Port Arthur is Tasmania's most famous
spot for both good and bad reasons. 'Most famous' and 'good and bad'
being subjective evaluations. I must contend that Port Arthur, and
probably Tasmania, was relatively unknown to me until April 28th
1996. No one would argue that what happened that day definitely falls
into an area categorised by superlatives much stronger than 'bad'.
The small penal colony that still stands as a poignant reminder of
Australia's convict history went from minor tourist attraction to
world wide news in one day.
With the utmost respect to anyone
affected by a simpleton's murderous rampage that claimed 35 innocent
people, I admit I was more fascinated by that event than the century
that proceeded it. Unlike the morbid curiosity of gore enthusiasts,
like slowing down at the scene of a car crash, I wanted to pay my
respects by visiting the memorial dedicated to the victims. What
could impel anyone to commit such a crime still baffles my mind, and
I wanted to remove rationale by just experiencing what it was like to
be in the same spot.
Unfortunately the days events totally
changed any sombre sentiments I might have felt there. Not only did I
have too much fun before and after visiting, the company I kept was
oblivious to the significance of the place beyond what the tour guide
was willing to discuss. Even though he went to great lengths to
describe the hardships endured by the original inmates, no graphic
retelling of life over 150 years ago was going to change the fact
that Port Arthur is an amazingly beautiful spot. I said my prayers at
the memorial shrine and remained largely unaffected by what I first
thought would be the most haunting aspect of the place.
My posse for the day was comprised of
the usual three stooges in Shane, Kei and I. Forgoing $200 worth of
pre-paid tours to Port Arthur just to join us, two lovely Canadian
girls in Dominique and Chelsea took up the remaining seats in the
last day of service provided by the rented Lancer. They had caught
our flight from Melbourne, a trip I slept through after spending a
few hours the night previous trying to sleep on Shane's hostel floor.
We bumped into them in Hobart as they tried to find their hostel near
ours by heading in the opposite direction to which we were returning
home by. With four days in Tasmania, they were cramming in every
spare moment of shopping in Hobart between the occasional distraction
of a tourist site. Overly friendly they quickly found favour with us
and made a five person crew for most of their four days.
Our first stop was at a blowhole, an
arch and a Devils kitchen which were all caves in a cliff face with
varying degrees of land remaining above them. March flies swarmed
like locusts and hurried us along after taking the obligatory photos
of sheer cliff faces that endangered underwear just by peering over
them. Despite a cool breeze, the sun shone consistently enough to
prompt us into having a swim at Eaglehawk Neck. Small glassy barrels
broke gently on the shore spoiling the otherwise crystal clear azure
blue water of the Tasman sea. I taught the girls how to body surf,
and while mastering the face full of sand approach, more practise
would be necessary before they could scoot along the face of a wave
like a grinning piece of bikini clad flotsam.
The road leading to Port Arthur was in
the same condition as most of Tasmania's roads and always made you
feel like you must have been lost on some deserted country lane.
Admission wasn't cheap, as we had come to expect, but the site itself
had at least a days worth of interest to justify the cost. Like a
great prize awaited he who bankrupted themselves first, we paid an
extra $12 each to visit the Isle of the Dead. That was where all the
Port Arthur residents went to await the Resurrection believing that
once risen, they would be able to walk across water and leave the
island. Like the Hastings Caves, it was paramount that we didn't
touch anything lest our 'death wax' eat through the memorial
headstones like we were xenomorphs with acid for blood. The same
respect couldn't be shown to the islands inhabitants as they were
buried everywhere in unmarked graves and the entire tour took place
on top of many of their resting places. A book titled 'Stiffy', or
something similar, had been written about the island, but as
educationally arousing as that sounds, the guide had managed to
exhaust my curiosity by the time we had to return to the mainland.
Numerous parts of the site had become
interactive to appeal to more than just history buffs. There was an
audio introduction to the punishment cells that read the prisoners
rights in a manner similar to what they would have actually been
given. As menacing and degrading as it sounded, it couldn't stop me
from just wishing I could burn one down and turn the solitary
confinement cell into a dutch oven. A database listed all the inmates
to have passed through and allowed one to find long lost relatives.
With an ancestor six generations previous coming on a boat from
England, I half expected to find a Wellington had been deported here
for public nudity or something. None could be found but Dominique
found a possible relative. By failing to steal anything for the
entire time, certain traits had obviously not been passed down to her
and cast doubt over any blood connection.
One could not ask for better weather
conditions and the fun of the mornings surf had prompted an early
exit knowing none of us were in a state of mind to truly grasp the
poignancy of the place. We ventured further south to the Remarkable
Cave whose appalling stench was its only remarkable feature. We
returned to the same beach for another chance to fill up our swimmers
with sand and headed back to Hobart. We ended the day a lot happier
than what I expected to be after seeing the morbid history of Port
Arthur infused into such a beautiful environment.
