Memories of Mars

The In-Laws have now left, onto their next adventure in Singapore – at least I assume that’s where they are now. I dropped them off at the airport so presumably they caught their flight to Perth and are not still sitting in the tiny departures lounge with only the airport’s one terrible cafe to sustain them with crisps and toasted sandwiches. They picked a hot time to visit which, considering The Father-In-Law is a staunch cold weather person who doesn’t cope well with any kind of heat (his favourite pastimes are climbing the snowy peaks of north England and Wales and cycling in any weather, which in England usually means rain and cold), could have been disastrous. Even The Mother-In-Law was taken aback by the fierce heat, which hits you like a brick wall when you leave the cool air-conditioned interior of the house or the car. Having said that, they seemed to enjoy themselves in outback North Western Australia. Of course, having the air-con turned up to refrigerator levels probably helped but they coped admirably when outside under the blazing Pilbara sun too. The Father-In-Law did at one point adopt a granddad pose on the beach by sitting on a deckchair with his hat pulled down low over his face, his shirt on and a towel wrapped over his legs but I suppose he was being sun-safe which, when you have delicate English skin that hardly sees the sun, is a good thing when suddenly faced with intense Aussie rays beating down on you.


It’s easy to forget how alien a place like this seems to newcomers, especially those from somewhere thousands of miles away both geographically and figuratively. The heat, the barrenness, the remoteness, the lack of greenery and rain. We at least had come from Thailand which was both hot, which helped us to acclimatise to the higher temperatures out here, and another world to the UK, which meant that we were used to living somewhere totally alien to us. It’s when people come to visit and you see the place through their eyes that you remember how different to home the Pilbara is. When viewed from above from the plane it looks like Mars, all reds and oranges, rocky, barren and unpopulated. It really is like living on another planet – the In-Laws will soon be coming to back down to Earth with a bang, back to England and reality, where Karratha really will feel like a rocket ride away.

Fly Away

We have been gone for six days and in that short time Karratha’s fly population has quadrupled. Take a picnic lunch down onto the beach, go for a walk, or wander around the town and there are flies buzzing all around you. They fly up your nostrils, in your ears, under your sunglasses and in your eyes; they land on your lips, your back, your head, your arms. They are everywhere. From where they have all suddenly appeared, I don’t know, but we are having to adapt. We are quickly perfecting the Australian wave, a sort of slightly more aggressive version of the Queen’s wave, as we try in vain to bat them away. In the end, exhausted from our fly-swatting efforts, we let the majority settle on us, only batting away the ones that try to enter us through our ears, nose and mouth. There’s no point getting angry, frustrated or upset, no point in swearing at them, shouting or getting yourself in a tizzy (Husband, take note). The flies are here to stay and we had better get used to them.

I think the beach is going to be the place to be in the summer. The cool breeze coming off the Indian Ocean tempers the searing heat of the sun, the water is a beautifully refreshing temperature and the flies don’t like either so, down at the water’s edge, they are relatively fly-free. Luckily, there are many beaches to choose from and, with the tourists having all gone back down south to escape the heat, they have never been emptier. We took The In-Laws to five of them and they gradually got used to the heat. They suffered to begin with but by the fifth beach they were even able to spend a few hours out in the sun – quite a feat considering they stayed in the shade and were ready to leave pretty soon after lunch at the first one. The Father-In –Law got used to the flies pretty quickly too, letting them rest on the top of his cap and on his back in droves. Perhaps he has found a new calling as a fly whisperer - that would certainly be a very profitable business in Australia!

Drinking & Driving

We are currently driving very fast. The Father-In-Law is breaking every speed limit to get us to the airport on time. We had to visit just one last winery this morning before leaving Margaret River (no, really, we did, it was completely necessary) and the journey back to the airport is taking slightly longer than expected. We’re all just praying that we don’t get stopped by the police as I’m not sure they would be completely understanding of our reason for speeding – “Sorry officer but we had to squeeze in a few tastings at a winery before we left Margaret River and as a result we’re running a bit late.”


I must just point out at this juncture that The Father-In-Law did not partake of the wine tasting and was therefore perfectly sober and legal to drive. To be fair, it was pretty early to be sipping wines and we did feel slightly like alcoholics as we drove onto the magnificent Vasse Felix estate (Margaret River’s first commercial winery) as soon as the cellar door opened at 10am. We were not, however, the first – there were already three elderly ladies propping up the counter who obviously needed something to get them going in the morning. Then again, if they’re anything like my English grandparents they’ll have already been up for four hours so it probably felt like lunchtime to them. They certainly weren’t holding back – they demanded a taste of every single wine on the 12-strong list and when told where the spittoon was located, they merely laughed and said, “Oh goodness no, we won’t be needing the spittoon but we may need bigger glasses!” When I grow up I want to be just like them.

So now I’m sitting in a speeding car feeling rather sleepy and mellow and not really caring whether we get to the airport in time or not. Perhaps I should have had a few glasses of wine before the journey to Margaret River a few days earlier. The Husband made a monumental error while map-reading, thinking we were 50km further north than we were, therefore turning off and managing to take a road back in the exact direction we had come from. It did mean that we got to see a bit of Mandurah, quite a lovely little coastal town, but it also meant that we had come 50km back on ourselves and, by the time we got back on to the road we were never supposed to have left, had wasted an entire hour. I didn’t think it was right when we turned off but The Husband will not be told he’s wrong, especially when it comes to anything to do with cars, driving and maps. Perhaps all car journeys undertaken with one’s husband should involve a stop at a winery beforehand.

Coast, Cave & Karri Trees

Margaret River isn’t only about wineries. I mean, it’s mostly about wineries, obviously, and if we were here for longer I would have done my damnedest to visit as many as possible. I can’t tell you how hard it is to pass signs announcing wonderful sounding wineries and not enter their hallowed grounds. Each time we sped past the rows of vineyards, manicured lawns and welcoming signs, I had to fight the urge to scream, “stop, turn in, turn in!” But, as I said, there is more to the Margaret River area than wine. There are hundreds of kilometres of pristine coastline to explore which, at this time of the year, is alive with pinks, purples, blues, yellows and reds as the wildflowers explode with colour. We drove to lookouts over waves crashing onto rocks and the shoreline, pounding the beach and anything in its way. The sea was treacherous, and it is clear how so many surfers catch their last waves in these waters. I certainly wouldn’t want to be out in it.


If the coast was full of drama, with an orchestra of sound bellowing about you, the Karri forest was quiet and almost mystical, the only sounds being the chirping of birds and an occasional rustle in the undergrowth. The tall, thin Karri trees reached up to the sky as shafts of sunlight gently floated through them. Wild lilies peppered the ground and the fresh smell of eucalyptus permeated the air. The caves were also quiet but this time echoing with the sound of tiny droplets of water falling from the straws on the roof. Stalactites and stalagmites made for jagged sculptures and the underground lake reflected its crooked teeth. Margaret River really is a spectacularly beautiful area and a couple of days don’t do it justice but we will be back. We’ve got a lot of wineries still left to visit and a lot more drinking to be done.

Winos

I am currently feeling very mellow. We have just returned from a mammoth seven hour wine tasting session and I am awaiting a cup of tea made for me by The Mother-In-Law. Yes, it’s almost the drinking hour of 6pm and all I am desperate for is a cup of tea. We have drunk a lot of wine. Six wineries and eight tastings at each makes for a lotta lotta wine. Not that I’m complaining, I do love my wine after all, but I am feeling quite sleepy now and am in need of something with which to perk me up. This has been our first full day in Margaret River and we made sure we did the most important thing on our list. Margaret River is known for its wineries and we were ready to visit a few of its 138+ wineries as a priority. It would have been rude not to really.


As each of us wanted to partake in the supping of wine, we booked onto a tour that transported us to several wineries, including one at which we stopped for lunch. We were picked up at 9.40am and were at our first winery, Stella Bella, by 10am. I don’t think I have ever drunk wine (apart from sparkling of course, which everyone knows can be drunk at any time of the day or night) that early before. But I bravely sipped my way through every bottle on offer and emerged into the sunshine slightly dazed but ready for the next winery. We visited two before our lunchtime stop, which was in stunning grounds, complete with rose gardens and the second tallest Australian flag in the country. The guy who owns the winery is from mining stock so he has a lot of money and the belief that bigger is always better. After a tasting and lunch we clambered back on the bus and visited three further wineries, plus a chocolate shop.

Despite the vast quantities of wine being drunk, we returned back to our apartment without too many injuries – The Father-In-Law bashed his head on the door of the bus (there’s always one – I’m just glad it wasn’t me as it normally is), The Mother-In-Law attempted to leave her seat without unfastening her seat belt, and we ran over a man-sized kangaroo. Other than those little incidents, our tasting our way round some of Margaret River’s finest wineries was a complete success. Now I just need a little snooze before I’m ready for our evening drinks!

Send In The Clowns

Cruising along in the cool interior of the air-conditioned car, en route to Margaret River, my poor skin is getting a respite. I was very foolish yesterday and committed that most heinous of Australian crimes – I did not re-apply my sun cream. I dutifully slathered it on at the beginning of the day, before sitting out at a pavement café in Fremantle, sipping a frothy cappuccino and basking in the feel of the warm sun on my face. It is a good 10°C cooler than Karratha down here in Perth, making it the perfect temperature in which to sit out and enjoy the sun rather than simply tolerate it.


Fast forward two hours and I am sitting on a beach, waiting for the others to finish their tour of Fremantle Prison. Having done it before with The Parents, I opted to lose myself in a second-hand bookshop and mooch around the weekend markets. When I was shopped out, I wandered down to the seafront, where we were due to meet for lunch, and sat on a pretty beach, whiling away the time by people-watching and daydreaming. By this point it was 1pm, the hottest part of the day and my earlier sun cream application was now hours behind me. But, with the cool sea breeze blowing across my bare skin, I didn’t feel the full force of the sun’s rays and happily forgot about my lack of SPF protection.

Happily, that is, until I met up with the others and The Husband pointed out that my shoulders and back were looking rather pink. They certainly felt a little warm but by this point they weren’t hurting. It wasn’t until the boat trip back up the Swan River, with the sun on my back, that they started to sting a bit. I draped my cardigan over my shoulders, sipped my wine and tried to ignore the stinging. Back at the hotel, I removed my big black sunglasses and looked in horror at my shiny red nose. Great, I look like a clown. Turning around with trepidation, I saw to my dismay that my back was also rather red, topped off with lovely white strap marks. I felt so silly. I am always the one to bark at The Husband to re-apply his sun cream at the beach. Perhaps that’s it – when you’re not out in the sun specifically to catch a few rays, it’s so easy to forget to keep protected. Let this be a lesson to all, including me, that it only takes a few minutes to burn if you haven’t slathered on your sun cream. I shall not forget again. In the meantime, the air-con is doing its work nicely.

Breakfast Beer At 20,000ft

I feel like a very hi-tech, 21st century, digital kind of girl. I am sitting in the departures lounge of Karratha Airport with my new Netbook perched on my knee, tapping away at the keyboard and feeling very smug. The smugness has arisen partly from the fact that I can now write and access the internet from anywhere (yes, I know I have been slow to catch on to this but it is very exciting now I am finally in the mobile digital age!) and partly from the fact that I seem to one of the only normal people here. Like on any flight to or from Karratha, most of the passengers are Fly-In Fly-Outs and half of them seem to already be intoxicated. It is 8.30am.

To understand how common this situation is, I must first explain a little about FIFIOs. These guys live in Perth or Melbourne or Brisbane and leave their families behind to fly out to Karratha for a few weeks at a time where they work solidly, earn a ton of money and then fly back home for a couple of weeks before starting the cycle all over again. It’s not like they are banned from drinking alcohol – most of the guys falling over and starting fights at that bastion of refined drinking, the Karratha Tavern, are FIFOs – but, like everyone working on mine or oil and gas sites, they are subject to random drug and alcohol testing every morning, which means they have to be really careful about what they drink the night before. Passing the test means a 0.0000 reading (there really do have to be that many zeros – The Husband just typed that in for me). There must be absolutely no trace of alcohol in your bloodstream – one beer too late at night could have serious repercussions. You’re sent home and are then inducted into the illustrious ‘Breakfast Club’ – tested every morning for a week which, as it can delay your start at work by up to two hours, does not make you particularly popular with the boss. Of course, many of the men have found a way around this with the ‘nine before nine rule’ – you can knock back nine beers as long as you drain the dregs of your last before 9pm. They are nothing if not resourceful.

Anyway, that was a bit of an aside, but my point is that these guys haven’t exactly been deprived of alcohol, it’s just that they are bound by strict rules which seems to make them want to rebel. As soon as they’re on R&R, they let loose, whether it’s 8 in the morning or 8 at night. They’re like the rowdy groups about to embark on a two week package holiday to Benidorm that you see in the bars at Gatwick, downing pints of lager with Jack Daniels chasers at 6am. Except the FIFIOs do it every four weeks or so. Qantas have even stopped serving spirits on its flights to and from Karratha because of the trouble they were getting from trollied FIFOs. From November, the airport bar will only serve alcohol from 11.30am for similar reasons. So here I am, amongst drunken men, some still in the fluorescent shirts they are required to wear when on site (which leads me to think that they’ve been drinking since they finished their shift last night), unshaven and wobbly. I think I might put my Netbook away now in case one of them throws up on it. I just hope I’m not sat next to one of them…