Travellin' Mama

And that, folks, is a wrap

2007-07-28T21:41:00.000+10:00

Just shy of a year now and it's time at last to head home, having put 80,000-plus kilometres under our belts - thanks to 15 flights, 20 buses, 10 cars, 26 boats, seven horses, one submarine, one truck, three trains, two subways, three trams ... and seven countries.

If (or when, as some optimistically insist) I get my book published, I’ll check back in and bring you up to date. Until then, thanks so much for logging on to www.travellinmama.blogspot.com – the positive vibes have helped keep me going, for sure.

It’s been a massively good time, punctuated by just enough mini-disasters to keep us giggling years from now. On that note, I count myself lucky that the only all-out screaming match I had with my husband had to do with a parenting decision about a certain boat on a certain beach on a certain island in Malaysia – where a certain precious lifejacket-less daughter was allowed to go out frolicking in the sea with a MALE STRANGER who drove the boat for a dodgy parasailing outfit. It all turned out fine, but still. You can guess who let her go and who wasn’t there at the time to veto the decision.

I’m under no illusion that the kids will remember everything or even anything specifically about our year away but I’m counting on the subconscious to inspire them later in life. Specifically, what they saw of genuine poverty – by walking the streets of a certain town in Lesotho, say, or by giving some of their own money to a twisted dwarf beggar in Malaysia – will hopefully have provided the building blocks for empathy, as my earlier travels have done for me.

What I really hoped to do was to teach them that there’s a whole world out there beyond their small-town safety net, and I know I succeeded in that. With everything they’ve experienced and seen with their own eyes, I’ll never regret taking them out of school and enrolling them in the school of real life.

There were plenty of doubting Thomases, particularly when it came time for us to take them to Africa. In fact well-meaning folks could hardly believe we would dare take our girls there at all. To them, I would still say that going after what we want doesn’t make us bad or selfish parents. It actually makes us happier people, and therefore better parents. And as far as Africa itself is concerned, Angelina Jolie isn’t the only western mom to fall in love, completely and utterly, with the place.

What I take away from it all is the conviction that we’ve done the right thing, had an absolute ball, spent a wee bit too much of our nest egg and will return home in a few days’ time a closer family than ever.

Hopefully I’ll catch you all at the book launch in Toronto one day. Wishful thinking, indeed, but what the hell....

Travellin' sea urchins

2007-07-25T23:07:00.000+10:00

Snorkelling in the South China Sea, anyone? I never would have thought it could rival Australia’s Great Barrier Reef for colour and sheer gorgeousness, but it does. In fact, it was the best underwater experience I've ever had. And while I’d like to say we stayed in these glorious chalets on stilts (top pic) I can't fib because for a cool grand a night, it somehow didn’t fit the budget.

Market day

2007-07-25T13:37:00.000+10:00

We are all amateurs when it comes to sampling Asian food but the girls, much braver than I, have found a thing or two at this market that's to their liking. Doog thinks I am a total peasant but I fear if I venture back into the local stuff I will be puking yet again from the back of a ferry. Pathetic, yes. Safe? You bet.

Island girls

2007-07-24T19:55:00.000+10:00

Hours spent lapping up the sun and sea is doing wonders for the mind and body: think jet skis and paddle boats and sand and surf and pools and room service and Scrabble on lounge chairs and that’s us for the past eight nights. Heaven!!!!!!!!!!
Our room on this Langkawi Island resort in northern Malaysia is so darn nice the girls don’t always want to leave ... but when they’re not playing Singapore Airlines flight attendants in their new duds or tempting our resident monkey down from his perch, they’re down here at the beach.

Lapping it up in the Jewel of the Orient

2007-07-23T19:41:00.000+10:00

Skanky squat toilets one day, lap of luxury the next!

We have been upgraded, inexplicably to Penang’s glorious Eastern & Oriental Hotel - once the elegant colonial watering hole of Noel Coward and Somerset Maugham and Rudyard Kipling and the like. Preserving the glory of a bygone era, this place offers unimaginable luxury, impeccably mannered butlers and basically anything you could want. I wish my beloved late grandmother Gigi could see us now. She absolutely belongs here, and she so would have loved it.

PS Did I say I was ready for this holiday to end, what the puking and all? I take it back.

Poor me, no?

2007-07-22T21:11:00.000+10:00

At the risk of sounding all poor-me and everything, I can't help but be a little fixated on this nightmare Kuala Lumpur-to-Penang train thing (even though it looks not half bad in this picture) because not only did all four of us puke within 24 hours of leaving this train, but I had to puke over the back deck of an overcrowded ferry, surrounded by dozens of burkha-clad Saudi women peeking out at me in amusement from behind their jet-black veils. (There’s not much I hate more than puking but I must really add public puking to my litany of things to strenuously avoid.)

Holiday, holiday, are you almost over?!!

I'm too old for this shit

2007-07-21T19:26:00.000+10:00

Whose dumb idea was this train anyway? OK, mine, mine, mine. Next time I should listen to those in the know...
We are en route from Kuala Lumpur to Penang, known as the Jewel of the Orient, but believe me, this ain’t no luxurious Orient Express judging by the smell of the shitty hole-in-the-bottom-of-the-train toilet just a few feet from where the girls are standing. And yeah, it may look like they're are having fun but I AM NOT!! Because travelling long distances by train in the third world? It’s all coming back to me now! The endless bag carrying in the absence of trollies (and we have about a dozen bags to lug back to Canada), the to-ing and fro-ing, the waiting and the sweating, the standing in line, the Asian squat toilet where instead of a flush there is a nasty HOSE which you must try to use while also trying not to lurch your way INTO the toilet on a moving train. This is hard to do when you are plugging your nose with one hand and trying not to actually TOUCH the hose with our other.

And yeah, having our own little sleeper car seems fun and adventurous but in reality it’s a stinking, clanging, crashing, screeching, overnight stop-and-go nightmare from which I may never recover. Plus the smell of hundreds of people's poop is all mixed in with the gross herb-smelling cigarettes that everyone smokes.

Is it possible that the holiday that never ends is trying to tell me something?

Paranoia at the customs desk

2007-07-18T21:17:00.000+10:00

OK, do I look like the type to smuggle a condom full of smack and a coupla firearms up my butt into this country? DAMN!! Welcome to Singapore, my ass! Oh sure, everyone’s playing all nicey-nicey but how does one not get riled by all these “death for drug traffickers” signs when maybe, just maybe, some asshole dealer in Jo’burg sized me up as his ideal middle-aged absentminded drug mule and the unhappy result of all that is it’s gonna be me and a couple dozen me-so-horny ladies in a single-cell nightmare until I die of lethal injection a few months from now. Midnight Express anyone? OMG!

Clearly I am unmellowed by age and experience in these matters and I still approach customs agents in a cold sweat, praying I won’t look guilty for crimes I haven’t even committed. I think it stems back to that time I got hauled into isolation at an Israeli airport for a whole bunch of weird questions ... but that was then, and this is now, and Molly wants to know: “Mom, if they catch me picking my nose, will they shoot me?”

Sunrise safari and one long, last look

2007-07-18T21:04:00.000+10:00

So here it is, our final few hours in rural South Africa, and by every measure this trip has been absolutely brilliant. Whether it takes a few years or a few decades to return here, the memories will most certainly sustain us while we try to process all that we've seen and learned, to unravel the different points of view, to keep the politics straight, to make sense of the contradictions and to recount the sheer volume of experiences we’ve had.

Along the way I’ve been reading Nelson Mandela’s autobiography, Long Walk to Freedom, which has helped make sense of it all, and to see all this through his eyes and understand things from the perspective of the most widely admired politician of our time has made the land and the people here come alive.

The best part, though, has been the family togetherness and the confidence our girls have gained with every step. We might not know for years how South Africa affects how they see the world but already it has affected their play. Now when they’re playing “vets”, for example, one of their teddies has AIDS - and he needs a whole lot of TLC.

One thing I know for sure now is that families like ours can indeed travel safely and happily in South Africa and have an amazing time, as long as they find the right balance – because there’s no point coming here if you’re going to be paranoid about crime but on the other hand, if you’re not going to take a few basic precautions, you’ll almost certainly be robbed blind or much, much worse.

There’s never been another family trip like it, and although Malaysia can’t help but be a bit anti-climactic, I still say bring it on!

Sundown, moonrise from the back of a Land Rover

2007-07-16T23:22:00.000+10:00

Molly gets the binoculars out for our last sunset safari in South Africa, this one at a private game reserve in Madikwe, in the Limpopo province, where the lovely, intelligent, knowledgeable and enthusiastic David guided us for hours and treated us to a couple of cold ones out on the veld.

Did I mention I'm going to miss this?!!!

Images of Africa

2007-07-14T21:23:00.000+10:00

Immersing ourselves in African culture has proved a total eye-opener for all of us; Annie and Molly had a go at carrying water on their heads, Doog and I tried our hand at dancing with this amazingly cool and smiley guy (fortunately no one captured us on film), the beaded lady shook and shimmied, the housewife made Zulu beer and these gorgeous kids (top two pics) sold their wares ... we’ll need to buy another suitcase to fit in all the trinkets and gifties.

That's what I call a nasty way to go

2007-07-13T20:39:00.001+10:00

These photos are so incredible, I really wish I could take credit ... but of course I can't. They were taken by a friendly South African named Ivan Emslie whom we met on one of our safaris and who kindly agreed to show me his many photographic treasures.

Sad lives, happy faces

2007-07-13T20:23:00.000+10:00

Stunningly beautiful in parts, Lesotho is also one of the very poorest countries in the world and has what is said to be the world’s worst HIV/AIDS infection rates, all of which means there’s not all that much to smile about. Still, as this young Lesotho fellow showed us, a brilliant smile is enough to warm even the most bone-chilling of days.

(The blanketed man followed us around constantly but he was less a menace than a sad, albeit smiley, figure.)

Thank you, mother Mary

2007-07-12T20:27:00.000+10:00

There’s no point going to Africa without teaching our girls how people actually live, so today’s lesson in life was huge, thanks to Mary who graciously received the gifts we gave her children and who generously posed for these pictures at her home in one of Lesotho's desperately poor townships.

Black, strong, proud ... and female

2007-07-10T22:14:00.000+10:00

Rarely in our lives do we get the chance to meet a person whose wisdom, grace and intelligence are so profound that our thought patterns are literally changed forever. This lovely, proud Zulu woman – Christian mother of six, speaker of six languages, manager of a community-owned Zulu lodge - was just such a person for me.

After weeks of engaging in political conversations with white South Africans and having little more than the most surface encounters with blacks, I finally have a bit of a grasp on what it’s like to be black and female in post-apartheid South Africa - and how women here can look to the future with hope and optimism despite the massive social and economic problems this country faces.

Nomusa and I chatted for hours about everything from Nelson Mandela and Bill Clinton to AIDS, apartheid, crime, poverty, children, travel and what it’s like to be a successful female in a completely male-dominated African culture.

I asked her what she thought of those ageing Afrikaaners who clearly wish apartheid was still alive and well, and in particular about a 60-ish white woman who’d recently said to me: “Why would I watch South African soccer? There are no white players. The rugby is for us; the blacks can have their soccer.”

Nomusa’s wise reply? “I don’t have resentment. We are moving forward. The white people who want to move forward with us can come along. Those who don’t, well that’s their problem.”

Intelligent words, indeed, and I’m grateful for the hours we spent talking around the fire under a starry KwaZulu Natal sky. Hers is a perspective I will cherish and whose proud history I respect. (Annie and Molly also fell for her big time.)

The world game

2007-07-10T22:07:00.000+10:00

Never am I more proud of my very cool husband than when he does the unexpected and goes where no one else dares, like on these two occasions when he simply walked into the middle of a soccer game between local kids and joined in, thrilling them with his big smile and big heart.

The kids in the top picture, who belong to the local witch doctor, play with neither shoes nor a real ball; their “ball” is a wad of plastic bags wrapped up in sticky tape. The other kids, whom we visited in Lesotho (a separate mountain kingdom contained within the borders of South Africa) were probably good enough to play on representative teams, if only the talent scouts would come this far into the townships to give them a chance.

Both groups of kids received gifts from our girls – new balls, chocolate, crayons and colouring books – and it was a lesson of the highest order for Annie and Molly, who may not remember these encounters specifically, but will hopefully go forward in life with what it takes to understand those who are disadvantaged, to feel empathy for them and to bring themselves to do something about that disadvantage.

Zulu wisdom rocks

2007-07-08T17:44:00.000+10:00

A recent visit to the local sangoma, or witch doctor, in Zululand was eye-opening in the extreme. Apparently Doog won't die of a heart attack, despite his ever-expanding waistline; Molly and Annie will marry non-New Zealanders; and yes, my book will be published but, in the witch doctor's male-centric world, "ONLY IF A MAN DOES IT FOR ME!"

Sucks to be female, don't it?

These kids, by the way, are among his brood of 17 from his two wives. When we came upon them, they were playing soccer with a "ball" made of plastic bags and wrapped up in sticky tape. Doog gave them new tennis balls and the girls handed out chockies and we were friends for life. Totally cool.

Don't say it's over

2007-07-06T18:06:00.000+10:00

South Africa is full of vistas like these and I am already getting a lump in my throat just thinking that it will all be over soon. Yikes! Reality check awaits...

Woman's work

2007-07-06T18:00:00.000+10:00

No sooner did we pull over to quietly get a pic of the local ladies carrying bundles of dried grass on their heads than this gorgeous woman dropped her bundle (literally), ran to the car and pointed to her tummy, yelling “HUNG! HUNG!” (Meaning, gimme some cash, I’m hungry.)

We obliged, and although I didn't get the shot I wanted, I think this one’s pretty cool. Then again, it's hard to go wrong when the subject matter is so gorgeous.

Backpacker bliss

2007-07-06T17:55:00.001+10:00

Another night, another backpackers’ lodge ... this one a cottage to ourselves overlooking the Indian Ocean.
P.S. It's definitely worth the drive to Chintsa.

Durban dee-light

2007-07-02T23:10:00.000+10:00

This is Durban, and these are our girls goofing off in the Indian Ocean. If I die tomorrow, I can rest easy knowing that this year has been full of moments like these. The gods are truly smilin’ on us...

Once a Kiwi, always a Kiwi? Depends when you ask

2007-07-02T23:02:00.000+10:00

Our Doogie – born in New Zealand, made in Australia, ageing gracefully in Canada – may have lived away from NZ for more than two decades and will still tell most people he is Australian, but on this day he was most definitely a Kiwi as his beloved rugby team (the All Blacks) thrashed the Springboks in front of 54,000 ferociously pissed-off South African fans in Durban.

The buzz was incredible (my God, that Maori war dance is to die for) and the girls and I got fully carried away with the excitement of it all. Not quite as primitive as Doog and his screaming/swearing, mind you, but carried away just the same. (When the final siren blew, Doog boo-hoo’d like a frickin’ baby. God defend New Zealand, indeed.)

Herd mentality

2007-07-02T22:53:00.000+10:00

Just after I took the top pic, this cheeky baby elephant walked up to Molly’s window, waved his trunk around a few times and batted some seriously long eyelashes in our direction.

Next came the big fellow, who had clearly had a run-in with a poacher, and then the whole herd passed by en route to one of several watering holes in Addo Elephant National Park. It was a magnificent spectacle and I feel certain it’ll be among the girls’ most enduring memories of this entire year-long adventure.

Smells like Kurt's still alive ...

2007-07-02T22:49:00.000+10:00

Exposing our kids to different types of people is pretty much always going to be a good thing, so staying at backpacker hostels makes a whole lot of sense ... and not just because it’s cheap.

On this particular night we were at a backpackers’ overlooking the Indian Ocean in a town called Wilderness - honest, that’s its name - with a surfer-dude host called Toby (pictured) who is the nicest possible guy and who bears more than a passing resemblance to the late, great Kurt Cobain. My Molly is an insatiable flirt with fellows like these, by the way, and since cute kids are pretty scarce on the travellers’ circuit, Doog and I got to lounge around the bonfire with a bunch of 20-something Afrikaaners, talk politics and drink far too much while she and her sister charmed the hell out of the locals.

A brilliant night indeed.

Beauty and the beast

2007-06-26T23:25:00.000+10:00

They say Africa is all about contrasts, and nowhere is that more true than right here in the animal kingdom. The zebras at Addo Elephant National Park are incredibly gorgeous and the warthogs, well, fugly comes to mind.

Great southern man

2007-06-26T23:18:00.000+10:00

After posing at what is officially the southernmost tip of Africa, my Doogie (sentimental guy that he is) stripped to his undies for a quick dip (one leg in the Indian, one in the Atlantic) and then presented me with a 10th anniversary ring of African tanzanite and a diamonds. Gotta love it.

March of the penguins

2007-06-26T23:05:00.000+10:00

Comically waddling here and there, African penguins in the wild like this are such a little gift ... and my girls were thrilled to see them at such close range. (I'm thrilled, too, cause my no-zoos policy is really starting to sink in, and that just goes to show that a bird in the wild is worth a thousand in the cage)

The other side of the fence

2007-06-22T02:48:00.001+10:00

Of course there is another side to the story on every street corner and the further we stray from the touristy areas of Cape Town – Robben Island, Table Mountain, the craft markets, beaches – the more we see of the disparity of opportunity that keeps at bay the social harmony most of us take for granted.

This settlement (known variously as "the township", shantytown, slum, ghetto) is an endless, grim sea of misery just east of the Cape and, ironically, within walking distance of one of the loveliest beaches around. At my request, Doog drove us in here but I couldn’t bring myself to train the camera on any of the people we came across because that kind of gawky tourism they can surely do without.

No doubt there is a certain sense of community that breeds and thrives in such close quarters but suffice to say that places like these – where prostitutes chat amiably on the roadside and people must walk to an open field to go to the toilet in one of these horrible concrete blocks – do little to further the chances of a child who wants more out of life.

It’s horribly sad to see, and it must be incredibly dangerous to live here. There are an average 18,000 murders a year in South Africa, and untold thousands upon thousands of rapes. I feel hopelessly inadequate, a rich white tourist, and I’m again left to ponder the injustices of the random circumstance of birth.

Long walk to freedom

2007-06-22T02:38:00.000+10:00

These pictures were taken on Robben Island, home for many years to Nelson Mandela, who is both a living hero to his people and undeniably the most famous political prisoner of all time.

Looking back at Table Mountain, Robben Island is now preserved as a living museum and it exists as a symbol of freedom and of the triumph of human dignity over ignorance and oppression, the twin hallmarks of apartheid. Our guide (bottom pic), himself a political prisoner here for eight years, spoke without malice or a desire for revenge as he described what it was to be black and in the service of apartheid’s white prison guards throughout their mammoth struggle for equality. His was a powerful perspective indeed.

P.S.
NOTE TO SELF: Don’t try too hard, however, to explain such things to the kids. (I really thought Molly was listening to my rant about how this place came to be and how awful it was. She politely waited for me to finish but as soon as I did, she inquired (with a totally straight face): “OK Mom, can I have my PushPop now?”

Where oceans collide

2007-06-18T02:15:00.000+10:00

We’ve flown to the other end of the country to the modern, vibrant, funky city of Cape Town, the cradle of white settlement in South Africa and also, so it’s said, the least “African” of all African cities. Unlike Johannesburg, there are white faces everywhere on the streets, and there seems to be no end to the good life in some of the richer beachside suburbs, like this one called Clifton, where Annie and Molly hammed it up (top pic) for the camera before pouring a bit of Atlantic sand into a bottle for safekeeping.

Close as we are to the Cape of Good Hope, it’s hard not to daydream about what it must have looked like hundreds of years ago when the first white folks set foot here, and about the ships that have sunk in these treacherous waters and about the magic and mystery of two great oceans (Indian and Atlantic) colliding.

The other pictures here were taken at sunset from the top of Table Mountain, the most famous landmark in Cape Town. (One day the heat of the lowveld, and the next it’s 5C up here. Gotta love it.)

Sundown in the lowveld

2007-06-18T02:12:00.000+10:00

Could there be a more surreal spot to down a few cocktails than this Ngwenya Lodge balcony at sunset, overlooking a watering hole full of hippos and buffalo? This particular African night – and actually the entire sensory-overload holiday so far – is as one could only hope: wild, perfect and beautiful in the extreme.

Cool for cats

2007-06-14T03:15:00.000+10:00

We're told that to spot a leopard on your first trip to Kruger National Park is a bit like winning a cool million in the lottery ... so we must really be on a winning streak because this guy walked out in front of our car somewhere in our first few hours there. The lions, too, showed themselves, as did the rest of the so-called "Big 5": rhino, elephant and buffalo. Do I feel lucky? You bet.

Meryl Streep, eat your heart out

2007-06-12T17:38:00.000+10:00

Internet access is sparse, but I'll do my best!

The girls are having a ball, making scrapbooks of all the animals - eagles and African hornbills and wildebeest and impala – and I’ve gone all Meryl “I once had a farm in Africa” Streep on myself, sleeping in a tent perched on a wooden platform on stilts and loving every minute. God, this is heaven. Eagle-eyes Farquhar is proving to be the best spotter in the family; on a night safari in an open-aired Jeep, he peered through the scrub to pick out a blackbacked jackal and a spotted cat called a genet.

We have seen a pride of lions relaxing in the midday sun, African buffalo zigzagging in front of our car and the biggest “tusker” in the world: Duke, aged 57, who has his very own ranger to protect him from poachers. We’ve seen everything, in fact, but the cheetah, but of course we can wait. It’s damn near impossible to take this all in anyway.

Close encounters of the very best kind

2007-06-12T17:26:00.000+10:00

A world away from Australia and already we are light years away from our first night in South Africa, spent with wealthy white friends in Johannesburg just a few hundred metres from thousands of desperately poor blacks living in the squalor of the squatter camps. More than a decade after the end of apartheid, there is still clearly such disparity between have and have-not, between white and black, that it’s simply too much to take in straight away. We've escaped to the country; the cities can wait.

Out here in the magnificent Kruger National Park – a game reserve roughly the size and shape of Israel - there is room to breathe and I’m grateful to at last be in the Africa of my dreams. (The first film I ever saw at the cinema was Born Free - hence, I suppose, the wanderlust I’ve nursed for decades.)

It is our first day in Kruger and already we have seen everything we could possibly want and then some: a spectacular leopard looking for a snack, skittish zebras drinking from a waterhole, Nile crocodiles sunning themselves, white rhinos that leave piles of poop the size of small cars, hippos lollygagging in the mud, giraffes loping majestically across wide brown savanna.

I think we’ll have to stay forever.

Hi ho Sylvia, away!

2007-05-31T16:41:00.000+10:00

Did I say how hard it is to say goodbye to old friends?

Next step Johannesburg. See ya then.

P.S. To anyone who sees me driving my '87 woody wagon come September: expressions of sympathy are welcome. (Sylvia goes to a good home tomorrow)

P.S.S. Thanks for the headline, David.

Blessed is the land of Oz

2007-05-29T10:57:00.000+10:00

Just a few days to go now and it'll be time to leave Australia to begin the last few chapters of this most excellent adventure. Everybody asks me if this time it's for good, but how could I say goodbye for good to a place that's been so good to me, and where I can gallop a horse through the surf on an ocean beach near our house (like I did last weekend with my friend Fiona)?

If anyone can truly have a second spiritual home, this is it. It'll be sad to leave my friends and this heavenly way of life but South Africa will be a most excellent compensation. See you there....

Reef fantasea

2007-05-25T17:54:00.000+10:00

There's probably no definitive list of the so-called seven natural wonders of the world – one might include Niagara Falls while another credits Venezuela’s Angel Falls, for example - but if there were, surely Australia's Great Barrier Reef would appear every time.

Stretched over more than 2600 kilometres, the Reef is often referred to as the world’s largest living organism – it’s actually millions of tiny things that make up one huge thing spread out over 3000 reefs and 900 islands – and as such it is not only a phenomenal sight to see up close but the only living thing visible from outer space.

We're at the permanent pontoon on Hardy Reef, out in the open ocean about 50 minutes from the Whitsunday Islands. After we took this photo, we dropped over the side and into a completely new world where everywhere the colours of the rainbow are reflected in the tropical fish, coral and clams. A giant 1.4-metre Wrasse named Wally is a plus-sized one-fish welcoming committee, and the swirling bursts of angelfish, damselfish, blue fusiliers, parrot fish, yellow butterfly fish and clownfish (Nemo’s extended family, perhaps) are spectacular.

It's overwhelmingly beautiful, and all the more so because it's just not something you see every day.

I feel certain Annie and Molly will remember it forever.

Little queens of karaoke

2007-05-24T09:42:00.001+10:00

Shamed into it by brave karaoke queens Annie, Molly and friend ‑ who got up to do Aqua’s I'm a Barbie Girl, in a Barbie World in front of hundreds of people at Long Island Resort - Doog and I and assorted new friends made a totally lame tribute to AC/DC shortly after this photo was taken. In the realm of bad karaoke, our Shook Me All Night Long was surely the very worst of all time. But on the upside, we will never see any of those people ever again.

Paradise by the Whitsunday light

2007-05-23T09:14:00.000+10:00

“Civilization is an enormous improvement on the lack thereof.” – P.J. O’Rourke

Point me to the person who invented island resorts with kids’ clubs on them and I will worship at his or her feet ‑ nay, even kiss an ass or two in gratitude - because we're ripe for a bit of adult time and it’s now being served up to us on a very generous plate.

We have driven south along the Queensland coast for hours, through never-ending cane fields and unremarkable towns en route to Airlie Beach, home to hordes of horny 20-year-old travellers (think Banff or Whistler, but with a pleasant breeze) and gateway to the magnificent Whitsunday Islands. There are 74 islands - just eight of which are inhabited – cradled in the calm blue waters of the Coral Sea, and they offer what surely must be the quintessential Aussie experience of sun, sea and fine white sand.

A 20-minute ferry from the mainland brings us to Long Island Resort, which of all the Whitsunday Islands is the one where families really belong. It’s also a budget-conscious choice, unlike some of the other, busier islands such as Hamilton and Daydream, and suited to anyone who wants a lot of things to do: get drunk and sing karaoke, enter ping pong and belly-flop competitions, spin around on kayaks or jet skis, go for a tube ride.

There’s a lovely stretch of beach, of course, with hammocks nestled among the palm trees, pools, a swim-up bar, tennis, mini-golf – in short, all the little things you’d expect from a resort even if, like us, you don’t really know what to expect. The rooms aren’t exactly luxurious but we couldn’t care less because anything, save a cockroach-infested jail cell, is luxury after all those nights battling the elements in a swamped tent. Perhaps this Long Island reward is all that much sweeter for all that it took to get here.

The biggest novelty, though, is the kids’ club. Millions of parents before me have discovered the joys of such a thing. Where have we been? Three sessions a day, every day, and our girls want to attend every single one. Who are we to argue?! They are thrilled to make a few friends and see a few new faces, and who could blame them for being a bit sick of mom and dad after all this constant togetherness?

We are, like, SO sick of this food

2007-05-22T09:16:00.000+10:00

Just after this pic was taken, Annie said with some authority: “Mom, I’ve got a screw loose in my butt. I think it's my pancreas.”

I think she's just had enough of these backwoods camp breakfasts.

Beautiful beach, deadly creatures

2007-05-21T09:40:00.000+10:00

“Out on the patio we’d sit, And the humidity we’d breathe, We’d watch the lightning crack over canefields, Laugh and think, this is Australia.” - Gangajang’s ’80s hit, This Is Australia

Most of northern Queensland, including Mission Beach, is off limits for swimming at this time of year because of the marine stingers – the most dangerous of which are the box jellyfish, which can be fatal, and the Irukandji jellyfish, which aren't necessarily deadly but which will make their victims wish in the worst possible way that they'd stayed out of the water. We don't need to be warned twice, and Annie is just as happy to go beachcombing - her new favourite thing.

Now we're on a Mission

2007-05-17T09:11:00.000+10:00

After the utter beating the Ford has taken – all those river crossings, all that mud, all those rocks – I’m not particularly surprised when something very large and probably quite important falls out from underneath us as we’re zipping south along Queensland’s coastal highway. On the upside, we bottom out just as the funky little town of Mission Beach comes into view up ahead, so I guess if you absolutely must limp in somewhere with your axel (or, like, whatever the hell that thing is) hanging at a 90-degree angle and making a very bad noise, Mission Beach is as good a place as any to do so.

Surprisingly, we come out of the whole ill-thought-out 19th river-crossing debacle unscathed, with the Hertz guy simply bringing a new car down to us from Cairns and leaving our campsite, no questions asked. Which is SO good 'cause I didn’t want to lie and say that, you know, woopsy-daisy sir, that axel sure did fall off our car but not because we drove it on the 4WD track or anything like that. Ironically, this new car is also a Ford Territory and, now that we don’t need it, the four-wheel drive version.

So all’s well that ends well, it seems. I sense a turning point here. We’re kicking back on this amazing beach, and it’s not raining and we’re sitting outside a dry tent, with cold beer and a warm wind and all these gorgeous stars in a southern sky and I wonder: Could this be the beginning of a proper tropical holiday?

Thank heaven for little girls

2007-05-16T10:07:00.000+10:00

In a world that churns out JonBenet Ramsay wannabes faster than you can say “MOTHERRRRR, where’s my tiara?!!!” it is so refreshing to meet a gorgeous young girl who’d rather ride her horses and chase rats around the barn than play with make-up and go to the mall. So it’s here in the Atherton Tablelands, on a little dairy farm bursting with love and promise and natural beauty, that Annie and Molly learn one of the most valuable lessons they’ll learn on this year-long adventure.

I can tell them till I’m blue in the face that being outdoors and having fun is all they really need right now. I can tell them that they can be girls ‑ fun, happy, smart, fit and, yes, pretty girls ‑ and still do kid things and goof around and stay young and give no thought to hairstyle or body image or outfits.

But I leave it to the wonderful Rebecca, the farmer’s only daughter, who is literally the COOLEST 10-year-old I’ve ever met, to teach them these lessons just by being who she is and showing them how it’s done.

When we meet Rebecca she’s been feeding her horses and has come back down from the paddock on her 4WD motorbike.

She takes my girls under her wing immediately, and they spend the day chasing down rats (yes, that’s a rat in Molly’s hand) and milking cows and feeding ponies.

She is gorgeous, yes, but she is smart, funny, sporty, compassionate and friendly. There’s not a trace of attitude. If she was a grown-up she’d be something right out of McLeod’s Daughters, the beloved Australian TV series about strong women running an Aussie outback farm. In short, she’s a proper farm kid, complete with Wellington boots and mucky jeans, and she’s exactly the kind of kid I want my own girls to look up to, which they do. In fact, they are in awe, and this has been just the very best day.

Bombs away

2007-05-15T09:57:00.000+10:00

This croc-free swimming hole in Lion's Den, Queensland, was our best camp spot yet - no other bugger around (heavenly), plus all the sunshine you could want and not a drop of rain.

Just out of this picture frame we also had a buck-naked Doog doing bombs into the river ... but I can't show you that 'cause Grandma fell off her chair the last time I put a naked picture of my husband on this blog. Go figure!

Stuck in the middle with you

2007-05-14T08:09:00.000+10:00

Some say the narrow, bumpy, impossibly steep, potholed, muddy coastal track from Cooktown to Cape Tribulation is the worst road in Australia ‑ but for some dumb reason we’re sure they don’t really mean it, and even though all the signs say a four-wheel drive is recommended we figure we’ll be fine because, you know, “recommended” isn’t exactly “mandatory”and the Ford Territory rental at least looks a 4WD.

If only the fellas from Hertz could have seen us five minutes before this picture was taken. Customers of the month we most certainly are not.

The 19th river crossing of the day was to prove our undoing. Mired in the rocks and mud - with the water starting to flow in through the right-hand-side doors and the girls looking ashen in the back seat (“Mom! Mom! Our teddies are getting wet!”) – it took me just a moment to size up the situation, whereupon I immediately realised that taking a fancy-shmancy 2WD rental car on this road was about as smart as driving 5000km from Ontario to Vancouver without a spare tire. Which would be something we might do. Err, did actually do, if truth be told.

The moral of this story, though, is that everyone needs a Doog. Mothers who throw their hands up in the air and start freaking out (that would be mothers like me) are most definitely a hindrance.

SuperDad managed to wade across the river, flagged down a 4WD guy, ran back to us with a sturdy rope, donned Molly’s mask and snorkel, dove under the car and attached it to something sturdy, and then came up for air to give the guy on the other side the thumbs-up.

Smug Spouse he may be at times, but where would I be without?

Close encounters

2007-05-10T10:38:00.000+10:00

At last, the authentic slice of Australiana I’ve been yearning for. Overgrown with mangroves and pandanas, Cooktown’s Endeavour River and its maze of lagoons ooze an eerie, otherworldly atmosphere - so twisted is the network of tributaries that it would be easy for the uninitiated to get lost and simply disappear forever.

It reminds me of the scene in Crocodile Dundee when the hopelessly out-of-her depth, innocent but dumb Linda Kozlowski sets off to show Mick she can go walkabout on her own. She’s a New Yorker after all. She can handle it. A dubious Mick tracks her – close enough to save a damsel in distress but far enough away that she can’t see him – and we know just what he’s thinking as she bends over the billabong (duhh!) in her dumb ’80s butt-floss bodysuit before he jumps out of nowhere to put a knife through the skull of a croc that’s suddenly hanging off the end of her water bottle.

There’s no '80s butt-floss bodysuits out here, of course, but the place reminds me, just the same.

I hear ya, Captain Cook

2007-05-09T08:57:00.000+10:00

“I climbed one of the highest hills that overlooked the harbour, which afforded by no means a comfortable prospect.” - British explorer James Cook, on discovering Cooktown, in far north Queensland, in June 1770.

Surprise! It’s raining again! But I dig Captain Cook. He had the coolest way with words. I discovered this phrase on the sign beside Molly, on the very spot Cook himself had climbed to on that day in 1770. It's my new favourite saying. I’ll be sure to try it out when we get home:

Friends: “So, how was the camping?” “
Me: “Well, you know, it afforded by no means a comfortable prospect.”
Friends: “What about the weather?”
Me: “Again with the no comfortable prospect.”
Friends: “Oh get over yourself. My God, you bitch a lot. You could’ve been eaten by a croc.”
Me: “That may well have afforded me a more comfortable prospect, and a mercifully quick end to this soggy holiday.”

Of the many things said about Captain Cook, here's one that would also apply to my annoying husband: “He left nothing unattempted”. (Especially if it afforded me by no means a comfortable prospect.)

Courting the kangaroos

2007-05-08T10:38:00.000+10:00

Surrounded by wild wee wallabies at the botanic gardens in Cooktown in Far North Queensland, Molly and Annie get plenty close enough to look, but never to touch, before their furry friends hop, skip and jump away.

Northern reflections

2007-05-07T15:11:00.000+10:00

As the sun sets on our final day in the Territory, I reflect on what's been at times a "challenging" triip (read: BRUTAL!) but one that I'll look back on with fondness all the same. I may have failed Climate 101 - some might say this climate has failed me - but as Doog says, it’s more of a "man’s palace" up here and he's probably right. Queensland here we come....

Where the real Holiday begins

2007-05-07T10:48:00.000+10:00

Now I know why they call it the Holiday Inn. Yessiree, folks, because it’s an actual H-O-L-I-D-A-Y! Not a tropical steamy boot camp! And it’s not raining in our room! There’s banquet breakfasts! 24/7 air con! And, God bless ’em, there’s this pool too.

To Kakadu or not to Kakadu ... I say Kakadon't

2007-05-03T09:57:00.000+10:00

The Northern Territory’s Kakadu National Park is not only World Heritage-listed on two fronts - it’s considered both culturally and naturally significant – but it attracts tourists in droves. Not so much in the wet season, mind, but you wouldn’t be able to move out here in the dry season what with all the tour buses jockeying for position and the camera shutters going clickety-click.

With a landscape shaped by the Aborigines’ spiritual ancestors during the time of Creation, Kakadu is today jointly managed by its traditional Aboriginal owners and directors from Australia’s national parks. I give those folks full credit for keeping their wilderness pristine; I also give their marketing department full marks for overstating Kakadu’s case just a teensy-weensy bit.

It’s billed as a paradise for crocs and birdlife but on our two-hour cruise up the Yellow Water Billabong at the end of Jim Jim Creek – a wetlands area of channels, floodplains and backwater swamps – we spy exactly two sea eagles and a few assorted birds. Nor is there a croc to be seen because the water is so high - in fact, at one point we are actually boating around in the parking lot, with the water lapping at the top of the traffic signs. It's not easy keeping a six- and an eight-year-old interested at the best of times, but when there's not much of anything to look it, well, hell, yeah, Annie and Molly, those traffic signs sure are exciting, aren't they?!

Don’t get me wrong, though, I still blame no one but myself for coming up here at the wrong time of year. But at risk of being caught complaining about the rain yet again (ARGHHH!) the truth is I left Kakadu in a decidedly Kakadon’t state of mind.

That's a whole lotta handbags

2007-05-01T10:08:00.000+10:00

The unpleasant truth about luxury brands is that magnificent animals like these have to be killed so that fancy and fashionable ladies can carry their crocodile-skin bags 'round town.

Doog took this picture at the Darwin Crocodile Farm which, just like a beef operation, concentrates on breeding, babies, fattening up and killing. There are 36,000 saltwater crocociles housed here and if they don’t become breeders, they end up as meat or handbags.

So after they failed to catch even a glimpse of one in the wild, the girls were thrilled to see the animals in what was sort of their natural environment, albeit in a fenced-in billabong, and even “patted” a five-metre croc through the fence. Me? A farm's a farm, I suppose, but I stayed away.

The naked truth

2007-04-30T12:07:00.000+10:00

Travelling in the off season does have its perks, including the fact there’s never anyone around to complain about my family, who are prone to fits of nudieness wherever possible.

Shock! A picture without water in it

2007-04-27T13:21:00.000+10:00

Despite my general discomfort and regular dashes back to the air-conditioned comfort of the car – the girls and Doog have taken to calling me Princess Nancy - I am intrigued by this part of the world. Not since India have I been so physically uncomfortable for so long, but there is also something strangely inviting about it, and the Northern Territorians who call it home clearly do so with great pride.

One of the little oddities that makes it unique are these magnetic termite mounds in Litchfield National Park, built up over time by the co-operative efforts of millions of industrious little creatures.

It's all relative

2007-04-26T11:51:00.000+10:00

When I took this pic I was spitting nails that this washout (yet another) would keep Doog from doing the one thing he wanted to do in the Northern Territory: fish for barramundi, sans touristes, in the Daly River, a hidden gem known only to those in the know.

But then later, feeling sorry for myself yet again (!!) and getting some consolation by trolling the internet to plan a side trip to Lesotho on our next trip (to South Africa in June), I came across this little tidbit:

"If the women are selling Sotho food and beer, the guide will obtain a sample for those willing to taste barbecued mice."

So here's the thing: rain and heat and crap food and a soggy tent and boiled rice aside, there is no barbecued mouse in my gut and for that reason alone, I vow to stop my sad-sack complaining. Amen.

No clear track up ahead

2007-04-24T14:38:00.000+10:00

Doog is fond of saying to me "There's a clear track up ahead, Nancy" whenver he thinks I should know exactly what to do next. Here, though, in what I'm told is the last gasp of the Northern Territory wet season, our grand plans are foiled in all directions. Water all over the road up ahead meant we had to turn back, so we chucked a right instead, and found that that road was, er, also closed.

Soon we will find an open road and merrily we will go...

Waterworld

2007-04-23T15:19:00.000+10:00

Accustomed as I am to roads being closed because of snow, this Litchfield washout was a novelty for me, and a bit of fun for the girlies. (That's our no-can-do non-4WD rental in the background.)

How do you spell relief?

2007-04-20T11:43:00.000+10:00

The positively gorgeous Litchfield National Park, less than two hours south-west of Darwin, has long lived in the shadow of its more famous Northern Territory cousin, Kakadu. But that might be about to change, as Litchfield has just nabbed the No. 1 spot on Australian Traveller magazine’s “Top 100 Things to Do in Australia You’ve Never Heard of” list.

In some ways it would be a shame if too many people found out about it ... but on the other hand, it's probably right to spread the joy.

Catching the cool spray from Wangi Falls, we did the shortest photo op on record - not only because it was so HOT but because the water was so high that the threat of saltwater crocs moving into the fresh water was very real indeed. Yikes.

Everybody loves a hot, wet blanket

2007-04-18T09:45:00.000+10:00

Up here in the Northern Territory there's no such thing as winter. Southern Ontarians might salivate at the prospect (I hear it’s still snowing there and I feel bad, I really do) but believe me, a perennially sweaty crack does not a happy camper make.

Here we have what’s affectionately known as “the wet” and “the dry” - and clearly there’s nothing dry about my current situation. The girls and Doog don’t seem to mind; however I am wilting like a tulip in July, hence the on-my-ass perch at the base of this waterfall in Litchfield National Park. (That's me holding onto Annie so she can use her mask and snorkel without floating away down the bottom waterfall)

The temperature is a steady 33C, which doesn’t sound terribly difficult, but when married to 95 per cent humidity, it’s like being wrapped head to toe in a hot, wet blanket and trying to breathe through a steaming facecloth while you stand in front of a pizza oven cranked to high.

Melbourne’s 40C days I can sort've handle, like a dry slap in the chest. This is something entirely different, and so excuse me if I sit at this waterfall for the remainder of this trip...

Shitass planners R us

2007-04-17T08:51:00.000+10:00

OK, now I get it. The Northern Territory’s tourist-baiting jingle - “You never never know if you never never go” - TOTALLY makes sense. Because now I know! I really really know what I never never knew! That a Top End camping holiday at the end of monsoon season is never never a goddamn fucking good idea! So the tent looks all nice & cozy now but just you WAIT!

I’m standing in an inch of water – inside the tent, mind – and wringing out my undies while the monsoon buckets down, the thunder making my eye twitch like a banshee and the lightning directly overhead (stop reading NOW, Grandma!) illuminating my girls’ mercifully sleeping faces. We are in the middle of nowhere. Literally, this is nowhere unless you are a fucking crocodile or a dingo or a goddamn kookaburra who dares laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

How do people LIVE in this climate?

Naturally, Doog thinks it’s all fantastically good fun but I will smother him with a pillow as soon as he nods off, and then how fun will it be? Huh? Huh?! How can he possibly say he loves this? My heretofore robust sense of humour has exited stage left, and I am left to seethe and wonder: How did I get myself into this mess? I suppose I could blame Doog but the truth is, yes indeed, in my excitement to see something new and different in Australia, I skimmed over the brochures and their warnings about the wet season.

Ooops.

Dare to skim, and you shall be punished. Skim, and you shall be bitten on the ass, big time. Skim, and you may as well hang a sign on yourself that reads: I am a shitass bad holiday-planner fuckup.

Crikey!

2007-04-16T15:12:00.000+10:00

Signs, signs, everywhere the signs ... we vacated the area quick-like after snapping this shot, natch.

More pics coming as soon as I get over my depression that I am no longer laying in a hammock, indulging in free babysitting and reading Mordechai Richler while sipping a chocolate daquiri thingie, all the while surrounded by lush palm trees and goannas and tropical birds and, well, you get the picture.

Heavy sigh...

Travellin mama cracks the shits

2007-03-23T12:10:00.000+11:00

“One gets tired of the role critics are supposed to have in this culture: It's like being the piano player in a whorehouse; you don't have any control over the action going on upstairs.” - Robert Hughes, author and critic

By way of explanation, cracking the shits is the Aussie equivalent of taking your bat and ball and going home.

One can handle only so much rejection from publishers who LOVE (!!) the book idea but can’t see their way to selling it because I’M NOT FAMOUS. (Well, duhhhh, of course I’m not famous. I’m busy having fun!!) Or because they see the market for it but it doesn’t fit their current list. Or because it’s kind of interesting but they’re not really interested themselves. Or because who do I think I am to imagine other parents want to take their kids travelling?!!

On the up side, I did read somewhere that every good writer gets a squillion rejections – even guys like Ernest Hemingway - so I suppose I'll press on.

Just not right now.

Because now I’m taking my proverbial bat and ball and getting on a plane with Doog and the girls to the far north of Australia where I will dig my toes into the red earth, camp under the stars (hopefully not too close to the crocs) and then fly to Queensland to see a whole lotta colour on the Great Barrier Reef and drink a whole lotta colourful drinks whilst lounging around in a hammock. No computer access = no new rejection letters to read. Yeah!

I'll be back online in three or four weeks... until then, thanks for logging on.

Fluff from the Fluffmeister

2007-03-22T11:26:00.000+11:00

I could fill an entire chapter with quotable quotes from my Molly, aka Fluffy Farquhar. She's just that kind of kid. Here are some of my favourites:

Molly (while settling down to sleep in the tent): "Mom, is your butt crack a really important part of your body?"

Molly: "Mom, when your boss is teaching you all that stuff, do you sit around in a circle on the carpet?"

Molly (on getting off the Manitoulin Island ferry in southern Ontario): "Mom, are we still in Canada or is this Saskatchewan now?"

Molly: "Mom, I can't wait to be a mom too."
Me: "Why's that, honey?"
Molly: "So I can sit around and drink Diet Coke and read the newsaper all day too."

Everybody needs a SuperGramma

2007-03-20T14:48:00.000+11:00

Kilometres from home: 16, 300

Months away: Seven

Value of care package from SuperGramma: Priceless

For the term of your natural life

2007-03-19T12:10:00.000+11:00

“I can personally affirm that to stand before an audience of beaming Australians and make even the mildest quip about a convict past is to feel the feel the air conditioning immediately elevated.” - Bill Bryson, American travel writer

I'm looking out towards Tasmania - Australia's answer to our own quirky Newfoundland - and although we won't get there on this trip, it's a place I highly recommend ... not least because of its convict past and the fascinating window it opens to the Aussie character.

As an outsider, I find it ironic that the national day of celebration – appropriately named Australia Day ‑ commemorates the first landing of white settlers here, as if the arrival of a bedraggled group of unfortunates, thieves and conmen was something of which to be proud. (Not that there's anything wrong with that. I'm just saying, is all.)

People here generally don’t make much of a conscious connection to their convict heritage but it’s still worth noting how white Australia came to be. And I have a sneaking suspicion that the Aussies’ near-mythical reputation as a laidback, she’ll-be-right nation is due in large part to the attitude of the convict "settlers" who came here in misery, worked in misery and lived out their lives in misery while managing to form lasting bonds of mateship and getting on with the job of building a colony with a minimum of fuss.

So how did it all happen?

Part of the enormous upheaval of the late 18th-century industrial revolution in Britain was the creation of an underclass of poor who sought work in the cities and then turned to crime to stay alive. Once overflowing prisons became a problem too large to ignore, administrators seized upon “transportation” as a solution, even though the final destination - the virtually unknown Botany Bay, near modern-day Sydney ‑ was a whopping 24,000 kilometres and eight months away by sea.

Between 1788 and 1868, 165,000 British and Irish convicts, most no worse than petty thieves, were brought here in the most of horrific conditions. Disease, overcrowding and scurvy were rife, and for the first 20 years of transportation, prisoners were chained for the entire hellish journey. Those who did make it ‑ by 1800 one in 10 died en route – were forced into hard work in unyielding conditions that were hardly inspiring.

Pity even more those unco-operative ones who got sent to the worst penal colonies such as Tasmania's Port Arthur. Years after visiting that place, I still can't shake the haunting.

Speak Aussie, mate

2007-03-16T10:06:00.000+11:00

“One of the strongest prejudices that one has to overcome when one visits Australia is that created by the weird jargon that passes for English in this country.” – Valerie Desmond

The best part about having to take public transport to the CBD every day - more than an hour and a half each way (ugghh) - is that I get to drive Sylvia to the train station. The next best part is soaking up the Aussie slang ...

Here on the Frankston to Melbourne line, you will learn that budgie smugglers is a generic term for a man’s Speedo bathing suit and that if he cracks a fat in it, he’ll be in some serious trouble. You'll find that if the guy beside you were to come the raw prawn, he'd be bullshitting about something, to which you could say pig’s arse! (I don’t believe you!). He might then reply fair dinkum which means yes, it’s really true! Chances are, though, he has a couple of kangaroos loose in the top paddock, ESPECIALLY on this particular train line.

You'll learn that a bludger is a lazy person while a bogan is a slacker who takes little pride in his/her appearance and spends his/her days getting pissed. A cockie is a farmer but also, curiously, a cockatoo parrot and a cockroach. Then there are drongos and dropkicks, who are stupid people, and dags who are usually loveable but goofy.

A slapper is a girl who comes across as slutty and desperate. A Bondi cigar is a turd in the sea where you're swimming. When you’re out camping you’ve got the bush telly (a campfire) and your bushman’s hanky (holding one nostril and blowing the other out onto the ground) whereas somebody new to surfing is a shark biscuit.

Pretty much every Aussie word is something that can be shortened, leaving with you little nuggets like cozzie (swimsuit), barbie (barbecue), bizzo (as in mind your own bizzo), blowie (blowfly), ambo (ambulance driver), chewie (chewing gum), chokkie (chocolate), Chrissie (Christmas), mozzie (mosquito), kindie (kindergarten), postie, (mailman) oldies (parents), and sickie, as in let’s chuck a sickie (take a day off work).

And not only is their slang fantastic, their sense of humour is awesome, if a bit warped. Only Australians, I'm sure, would name a community pool after a dead prime minister – that would be Harold Holt - who drowned in the ocean, while he was the prime minister.

Every drop counts

2007-03-14T10:16:00.000+11:00

Australia may be in the grip of the worst drought in recorded history but thanks to expert management and efficient irrigation, Melbourne's spectacular Royal Botanic Gardens has found ways to beat the big dry.

Recognised as one of the world's top three botanic gardens, this is a wonderful place to while away the hours. Lucky for me, this 38-hectare CBD paradise is right across the street from my office, so no matter how highly over-rated work may be, spending one's lunch hour in such a place is at least some compensation.

Gawking at the Apostles

2007-03-13T12:04:00.000+11:00

Down here at the magnificent Twelve Apostles, one of Australia's most beloved natural wonders, there's nothing between you and Antartica but the mighty Southern Ocean, a vast expanse of frigid water, a bunch of great white sharks and hundreds and hundreds of shipwrecks.

The Apostles, about four hours' west of Melbourne along the Great Ocean Road, formed as the limestone cliffs eroded to form caves which in turn became arches until they collapsed to create what is now one of the most breathtaking views in the country.

The drive is a bit like the Cabot Trail on Cape Breton Island: best to be a passenger rather than a driver, so you can gawk to your heart's content.

Shark tales

2007-03-08T11:33:00.000+11:00

The last time I bought the girls a blow-up beach croc, it fizzled out before they could even get it in the water - something about me having had a few too many drinkies and putting one too many sparklers on the cake at Doog’s citizenship party last summer - but we have no such worries this time. If it weren't for that niggling little film Open Water, about the headcount gone wrong that left two divers for dead on the Great Barrier Reef, SIXTY KILOMETRES (!!) offshore, you could even say I'm relaxed out here.

(Apparently, the great white sharks don't come this far into Port Phillip Bay, but I know they're out there, and that's enough to make my stomach turn to mush. )

Cute one day, deadly the next

2007-03-07T15:33:00.000+11:00

It's comforting to know that in a country with a staggering number of killer creatures, there are also plenty of cute, cuddly marsupials and lots of chirpy little types like these wild rosella parrots, which had a snack courtesy of Annie a while back.

It makes me nuts that there are spiders big enough to eat birds here – how INSANE is that? - and that nine of the 10 most venomous snakes in the world will bite the life out of you faster than you can say “Crikey!”

So I fear I must always watch my back. Even the spiders IN MY HOUSE can grow as big as the palm of my hand ... and if that's not heart attack-inducing stuff, I don't know what is.

Soon we will be going to the top end of Oz, where the animals are much deadlier than they are down here in Victoria. So if I find myself at the business end of a saltwater crocodile, for example, or a stonefish, which is the deadliest fish in the world, or a box jellyfish ‑ which has the deadliest venom of any species anywhere in the world and kills more people in Australia than snakes, sharks and crocs combined – I will surely pray for a quick end, for surely there is little hope of seeing another sunset.

Wish me luck.

Deliver us, dear postie

2007-03-06T09:30:00.000+11:00

More posing, but this time they don't seem to mind 'cause they LOVE their new school uniforms and they love collecting the mail at our little pad in Mornington (hint, hint!)

Must we always strike a pose?

2007-03-05T11:12:00.000+11:00

I think the expressions on their faces say it all: "We are so OVER posing for your dumb pictures, Mom!"

But still, I cannot resist. This is our beach and we come to it almost every day. Must have a record of these things.

Hot in the city

2007-03-01T10:04:00.000+11:00

“I give you all of Sydney Harbour
All that land and all that water
For that one sweet promenade.”
‑ Australian folk legend Paul Kelly, pining for his beloved Melbourne

A woeful lack of international flights means too many visitors leave Melbourne off their itinerary in favour of the well-worn tourist path of Sydney, Uluru (also known as Ayers Rock), Kakadu National Park and the Great Barrier Reef. But if you’re willing, you won’t be disappointed.

Here’s why:

Aussie-rules football: Melbourne is home to the Australian game, and Melburnians are fanatical about it. And ladies … the BODIES on these guys must be seen to be believed.

· Cafe society: Sydney is tourist-heavy and in-your-face. Melbourne, on the other hand, is subtle, refined and quietly cool. Melburnians don't have to try that hard. They know their coffee and their alcohol ‑ and they know how to enjoy it right.

· Fashion: Even the world’s top dogs decided Melbourne was the place to set up shop, including haute couture stars Donna Karan, Armani and Versace. Homegrown designers are becoming big names, and the Melbourne Fashion Festival, on next month, is a huge draw.

· Sport: Melbourne's got the tennis (Australian Open), the Formula One (Grand Prix), the best two-mile gallopers in the world (Melbourne Cup), a burgeoning soccer and rugby league scene, international cricket and, of course, Aussie rules.

· Food: Melbourne is the undisputed champion here. The restaurants are world leaders and you can eat your way around the globe without ever leaving the city.

· Old money versus new: Melburnians prefer the understated elegance of suburbs like Toorak and Brighton. Sydney's brash harboursiders look at life from way up on high.

· Culture: Melbourne is definitely Australia's cultural capital. It's got the best art gallery in the Southern Hemisphere and more performance venues than any similar-sized city outside New York.

· Weather: Melbourne may have brisk winters and a reputation for four seasons in one day. But the truth is, Sydney generally gets more rain.

· Festivals: Melbourne's got the hugely popular International Comedy Festival, Melbourne Food & Wine Festival, Moomba (a sort of mishmash that's very popular with the locals) and the International Film Festival and the Queer Festival.

· The look: OK, OK, so Sydney Harbour is hard to beat for looks. But get to Melbourne for views of another sort: watch the sun go down in St. Kilda, wander the brilliant Royal Botanical Gardens (among the world's best), stroll around Albert Park (a city park with a man-made lake and a great round-trip drive that doubles as the F1 race track), get out on Port Phillip Bay (where dolphins delight), float down the Yarra River, catch some rays on Brighton Beach (with its photogenic bathing boxes), and ply the city streets by old-fashioned tram.

Marvelous Melbourne

2007-02-28T08:49:00.000+11:00

Many years ago, I had the good fortune of living for seven months in Sydney’s Manly Beach, which is what you’d expect a Sydney bayside suburb to be: Lovely beach, awesome waves, beautiful people, lots of fun. In fact, Manly ‑ so named by the founder of Sydney, Captain Arthur Phillip, after his encounter with the confident, “manly” Aborigines he found there ‑ is probably the very best that Sydney has to offer.

And yet, I still must fly the flag for Melbourne (above), which is too often shortchanged when the lion’s share of the headlines go to its rival half a day’s drive north. Simply put, Melbourne is a city with its priorities in order: where a horse race is reason enough to give everybody the day off work, where substance matters as much as style and where the good things in life are there for the taking.

When I step out of my office building on the Yarra River, this is the view. Superb, no?

Rolling through our old stomping ground

2007-02-27T10:25:00.000+11:00

When our girls aren't at the beach, they’re on their new roller blades – and sometimes they’re lucky enough to be doing both at the same time. Today, they're tearing up the pavement in Port Melbourne, our old stomping ground, and I fear the blades will have to come with us to South Africa and beyond because I can’t imagine the girls – who begged and pleaded for wheels on bended knee - giving them up now.

On the same day we hit Port Melbourne, we also dropped in to nearby Luna Park, which is one of the great icons in my favourite city in the world, and it’s as I imagine Coney Island was in the ’50s: old-fashioned rides, rickety roller coasters, a gorgeous view of the sea and sticky and hot underfoot. Naturally, the girls lap up the atmosphere here in St. Kilda and want to know when, exactly when, we’ll be coming back to blow a heap more cash.

Cherish the good stuff

2007-02-26T11:57:00.000+11:00

This year-long adventure may be chock-full of cool stuff and amazing experiences, but as a parent I know this much to be true: the simple things in life really are the best, and there can be few things better than snuggling into sleeping bags on a warm Aussie beach, watching the sunset and then waiting for the stars to come out, one by one, as you ponder the meaning of it all.

I'm counting on Annie and Molly to remember these nights and I hope they feel the same as we do: That time spent together - celebrating lives that are richer in simplicity than in material wealth - is really what makes us tick.

Tennis, anyone?

2007-02-22T09:39:00.000+11:00

Miraculously, both a babysitter and a very generous friend materialize in one and the same person – our dear friend Gracie – and Travellin Mama gets two tickets for a night at the Australian Open with her hubby. If you look real close - way, way down - that’s Roger Federer near the net. (On this particular night, as on thousands of others, he was in mighty fine form indeed, and we count outselves among the lucky ones to have seen the best tennis player of all time, live, in our favourite city in the world.)

Mom and dad, alone again

2007-02-21T09:30:00.000+11:00

Well, OK, we’re not really alone here but dare to dream. It’s been months - and months and months and months! – since we’ve had a babysitter, although I really musn’t complain because we're about to watch the sun go down on the Mornington Peninsula as the sweet Sorrento moon comes up ... so really, what’s not to love?

The buddy system

2007-02-20T12:20:00.000+11:00

Before we embarked on this year-long adventure, well-meaning parents asked me dozens of times how our kids would cope so far away from their friends and extended family. As Oprah would say, "what I know for sure" now is that being the new kid on the block doesn't necessarily have to be the terrible social burden it’s cracked up to be. And who knew it could be so easy?

Maybe it’s just luck or resilience or the magical clicking of personalities, or maybe where the new kid comes from is all that matters to those who’ve already staked their territory. Either way, we are very lucky indeed because Canada, it seems, is the coolest place on earth to the kids at Mornington Primary School and they’ve embraced Molly and Annie with great gusto. Joining Annie and Molly (centre and top) are (from left) Shania, Miia, Lauren and Melitta.

Flower power

2007-02-19T12:17:00.000+11:00

Being a flower girl is a big, big honour - and one that's even more of a thrill when your beloved Toronto cousins (Leyki and Miia, centre) fly halfway around the world to join you. After their petal-throwing duties were done at their auntie's wedding outside Melbourne, the four musketeers took to the dance floor for the talent portion of the evening, and sang a few customised bars of We Go Together, from Grease (Travellin Mama's favourite). Eat your heart out, Sandy!

When bad clothes happen to a good man

2007-02-16T10:37:00.000+11:00

You might think I’m smiling here but I’m actually about to pull a Smith & Wesson from my handbag and shoot myself before I die of embarrassment, all because my pimp – oops, I mean my husband – wanted to make an "impression" at his sister’s wedding.

And Grandma, if you’re reading this, I didn’t see what he was wearing until this very moment. THERE WAS NOTHING I COULD DO!!

Grrrl power

2007-02-15T09:46:00.000+11:00

There’s nothing like a family wedding on the other side of the world to bring my girls and their beloved Toronto cuzzies, Leyki and Miia, together again. After months of pining for each other, they’re goofing off again, this time at the magnificent ocean beach at Sorrento, on the Mornington Peninsula.

Uniformity

2007-02-14T09:54:00.000+11:00

Annie and Molly have decided to expel themselves from the School of Travellin Mama in favour of the real thing down the road. (Other kids! A normal life! Recess! How very novel!)

Australia being the wonderful place that it is, school uniforms are de rigeur, and my goodness, after months on the move, don’t my feral little monkeys polish up rather nice?

Any excuse for a party, Part 2

2007-02-13T09:39:00.000+11:00

After Melbourne Cup and all the big Group One races, one can always choose a day in the country for what Aussies call the picnic races. There are little racetracks dotted around the place, like this one in Balnarring, Victoria, and they basically involve the following: Drive your car into the bush (forest), set up among the cockies and gums (cockatoo parrots and gum trees) have a nosh (snack) and a flutter (bet) and then grab your champers (champagne) and toddle across the grass to watch the first horses fly out of the starting gate.

First-time visitors would be forgiven for thinking Melbourne is all about bets, booze and boobs at this time of year. And, um, they’d actually be right. Because it seems everyone – and I mean everyone – has a bet, everyone seems to be drinking and my God, if your boobs aren’t hanging out of your finest frock – it’s summer after all – well, you’re just not getting with the program.

Any excuse for a party

2007-02-12T10:40:00.000+11:00

It’s been quite a few years time since Travellin’ Mama has done B52 shooters in the middle of the day ... but when you live in a place where the entire state gets the day off for a horse race and the city is basically one big party, what’s a girl to do? The racing brings it out in all of us. Damn, I love Australia! (joining Doog and I are Melbourne friends Bonnie, Travis and Alana, on my lap)

Not sure where the kids are!

How to buy a convertible

2007-02-08T11:43:00.000+11:00

Just a little more about Sylvia, my new best friend.

Negotiating the purchase went a bit like this:

Me (to the private seller, in his driveway) : Hi. Wow. Love the car! I TOTALLY WANT IT! (which is apparently the wrong thing to say right off the bat)

Seller: Yes, this is an excellent car for the money.

Me: GREAT! How ’bout you show me how the top goes down now?!!

Doog (under his breath): Nancy, BE COOL.

Geoff (our Tasmanian friend who knows a bit about cars): Nancy, seriously, BE COOL.

Seller: It’s got blahblah under the hood (I’m not listening, mister!) and blahblah this and blahblah that.

Me: Yup, I hear ya! Mechanical shmanical! Fine, fine, fine! Low kilometres? Dandy! One owner? Most excellent! JUST SHOW ME HOW THE TOP GOES DOWN!

Geoff (to Doog) : Why did we bring her?

Sylvia, start your engines

2007-02-07T09:45:00.000+11:00

Meet Sylvia the convertible SAAB. Naysayers and assorted sceptics call her my midlife crisis purchase but I call her my NEW BEST FRIEND, and she makes me want to put exclamation points (!!!!!!!!!) At the end! Of! Every! Word!

Here’s my rationale for this slightly out-of-character, moderately luxurious buy:
* When one is 42 and has never had better wheels than an ’87 wood-panelled station wagon, who’s to say one shouldn’t splash out on a convertible for the summer Down Under?
* When the pricetag for said wheels is only $5000 and when it will easily sell when the time comes to leave, what does one have to lose? (Never mind that the buyer will have to pry the wheel from my cold dead hands)
* When it’s the first car spotted on the internet and the seller is just around the corner, could there be a better omen?
* When the buyer has secretly nursed a convertible-ownership-type fantasy for years, this totally makes sense. Right? Right!
* Is there a better country in the world to have a convertible in summer? I mean, C’MON!!

Farewell, NZ, thanks for the memories

2007-02-06T09:47:00.000+11:00

Most New Zealanders hate France and the French like nothing on earth (think Greenpeace and the Rainbow Warrior and froggie bombers) so it’s a bit disconcerting to find ourselves in Akaroa, a little east-coast town near Christchurch that’s as French as they come.

Famous for its French history and cuisine, it’s also a fantastic place to see the smallest and one of the rarest dolphins in the world, the Hector’s dolphin, and since this is our final stop in NZ, it’s now or never. (I’m trying to impress upon the girls that it’s far better to see even one in the wild than a zillion in a tank - I just don’t do animals in cages – and so we find ourselves on this little boat having forked out 92 bucks to see the grand total of … ONE dolphin. Still, the girls love it, and that’s cool.)

So after months on the road, it's time to bid farewell to New Zealand - it's been bloody wonderful - and say hello Australia! It'll be nice to stop for a while ...

Of hunky guides and wildlife

2007-02-05T09:03:00.000+11:00

That big smile on Travellin Mama's face isn't because we've just seen albatross, penguins and a magnificent sea lion off the coast of Dunedin. It's because the hunky Heath Ledger-lookalike tour guide with the long funky sideburns who took this picture was just TOO DAMN DELICIOUS for words. My only regret - on this, our third-last day in New Zealand - is that I forgot to turn the camera his way ... and therefore can't share his extreme hunkiness with all of you.

Sorry, ladies.

Ice, ice baby

2007-02-01T11:00:00.000+11:00

Dunedin may be off the beaten track but it’s also my favourite city in New Zealand, and it doesn’t hurt that we’ve discovered an ice rink here - which when you’re a little girl and thousands of miles from home and raised on daddy’s backyard ice is very comforting indeed.

Annie and Molly have hit the ice like it's second nature, mixing it with the hundreds of posing, horny teenagers buzzing around to the beat of a tinny sound system. (All I’d have to do is swap the Pussycat Dolls and Beyonce for a bit of Meatloaf and Donna Summer and poof! I’d be 14 again and back at my old roller rink in Southampton, Ontario, smoking a Player’s Light and vying for the attentions of the cute Roller Fuzz in their tight Levis.)

Ah, but doesn't nostalgia work in the strangest ways.

Don't look down

2007-01-31T09:25:00.000+11:00

After two months on the road, we find ourselves in Queenstown, the gorgeous place where crazy people like to do crazy stunts and where the reputation as adrenalin-fuelled adventure capital of the world is fitting. (Naturally, it's also a case of open-your-wallet-and-let-the-cash-fly-out because Queenstown'll suck you dry of funds before you can say “bungy”.)

Indeed, my big brave spouse did take the bungy plunge after years of putting it off, and it was a hell of a sight. He's even got the T-shirt to prove it. Were he also inclined – and if we were zillionaires – there’s also the world-renowned Shotover jet, the nausea-inducing aerobatic flights, mountain climbing, rock climbing, fly-by-wire, whitewater rafting, heliskiing, gliding, parapenting, parachuting and a zillion other thrills. You name it, and some entrepreneurial Kiwi has set up shop here.

Annie and Molly opted for the bungy trampoline – that’s Annie upside down - and now of course they’re asking: “Mama, when can we get one of these in the back yard?”

Slice of heaven

2007-01-30T08:13:00.000+11:00

Anyone who visits Mount Cook can’t help but be moved by the monument to climbers who have died up here. The Kiwi pioneering spirit is legendary; after all, this is the country that gave us Sir Edmund Hillary, who along with his Sherpa guide Tensing Norgay was the first to scale Mount Everest, in May 1953.

The Southern Alps in New Zealand have claimed many lives, but they’re also an alpine paradise for those brave enough to give them a go. Me? After huffing and puffing just to get here from the visitors’ centre, I have renewed admiration for people who push their minds and bodies to such limits - and my girls are completely amazed that some people are actually willing to die doing what they love best.

Mountain Mama

2007-01-29T10:48:00.000+11:00

Fans of the legendary Kiwi director Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings films will salivate over the LOTR locations near where I'm standing, including the plains where Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli pursued the Orcs in The Two Towers, as well as the battle of Pelennor Field in The Return of the King.

If like me, however, orcs and hobbits are not your thing, the Southern Alps' Mount Cook/Aoraki National Park is the perfect place to take your mountain walks short and easy, and then retire to your fireside perch, preferably with an alcoholic buzz and plenty of good conversation at hand.

Jet boat, jet girl

2007-01-25T11:09:00.000+11:00

There’s a reason Molly’s not looking too confident here - we’re about to hit Mach 1 on a jetboat at the Rakaia Gorge - and, you know, wherever there’s a foot of water and sheer cliffs and jutting rocks all around, there’s an enterprising Kiwi willing to charge you a small fortune to do a couple of doughhnuts in his speedboat.

Rattle your dags, would ya?

2007-01-24T08:59:00.000+11:00

In a country chock-full of fabulous tidbits of Kiwi slang, “rattle your dags” is one of my all-time favourites. (“Dags” being, literally, the dried-up bits of poop hanging from a sheep’s bum, and the expression “rattle your dags” – natch - deriving from the view one gets of the back of a sheep running.) In Canada, we might politely say “hurry up” or “shake a leg” or “get a move on” but rattle your dags is so much more fun, no?

This picture, taken en route to the Southern Alps, also brings to mind another of my favourite sheep jokes - you know the kind - where the sheep are always so much more than just a source of income for the average Kiwi farmer:

When a busload of tourists was passing through a small country town in New Zealand, one of the passengers noticed a sheep tied to a lamppost. “What's that?” she asked. “Oh, that? That’s the recreation centre!” the guide replied.

Marlborough Mama

2007-01-23T10:43:00.000+11:00

These are my feet ... and this is my life in the Marlborough Sounds. Just in case I forget, I've got to say it now and say it loud: I LOVE NEW ZEALAND!! And I hope every parent who has ever dreamed of that elusive perfect family holiday will believe me when I say there could be no better place for it.

Over just one three-day period alone, my girls have fed wild-but-tame eels in a crystal-clear river, petted llamas and a Tibetan yak, bottle-fed a piglet, done doughnuts in a speedboat, groomed a thoroughbred, pruned a tree, drove a Jeep, steered a dinghy, watched the Crocodile Hunter in a luxury home overlooking the sea, marvelled at a friend’s private cactus garden, sipped kiddie cocktails in a hot tub, wore a wetsuit for the first time, clung to their daddy on the back of a jet ski, caught six sharks, ate fish they caught themselves and slept in a windswept cottage without electricity while Auntie Leanne cooked their dinner over an open fire.

What’s not to love?

The big fish: Before and after

2007-01-22T10:33:00.000+11:00

After three hours in a dinghy with dad and Uncle Steve in the heart of the Marlborough Sounds, Annie and Molly agree that this is the BEST thing they’ve EVER done. Total haul? Sand sharks: three. Blue cod: 23. Value of today’s school lesson? Priceless.(Note to self: Never feel obligated, no matter how much your daughters are head-over-heels for their new favourite thing, to start baiting hooks on their behalf.)

Mom and dad, alone at last

2007-01-19T12:53:00.000+11:00

OK, so the alone thing only lasted five minutes ... but ya gotta take what you can get when you're gone for a year with nary a babysitter in sight. This is us (travellin mama and Smug Spouse) at Abel Tasman National Park at the top of the south island in NZ. Heaven.

Split personality

2007-01-18T08:19:00.000+11:00

Split Rock is one of a zillion unbelievably picturesque parts of the divine Abel Tasman National Park at the top of NZ's South Island, which attracts international hikers and kayakers in droves. We’re happy to be here in the off-season, naturally, where we can hear ourselves think and where the seals and penguins aren’t too freaked out by the noise to duck for cover. If I had a zoom lens on my crappy little camera I could show you some penguins and seals but, alas, you'll have to close your eyes and imagine them ... and believe me when I say they were here. Honest.

Mama, you've got some 'splainin to do ...

2007-01-17T09:11:00.000+11:00

Why is it I find myself having to explain the birds and the bees so often lately?!!

Just after this picture was taken, I took a death-defying spin through a Riwaka apple orchard on board Dan ‑ a lovely, if somewhat lamely named thoroughbred formerly owned by Mark Todd, New Zealand’s most decorated equestrian.

I’d promised the girls they could help me groom Dan on our return, but once we got him tied up, he unceremoniously flopped his penis out and started whacking his underbelly with it. Thwhack! Thwhack! Thwhack!

And so the following conversation ensued:

Annie: “Oh wow, mom! LOOK!”

Me (trying not to be juvenile): “Oh. Um, yeah, OK. Dan’s just flopped his penis out. Kinda big eh?”

Molly: “Yeah mom but is it at least bigger than dad’s?”

I kid you not, that is exactly what she said. Where the girl’s thought processes come from is anyone’s guess.