cross country Tuesday

After a tedious runway delay and a routine take-off, we ascend westwards out of Tullamarine Airport across outer-suburb escarpments, quarries and farms, turned exotic by the morning sun. Half an hour in we are sailing above red-brown earth, arrow-straight dirt roads dividing the land into geometric blocks, occasionally messed up by a more ancient pathway or wayward river. The billabongs are full after more than a year of rains, glistening like tiny crystals across the landscape. Later, larger lakes cluster together on the flat expanse, turning the nearby land shades of moss-green.

Deeper inland where three states converge, an ancient meandering river feeds giant organically-shaped crop fields. The edges of the lazy river blur into a turquoise haze as ox-bow lakes are discarded and simpler paths carved. Three larger rivers converge on a dammed lake, the only man-made structure for hundreds of kilometres.

The land ripples into mountainous ridges, giving the illusion of a blanket of red-brown clouds below, not the crumpled rock it is made from. There are no roads now, just an infinite stretch of veined red and green, the vegetation clumped together in dots, the earth sculpted into short wave-like patterns. At last, those indigenous abstract paintings make sense: they are not abstracts after all but landscapes.

An hour later the landscape has changed again. The wavelets on the ground have lengthened into flowing lines, making the desert earth look more like scorched tree bark. Soon, even those lines disappear as the Red Centre really takes shape. Flat, featureless red sand is occasionally ripped by an artist’s gash of black paint. It is so easy to understand where some of those Dreamings originate.

The red canvas is abruptly torn by the confluence of two large rivers, which have inexplicable turned their trapped wedge of land a curious blue-green colour, contrasting with the red. Slowly the two colours merge and marble together as the terrain grows hilly again, and perfectly-formed ridges and valleys emerge.

Every fold, every infinitesimal pushing together of the land appears to be visible to the naked eye, pristine and new. Branches of river systems reach towards each other like fractal designs and horizontal oak-tree sculptures.

Suddenly, a farm or homestead appears, surrounded on four sides by a rough-hewn square dirt track, and connected to a roadway running perfectly east-west. A few more roads stretch away north-east and south-west; perhaps we are closer to civilisation than it appears.

A meandering yellow dry river bed is home to a long garden of trees, stretching south-eastwards. The earth still doesn’t know whether to be wearing red or aquamarine. Near the limit of my vision, I am convinced I catch a glimpse of a flash of sunlight on a truck mirror.

As the land softens again, a nearly-dry lake bed hosts a flock of large birds. Flamingos? I cannot tell from this distance.

An hour or so out of Darwin, the grassfires have begun. Snake-like curves of billowing smoke leave blackened earth behind them, burning slowly in isolated patches. The increased cloud cover hints that we are approaching the tropics, and signifies the likelihood of a late afternoon storm as forecast. For once, I have remembered to pack an umbrella.

Soon, the marks of civilisation appear: the black tarmac of the Sturt Highway cuts through, criss-crossed by simpler dirt roads leading to a few scattered homesteads. The vegetation gets thicker and the colours darken to muted greens and browns. More and more land is given over to agriculture, the formality of the crop fields a stark contrast to the wilderness beneath us these past three hours.

The plane turns slightly to the north-west and we commence our descent. Soon, the outer reaches of Darwin appear, smaller fields of market-garden crops and the chequered squares of suburban gardens painted jewel-green by the rains. We loop around past Shoal Bay Coastal Reserve, the flatlands in stark contrast to the man-made landscape alongside it. We are here.

Later, I stand on my balcony watching yet another spectacular Darwin sunset, a fitting technicolour end to my cross-country journey.

11 highlights of 2011

It’s been a hell of a year. Tough at times, full of adventure, travel (some work, some play), hard work, sorrow and joy. Here are my eleven highlights of 2011.

1.  Queensland

The year started busy. I spent most of the first three months hanging out in Brisbane with an army of Red Crossers, responding to event after tragic event. The staff in the Grand Chancellor come to greet me every time I checked in with a “Welcome home, Ms Doyle!”. The night before Yasi hit, I sat in a hotel restaurant with colleagues trying to understand the enormity of what was about to hit, the only Irishwoman at a table of battle-hardened Aussies. In Emerald, I met the Governor-General and got a lesson in looking elegant in tropical heat. Some of the people I worked with developed into an amazing support network that I still have today, and one or two deep friendships have developed from the times spent together. I gained four kilos and none of my summer clothes fit anymore, which didn’t matter as I spent the whole of the summer in a white Red Cross business shirt and black cut-off cargo pants.

What I learned: Just because it’s disaster season doesn’t mean you need less fibre – or more alcohol – in your diet. FitFlops are the only footwear you need. Talk about how you are feeling often, and use others to gauge how you are going. Forgive. Hydrate. Never go anywhere (even a disaster zone) without eyeliner: you never know who is going to drop by.

2.  Christchurch

Ten days in ChCh working with the NZ Red Cross after the earthquake was some of the most challenging but amazing time I got to spend this year. I slept in a tiny room in the friendliest little B&B in the world, and got used to the ground shaking beneath me. I saw regular people turn into heroes and find resilience in themselves they never thought existed. I feel privileged to have been able to help in my small way.

What I learned: Always leave your boots by the bed in an earthquake zone, and keep your phone fully charged. Leap instantly to a doorframe when the ground doesn’t stop shaking after five seconds. Be ready to accept help as well as give it. Take a break. And don’t watch live footage of horrifying tsunamis right after coming home.

3.  Lorne

A chunk of normality at the end of summer: the Easter/Anzac weekend down the Great Ocean Road in Lorne with Orlando.  Arriving Good Friday evening with a roast dinner in the boot. Long walks by the beach in unseasonably warm weather. Mid-afternoon naps just because we could. Watching the surfers and browsing second-hand book stalls in the market. A cosy Spanish dinner in a lovely tapas bar on Saturday night. Time to heal and rest and recover and reconnect.

What I learned: Heal. Rest. Recover. Reconnect.

4.  Barbados

A week in Barbados in June, spent mostly staring at the waves (or floating in them) at Maxwell Beach, near Orlando’s parents’ house. Amazing Caribbean food. Weekend nights at Oistins fish market. Plenty of good Mount Gay rum in our afternoon rum punch. Chefette’s legendary all-beef rotis just because they were there. Spending time with Orlando’s Dad. Shopping for jerk seasoning and pepper sauce in the local supermarket. Scuba diving with Orlando in the sites where he learned to dive.

What I learned: One dive is never enough. One all-beef roti is never enough. One box of seasoning shipped home is never enough. One week is never enough.

5.  Mexico

Nearly three weeks travelling through the Yucatan peninsula, visiting Mayan ruins, climbing ancient pyramids, staying in great little guesthouses and eating proper Mexican food. Diving Dos Ojos at last after twelve years of waiting. Gazing out across the jungle with Orlando from the top of a crumbling pyramid in Coba. Margaritas and good tequila. A long walk.  Discovering cochinita pibil.

What I learned: There are only so many tacos, tortas, empanadas, burritos and quesadillas you can eat. The green chilli salsa is the hottest and the best. The Mexicans keep the good tequila for themselves. Never walk home at night through the jungle.

6.  Tasmania

An August weekend with Mena in Tasmania, our favourite state. Gourmet food at Bruny Island and Salamanca Market. The Goddess of Russell Falls at Mount Field National Park. Driving through God’s own country to Lake Gordon. Discovering the secluded beaches of South Arm and falling in love with Opossum Bay.

What I learned: There is not enough time before we die to explore Tasmania the way we want to. You will always buy more cheese than you can possibly eat at the Bruny Island Cheese Company. You don’t need a four-wheel-drive vehicle to discover the hidden gems of this small island; you can do it in a Class A hire car. Always bring layers to Tasmania – the weather can surprise you.

7.  Fiji

What more does a body need than ten days on a tropical island, with a little bungalow, a pristine beach a few feet away, a comfy hammock to swing in, a reef full of fish on the doorstep and more Fijian curry than you can shake a stick at. Diving in clear blue waters with more marine life than I’ve ever seen. Snoozing on a hammock under a palm tree, whenever I want to. Watching a wedding take place on a low-tide sandbar out at sea: the wedding party appears to be walking on water. The graceful hand movements of the women and men as they dance for us after the lovo feast.

What I learned: Never go anywhere without nuclear-strength Baygon. Two swimsuits are not enough for one week. There is always time for a little more snorkelling.

8.  Ireland

Ten days in Ireland might seem short, but when all you want is to visit family and get a little Christmas cheer, it’s all you need. Shopping on Grafton Street with the lights twinkling above. Meeting an old friend by chance in a city cafe. Twenty-four hours in the UK just to catch up on all the gossip with Katharine. Putting up Mum’s Christmas tree one morning, listening to old cheesy Christmas tunes and reminiscing about Christmas trees past.  Christmas present shopping with Ashling and Connor. New puppies to adore. Turkey and ham with all the trimmings. Creating new Christmas family memories, even if they were a few weeks early.

What I learned: Don’t wear your precious Links bracelet over your winter gloves. You will always get a good winter coat in Dublin. Melatonin really helps with jetlag. You can never buy too much Newbridge Silverware jewellery.

9.  Darwin

They asked if I was going to Darwin to see Obama. No, I replied: he is in town to meet me. Memos from the hotel asking us to behave on our balconies (in case the Secret Service shot us) didn’t stop me waving enthusiastically at the Black Hawk helicopter that kept flying past. A lovely dinner with Julie Groome at Pee Wee’s. Celebrating the opening night of Darwin Pride with Chris Power. Power walking early in the morning, then trying to catch up with Hydralyte for the rest of the day. Dragging the living room furniture out onto the balcony for a Friday night feast, because they had taken the balcony furniture away at the start of cyclone season.

What I learned: Behave on your hotel balcony if POTUS is in town. Buy more Hydralyte before you travel in the wet season. Always pack one more white singlet top. Try not to turn into a comedy double-act when presenting serious stuff with Julie.

10.  Altona Beach

The one constant in my year: the boardwalk at Altona saved my sanity more than a few times this year. Park up near the Seaholme end of town, on with the Walkman and the sunvisor (not trendy, but it keep my hair at bay), get some UK garage going and power walk to the other end of the beach or maybe right into the park at Truganina. I know every step of the route and its familiarity soothes me, music or no music, sunshine or no sunshine, high tide or low tide.  It helped me get fit and healthy after the Summer of Love – both in body and in spirit.

What I learned: You can always walk just a little bit faster. Carry another layer with you in the boot of the car unless it is January or February. Sometimes it is best to leave the headphones behind and listen to the waves.

11.  Home

Sounds silly, but with all the travel I did this year, a Christmas and New Year holiday at home in our own house was the perfect getaway. No worries about what shoes to pack. Guaranteed comfy bed and perfect pillow. Only the best local red wine and bubbly served. Friends and family close at hand. The best travelling companion in the world. Excellent wi-fi. No air travel or packing or taxis or travel insurance to worry about.

What I learned: There’s no place like home.

christmas shopping

Monday morning in Dublin during a recession is an ideal time to go Christmas shopping, I think. No crowds, plenty of space, a bargain or two. I park in Drury Street, a friendly Corkman relieving me of my car keys and hiding the hire car in the bowels of his underground car park.

St. Stephen’s Green shopping centre is not as fancy as it used to be. I wander through a few shops and spend fifteen minutes being assisted with the purchase of a new hairdryer in Boots by a lovely Dublin chap with very little hair. Maybe it’s the Monday quietness, but I cut short my mall window shopping and head on out to find something a little more cheerful.

Grafton Street is only coming alive at eleven in the morning. HMV dominates the top of the street, hawking Michael Buble’s new Christmas album from every window. The ladies on the corner of Chatham Street still have the best fresh flowers, with buckets of rose hips to add seasonal cheer to any bouquet. The silver garlands of street lights above me seem to be lit, but the morning sunshine is too much and their effect is dulled for now.

I stroll through a handful of old favourites – Vero Moda, Monsoon, Pamela Scott – without being tempted. Pity: I am in the mood for spending money today. I pass somebody dressed as a large green leprechaun, trying to tempt people down to the boutique shops on Hibernian Way. At least he (or she) is warm in that ludicrous outfit. The doorman at Brown Thomas raises his top hat to me as I enter the warmth of its hallowed halls. I am enveloped by the luxurious perfumes of Jo Malone and the sumptuous red and gold of the Cartier concession, both doing brisk enough business for a Monday morning. No sign of a recession here then.

I pop into the Post Office on Suffolk Street to post the first of the Christmas cards, passing the rickshaw drivers shooting the breeze outside O’Neill’s pub. Talk about optimistic. The restaurant at Avoca Handweavers beckons, with promises of hearty vegetable soup and impossibly-dense brown bread. I wander through the shop, tempted by locally-made toiletries, vintage crockery, and stocking fillers to the top floor. It is busy enough, but not packed. Most of the staff seem to be Irish. Last time I visited this place all the wait staff were Eastern European.

My handsome Aaron Eckhart lookalike waiter approves of my order of a glass of prosecco with fresh raspberries. I am tempted away from hearty soup with the promise of a horseradish, walnut, roasted pear and Cashel Blue cheese salad. I sit at the back of the restaurant amongst the perfectly mismatched furniture, with a good view of my fellow lunchers. They are a predictable mix of well-heeled people of a certain age (which I define as ten years older than me) and a handful of local workers on their lunch break. Two girls beside me discuss the hundreds of redundancies about to be announced in one of the biggest Irish high-street banks.

As I stand to pile on the layers against the cold outside, I hear my name being called. I look around to see the sister of an old friend waving at me from the corner. I have not seen her in over seven years, and we embrace fiercely. We talk over each other, trying to catch up on years of news, sharing iPhone photos of new babies and old partners, before promising a longer catchup on my next visit. What a lovely surprise.

I burn another hole in my credit card at the Kilkenny shop. Well, who could resist locally-made smelly candles called Bog Standard? The afternoon is fading as I retrace my steps back up Grafton Street. The street lights are beginning to twinkle in earnest now, and the crowds have thickened a little too. That’s more like it. I head back to the first shop I visited in the morning, and purchase the first of many overcoats I have tried today, along with three new Little Black Dresses and countless other articles I simply could not do without. The walk back to the car is looking more and more torturous by the minute.

It is almost five, and almost dark. I savour the slow walk back down Grafton Street, now a beautiful ribbon of silver at dusk, the shops looking festive and the crowds good-natured. This is one of the reasons I made the long trip back to Ireland at such a cold time of year. It’s not Christmas for me without this scene.

My car emerges from the deep and I wind my way home through the Liberties, past St. Patrick’s Cathedral and Christchurch Cathedral, past St. Audoen’s church, the oldest parish church in Dublin, Christmas FM on the radio. I went to school near here, down the back of Francis Street at the Holy Faith Convent. Thomas Street is dull and depressing. The worst of the GFC is apparent here: no Christmas lights, lots of boarded-up shops, the handful of street stalls selling only cheap tat. On down James’s Street I drive, past St. James’s Gate, the home of Guinness, and turning onto narrow Kilmainham Lane. You would never imagine such a winding country road could be found just a couple of miles outside the very centre of a capital city. Ten minutes or so later I am home, decanting armfuls of bags from the car to the living room and presenting everything to Mum for her approval.

An hour later I am back in the car, retracing my steps back into town to meet Joe and Elva for dinner in Chez Max on Baggot Street. We are yards from where we all went to university, and although I have not seen them for a year and a half, the time melts away as we relax into our usual banter. The wine flows and suddenly it is time to go. We will not leave it so long again – next year is the twenty-fifth anniversary or our graduation.

The streets are empty and dark as I wend my way home. I curl up on the sofa and catch up with Mum before bed, happy with the amount I have crammed into one day. I fall sleep in my childhood bedroom, surrounded by familiar pictures and books. It all begins again tomorrow.

winter style

Before I headed to Ireland this time, I had sympathetic conversations with quite a few Australians. “It’s going to be so cold over there.” “Well, yes, it is wintertime.” “And wet and rainy.” “I would expect so. It’s a cool temperate maritime climate, after all.” ” Ooh maybe you should buy some of those colourful gumboots with flowers on them for the rain, and pack a few beanies.” “Actually, no self-respecting Irishwoman would be seen dead in public wearing either of those fashion items, unless she was at Glastonbury.”

Mainland Australians, generally, don’t do cold weather very well. I exclude Tasmania, of course: those people know how to rug up and still look stylish. I once spoke to a girl from Perth who had struggled on for two years after she arrived in Melbourne, before realising she actually needed a different winter wardrobe. She had spent two winters wearing thongs (flip flops to you northern hemisphere types) and shivering in a light cardigan before noticing that she really ought to be wearing knee-high boots and a decent woollen overcoat from June to September. Melburnians are a mixed bunch. You will see women going to work wearing sensible footwear and a long coat, but so often you will also see women shivering on the street, walking to work with bare legs and a scarf around their necks, like that is going to protect them from the bitter winter temperatures.

Irish women are entirely more sensible without losing their individual sense of style. Irish autumn, winter and spring can be miserably cold if you are not dressed for the weather, so people do. Your average stylish Irishwoman has a selection of winter coats (my sister Annette remarked yesterday that she needs another overcoat like a hole in the head. She has about six). The average Irishwoman also has a range of stylish winter footwear often including a range of knee-high boots of various colours and heel shapes.

At Newbridge Silverware on Saturday afternoon, the women of Kildare were at leisure. I stopped short of photographing some of the stylish women in the jewellery showrooms and elegant cafe. Warm, knee-length fitted woollen dresses in this season’s block colours were teamed with colour-coordinated jewellery, a fabulous pair of knee-high black patent leather boots and matching handbag. A larger lady was resplendent in a floor-length fitted woollen skirt in a shade of plum, with a sharp bob haircut, sensational accessories and a long heather-coloured knitted cardigan. I would have felt under-dressed but for my decent black-and-cream print three-quarter length mac that made my casual outfit look sharp and in-season.

Hats are in – they are every year, it’s too cold to venture out without one. However no Irishwoman would shove a knitted tea-cosy hat on their head unless they were about to go hiking, and even then it would probably be a decent Gore-Tex job. Hats generally match the overcoat, or possibly the shoes and bag. And there will always be matching gloves. Cloche hats and similar shapes are quite popular, because they are not easily dislodged by the wind. Similarly, hats that can be scrunched up and shoved into your handbag are much more preferable to one you have to hold in your hand when not wearing it. It makes high street shopping and going out much easier, with all that dipping into and out of the shops or dashing between the pub and the restaurant. But beanies on a woman of any age beyond seven or so? I don’t think so.

Pashminas and scarves also loom large, for keeping the breeze away from chilly necks or for drawing around your shoulders in a draughty cafe. They are never Granny-like, and each woman has her own way of wearing hers. Doubled over and linked around the neck; draped casually over one shoulder to accessorise the overcoat; folded neatly and carried in the handbag just in case. Vibrant colours are most popular, to give the most sober of outfits a colourful lift on the darkest of winter days. Loud prints, however, are avoided in favour of block colour. And Irish women are never afraid of a statement necklace or two: the bolder, the better.

Even casual is done well. Jeans are popular in Ireland as in most places. They are teamed with a warm hip-length coat or maybe a slim-fitting padded jacket. Knitwear is always in. Last night Annette teamed a pair of skinny jeans with ballet flats and a fitted knee-length mohair dress, accessorised with a thin belt and a statement pashmina.

Today I shall dress carefully before heading into town to spend the day shopping on Grafton Street, Dublin’s most fashionable shopping precinct. Layers of pure wool that I can peel off if I get too warm, a large handbag and additional reusable bags to carry my purchases – plastic bags were outlawed in Ireland years ago. Although I love the feeling of collecting all those posh paper shopping bags they give you here: I always feel like I am in a scene from a movie, strolling down the street with armfuls of them, my new things beautifully wrapped in tissue paper inside. A hat, of course, from Tasmania’s Salamanca Market and a pair of killer heels. Some carefully-chosen statement jewellery and, in my case, a matching bindi. That is all I need to acquit myself well amongst the Dublin Ladies Who Lunch.

travelling without moving

Hong Kong to London: the second leg of my epic thirty-hour odyssey to the other side of the world. It is a busy flight, but not full. The Northern Irish girl beside me is flying home because her aunt – forty-five years old like me – had a brain haemorrhage a couple of days ago. The girl herself is travelling with a stress fracture in her hip and is already in huge discomfort, a cabin crew member having sent her flying as she boarded. I count my blessings.

When the seat belt sign goes off, the girl moves to stretch out along the empty back row of the plane. I settle into my two-seat domain. I am near the back of the plane and there’s extra room between my seat and the window too. On a thirteen-hour flight, all the additional space is luxury.

As soon as the plane levels out I setup my factory line: a stack of blank Christmas cards and envelopes, mobile phone for the addresses, a decent pen (ballpoint, not fountain to avoid altitude leaks), Christmas music on the Walkman streaming through my noise-cancelling headphones. My fluffy socks keep my feet warm and the window blinds are pulled to keep off the glare.

Valentino the steward approaches. He knows me by name, probably because I am a Gold frequent flyer. He offers me a fast-track card to get me through the UK border formalities more quickly. A strong gin and tonic materialises beside my Christmas card factory line, perfecting the scene. Later, I give the fast-track card to the girl from Northern Ireland. She only has an hour to transit from Terminal 3 to Terminal 1: she needs it more than I.

I get scribbling, the addresses on the envelopes occasionally falling victim to turbulence. I wonder will Fiona notice the writing on her envelope and wonder why I had a six-year-old help me.
The Alzheimer’s Association cards are green and sparkly. By the time I am finished, my comfortable matt-black travelling outfit is sprinkled with glitter. How festive.

Chris Rea sings “Driving Home for Christmas”. It always reminds me of going home for Christmas back in the eighties, driving from my home in Leicestershire to Birmingham Airport to catch my flight to Dublin. It always involved sitting in a traffic jam on the M42: top to toe on tailbacks. I had red lights all around. This morning -evening? I am not sure what time zone I am in – I have tired faces all around. My fellow travellers aren’t driving home for Christmas, and neither am I. But I am looking forward to putting up the tree in the house where I grew up; late afternoon on Grafton Street with the Christmas street lights starting to twinkle; the huge tree outside Trinity College and another outside the GPO; drinks and dinner with old friends.

After thirteen hours we circle London a couple of times, the city laid out beneath us like a glistening prize. The Thames snakes along, adorned left and right by familiar sights: the London Eye, the Houses of Parliament. Newer landmarks are emerging too like the huge Olympic stadium out near Hackney, and the Shard on the south side of Tower Bridge which looks like it might usurp the Gherkin’s place in my heart as my favourite London building.

Heathrow is painless enough. I sail through the formalities even without my fast-track card. The London accents and multi-hued faces make me feel like I am home again. I miss London.
Two security people work the scanner. An open suitcase is going through on the conveyor belt. An item falls out and the female security guard casually picks it up and throws it back into the case as it slides by. “Ew”, says her colleague, looking at me for support. “You just touched his underpants!”

In Terminal 1 WH Smiths and Harrods look just Christmassy enough, Smiths with bright stars on hanging banners and 50% off signs everywhere, Harrods with entirely more classy decorations and the Portmeirion China Christmas collection out front in pride of place. I pick up a few items in the Tax Free store, realising how sleep-deprived I feel when I open my mouth to say something coherent to the Clinique lady, and fail. I sit in the main concourse listening to flights being called in English, French and German before capitulating and fleeing to a fake alehouse for a pot of tea and a scone.

On the one-hour BMI flight I doze, waking just in time to see the coastline of Leinster lit up in the twilight. Even in the darkness I know this stretch of coastline well enough to recognise major landmarks, and I can tell we make our approach over Malahide where my sister lives. Finally, after almost thirty hours of travelling without moving, I touch down in the city of my birth.

Annette is waiting for me at Arrivals, as always, and she leads me to the bar where I sip a hot cup of tea with sugar to help combat the jet lag. It is good to be home.

I pick up the hire car and head south on the M50. Almost there. I stop at the local chip shop (chipper in Dublinese). I stand waiting for my food – smoked cod and chips, of course, with a side of curry sauce. I am surrounded by family history. My father, grandmother, aunt, uncle and many more relatives and neighbours are buried in the graveyard to one side of where I stand. My parents used to drive over for a Saturday night drink in the pub on the other side of me. My mother grew up half a mile down the road, in a white-washed cottage with no running water. My cousin now lives in the more modern house that was built there when the cottages were torn down in the fifties. I took piano lessons just down the street, next to the school where my mother worked for almost forty years.

I stop the hire car outside the house where I grew up. My mother stands in the doorway, ready to greet me. We have not seen each other for almost eighteen months. The door is opened wide in welcome, and she pulls me to her in a welcoming hug as soon as I pull the heavy suitcase into the hallway.

I am Home.

Over the next ten days, Mum and I will squeeze in a festive visit to Newbridge Silverware and Avoca Handweavers to drink tea, eat home-made cake and (in my case) buy more jewellery. Annette and I will kick the Christmas spirit off at Taste of Christmas on Saturday night. We will cut and sample Mum’s Christmas cake and pudding on Sunday after Mass, and my cousin and I will re-enact the ancient Donoghue family tradition of critiquing the baked goods in the annual comparative study: “Oh, your pudding is nicer than mine this year Maggie.” “No, Molly, I think mine’s a bit dry…”And Ashling and Connor will help me give the credit card a workout, Christmas shopping in the city I know so well.

Christmas FM -All Christmas Radio – will start broadcasting on Tuesday and then the festive season will have really begun.

Happy Holidays, everyone.

Hobart ramblings

A warm spring evening in Hobart. It’s been a long two days, delivering pre-disaster-season briefings with Julie to a lively bunch of Tasmanian staff and volunteers. We finish a little earlier than expected and I dump the laptop and participant evaluation sheets, change clothes and head out into the late afternoon sunshine.

The Radiance of the Seas cruise ship has dominated the waterfront since we watched her dock at eight this morning. I stroll past, photographing the bulk of her, wanting to board just to have a look around, never to be a passenger.

Past Mures and the moored fish and chip shops at Franklin Wharf, past our favourite Fish Frenzy (The Frenzy of the Fish, as Julie calls it), a fire alarm spilling post-work drinkers, waitresses and short-order cooks out onto the pavement in good-natured bewilderment.

I walk behind three young women, dressed to the nines. One has the dangerously short red lycra dress and the substantial thighs I myself had in my early twenties. The look didn’t look great on me either. Her friend is stick-thin: she is having trouble keeping her tiny tight skirt covering her barely-existent behind. The one in the middle has a few more pounds on her, and a few more acres of fabric. Despite everything, she looks better than the other two who are just trying too hard.

Aurora Australis, the Australian Antarctic Division’s exploration ship has gone south for the summer, leaving a gaping hole at the dock beside Shed Number One on Prince’s Wharf. I head down Castray Esplanade, past the beautiful homes once owned by harbourmasters and ships’ captains. I detour briefly through Prince’ Park and continue on through the historical Battery Point area. The sandstone houses and single-storey artisan cottages transport me back to Dalkey, to Sandymount, to Malahide, to Wicklow Town. These few nineteenth-century streets are part of the reason I love Hobart so well – it reminds me of home.

As I pass the Franklin Dock the Radiance of the Seas gives three long blasts of the ship’s horn. Her engines are going astern, and she is off to the next port. I stand with a young family and a handful of tourists as the mammoth cruise ship floats imperceptiby away from the dock. The captain gives another three blasts of the horn, then another, and finally she is off. I continue along the waterfront towards the Henry Jones Art Hotel, passing lobster fishing boats, back to my hotel to freshen up.

Later I retrace my steps through even larger throngs of people out for the evening. The HoTown crowds are out in force, the balmy evening producing even shorter skirts on the girls and even fancier shirts on the boys. I am stopped by a gang of six women looking for a good place to eat. It’s the third time in twenty-four hours I have been stopped on the street in Hobart and asked for a restaurant recommendation. Luckily, I have plenty of opinions. Salamanca Place is buzzing as I stroll past, and I opt for Ciuccio’s, a frequent haunt of mine and a perfect place for this early summer’s evening.

A couple of glasses of McLaren Vale shiraz and one garlic chill prawn pizza later, I brave the crowds once more. It is after nine at night, not quite dark and still over twenty degrees – not at all typical Hobart November weather. The atmosphere is party-like and the crowds belie the fact that is merely a Wednesday night. It feels more like Christmas Eve.

I wend my way back along the waterfront to my hotel room, feeling lucky that I can visit this town as often as I can and that I am almost always blessed with perfect weather when I do.

the feast of saint john the baptist

The white colectivo van left from a small yard just west of the municipal market in San Cristobal. On a chilly morning there was no standing on ceremony, no queuing: when the next colectivo spun around the corner and into the yard, everyone pushed to the front to be sure of a seat. Taken unawares, we stood back and waited for the next one.

Half an hour later we emerged into a bustling marketplace. I didn’t remember San Juan Chamula being such a metropolis. Then we heard the explosions, one after the other from the main square. Had we stumbled on a festival?

We snaked our way down through the market, where village women in embroidered blouses and wrapped woollen skirts sold fruit, vegetables, crucifixes, hardware, jewellery. Men in white or black shaggy-dog woollen ponchos strode along in their good jeans and best cowboy hats. Foreigners like us tried not to stare.

We could not have prepared ourselves for the town square. The church of San Juan Bautista (St. John the Baptist) was festooned with garlands. The church square was thronged with worshippers. I checked the date on my phone, to research later: is the 24th of June the feast of St. John the Baptist? Turns out it is. How fortunate for us.

Around the edges of the walled church square thousands more congregated, chatting and drinking at plastic garden chairs and tables, calling to wandering mariachi singers for a five-song serenade, and watching the spectacle unfold.

Men in white or black ponchos (serapes) lit rudimentary fireworks with no warning, sending others scattering. One man carefully spilled a thin line of gunpowder in a large L-shape, whilst others followed behind embedding a homemade firework into the gunpowder at brief intervals. No matter what country you are in, the look of childlike glee on men’s faces is the same everywhere when they know something is about to explode.

A proper Catholic-looking procession marched around the square, led by a gang of men carrying aloft flags of various saints, followed by others. Some were in the white or black ponchos again, whilst others were dressed in ornate, slightly-medieval-looking black, red and white costumes. Those on the flank carried rudimentary torches of frankincense, the scent of which immediately took me back to the benediction processions of my childhood. A large mariachi band took up the rear.

There was no sign of a priest amongst any of this except for a brief period when I saw three tall white men in some sort of vestments receiving the procession outside the church. They disappeared just as quickly as they arrived. San Juan Chamula is not known for its orthodox Catholic rituals.

I wandered closer to the church entrance. By now individual groups were congregating one by one outside the entrance, grouped according to their devotion to a particular saint. Some saints seem to receive less worship than others. These turned out to be the saints of another local church, which was destroyed by fire almost a century ago. The statues were saved by the villagers, but it was never forgotten that the saints had not saved the church. For many years, they were positioned in the church of San Juan Chamula with their faces towards the wall. Their hands were chopped off to show that they had not “worked” to save the church. For some time, they did not receive glass cases, but when new cases were made for the more popular resident saints, the old cases were eventually given to the bad saints. Only in recent years were they allowed to face the congregation and their bodies clothed. After all these years, the number of their worshippers remains small. Why bother devoting your prayers to a saint who doesn’t deliver?

Each group of devotees undertook their prayers in a similar way. The men stood in line at the front, then the women, all in the colours of their village: purple, blue, green. They swayed slightly in a stylised dance as musicians played the same eight or so melancholy chords on guitars and ancient-looking harps. Then, group by group they proceeded into the church to worship in front of their chosen saint.

The inside of the church of San Juan Chamula is not like any other. No seats, no tabernacle, just glass box after glass box of statues ornately dressed in satins and silks. Santiago, the Virgin of Guadalupe (who had a naturally large following), San Pedro Mejor, San Pedro Menor, Santa Rosa de Lima: the litany continued. Where was Jesus in all of this? Relegated to the status of saint himself, he was represented too. Before Christianity, the Mayans worshipped the Sun God: to change allegiance to the Son of God was not a hardship. Unlike the upright saints, Jesus got to lie supine in his glass case, much like the corpses of dead popes in the Vatican. His glass “coffin” was open at the front, and a young woman stood praying aloud at his head. At his feet were dozens of children’s shoes, presumably offerings following the return to health of a sick child who had been prayed for through the intercession of Jesus.

A man knelt at a row of five candles stuck to a clearing in the fresh pine needles covering the church floor. Twenty or so devotees knelt behind him in rows. The first – and tallest – candles were lit. He lit each row candles in succession whilst prayers were recited. Being different sizes, the trick was to let all of the candles burn down and extinguish at the same time.

Other devotees offered Coca-Cola, cigarettes or local hooch (pox, pronounced posh) as tributes to their saints. The burping is thought to help expel the evil spirits that reside inside our bodies. Once the worship was deemed complete, the flag-bearer for that saint went to where the altar would be in any other church, as the other devotees packed up and left. One by one, each saint’s flag was being lowered and folded slowly away in wait until the next feast day. The flag bearers then stood to attention with the empty flagpole aloft until all the flags were folded away.

Back outside the fireworks were still going strong. Without warning, a large pile of gunpowder detonated on the ground not two metres from where we stood. Orlando and I both leapt a couple of feet in the air and yelped in alarm. A local woman, probably about my own age, in the highly-embroidered purple of her village laughed delightedly at our reaction, her pleasant round face lit up in amusement by her gold-toothed smile. I laughed back at her, our eyes meeting briefly in friendship although we could not speak each other’s language. She probably wondered as much about my life as I did about hers.

The celebrations ended as quickly as they had started. We sat at the back of the market, drinking lemonade and watching as the market stalls packed up, leaving just littered concrete behind. Group by group the church and square emptied of worshippers and the gunpowder explosions died away.

Between the plastic tables and chairs, quite a few men were sleeping soundly, passed out from the morning’s festivities. The mariachi musicians stood around chatting, their work done for the day, their brass instruments clashing with the rows of silver buttons on their suits in the glint of the afternoon sun.

We strolled back up to the bus stop and headed back to San Cristobal, our ears still ringing from the homemade fireworks. We could not have chosen a better day to visit.

San Cristobal de las Casas

It took five hours, an increase in elevation of 2,200 metres and a decrease in temperature of more than 20˚C, to make the journey into the mountains to the town of San Cristobal de las Casas. This was a much more interesting journey than the relatively uneventful, sanitised motorway trips we’d undertaken so far.

The road wound its way slowly up into the highlands, through small roadside villages and two or three larger towns. As the journey progressed the houses seemed to become much more modest and the living much more agricultural. Most houses were growing some small crops on the land around and between dwellings: cabbages, onions, tomatoes, papayas, bananas, limes and of course the ubiquitous corn.

The women often wore traditional dress of an ornately-embroidered short-sleeved satin top, a mid-calf-length (usually black) woollen skirt folded into pleats at the front and held in place with a wide fabric belt tied at the side. More and more men wore cowboy hats. Every village seemed to have a modern basketball court, where the local young men had congregated to play despite the recent heavy rain. Many of the schools proudly announced that they were bi-lingual, Spanish not being the first language of this region of Mexico.

The bus careered around sharp bends on a narrow road which often clung to the side of a sheer descent. More than once I had to divert my eyes as my stomach lurched when I could see nothing but fresh air and a vertical drop out my window.

The light faded as we approached San Cristobal though a heavy rainstorm. I could feel through the window of the bus that it was very chilly outside. I assessed my clothing and footwear: head-to-toe white linen and a pair of flipflops were not going to insulate me from the chill of a town at twice the elevation of Ben Nevis, at eight in the evening. I shivered in anticipation.

Thankfully the rain had stopped by the time we disembarked, and a twenty minute walk through town carrying a sixteen-kilo backpack kept me warm enough initially. We had no hotel room booked, and for once the Lonely Planet let us down with a badly-researched map. The town was crawling with cars, buses and people: with the wet ground, the chill in the air and the shops all lit up in the twilight I had a real sense of Christmas shopping in Dublin city late on a December Saturday afternoon. What could possibly be going on, on a random Thursday evening in June?

The receptionist in the Hotel LiquidAmbar explained all as we checked into a tiny but immaculately-clean room overlooking the reception area: it was the feast of Corpus Christi.

We dumped our bags, threw on as many extra layers as we could find, and headed out into the evening’s festivities. We were a block away from the cathedral square, where the façade of the cathedral was lit up spectacularly. Hawkers from the neighbouring villages kept stalls or wandered the crowd selling multi-coloured shawls, embroidered belts, woven bracelets and other textiles.

Along one side of the leafy Plaza de 31 Marzo, an arched walkway was ablaze with lights and crowded with people: we squeezed in through the throng, to find the walkway lined with sweet sellers, their stalls piled high with every kind of cake imaginable. Honey-drenched offerings looked very like Indian sweets; tray after tray of perfectly-formed fruit miniatures made from marzipan tempted the passers-by. Orlando spoke to one old lady – most of the stalls were run by several generations of women from the same family it seemed – and chose three cakes to try later on.

We strolled down Avenida Hidalgo, past terracotta-roofed restaurants and cafés with people sitting outside, clearly shivering with the cold and inadequately dressed for the altitude. It reminded me of Melbourne in winter, with the whole population in denial about the good sense of sitting outside in mid-winter.

Back north of the Plaza Grande, Av. Hidalgo turned into Av. 20 Noviembre. Still pedestrianised and touristy, its side streets gave the occasional tantalising glimpse of Iglesia San Cristobal on a hill outside town. We stopped at a taco place – well, it was either more tacos or the more international choices of sushi or pizza – and devoured five tacos de pastor and five of chorizo and cheese. We then declared our love affair with tacos over forever: you can, it seems, have too much of a good thing. The scalding hot tea was great, though, on such a chilly night.

Back in our room we warded off the cold in bed with two thin blankets which were barely sufficient to warm us up again. Eventually I hid completely under the bedclothes and snuggled up to Orlando in yet another (barely) double bed, before sleep finally came. Tomorrow night, I promised myself, I would steal more blankets from the empty room next door.

Mérida

A thirty-peso taxi ride took us from the bus station in Mérida to Casa Alvarez, a friendly guest house run by the lovely Enrique and Miriam, and Charlie the cat. We were given the “penthouse” for the same price as a regular room – they must have liked the look of us. After our rather more basic lodgings in Tulum and Chichen Itzá, we felt surrounded by luxury: our own rooftop cabin, an enormous king-sized bed, a lounge area, a fridge, air-conditioning, a lovely little veranda surrounded by potted plants and an enormous roof garden to ourselves.

We immediately set out to explore the pretty market town, heading down past the busy Plaza Grande to the Municipal Market. There was more than a touch of southern Spain to the town, from the architecture to the beautiful stuccoed churches and pavement cafés.

The market sold mostly food: fish and seafood, fruit and vegetables, and a handful of other stall selling hardware, clothes and other goods scattered in between. Not having had breakfast, Orlando stopped at a stall and had three beef tacos, whilst I headed back to the fish market to pick up my first cocktail de mariscos of the trip.

My stall lady mixed chopped octopus, calamari and prawns together with chopped onion, chopped tomato, salt and pepper, coriander, and squirt of olive oil and – the surprise ingredient – a squirt of Worcestershire sauce. A tasty dish. Add a spoonful or two of homemade habañero salsa – onion, tomato and chopped habañero chillies – and mop it all up with a basket of fresh tortilla chips. Perfect.

After doing a few chores and getting our bearings, we headed back to the room to (literally) chill out and relax out of the searing heat and humidity. I took real pleasure in standing at my little outdoor sink on the veranda and doing a pile of laundry by hand. I think Orlando appreciated my handiwork too.

A dip in the little pool downstairs rounded off the afternoon and cooled me down. I took pleasure just sitting with a mug of coffee on the veranda watching all my laundry dry, and admiring the successful results of my attempt to bleach my poor linen trousers back to blazing white.

Later in the evening we watched the sun set from the roof garden as the lights came on across the city. La Chaya restaurant served up good Mayan food to locals and foreigners alike, with three women employed to sit and make tortillas by hand in the full view of the diners.

The Plaza Grande was alive at nine o’clock in the evening, with a cultural performance of traditional jarana dance taking place for free outside the Palacio Municipal. A dozen or so women, dressed in immaculate traditional huipiles and underskirts, white high heels and flowers in their hair, were escorted by the same number of courtly gentlemen wearing white trousers and tunics, a red bandana tucked into their waistbands, simple white sandals and a Panama hat. The dancing couples rarely touched except at the start and end of each dance. The men escorted the women to their starting positions, bowed slightly and raised their hats before taking up their own positions. At the end, they took the women’s arms and escorted them back to their seats on the veranda of the palacio.

Most of the dances were fairly sedately-paced, which was appropriate given the age and relative girth of some of the dancers, not to mention the heat and humidity. Their performances were punctuated by another gentleman, similarly attired to the male dancers, who recited patriotic and comedic poetry with a passion much to the delight of the audience.

A turn around the gardens of the Plaza Grande and a leisurely stroll along a quieter avenue lined with old university buildings, cafés and small churches ended our evening. Back at our room I folded away all our clean clothes and made us a cup of tea in the little kitchen downstairs. It was nice to have a bit of luxury at last.

the long walk

We arrived in Chichen Itzá in the early afternoon after an uneventful two-hour bus ride from Tulum. The free left-luggage room in the ancient ruins complex was unexpected but welcome, so we opted to explore first and find our hotel later. On a Sunday afternoon the place was thronged with busloads of Mexican and foreign tourists, including the USA National under-18 basketball team.

We ran the gauntlet of multiple confusing ticket desks – as foreigners we needed tickets from both federal and state governments – and made our way finally through the turnstiles.

We walked through the trees as the centrepiece of Chichen Itzá was slowly revealed to us: El Castillo (the Castle) stood alone in a large clearing, towering thirty metres above us, an icon of the ancient Maya. The nine separate levels of the pyramid decreased in size as they approached the temple at the summit, whilst an almost perfectly-restored steep staircase of ninety-one steps drew the eye skywards.

Even with the hundreds of other visitors and throngs of souvenir-sellers chanting “only one US dollar, amigos” El Castillo was magnificent. The last time I was here in the late nineties visitors were allowed to climb right to the top, but this time it was roped off like almost every other structure in the Yucatán Peninsula.

Blessed with another cloudy and relatively fresh day, we strolled the site for hours, visiting the huge ball court, the Thousand Columns, and more. With only the brief notes of The Book (our trusty Lonely Planet) to guide us, we no doubt only scratched the surface of the rich history of the site, but the carvings on the ruined buildings spoke for themselves. Ornately-decorated kings stood on the crumpled bodies of their captive subjects. Serpent heads formed the end-points of steep banisters carved to depict the scales of the serpent. One ruin was carved around the base with hundreds and hundreds of human skulls.

Over by the Thousand Columns, a vantage point on top of the Temple of the Warriors housed the famous reclining figure of Chac-Mool, a minor deity, waiting to carry away the hearts of those who have been sacrificed to the god Ku. Looking for all the world like a sunbather on his back but now leaning on his elbows to look out over his shoulder, more eroded and damaged versions of him are to be seen all over the site, and replicas in hotel gardens and on roundabouts all over the Yucatán.

For a time we happened across the same two young Spanish-sounding dudes every place we stopped. Barefoot and bare-chested, they strolled about wearing only loose-fitting cut-off cotton trousers and impressive dreadlocks. Clearly used to travelling light, we surmised, but surely they could have found room amongst their meagre belongings for some soap and a deodorant stick? We made sure to stay well upwind when we could.

The archaeological site went on and on. Through another break in a wall or down another footpath we found more and more to see. Yet more columned balustrades; a ruined steam house for ritual purifications; a pyramid-shaped ossuary; the ruined remains of the building where all the ceremonial food had been prepared. The Observatory was amongst the most impressive, with half of its original domed roof still intact. The windows in the dome were exactly placed so as to frame Venus in the night sky at astronomically auspicious times.

Another building, the Nunnery, still had most of its ornate stone carvings intact, and stood beside La Iglesia, a large temple structure with a huge staircase leading to the top. It was smaller than El Castillo but impressive nonetheless.

Before we left, we headed back to El Castillo and followed a dead-straight path due north towards El Cenote Sagrado or Sacred Cenote. The path was lined with souvenir sellers, and small children approached us selling cotton handkerchiefs, tine replicas of El Castillo or little contraptions that, when blown into, make the sound of a snarling jaguar (jaguar imagery is almost as prevalent as serpents at Chichen Itzá).

The cenote itself – sixty metres in diameter with opaque green water at the base of twenty-metre cliffs – was spectacular and awe-inspiring. It is said that many sacrificial victims were thrown into the cenote as gifts to the Mayan gods, as well as untold treasures offered as appeasement or tribute. We gazed down into its murky depths before taking our leave for the day to find our hotel.

A five-minute taxi ride into the small village of Pisté found the Píramide Inn. Run by a Baby Boomer American couple, it’s a little run-down but perfectly pleasant with large gardens, a pool and some genuine Mayan ruins out the back.

I immediately went to check out the pool, with was a little leaf-blown but clean, cool and refreshing after a long afternoon strolling the ruins. Orlando had a nap while I showered and relaxed on the balcony with my book.

Around 7.30pm it was still light as we wandered slowly back towards the ruins for the Son y Lumiére show. Orlando brought a long-sleeved shirt and I took along a wrap in case of mosquitoes – well, we were in the middle of the jungle. The show – all in Spanish – started almost as soon as we arrived. I didn’t catch all of the commentary, which appeared to be partly historical detail, partly dramatic performance, but the atmosphere was powerful, with the imposing presence of El Castillo and the other structure all around, and the spirits of the Maya just out of reach.

The walk back to the hotel would be less than twenty minutes. The road was well-lit and a steady trickle of cars meant that we would not be alone on the dark jungle road. No, problem, we thought, and set out happily.

After no more than a couple of minutes we realised the awful truth: we were far from alone on that dark road. In fact, we were walking through a veritable fog of flying insects, huge brown beetles, even bigger green-black ones, and a good handful of saucer-sized creamy-grey monster moths. They moved slowly, colliding with us at every step. They flew right into our faces and hair, their low buzzing sounds heard too late to take any evasive action.

Where the light was stronger – under the very street-lamps we had seen as our allies – they were impossible to escape as we stumbled shrieking through literally thousands of the awful creatures. Suddenly our long-sleeved garments and my wrap meant more than protection against mosquitoes: I do not believe I could have made it back to the hotel in one piece without all of my body being covered, however scantily. It didn’t stop countless huge crawling things landing on my neck and on my shoulders where their weight, clawing at my sheer chiffon wrap was too much to bear. It was the longest three kilometres either of us has ever walked.

After what felt like an age, we saw the lights of the State Police checkpoint ahead and knew we were almost home. The policeman was sitting quietly in the dark a hundred metres or so from his post, in the shelter of an abandoned trader’s stall. He waved goodnight as we passed. Then it became apparent why he was not at his post: lit up like a Christmas tree, his little sentry box was besieged by an enormous black swarm of night creatures, swirling angrily like a single living being, making a mockery of what should have been his sanctuary. One look passed between us, and wordlessly we crossed to the other side of the narrow road which was not quite so well lit. Heads down, we dashed the hundred or so metres past the black swarm, and into the relative safety of our hotel. We had made it.

Or had we?

There was one more hurdle to surmount. We had left the light on outside our room. As we approached the end of the terrace towards our hotel room door, our horror returned as we saw hundreds more of these flying creatures swarming for yards all around our lamp, and coating every surface: the ceiling, the floor and the door itself. How were we to get through? There was no time to lose as they began to land on our clothing again; we swiped them away with revulsion. Orlando tried to clear a path to the door by scraping a balcony chair back and forth, but to no avail. Then in desperation he unlocked the door, shouted “Go! Go! GO!” and we bolted inside. We inspected every inch of each other for interlopers, killed one innocent-looking flying thing, and collapsed on the bed in exhaustion.

Next time, we’ll take a taxi.