FEBRUARY 3, 2022 – From the sea, I turned to Kuranda in the rainforest along Queensland’s northeastern “fringe.” Other travelers had recommended Kuranda as a “Bohemian outpost in Eden,” and the pathway was well established. Joined by Karen and now my romantic interest, Debbie, we hiked to the heights of towering waterfalls and admired the dense, tropical surroundings. The scorching sun was tempered by shade and water, and we found comfortable accommodations at a simple, open-air youth hostel. A central memory of Kuranda was the nocturnal stream of “jungle calls” from invisible sources—a zoo of sounds without sights.
Kuranda was also where I chatted with several Aborigines. I remember little of the substance because there was none. They were hanging out by a small store, drinking bottled Coca-cola mixed with an “enhancer.” In a “happy mood,” they weren’t inclined to reveal thoughts beyond what the “enhancer” allowed. I was disturbed by this encounter, which weighed on me for the rest of my travels in Australia—the enormous home of an ancient race decimated by the same forces that had swept mercilessly across my home continent.
Later in Kuranda, I met a family who’d “cashed out” of the rat race to sail the east coast of Australia end-to-end. They invited me aboard their boat in Port Douglas, which is the farthest north I climbed the map of Australia. I then turned southeast-south for the long rail trek to Sydney.
A certain sadness accompanied me, for Debbie and I had had to bid adieu. Our paths had crossed but not intertwined. By letter home, I described her as “Ms. Guru—a loving, lovable girl who walked a slow, spiritual, and happy pace.” As I watched the lush countryside slide by, I mused nostalgically, What would The Odyssey be without the soft touch of romance?
En route, I learned of the attempted assassination of President Reagan. Fellow rail passengers (mostly European), asked, “What’s wrong with America?” They were talking about guns—41 years ago.
In the last hours before Sydney, I met three Swiss in their early thirties—Charley and Jean-Pierre from Valais and Margarite from Ticino—who’d left good jobs to travel the world. They themselves had met just before I joined them in the spacious coach. None spoke English, and I, only rudimentary French (no Romansch); but with patient humor, we learned to communicate effectively.
Primed with pantomime, pen, paper, and stick figures, we soon filled the car with laughter by our uninhibited efforts to learn each other’s language. Upon landing early at our destination, we indulged in a gargantuan breakfast at an establishment near the train station. Our joviality continued throughout the meal.
Then came au revoir—first Charley on foot, then Jean-Pierre by cab, then Margarite and I after two subway stops. As I described in a letter home, “The loneliness I felt after so much fun was depressing. That’s the sad aspect of traveling. You become so close to people only to lose them—some forever—as your paths diverge.”
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
