Day 28: The daily ma-ma alarm and a Sydneysider day
Samar Halarnkar -
Sunday, May 11, 2008 3:16 PM
Ah, the joys of ocean swimming.
Our friend and host Viral Patel -- an equities analyst whose 36th floor Sydney office boasts views that stretch to tomorrow --has a great way of starting the weekend. Every Saturday he drives 10 minutes in his old Hyundai to a local beach. We clambered into the car with him; I kept my swimsuit handy in case I felt like taking the plunge.
After gawping at large, crested cockatoos (they look like parrots painted white, given a crown and pumped with steroids) and listening to their loud screeching, watching the fit and pretty girls jog by, and wolfing down a ham-and-cheese sandwich, I joined Viral in the calm waters of a Pacific ocean tamed by Sydney's numerous coves and bays.
Calm yes, warm no. The chill of the water on a Sydney autumn morning took my breath away. After I got back my normal breathing, I powered on. Ocean swimming takes away the excuses of pool swimming. When swimming in a pool, however large, you know there is refuge when a lap is over. There is always that temptation to stop for a moment. In the ocean, there is no such option. You head offshore and swim until your muscles force you to stop, not your mind.
Like most Sydney beaches, Balmoral -- where we were swimming -- had a clearly marked swimming area. The water was crystal clear. I could actually see fish below me. When I last swam in the Arabian Sea in Goa two years ago I remember how turbid the water was. Of course, the currents there were stronger and the waves pronounced. I struggled to stay the course and keep the shore in sight.
There were no such problems at Balmoral. I could swim the entire length of the beach in calm, salty water. Onshore, a handful of middle-aged men in tight Speedos lay prostrate, tanning themselves. A sixty-something woman was swimming near me and another retiree, a man, was swimming further out. I haven't seen fitter retirees than in this country. Today's paper has an amazing story of a petite but very fit 50-year-old woman who swam 80 metres offshore and rescued a much younger man who had a part of his leg chomped off by a shark. Older people are outdoors all over Sydney: running, walking, sailing, cycling, and swimming.
It's not just older Sydneysiders, as the locals call themselves. A few days ago in the business district, I saw many evening runners with backpacks. Why the backpacks? They were professionals who simply packed their day clothes into the backpacks, changed into their shorts and tees and started running. During the afternoon lunch break, runners fill the street, and some even play soccer in the parks that abound here. Every office offers its employees showers.
What a great city -- except for its tendency to name half the city Macquarie. There's Macquarie Steet, Macquarie University, Macquarie Park, Macquarie Place, Macquarie School of Management, Macquarie Hotel, Macquarie Lighthouse, Macquarie Centre Bus Station, even a Lady Macquarie's Chair. So, who was Macquarie?
That would be Lachlan Macquarie, the colonial administrator of New South Wales (of which Sydney is the capital) from 1810 to 1821 and the man regarded as the real founder of Australia as a country, rather than a continental prison camp. If Bombay was Sydney -- still ruled by Brits, lapsed or otherwise -- Bartle Frere would occupy the same position as Macquarie. Frere was Bombay's governor in the 1860s, the man responsible for demolishing its fort walls and creating the sweeping vistas of south Mumbai as we know it today. So, instead of having everything renamed after our Maratha hero, Chhattrapati Shivaji, imagine a Frere Terminus, Frere International Airport, Frere Road, Frere Chowk, maybe even Frere Dhobi Ghat.
We won our independence, and of course Shivaji Maharaj won the day. In Sydney, there is no one to challenge the reign of Macquarie.
Later in the day we saw Billy Elliot, a high-energy musical staged in a sprawling, immaculate theatre called the Capitol. It could match the best in New York or London.
Our stay in Sydney was made particularly comfortable and memorable because of Viral and his wife Susan, a school teacher. They put us up in their cosy loft, where we awoke every morning -- alas, tomorrow will be our last day in Sudney -- not to a cellphone alarm but to the soft call of "Ma-ma, ma-ma". It's the morning wakeup from 2-year-old Celine, Viral and Susan's little imp of a daughter calling out for some morning loving. I'm considering bounding down the stairs tomorrow morning and making her pleas to her mama my cellphone alarm.
Later, that evening, we were walking along the wharf at the foot of the skyscrapers of the business district, when I saw these bronzed manhole covers. Each one had a quote from and little biography of a noted Australian writer or poet. The area is called the Sydney writer's walk. Any city that honours its writers in such a casual but eloquent manner has got to be admired.
At the wharf, we also saw why Sydney works so well, gives its people so time to work hard and play hard. Five ferry lines radiating out to the far seaside suburbs terminate at the Circular Quay; above the ferries is a metro station and on the roads, files of buses. Further down the road, there are monorail and tram lines as well. Transport is quick and fast. As we got off our flight earlier this week, we made our way to the airport train station, where we bought a $150 ticket. It was valid for a week on trains, buses and ferries. It will take us back to the airport on Monday morning for our long haul north.
It is with regret that we will say goodbye to glorious Sydney. No city has captured my affections like it has. Forests, theatre, cliffs, movies, beaches, transport -- it has everything.
Tomorrow, we go to the Sydney fish market, then -- hopefully -- spend a quiet day preparing for the great leap across the Pacific: a 15-hour direct flight to Vancouver, Canada. From down under to up above.