When I touched down in Darwin, the pilot told us to turn our watches forward one-and-a-half hours. I never knew there was such a thing as half a time zone.
There are no half-measures in Darwin, especially during 'the Wet', which lasts from October to May. The humidity is such that it feels like it does inside my bathroom when I have "pressed" my suit by turning the shower on full blast and closing the door for 10 minutes (it works). Gloopy, steaming rain pelts down - or rather across - four or five times a day. And you know that highly-charged feeling you get before a storm? That's what it's like all day and all night. People have been known to go crackers from it. Fortunately I think I got that out of the way in Perth.
Since it was established, late in the 19th century, Darwin has been flattened every 40 years or so: three cyclones and one Japanese air raid so far. I met Bob at the Museum and Art Gallery of the Northern Territory, where there is a cool exhibition all about Cyclone Tracy. Tracy hit with cruel timing on Christmas Day 1974 and razed the place. After this, most people had had it with Darwin and nearly 90% of the population left. Bob's family stayed but, just like San Franciscans wait for the big quake, Darwinians fully expect another cyclone. It gives the place an edgy frontier atmosphere that I really liked.
And if the weather doesn't finish you off, the sea is brimming with box jellyfish that can kill you in three minutes. These critters mean the sea is totally out of bounds for half the year.
The waterfalls in the national parks of Australia's Top End are at their most dramatic and beautiful during the Wet. I went on a one-day trip to Kakadu National Park and, to maximise the time and the view, took an hour's flight in a six-seater Kakadu Air plane. A dozen of us were divided between the planes according to weight, so for once it was me rather than my luggage that went on the scales before take-off. In the queue I started to remove my shoes and look for the toilet to squeeze out all excess weight, until I realised I only have to do that at Slimming World.
At Kakadu, we took a cruise on Yellow Water (yes, I made that joke too) and it really started coming down. While all the other tourists were piling on kagouls to protect them from the rain, I went the other way and stripped down to my vest. It was hotter than hell, just very wet, so I had a nice dry shirt waiting for me when I got back to the bus.
On the steps of the cinema one muggy afternoon, I jumped when I thought someone had thrown something at my head. Whatever they threw seemed to be grabbing at my hair. It was over in a second, but I had been dive-bombed by a large black and white bird. A bit dazed, I bought my ticket and said to the woman, "I've just been attacked by a big bird." "Oh yes, sorry," she said blithely, "it hates backpackers".
Through a work connection I had arranged to stay on the campus of Northern Territory University, north of the city. It turned out that I was only minutes away from Margi, whom I had already met through globalfreeloaders.com and she invited me to her husband's birthday party on their breezy balcony opposite Casuarina Beach. I stopped off at Woolworths - a supermarket here like in South Africa, though more Asda than M&S - and bought cheap sparkling wine and limes. Having twice seen Nigella Lawson combine them into a summer cocktail on inflight videos this month, I knew the recipe by heart. It was very nice to be squeezing limes in Margi's kitchen - I miss cooking.
On Sunday morning I found myself alone in Cafe Uno eating their big breakfast and slurping the 'Liver Cleanser' juice drink (Dynorod in a glass). As I paged through an article in Women's Daily about Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt, Abba's The Winner Takes It All came on the muzak. Muriel's Wedding or what?
James emailed me to recommend feeding the fish in Darwin. I thought he was taking the piss, but no: Aquascene is a fantastic place, an accidental and unique tourist attraction that started when a resident started scattering bread at the shore for fish. Fifty years on, hundreds of fish swim up to the purpose-built jetty every high tide, fishy mouths agape and ready to eat out of your hand. These are not tiddlers: some are three feet long, and there are stingrays, too. June, who was in charge on the day I was there, quit her job at the post office to feed the fish for a living. "Totally unstressful," she said, "and cheaper than a psychiatrist".
Out at Katherine Gorge, our guide Mark let a couple of us climb over the fence to inspect the fascinating Aboriginal rock paintings. Someone, not me, grabbed a branch of a dead tree as he clambered through and the whole tree came down.
Peter, our pleasingly grumpy guide for the day trip to Litchfield National Park, has been working with a local Aborigine community to develop tourist visits. Plans have stalled. Partly, Peter said, this is due to a general mistrust of white Australians, but mostly it's because of the Aborigines' short-term and communal view of business and profit, which prevents commitment to such a scheme. It is a shame, because visitors like me end up with no sense of Australia's indigenous people beyond the barefooted "derros" staggering round the bus station, and the noble savages creating enigmatic x-ray paintings on the rocks.
Feeding the crocodiles at Litchfield Park is a magical experience. You lower a slice of pig's head into the water on a string, and a croc comes gliding up. If you jerk the line at the right moment, the croc comes leaping out of the water to get the meat. It's exhilarating. And the more I hear about crocodiles, the creepier they seem. They are cannibals, their immune system is the most sophisticated on earth, and they have been around for longer than anything else.
Rounding off our day at Litchfield with a swim in the (croc-free) falls, I saw a large snake slipping silently off a rock into the water. I was a bit jumpy after that.
Melbourne, San Francisco and Toronto up next. Then home for Easter.
