
One of the things that people (usually Australians, and usually in an argument as to why it’s so much more interesting to travel in Europe than in their own country) often note about Australia is that it’s so new. A young country. And with only just over 200 years of inhabitation (or occupation, depending how you look at it) by Europeans, compared to say, Britain’s zillion, it’s sort of true.
What many people don’t consider is the tens of thousands of years of history not recorded in books or newspapers or in the foundations of sandstone buildings but written on the land by the continent’s Indigenous population, long before the arrival of the First Fleet. Sadly, it was considered they weren’t quite using the land ‘properly’ and that, coupled with the fact that Aboriginal history is passed down orally, means that it is often forgotten.
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Drying out in the early morning on Yellow Water Billabong, Kakadu NP. Canon 650D.
For a year I travelled with my Canon 50D, several lenses that weighed almost as much as the body and a 13″ iBook. Packed separately to my main backpack, the bag was heavy and it was my priority. On buses and trains it sat on my lap. I rarely let it out of my sight, and certainly never let anyone else carry it.
One afternoon partway through my trip I arrived in the Indian city of Pushkar. The maze of whitewashed alleyways were confusing and I was completely disoriented. I had no idea how to find the guesthouse I was looking for. I sat on my big pack outside a bakery and, using my trusty and cheap Indian SIM, called the owner of the hostel.
He was there in ten minutes to pick me up on his motorbike. He gestured for me to give him my smaller pack, so I could hop on the back, my hands on my knees as I tried to balance under the weight of the bigger pack. I reluctantly handed over my bag of tricks and just as I went to get on the bike, he began to drive away.
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