Cairns I Kick It? (Yes, You Cairns!)

Ok, that title is a poorly executed attempt to make a pun on the pronunciation of Cairns ("cans") using a call-and-response from a song by A Tribe Called Quest.

Cairns is the self-proclaimed “capital of Far North Queensland,” a title that I believe has no actual meaning (but I could be wrong). This past weekend, Natalie and I chipped in on a rental minivan with four other American girls (Bette, Meredith, Trish, Rachel) and made the four-hour drive from Townsville on Friday afternoon. Who here is surprised that I was the lone male in a large group of girls? No one? Me neither.

Since the other girls were staying what is described by the Lonely Planet as “the Hilton of hostels,” where doubles cost $130, Natalie and I booked a room in a much smaller, more isolated hostel. When we pulled up, it looked like we’d made a horrible mistake, but upon entry it became apparent that the dilapidated exterior thankfully bore no resemblance to the tidy, cozy interior. After checking in, the two of us wandered around the city, making notes of possible souvenir-purchasing locations, before deciding to eat at an overpriced, wildly mediocre Thai restaurant. My soup tasted as though it had been laced with Lemon Pine Sol, Natalie’s Pad Thai was sub-par (to me, at least), and we suffered the consequences of Australia’s no-tipping policy, as our waitress had no incentive to act quickly. Then it was back to the hostel, because we had to get an early start the next day.

Saturday dawned cloudy, with intermittent showers, reminiscent of our nasty Whitsundays weather, which was appropriate because it was the day we had chosen to dive. Fortunately, the rain was short-lived and the sun soon showed itself, burning Natalie’s legs something fierce in the process. The other passengers, much like on the Whitsundays trip, were a mélange of colonial powers: English, French, American, Australian. While we were being briefed on our dives, the French group avenged the Louisiana Purchase fleecing by stealing our seats. The boat was staffed by a few English dive instructors, a German divemaster with Paris Hilton glasses, and a short-tempered, snappy Canadian who had the most body hair I’ve ever seen on a single person.

After about an hour and a half, we reached the first dive spot. The fish life was perhaps lacking, not nearly as spectacular or plentiful as the spots in the Whitsundays, but the coral was incredible. We swam by fifteen-meter-high walls, through narrow passageways, around gnarled branches. I was not as careful as I should have been, and ended up knocking into the coral once or twice. When we surfaced, karma hit me for this carelessness. I had a minor headache for the majority of the time underwater, but when I reached the boat, it erupted into splitting pains, coupled with a sudden bout of nausea that was not in any way aided by the gentle but persistent rocking of our vessel. It was lunch time, but I would have none of it aside from the occasional piece of bread. Lying down helped, and I hoped that my symptoms would subside before the next dive. Unfortunately, they did not. I ate the cost of the second dive (we had already paid for two, you see), while Natalie once again experienced the wonder that is the world’s largest living organism. As is typical with these things, I felt better as soon as everyone piled back into the boat for the trip back to shore.

As we were tired, the night was short, spent with our traveling partners for a pizza dinner and some hang-out time at their hostel. They are mostly Natalie’s friends, and those of you hoping for a similar critique of this clique as I did with the Sydney group, it won’t happen. Although I pulled my usual don’t-speak-unless-spoken-to-or-making-a-loosely-self-deprecating-comment routine, I was much more comfortable around them.

Originally, the plan for Sunday was to make the trip to Kuranda via Skyrail and Scenic Railway. This idea, however, hit a roadblock when we went and talked to the owner (maybe) of our hostel on Saturday evening. He told us, very plainly and in a vaguely racist manner, that it wasn’t worth the $75, and that it was for “Japanese and old people.” After some conversation that elaborated on the nature of the rides (slow, and the waterfalls would be dried up because it hadn’t rained much yet) and the town of Kuranda itself (a thinly veiled tourist trap), we scrapped the idea. He presented some other tours as options, but Natalie had seen most of the highlights during her farm stay, so we decided on something much closer and much cheaper: the Crystal Cascades.

The Crystal Cascades are located about 20 km from Cairns, and provide the public with a series of natural swimming holes. For those of you who have been to Lutsen, it’s essentially a tropical Temperance River, even down to the jumping spots. We spent a relaxing afternoon lying on rocks, watching small children slide down mini-rapids and then traversing them ourselves. In the evening, we went out for sushi.

On Monday we finally investigated Cairns’ many shops for possible souvenirs for ourselves or presents for loved ones. Who here is surprised that I didn’t buy anything? No one? Me neither. I did, however, get a much-needed haircut. The big story of the day was lunch. Natalie and I dined at the Red Ochre Grill, a restaurant specializing in Australian cuisine made with native Australian ingredients. The main attraction: trying kangaroo, crocodile and emu. We started off the meal with an amazing bread made from wattle seed, accompanied by peanut oil and a mixture of spices for dipping. It was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the best bread I’ve eaten in this country. Next, some spiced fries, which were good but nothing compared to those of Indianapolis’ Brugges. Finally, the real treat: a platter with samplers of exotic Australian cuisine. The contents: crocodile wontons, a bit of kangaroo steak, emu pate, a tiny vegetarian omelet, and ocean trout. I liked everything, Natalie passed on the trout and some of the omelet. Crocodile, it turns out, tastes like a slightly drier ground beef. Kangaroo is reminiscent of lamb. The emu was very hard to place; it had a familiar but unidentifiable taste. All in all, a wonderful dining experience, and for roughly the same price as the bad Thai food two nights earlier.

We started back to Townsville at around four, but made a detour in Innisfail to meet up with a friend of, well, everyone but me, apparently. Our meeting place, some sort of club, had slots, and Natalie was actually “successful” in her ventures here, winning two dollars. The rest of the ride back featured moments of group bonding over Romanian pop songs (Dragostea Din Tei) and sappy 80s music (Toto’s Africa), chance encounters with tree frogs in rest stop bathrooms (not me, sadly), and entirely too much Nelly Furtado. If I did have one complaint, it’s that my musical tastes did not mesh at ALL with those of everyone else, but it’s a small price to pay for the freedom of personal transport. We arrived back in Townsville at ten, ready to study (not), but that’s what I’ll be doing the rest of this week.

I need to go; I think I might be getting sick. (After such a long period of health! Oh well, it had to happen sometime, but this is extremely inopportune. To bed, then.)