happening before. We went for a bush walk today, about an hours drive away, and the elder of the village came up to Rob and said “So, tell me. You are the man who dove with the sharks yesterday?” News travels fast.

The Shark Story (as told by Rob "The Shark Man" Rutherford)

Isabelle and I went for a shark dive to celebrate her 16^th birthday. We were running late because our driver was operating on Fiji time so we had to rush out to the dive site which meant pounding through 10ft swell for forty minutes – the lasting effects of Cyclone Pam. There were two other boatloads waiting for us at the dive site – the water was crystal clear and you could already see sharks circling below. Everything in human nature was telling me not to get into the water but we donned our gear and Isabelle followed me in.

Twenty of us formed a line on the ocean bottom, 18 metres down, facing the feeding stations. There were six guides in total – two at the feeding station, two hovering above us paying customers and two watching our backs. Lots of two metre lemon sharks were already circling and thousands of schooling fish were also waiting for the banquet to begin. The dinner bell rang and the feeders began to remove large chunks of fish from a metal bin. The feeders were only protected by chain mail gauntlets and the rest of us were protected by shepherds hooks wielded by the other four guides. Dozens of lemon sharks approached the feeders and before long, black and white tipped reef sharks and huge bull sharks joined in. Fifteen minutes into the show, when everything started quietening down, one of the large bull sharks, well over 600lbs, swam straight down from the surface, aiming for the bait but at the last second, knocked the guide in the face and chomped into the poor man’s arm and upper chest. The shark started thrashing around and ragdolled the diver for a bit before severing one of his airlines. This released a cloud of bubbles that alarmed the shark and the beast released the diver and swam away. Our guide took the stunned diver to the surface, the injured man’s crew took him to the hospital and our guide returned to the bottom to collect the rest of us. 

After a brief rest at the surface, we got back in the water for another dive at the same spot. Most of the lemon sharks had left and we were greeted by dozens of curious bull sharks. They came within two feet of us before the guides beat them off with the shepherd hooks. That didn’t seem to be enough of a deterrent and the remaining feeder had to resort to cold cocking the sharks in the snout with his metal gauntlets. After twenty minutes we moved off to a nearby reef for a more sedate and uneventful view of the local sealife. All in all an astounding experience that I would do again in a heartbeat. 

This may seem like fiction, but I can assure you, it is fact.

Driving in the Land Down Under

Just in case you have a lapse in attention, these signs are there to help

You would think, given that the two nations are so similar, that driving down here would be the same as driving in Canada. Besides the obvious driving on the wrong side of the road, of course.
But, no. Subtle differences make driving here quite a different experience.
I've already talked about the beauty of roundabouts, especially for the directionally challenged. The other thing I love about driving here are the speed limits. You can race down windy country roads at 90km/hr and only have to take your foot off the gas a touch to slow down to 70km/hr through populated areas. However, if you are a little leery about careening though the countryside or want to slow down a little to enjoy the beautiful drive, most drivers will sit two feet from your bumper while they wait for a passing lane.
Some other observations:

• Australians are diligent about staying in the outside lane except to pass. So diligent, in fact, that on a freeway, doing 110km/hr, they will wait until they can practically kiss your bumper, whip into the other lane to pass, and cut right back in front of you close enough to kiss the other end.

This is a common sight on the freeway

• At home, our traffic lights are front and centre in the intersection, dangling directly in front of the driver. Here, every intersection is a "Where's Waldo" hunt. Sometimes they're obvious, sometimes they're hiding behind a gum tree, sometimes there's a bridge in the way so you don't see the light until you are 100m away from it. Often, there are so many poles with lights on them that it's practically impossible to tell which one is for me. I either wait for another driver to make the first move, or stay where I am until someone lays on their horn.

Uhhhh... Which one is for me?

• Left hook turns. I refuse to drive into the city for fear of the left hook turn. If you're interested, google it, because I don't want to think about the dreaded turn enough to try and explain it.

• Parking signs. I'll let this image speak for itself:

• Although I'm assured that pedestrians have the right of way, drivers do not stop for people wanting to cross at intersections. Even zebra crossings aren't entirely safe. For Canadians who are used to jumping out into traffic whenever they want to cross the street, a walk downtown can be death defying.

I've been here for ten months so you may be asking yourself what prompted this rant about driving. Well, I got my first speeding ticket. Ever. For going 2 km over the speed limit. On a street where, if travelling north, you can go 80 km/hr but only 60 km/hr going south. Cameras are set up at strategic places around the city and the authorities rake in millions from lead footed drivers and dumb Canadians. You don't even know you've committed a sin until you get a nasty piece of mail a week later.

This is the intersection where I got nailed. According to the Herald Sun, so did 12,500 other people last year, resulting in a revenue stream of $2.8 million

I shouldn't complain though - it could be worse. Rob was threatened with a $230 ticket for having his feet up on the seat on the train.

Christmas prep in Upside-Down-Land

Our Upside down Christmas has been, well, weird. It's hot and sunny instead of cold and rainy and I don't have my usual holiday traditions to fall back on. To get myself in a festive mood, let me tell you about Aunt Margaret, who is always close to my heart at this time of year.

Great Aunt Margaret and Great Uncle Sherman were from my mom’s side of the family. He was an architect and she dedicated herself to the fine art of keeping a home and a family. Aunt Margaret was proficient in every single craft you could think of. She created dolls, bags, sweaters, stuffed animals and Christmas ornaments. She won awards at the county fairs for her hooked rugs and with a twinkle in her eye, proclaimed herself a “hooker” to whomever asked.  But her creations were never old lady crafts like the Barbie toilet roll holders or crocheted bookmarks you see in church bazaars. She made those types of things too, but hers seemed to transcend kitschiness and were always charming and cute.

This is Aunt Margaret the year Granny gave her a new bathing suit (note the Christmas cracker crown). One of my absolute favourite family pictures.

Presents from Aunt Margaret were guaranteed to be handmade. Every Christmas, I looked forward to her gifts even more than Santa’s and I saved her present until last, every single year. 

And I was never disappointed.

I still have the hand stitched Brownie doll from the one year I spent in Girl Guides. The doll wore an exact replica of the official Brownie uniform, complete with a sash and tiny embroidered badges. There were endless sweaters, slippers and other knitted items – always beautifully stitched and “cool” enough for a picky kid to wear. I have kept every gift she made for me.

Aunt Margaret didn’t like to show her affection in the traditional manner. She wasn’t the huggie sort and would never think of pinching a child’s cheeks. At Christmas, it was customary for the children to go around and give everyone a “thank you” kiss but, whenever I leaned in to give Aunt Margaret the obligatory peck, she would dodge at the last second and deliver a resounding raspberry on my cheek. Her love was demonstrated in every stitch of her beautiful gifts.

Aunt Margaret died many years ago, crafting until the very end. This time of year, I find myself frequently thinking of her as I try to put as much thought and attention into the gifts I prepare for my family and friends as she put into all of her creations.

Our Christmas Tree last year

Our Christmas tree at home is an homage to Aunt Margaret, really. To go on our Christmas tree, ornaments must be home made. I have a few that she made specifically for me – a felt gingerbread man and a mouse in a walnut shell. I have also managed to acquire a few of her other creations: the quilted angel tree topper came from Granny and Grandpa’s tree and somehow, my gingerbread man has multiplied (Megan and Christopher– I might have yours...) Our first Christmas together, Rob and I had an ornament making party and I think of our friends every year as I unpack the boxes: Jane’s stitched figures, Nick’s Santa stuck in the chimney, Sarah’s origami cranes, Steph’s painted ceramics, Irv’s yellow snowflake, Jess' tiny sweaters... I could go on for ages.

I also recognize Aunt Margaret's lesson in the Christmas traditions of my family:

• The holiday inspired (but not always child appropriate) Christmas playlist my brother creates for our festivities every year.
• The care my sister puts into making a spectacular Christmas dinner even though her house is filled with an entire village of extended family members, noisy children and their dogs
• The huge star my dad puts up on the topmost part of the roof every year, risking life and limb so the grandchildren can squeal in delight as they round the corner and see that big monstrosity with the wonky blinking lights
• The gingerbread house my mom makes, a different one each season, staying up until 2am for an entire week to create an architectural masterpiece which no-one is allowed to touch until Valentine’s Day (I exaggerate – that was just when we were kids. Now the grandchildren are allowed to destroy the gingerbread right after Christmas. It’s not fair, I tell you.)

Every year, as I prepare myself for the Christmas season, I cherish the memory of Aunt Margaret’s gifts – both the excitement I felt to receive them and the joy on her face as she watched me open them. Just because we’ll be celebrating Christmas on the beach this year and I won’t be unpacking all of my homemade tree ornaments, doesn’t mean I’m not thinking of all of you. I’ve made Alice’s nut loaf, Granny’s croissants and Sophie and I have built a gingerbread house. I spent last night ineptly wrestling with squares of origami paper, desperate for Sarah’s help to interpret the directions. I don't have my usual arsenal of craft supplies but I've still managed to make a few things for our new Australian friends and family because, for me, Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without a little crafting.

So, Merry Christmas everyone! May you all be surrounded by family, friends, good music and great food.

Self Directed Education: Tasmania Field Trip

Early on in the exchange, we decided that Tasmania was not on our list of places to go because, from all reports, it is very similar to Vancouver Island. However, Sophie got it in her head that she wanted to go, so I told her that if she did all the research, planning and booking for the trip, I would take her. Next thing I know, she's found flights, a campervan and mapped out a six day trip to the island state that involved wildlife parks, animal sanctuaries and the Cadbury Chocolate factory.

Our home for the week complete with a fridge, stove and surprisingly comfortable bed.

I can now confirm that the climate and scenery in Tassie is exactly Vancouver Island, as long as you ignore the different trees, loud birds and all the animals that could potentially kill you.

See? This could have been taken anywhere in the Gulf Islands

We spent a few days on the Tasman Peninsula, a huge chunk of land connected to the rest of Tassie by a narrow isthmus. Back in the day, convicts who had reoffended were sent to do hard time on the peninsula and the isthmus was guarded by a dog line to prevent the convicts from escaping.

A sculpture to show the size of the eighteen ferocious dogs strung across the dog line

Tasmanian Devils are in a spot of bother in Tassie - Facial Tumour cancer is wiping out the population in the northern parts of the state. The devils on the Tasman peninsula are still healthy so the dog line is going to be used again to deter the healthy devils from leaving the peninsula. Scientists are going to seed the isthmus with things the devils don't like to keep the healthy devils in the disease free zone.

These critters are pretty small - about the size of a rabbit - but very ferocious.

We visited several wildlife parks and fed scores of kangaroos and wallabys. They are messy eaters - my hand got goobered many times.

FYI - they like to be scratched on the chest, not the head or ears

Another highlight was our visit to the Cascades Female Factory where they housed women convicts. You get a tour of the site as well as an historical reinactment of what it was like to live in those times. 

Sophie is locked in solitary confinement and has to pick oakum out of rope as part of her punishment

I had a great time on the trip. The camper van took a little bit of getting used to - I had to practically tuck my knee into my armpit to put my foot on the clutch and I had to drive with my left hovering over the pedal because it was too high to rest my heel on the ground. The van was very comfy to sleep in, but I tried not to think about how many other people had used the sleeping bag before me. It was lovely to let Sophie make all the decisions - where to go, where to stay, how often to stop for coffee and croissants - I was just the chauffeur and credit card holder.

Guess what her favourite part of the trip was?

Off to the Races

A few weeks ago, Rob told me that we had been invited to the Derby (pronounced Dah-bee).
Great! I've always wanted to see a horse race.
A few days later, he told me that the party wasn't at the field, but in the car park outside of Flemington race course. A friend from work has access to a parking stall and invites people to join him every year.
Hmm. Alright, still sounds intriguing.
The day before the race, I'm told that I have to dress up for the event.
A dress and heels to party in a parking lot? You've got to be joking.
Not only did I need to wear heels (the higher, the better) but a fascinator as well.
For a party in a parking lot.
To be perfectly honest, I didn't believe them, but decided to play along, just in case.

Derby Day is traditionally black and white and by absolute fluke, so is the only dress I brought.

We caught the train at 9am and it hadn't even left the station before I learned how wrong I was. Everyone on the train was wearing fancy cocktail dresses and three piece suits. There were hats, fascinators, feathers, top hats, morning coats and sky high stilettos.
As we got closer to Flemington, the crowds got thicker and the outfits got fancier. By the time we arrived at the course, we were squashed in a seething mass of exquisitely dressed humanity. The car park was packed with marquis, tents, tables and gambling vans. And yes, everyone was dressed to the nines.

The white tent in the background? That's the gated car park party that people pay $70 to get into.

In the line for the touch screen, automated gambling machine

Our host's ute (packed with beer and champagne) to which he had tied a huge marquis. Good thing it was tied down because the day got progressively stormy.

Our host had a few passes to get into the race course so I got to witness the real event instead of just viewing it on a screen. The fashions inside were even more impressive.

The only woman I saw wearing pants, so I had to get a picture. The sides of  her outfit had huge slits and she was displaying an impressive amount of sideboob.

These "Gentlemen to Help" wander around rescuing fair maidens with bandaids, deodorant, blister packs and nail polish. As you can see, the breeze really picked up but I didn't want to move my hands from where they were to fix my hair. 

I happened to be at the right place at the right time and got to watch all of the horses come out onto the field.

A quick hop across picnic blankets and drunk twentysomethings and I was able to see the riders come in after the race too.

Back at the car park, Rob was betting on whoever our host suggested and sunk the last of our allotted cash on a longshot called Bonario. Most of the partygoers did. I came back just in time to watch the race with the group and let me tell you, there is a lot of yelling and cheering when your horse come charging up from the back of the pack to win the race.

So exciting.
Celebratory champagne flowed and the party in the car park carried on until dinner time. We made our way back home on the train, disheveled and footsore, but coming out even helps numb the pain a little.

Come on surfin' now, everybody's learning how.

Here is the sum total of my surf experience to date:

First attempt: September 29th. Point Leo with Rob

The ocean is still quite cold in Frankston so I wore a full wetsuit and booties and didn't feel a thing – beautiful. For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure, in order to get out to where the surf is, you need to lie on the board and windmill your arms through the waves while maintaining a monkey toe death grip with your feet in order not to get swept off every time a wave crashes into you.

Which is often.

Rob gave me a few pointers, pointed me in the right direction and encouraged me to follow him. If by “encourage” you mean charging ahead and occasionally yelling “sweep harder with your arms!” over his shoulder.

Once I had struggled out to Rob, he set me up to ride my first wave with the instruction to paddle hard as soon as he pushed me. The first time, he shot the board right out from under me and the second time, I paddled myself off the front end. The third time, my board and I shot out together, up until the point where I put too much pressure on the front end, nosedived into the foam and got barrel rolled over and over until I wasn’t sure which way was up. I clambered back up onto the board and recovered by bobbing around peacefully while Rob rode the waves.

I like the bobbing part.

Luckily… I mean unfortunately… Rob broke the leash on his board so we had to call it a day and head to shore about an hour after getting in the water. Even that short stint in the surf had me dripping seawater from my nasal passages for the entire afternoon.

Second Attempt: Emerald Bay 

We have just returned from a three weeks in NSW and Queensland. Rob and Isabelle have already done a fair bit of surfing at home in Frankston but they are made of much sterner stuff than Sophie and I. We need warmer water. Up on the East Coast, the weather is warm and sunny and the beaches are spectacular.

Now that I had a better idea of what to expect, I thought my next attempt might be more successful. All four of us suited up and hit the water at Emerald Bay, just north of Sydney.

As I waded out to where the waves were breaking, I noticed several dark shapes below the surface and chanted “please be seaweed, please be seaweed…” until I could jump onto the surfboard and tuck my feet up. Then it was just a matter of waiting for the right wave.

And waiting.

And waiting.

When you see one you like, you turn around (while trying not to bury the tip in the water and fall off), stroke frantically with your arms and flail with your legs until the wave picks you up. Or drops you like bag of rocks.

If it picks you up, you shoot forward in front of the wave and hold on for dear life.

I never achieved the standing up part. I gave up trying to surf properly and just had fun choosing the right wave to ride while I knelt on the board. That was a blast - I spent the whole time giggling like a school girl.

More pictures of our East coast surfing adventures:

Sophie spent most of her time doing handstands, bodyboarding and frolicking in the waves. She is obviously having no fun at all.

This is after a kayaking trip to go snorkeling and see dolphins. You can barely see it, but there's a pelican on the lightpost behind us. Word to the wise: do not park your car under a pelican.

Isabelle modeling her new wetsuit on the beach at Surfer's Paradise.

I didn't manage to get a decent picture of Rob standing up but he did. A lot.

Much more graceful than her mother.

Sophie and I spent a lot of time body boarding while Rob and Isabelle rode the waves

"Mountain" climbing

I use the term "mountain" cautiously because there is nothing on this island continent that we Canadians would classify as a mountain. Mt Arapiles is 370m high - to give you some perspective, the Grouse Grind is 853m. However, to get to the top of Grouse, you don't need to be strapped into a harness that cuts of the circulation to your lower extremities. Nor do you need to stick your fingers into tiny, spider web filled rock cracks and use previously undiscovered arm muscles to haul yourself up a sheer sandstone face.
But I digress...

After glamping with mobs of kangaroos at the base of Lake Bellfield in the Grampians,

Our campsite was in the little green patch right under the dam. Geological events and/or James Bond-esque explosions were often on my mind.

we headed to Mt. Arapiles to meet up with our friends, Tim, Andrea and Ella. We would be arriving first so Tim instructed us to head to the sites on the right because that's where all the serious climbers camp.

Yeah. Serious climber. That's me, alright. Watch me go all Edmund Hilary on your ass.

We chose a spot in the Upper Gums campsite, close to a fire pit and not too far from the long drops (translation: pit toilets). Over in The Pines, the less serious climbers got flush toilets, soap and running water. I know this because I frequently made the trek over to their facilities rather than use our own.

The view from my perch at the bottom of our first climb - you can barely see them, but there are more than a dozen climbers over there.

Arapiles looks like it has been dropped out of the sky, smack dab into hundreds of flat acres of sheep paddocks. The rock itself is stunning - acres and acres of beautiful craggy sandstone. There are over 2000 climbs ranging from grades 1 to 32, which means you could do four climbs a day for five years and still not run out of new routes to take.

Ready for a day on the hill

Tim, our fearless leader, has been climbing at Arapiles for more than thirty years.

The action around camp is really interesting. Throughout the day, climbers come back to their sites to refuel. Everyone has at least twenty pounds of ropes, carabiners, descenders, nuts, and cams dangling from their belts and harnesses.You can hear their approach from a long way off - imagine Gunslinger swaggering into camp with dozens of marimba resonators attached to his belt. After you've been there for a few days, you can identify who is coming through the bush by the timbre of their equipment.

You can't see, but underneath Rob's fingers there are spider webs in every handhold and poo on every ledge.

Sophie, guided by Andrea

I was surprised by the amount of young children at Arapiles. Not only were they frolicking all over the boldering rocks at the base of the cliffs, but there were just as many kids on the climbs as there were adults. Happy Harry, a five year old with a perma-grin, spent quite a bit of time at our campfire and told us it was the third time he had been climbing at Arapiles. The place is truly a breeding ground for adrenaline junkies.

With all that gear, Tim makes music wherever he goes.

Preparing for the 30m abseil

If you look really carefully, you can see Sophie and me abseiling down.

Rob and Isabelle did this climb with Tim - that's them in the red circle.

Helluh, Huhlow?, Halloey

Now that we've been here for six months, I feel I have enough experience to discuss something I find quite fascinating.

Accents.

I have no professional qualifications beyond one first year university linguistics course, but the topic is just too intriguing to ignore. Because I have now had the pleasure of living in both England and Australia, I've gathered enough aural data to compare their accents to my native Canadian one. The differences can really be heard in the way each accent treats its vowels.

For purposes of illustration, I'll use the common greeting,"Hello"

Canadians keep their vowels in the middle of the mouth, lying flat on the tongue. When saying "hello", the first syllable comes out sounding like "hell". As in, "Oh hell, I was hoping they wouldn't notice me." The second syllable sounds like "uh",  tending to get left on the middle of the tongue, neither too forward nor too reticent, for fear of offending.

The English keep their vowels tucked up in the roof of their mouth. They start their greeting with a "huh", a sigh of breath with a slightly disapproving inflection. The "low?" moves to the back of the tongue, unwilling to be too brash, and tips up into a question at the very end.

Australians like to savour their vowels by rolling them around their mouths for a while before letting them loose. "Hello" begins with a jovial "ha!", laughing and ready for a good time, followed by "lloey", moving the vowels gently forward on the tongue before ending in a slight lip pucker. As if to say "Welcome to the party, now give us a kiss."

Interesting how accents reflect the national stereotypes, don't you think?

Heading to the Lake

When I was a kid, our family would always head to Shuswap Lake for the last week of August. Granny and Grandpa had a time share at St Ives and we would join them for a week of fun on the lake.

This was in 2009 - the last time we went to Shuswap

There was no tv, and if anyone wanted to make a call, they had to go to the pay phone down by the resort office. Needless to say, the closest decent grocery store was an hours drive away so we had to bring most of our food. Granny would bake up a storm for ages beforehand and come laden with homemade bread, cookies, pies and cakes.

Granny and her crew - Sean is missing because I don't think he was even a twinkle yet

I have become my grandmother.
We are going to Lakes Entrance for a few days of tech-free adventuring and I have just spent the last 5 hours in the kitchen mixing, rolling and baking. I've made tortillas, muffins, cookies, croissants and lemon curd. (BTW, where had lemon curd been all my life? Only 4 ingredients and you can whip it up in no time. I could eat it by the bucketful).
I have no idea how we are going to fit all the food, coolers, backpacks, wetsuits and four humans into the Echo. We're trying to pack for all eventualities because you never know what the weather might bring in these parts. Yesterday was gorgeous and sunny but the day before gave us gale force winds, hail and flash floods. I'm sure the plague of frogs and storm of locusts will be coming soon.

Monday night on Victoria Street up in the city (photo credit: The Age)