Bibliography of a Backpacker: ‘Moby Dick’ by Herman Melville

R: The White Whale and I have become great friends on this trip; and although I finished reading Moby Dick nearly four months ago, I thought it a fitting book with which to end my literary odyssey.

I’m not a great reader on the bus, suffering as I do from text-induced motion sickness. Planes and trains are no problem, but buses (and Fijian boats) are necessarily prose-free areas for me. With this in mind I left the UK with an unabridged audiobook of Melville’s classic.

Through bursts of Frank Muller diction the whale has followed me along Brazil’s Costa Verde, through Peru’s Sacred Valley, around Lake Titicaca, across the Altiplano, down the Chilean coast and twice over the Andes. And it has helped break the monotony of overnight rides from Melbourne to Sydney, Sydney to Byron Bay and Bali to Java. In Singapore Moby Dick disappeared amid the gloom – the backlight of my iPhone packed in – before resurfacing in Thailand, where, in Kindle format, I eventually made it to the book’s climatic final scene.

So what of the book itself? At first Melville’s style – long sentences, archaic language and florid descriptions – is a little difficult to penetrate, but as the mist clears you are soon pitched headlong into a salty, oily world of whales, whaling and harpooners.

But Moby Dick is as much famed for its verbosity as its virtuosity, and there is no denying that Melville’s prolixity can often frustrate and even defeat the pluckiest of readers. Arguably, nearly half of the one hundred and thirty-three chapters do not concern the main narrative, exploring instead the history, science and culture of whales and whaling. In fact, a more appropriate title for the book may have been Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Whales But Were Afraid to Ask.

But the hardy reader is rewarded, as the accumulative effect of each digression serves to both build suspense and enhance the central metaphor of the whale. I say central metaphor, as there are probably as many meanings as there are chapters in the book. But what does the White Whale itself symbolise? God, nature, immortality? And what is the significance of Captain Ahab’s monomaniacal quest? Sin, hubris, or just plain old-fashioned revenge? Arguably, the key meditation of the book concerns the limits of man’s knowledge: that no matter how many ‘facts’ we gather about the world – about nature, about life, about ourselves – there are some things which remain forever unknowable.

Elsewhere I have lamented the attempts of others to write The Great American Novel; and it is from Melville that any aspirants must wrestle this title. In Moby Dick Melville does not speak of America but of the world, not of a whale but of life. This is why he takes his rightful place among the literary heroes of this trip.

But it is in the metaphorical richness that Moby Dick achieves its greatness. Its layers are so numerous, its weft and warp so tightly packed, that the reader is free to invest his or her own meaning. For me, Moby Dick is a metaphor for both the limits and the glories of travel. And I will leave Ishmael with the last word on both.

On the limits:

‘Round the world! There is much in that sound to inspire proud feelings; but whereto does all that circumnavigation conduct? Only through numberless perils to the very point whence we started, where those that we left behind secure, were all the time before us.’

And the glories:

‘How vain and foolish for timid untravelled man to try to comprehend aright this wondrous whale, by merely poring over his dead attenuated skeleton, stretched in this peaceful wood. No. Only in the heart of quickest perils; only when within the eddyings of his angry flukes; only on the profound unbounded sea, can the fully invested whale be truly livingly found out.’

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Reflections On The South Pacific

The South Pacific. The phrase often evokes blissful images for cold souls in the Northern Hemisphere. Limitless vistas of azure skies, verdant vegetation and bone-white beaches dominate the mind. Tales of shipwrecks, mutinies and cannibalism excite the imagination and only add to pull of the place.

Our three months in the region, like our time in South America, was not spent mapping every inch, traversing every mountain range nor combing every beach. It consisted, in the end, of four weeks on New Zealand’s North Island, three and a half weeks in Fiji, and four and a half weeks heading north from Melbourne up Australia’s east coast. But our time there was long enough and varied enough to forge strong impressions of the area, an area which for many in colder climes has become something of a modern day Promised Land.

We will start with what made the greatest impact upon us: New Zealand. In its favour was certainly the fact that South America had preceded it, that what had been a tough and challenging adventure dissolved quickly into an easy-going English-speaking home from home. But even if we had gone straight from London to Auckland the overall effect would have been the same. Quite simply, New Zealand was amazing.

That New Zealand was amazing came as a surprise to us. So much is spoken about Australia that New Zealand is invariably and unfairly overlooked. To us, it seems to be a land constructed by a Deity who, upon scrutinising the Earth cradled in the palm of his hand, has plucked from its crust his favourite parts, fusing them together to form New Zealand’s unrivalled topography. The effect is incaptivating: massy mountains soar, glassy rivers roar and beaches and coastlines glitter with the incandescent light of the southern sun.

It is also a land which appears to have been created solely as a playground for backpacking, camper vanning adventurers. Its size – not as small as you perhaps would first surmise – is perfectly suited to the rhythms and syncopated beats of the nomadic spirit; and its towns and cities are of such a size that they neither overwhelm nor dull the greedy senses of the traveller. Its people, too, seem to exhibit just the right balance of character: an air of relaxed openness, easy approachability and steady guidance. Never before had we met a friendlier bunch.

Aside from New Zealand stealing the show, one theme which dominated our time in the Pacific has to be that of internet access. This may strike the reader as a mere trifle. But free and easy access to the World Wide Web is quickly become something of an inalienable right in the 21st century. And it is a right which is defended with passion by the travelling masses. Fiji can be excused at this point from any further scrutiny. Even on some of the most remote islands the internet was made available – via satellite – for a small nominal fee. In the Yasawas, where mains electricity and a fresh water supply still remains an ambition, the Fijians should even be applauded. But in Australia and New Zealand the situation is no less than scandalous.

In both these countries the situation was very often the same. Access to the internet came at a price, and even then surfing was slow, patchy, unreliable, and often limited in terms of time or data. It is rather embarrassing that only an oversized clown with orange hair and yellow dungarees had the wherewithal to provide ‘free Wi-Fi’ to much of the antipodean population. We are ashamed to admit that never before had we dined on so many Fish Fillets, Chicken Burgers and Cheese Quarter Pounders. These were the sacrifices that were made in order to keep the blog running.

To put Australia and New Zealand’s crime into perspective, we had free Wi-Fi access in the middle of San Pedro de Atacama. Yes, that’s the small town in Chile situated in the driest desert in the world. We have also had free and easy internet usage in Brazil, Peru, Bolivia, Argentina, Bali, Java, Singapore, Borneo, Malaysia and Thailand. What’s going on? This is surely a case for the investigative powers of John Pilger.

Once again, food was a theme which left a big impression on us. Fiji was a touch disappointing, proffering rather bland root vegetables and tasteless fish and meats; even the home-cooking of the more rustic retreats failed to provide in freshness what they lacked in variety. It was strange that, on islands which had fruit literally falling from the trees, life-affirming juices were in scant supply. Still, between us there was only a single episode of food poisoning. Happy days.

Australia had promised much with its legendary fusion of Western and Asian flavours, but it was probably undone by the crushing relationship between the British pound and the Aussie dollar. Although we gave ourselves double the budget of South America and triple the budget of Southeast Asia, many of the more salubrious eateries were simply out of our reach. And even when we could have invoked our Emergency Treats Fund (ETF), we simply refused to pay 25GBP for fish and chips. We may not have jobs, but we’ve still got principles.

But perhaps most tellingly, Australia was undone by New Zealand. In almost every conceivable example of gastronomy New Zealand excelled. It wasn’t just in the fabulous Michelen-starred style meal we had in Martinborough, accompanied by fabulous wine and surrounded by sun-soaked vineyards; it wasn’t just in twice or thrice weekly restaurant treats where we experienced the best-ever nachos, the greatest gourmet burgers, the most fabulous calamari and the world’s finest example of apple pie and ice cream; and it wasn’t just in the frankly phenomenal cafes – particularly in Wellington – where we devoured unparalleled pumpkin pie, sublime chocolate and cherry cake, marvellous muffins and first-rate flat whites. What brought home to us the glory of New Zealand’s larder was in the everyday sweets and snacks that punctuated our travel. Take a bow Pam’s Burger Hoops, soak up the applause Whittaker’s 72% Dark Ghana Chocolate, and start your lap of honour RJ’s Chocolate & Raspberry Licorice Bullets.

On a more serious note the South Pacific, like South America, is a region where the echoes of indigenous cultures still reverberate. We are no experts on this subject, and visitors can often be blind to what is clearly visible to residents; but we can only comment on what we witnessed. And we can only apologise if other people’s experiences are different and our remarks unwittingly cause offence.

Of the three countries Fiji has the largest proportion of indigenous people, especially in the Yasawa Islands where a great deal is being done to preserve Fijian traditions and culture. On the mainland there is a greater presence of Indo-Fijians, which is a legacy of Britain’s policy at the end of the nineteenth century of sending indentured labourers from India. There has been and there still exists tensions between these two groups but some sort of fragile harmony seems to have been established.

New Zealand’s attitude to the Maori people, its culture and its traditions, is without doubt the most progressive and enlightened that we’ve experienced on our travels. Everywhere we went in New Zealand we were exposed to the Maori way of life, its history, its people, its traditions and its culture. Whether of European or Maori descent, the vast majority of people seemed to take great pride in this vital element of the country’s history. The Te Papa Museum is probably the greatest example of this. A massive building covering four huge floors, Te Papa is the most modern and most interactive museum we’ve ever had the pleasure of visiting. It houses exhibits on New Zealand’s wildlife and natural habitat, recounts the migration of Europeans to its shores, and showcases Western art and Old World artefacts. But its main purpose is to preserve and promote the rich cultural history of the Maori people. And this is a history of which all New Zealanders seem to feel part. Granted, all is not perfect between Maori communities and other parts of the population; some feel that this minority is unfairly disenfranchised while others believe they have more rights than the majority. But if ever there was an encouraging example that historical enmity can be overcome then New Zealand is surely it.

Sadly, the same cannot be said for Australia. We saw very few aborigines during our time there, and virtually none in any meaningful jobs or positions within society; what little exposure we had to aboriginal museums, galleries or any other forms of cultural representation, we had to work hard to discover; and the Australians we met spoke fleetingly of the past and seemed embarrassed or awkward when discussing the subject. Australia’s was certainly a much more brutal history than that of New Zealand’s, and perhaps the latter has had an opportunity to learn from the former’s mistakes. Whatever the reasons, the difference between the two countries in this regard is glaring.

As way of an example, let us compare New Zealand’s Te Papa with Australia’s Museum of Sydney. On the day we visited the MoS, there hung in different parts of the first floor two paintings by indigenous artist Gordon Syron. Below each were comments by the artist which included stinging criticisms of what he described as the ‘British Invasion’ and the ‘denial’ and delusion’ that has followed ever since. On the very same floor, and occupying considerably more square metres than Syron’s work, was a large exhibition on the history of surfing. This stark and jarring juxtaposition perhaps told us more about Australia than a hundred documentaries ever could.

You may be thinking that we didn’t take to Australia. You are partly right. It had a lot to live up to after we had enjoyed New Zealand so much, and perhaps it would have fared better if we had gone straight from the rollercoaster that was South America. That said, Melbourne was something of a revelation – helped in no small part by the tennis – and without doubt it is a city that would be a joy to live in, especially if that life was in South Yarra. Sydney was sabotaged somewhat by the weather; but again, inhabiting a penthouse overlooking Manly Harbour would be a wonderful way to spend one’s evenings, and the ferry a delightful means of getting to and from the office. Brisbane, too, was of a sufficient size and – dare we say – sophistication to make it more than adequate spot to set up home.

And so we will remember the South Pacific with much fondness. Fiji will always be recollected for the dark times but warm hearts of the undeveloped islands; it will also be remembered as a place where we eventually reached paradise and fell helpless but happy into the ten days that followed. Australia will always be associated with Marvellous Melbourne and nearly-marvellous Murray, as well as a Sydney which eventually yielded and offered up some of its delights; we will also never be able separate the Land of Oz from memories of our road trip up its rough and tough northeast coast, a journey made in a haze of tarmac-melting and hothouse-humid temperatures.

But our hearts will forever remain in New Zealand. And it is a beautiful twist that one of our biggest regrets may well turn out to be one of our greatest joys. For now we have a great excuse to go back and visit the South Island.

Days 127-134: Sydney Drizzles While Mel Burns*

Poor old Sydney! Perhaps he had got wind of the marvellous time we had in Melbourne and felt under pressure; perhaps he was feeling a little under the weather; or perhaps he was just a touch complacent after years of lording it over Mel. Whatever the reason Syd got off to a slow start.

He wasn’t helped by the overnight train from Melbourne. As Mel waved us goodbye at the station we sat back and relaxed, fully expecting the long-haul buses of South America to be easily surpassed by the Aussie train experience. How wrong we were: the twelve hour trip was dominated by our curious inability to rack up even a few zeds before we met Syd. As a result, we arrived in the morning rather crabby, cranky and cantankerous.

Then Syd was let down by the weather. It was dark and drizzly, and pulling into the station smacked off arriving in Glasgow, Newcastle or Manchester in the midst of October.

But it was our accommodation that was arguably most injurious to Syd’s plans to wow and dazzle us. Slap bang in the centre of King’s Cross and entitled ‘The Asylum’, it far surpassed any South American hostel in levels of dirt, dishevelment and disrepair. You didn’t have to be mad to stay there but… sorry, yes, you did have to be mad to stay there.

Well, we believe in giving people the benefit of the doubt, and we had heard lots of lovely things about Sydney. So shaking off our train-lag, dismissing the bed sheets of Bedlam and brushing off the unseasonal rain drops of New South Wales, we headed to the harbour to revive our spirits.

Unfortunately, the weather didn’t let up during all the time we were with Sydney. At best it was overcast, at worst it was heavy rain, so much of our time was concentrated indoors – the Gallery of New South Wales, the Museum of Sydney, the Harbour Acquarium, etc.

What upset Syd the most was that anytime we parted company we had a ball, and experienced glorious weather. He wailed in frustration as we chilled out in Manly, toured the Hunter Valley (First Creek, Tempus Two, Lambloch and Blueberry Hill wineries), explored the Blue Mountains and checked out Bondi Beach:

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Municipal swimming, Manly-style

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A surfer on world-famous Manly Beach

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Watching the sunset at Manly Wharf

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Australia’s Hunter Valley

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No grapes of wrath here

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What’s that? Pinot Noir in Australia?

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The Blue Mountains of New South Wales

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Longer than Iguazu Falls (160m) but a little gentler

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Us at the end of the Grand Canyon walk (we’re in there somewhere)

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Bondi Beach. When the sun’s out, strangely reminiscent of an English seaside town

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The famous Iceberg Surf Life Saving Club

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The rugged coastline near Bondi

In the end Syd had to get a little help from his friends. Gordon
and Margaret Galletly, distant cousins of Mr England, brushed off the poor weather and showed us around central Sydney. Such was their knowledge of the area that they saved old Sydney from greater ignominy and meeting up with them was the highlight of our stay.

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Since our trip started in the September of last year we’ve been lucky with the weather. It’s only reasonable to expect that we would have a blip somewhere along the line. We’re just sorry for Syd that it happened here. It reduced much of his celebrated scenery to cityscapes not wholly different from those big urban centres back home.

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We are sure, though, that while Sydney Harbour may be in the rain reminiscent of, say, Newcastle, under blue skies it no doubt dazzles and delights like no other. And, given that Syd has had the upper hand over Mel recently – their differing successes in attracting the Olympics being a good example – we’re pretty confident that he’ll bounce back soon enough.

*This was too contrived a title even for us, but we couldn’t think of anything better

Days 118-126: Melbourne – Two Tales Of A City

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair – and that was just the tennis.

Our time in Melbourne came to be divided neatly into two themes: the sporting adventures of a surly Scot and the travel adventures of two slightly less taciturn Northern Brits.

First, the tennis. It was entirely down to luck that we found ourselves in Melbourne for the last week of the Australian Open. Our luck continued when we rocked up on Monday to the Rod Laver Arena and managed to get two seats for the only session of the men’s quarterfinals still available. And Lady Luck seemed firmly on our side when the draw was made on Tuesday afternoon and that session turned out to be Andy Murray versus Kei Nishikori.

As a warm-up to the main event on Wednesday we watched Errani v Kvitova and Makarova v Sharapova. And then came Murray.

It is a somewhat surreal experience watching from the stands a tournament you have seen many times on television. What was particularly surprising was the ease in which Murray fended off the challenge of Nishikori. Andy never seemed to move out of second gear and he always looked in control – something you can’t say often about any sporting Scot these days.

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For the epic semi-final match we had to content ourselves with deckchair seats in front of the big screen at Federation Square, Melbourne’s beating heart. The atmosphere was even more raucous than the Rod Laver Arena, and despite the result it turned out to be a memorable night. Another close-but-no-cigar performance from Murray, but perhaps we can take positives from the fact that his failures seem to be getting more glorious with every grand slam event that passes.

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The sun sets on Andy’s 2012 Australian Open campaign

Second, the tourists. In between the tennis we tried to squeeze in as much of Melbourne as we could – and we didn’t do too badly. In fact, if the tennis hadn’t been on we would have still been well-satisfied with our first taste of Melbourne.

(It should be pointed out that it was hot during our week in the city. Very hot. 34C wasn’t unusual, and one evening it was still pushing 33C at 9pm. That’s warm in anyone’s book.)

So aside from the tennis, we:

Took in the many parks and vistas that Melbourne had to offer –

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Did some koala-spotting –

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Visited Ramsay Street and met an ex-Neighbour (not Charlene unfortunately but Connor) –

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Encountered a wallaby or two –

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Took a trip down the Great Ocean Road…

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…and visited the Twelve Apostles en route –

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Took advantage of the many free museums, galleries and local attractions that Melbourne had to offer –

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Made friends with the local wildlife –

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And generally had an uplifting time –

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Hopefully Murray will be able to draw encouragement from the 2012 Australian Open and will look back on his time in Melbourne with the same fondness as us. And although he has not been quoted as saying as much, perhaps he won’t be too crestfallen after his semifinal defeat and will look back on it as a far, far better thing that he did than he has ever done.

Next stop Sydney!