On Christmas Day, we decided to drive the Waterfall Circuit, a loop of roads in the tablelands east of Cairns. We took a road that could easily have been called The Windiest Road in Australia, or Find Out If You Get Carsick. Hoov was put in the passenger seat as she was voted Most Likely to Vomit among the Ya Ya's. Jimbo drove. Or should I say, flew. Jimbo is a pilot as a profession, a pilot of F-18's, which have a top speed generally agreed as "at least" Mach 1.8. So let's just say Jimbo likes speed. The Toyota minivan we rented does
not like speed. The windy road along a shear cliff does
not like speed. Jimbo's actually quite a safe and careful diver, he always pulled up in the passing lanes to allow traffic to pass. But left to his own devices, or on the rare occassions the road straighten out a bit, the speed would begin to creep up. At one point, distracted by the endless badgering and cat-calling from the backseats, we had crept up to about 120 kilometers per hour. I know the metric system about as well as the average American, and therefore have no idea what speed that is in miles per hour. But it felt like the rear axle was about to fly off. As we hurtled along the highway, Hoov gently leaned towards Jimbo and placed her hand on his arm. "I think it's ok to slow down a little bit," she gently told him.
Our first stop was Lake Eacham, a lovely little lake that promised a remarkable absence of crocodiles. Having seen signs warning of the beasts at pretty much every other body of water (the sign pictured here is from the ferry to Cape Tribulation) I wasn't really tempted to venture in. Who knows what croc could have found it's way to the peaceful shores of the lake? There were plenty of picnicers and rosy-cheeked Australian families hurling themselves in the clear water. We stopped at the "Turtle Lookout" which delivered what it promised, and took a walk around the lake. We were all ambivilent about putting our suits on and going for a dip, and instead voted to press on in search of waterfalls and lunch.
I was distracted by the book Hoov had brought along, "The Bachelorette Party" which she'd pretty much had stuck her nose in during any of the down time on the trip so far. In addition to being hysterical, it is quite naughty and I spent the better part of an hour skimming the book for the raunchiest bits for quiet titillation. When I looked up, we were nowhere near any waterfalls and people were beginning to make noises about food. Unfortunately, everything was closed. I mean, everything. Even the imported American fast food joints were quiet. What kind of country is it that lets the people who staff the low-end restaurants have holidays off to spend with their family? Sheesh.
As we moved, collectively, from hanky (hungry and cranky) to the more serious hangry (hungry and angry), we came across a sign promising "Nick's Swiss Italian Restaurant" ahead. By some miracle, it was open. They were just wrapping up a reservations-only, $88 per head Christmas buffet but we threw our six grimy, hungry selves on their mercy. They said they would cut us a deal and for $35 per person they would serve us plates of the food from the buffet. We thought the first course was the main meal but more plates kept on coming. A charming Australian man dressed all in red, including a little Swiss-German red cap with a feather, sat down and began to belt out Chistmas carols on the accordian. Although it was piping hot and the restaurant was beginning to empty, we felt nothing but endless goodwill towards everyone and everything. Our good cheer came to a head when we led the restaurant in a rousing rendition of Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline," although we only know four words to the song, including the title.
Our last stop that afternoon was the Curtain Fig Tree, a sight we knew nothing about but it sounded interesting and we were hoping to make up for the dearth of waterfalls with other Aussie natural wonders. The fig tree actually sprouts on a "host" tree and it's roots grow down towards the earth. The roots bury into the ground and eventually the roots are large and strong enough to support both trees. At some point, the fig tree's roots have strangled the host tree and it tips over, leaving a "curtain" of roots. Even the trees here are homicidal. Yet it's a beautiful, peaceful sight and we were all happy to have indulged our whim to see it.
A few miles back on the road, we spotted a sign for the "Cathedral Fig Tree" but we figured we pretty much had the gist of the fig tree scene and decided we could probably skip it.
On the way back down the Road of Death we spotted the image of a frog someone had carefully spray painted on the rock wall. How did anyone do this? There's no where to stand on the side of the road. It's high enough up on the rock that you would need to stand on something. The wall is one of dozens of blind curves on a road that sees plenty of traffic. I suppose you could try your luck at night when the traffic is lighter but the idea of trying to paint the face of a frog on a rock wall at night on a road that hugs a cliff seems, uh, foolhardy. I suppose someone must really like frogs.
