I really can't think of anywhere in the
world more conducive to total relaxation than Norfolk Island. Cars
are not allowed to drive more than 50 kilometres an hour, often just
30, and must give way to cows and Kingston Geese. Every time you pass
someone, they wave. Even children on bikes and pedestrians. It is
delightful.
I potter about all week, making huge
decisions about whether to have lunch at the Golden Orb or the Olive
and whether to go for a swim at Emily Bay in the morning or the
afternoon.
But there's also great excitement. The
Pacific Guardian has arrived and although there's quite a swell
running, they are unloading a horse in foal.
As the crate is unloaded
from the lighter, there's a round of applause from a large crowd of
onlookers. I am astonished how word has travelled round the island,
it seems that almost everyone has come to watch. The evolution has
cost the owner $8000 Australian, including a hefty veterinary bill.
But it's too rough to unload much
needed potatoes and eggs, so that will have to wait until the
morning.
None of the men crewing the lighters
are wearing life jackets or indeed don't appear to have any safety
equipment at all; it really is a different way of life.
The Norfolk Island Bowls Club has an
open afternoon, so I pitch up and find myself playing for Norfolk
against New Zealand and Australia. For just $5, they throw in shoe
hire, a set of bowls and sandwiches after the game. But no cups of
tea; almost everybody is drinking beer. If you don't have proper
bowling shoes, you can bowl in bare feet. I have been trying to adopt
this almost universal island tradition, but my soft townie feet
aren't up to it and, after a couple of days, splits and cuts are
causing me grief.
The houses on Cascade Road seem mostly
to be named after the type of roofs they have. Thus, we have Red,
Blue, Green, Rusty and Rented. A vacant lot is named 'No Roof'.
I have been lent a car. Sue is off
island at a funeral, so husband Don has kindly pointed me in the
direction of her car. The key is in the lock. I don't use it a lot,
but I enjoy going to the top of Mount Pitt and to visit the splendid
Norfolk island Botanical Gardens, where there are more Golden Orb
Spiders' Webs than I would have thought possible.
There are two funerals on the island.
Norfolk Island pine caskets are provided by the Government at no
charge and burials in the cemetery are also free. All the flags on
the island are lowered to half mast and, at Saturday bowls, we are
told that games can start early or late if we want to go to one of
the services.
Islanders pay no taxes so, with free
burials and whatnot, there's no money to repair the roads. Or
anything else for that matter. So there are moves to bring in closer
links with Australia, which will mean state-funded healthcare but
taxes. Emotions are mixed and running high. The newly-arrived
administrator, whose job is to liaise between the Island Government
and authorities in the mainland is trying to be open about the
process, but is getting grief in the 'Norfolk Islander' newspaper.
The attack is pretty unfair because the originator is anonymous. But
the following week, another anonymous letter leaps to his defence, so
that's all right then. I can't think of many newspapers in the world
which will print unsigned letters. But Norfolk really does do
different.
The local police are trying to enforce
laws on speeding and the wearing of crash helmets. But the island way
of life is not conducive to mainland rules and regulations, so it's
not an easy task. There's a view that the islanders get away with a
lot, while the incomers are expected to toe the line. Very much a
them and us scenario. The incomers say that marrying an islander is a
good way of being able to do pretty much what you want without
authority interfering too much with your life.
I am bewildered by Aussie speak. They
seem to have a language all of their own. When I am told that 'I'll
see you in the arvo', I have no idea that they are planning to see me
later that afternoon. A 'trash and treasure' sale is a sort of posh
jumble sale, while you'll have to look up 'shonky' for yourself. But
I have just about got used to wearing thongs on my feet instead of
flip flops.
On Sunday morning, there is more
excitement. My host Mike and I pop down to Ball Bay, where the oil
tanker Heracles is manoeuvring into position to offload, gas, diesel,
aviation fuel and petrol. Secured close inshore by her anchors and
stern ropes, it's quite a tricky operation, but great fun to watch.
Mike, a very talented chef, has been
busy making all sorts of scrummy things for a party to mark Met
Bureau colleague Tom's 60th birthday. At the event I
become wine waiter and general factotum. It's great to meet a wide
variety of local business owners, friends and neighbours and people
from the island authorities.
All too soon it's time to leave this
delightful spot. I can't think of many places where you can check in,
then go off to have coffee and a bite of lunch in town before
boarding the aircraft.
There's an absolute monsoon and
everybody on the plane gets soaked during the walk across the tarmac
and up the stairs.
I have the front three seats all to
myself, but I can't sit down until the door is closed because the
seats are covered with blankets to protect them from the downpour.
But, even so, I feel the damp rising during the flight.
After take-off, there's quite a bit of
turbulence, so I chat to the friendly Air New Zealand cabin crew,
Hayden and Sandy, who have had a couple of days on the island in
between sectors.
All too soon, the wonderful sight of
Sydney Harbour, straight through customs and quarantine and into
Australia proper.
With traffic jams. Queues.
And shoes.
Photos at: https://picasaweb.google.com/113030621059953130627/AroundTheWorldIn60DaysBackwardsAustraliaAndTheFarEastToTheUK?authuser=0&feat=directlink
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