In a country where long distances are the norm, flying is what people do.
Being European, I rather fancy rail travel.
I research what Queensland has to offer and, miracle, there is a train that runs three times a week. Unlike the Ghan, the luxury and extortionate option that bridges the 3000 km between Adelaide and Darwin, the 'Spirit of Queensland' turns out to be the cheapest and most comfortable choice over cars, planes and Greyhound buses. Ok, it takes longer than driving up the 1837 km of oriental coast from Brisbane to Cairns but it is fine by me.
As the train lurches through the darkening countryside, an impeccably courteous attendant brings me supper then will transform my seat into a pod-like bed, an excellent alternative to barely reclining seats at a very reasonable extra cost. The brightly-dressed middle-aged lady across the corridor talks all the time on her mobile and has yet to discover the use of earphones for watching the vapid series she seems to favour. She is exactly the sort of irritating character that gets murdered in a novel : not aware of the consequences of her actions, she would have inadvertently revealed some dark secret. The old couple in front of her are too polite to tell her she is being a nuisance. They would be the typical beyond reproach characters who snap for some obscure reason that we only discover on page 199. The courteous attendant is 'trop poli pour être honnête' and is more than likely an accomplice.
Alas, nothing dramatic happens and I sleep like a baby until I am spewed onto the Proserpine platform, bleary-eyed, at 6h30 am and dropped at my accommodation, near Airlie Beach, the heart of the Great Barrier Reef, my first stop since Brisbane. In the latter, I only have seen a wonderfully curated museum, where art is not displayed by style or periods but, intuitively, by themes, colours, shapes and have stayed in a peaceful hostel not taken over by backpackers in the New Farm area of leafy streets, good cafés and riverside restaurants.
I shoulder my rucksack towards the reception of the Bush village Budget accommodation. Cabins hide behind palm trees raucous with birdsongs. Faded hammocks sag invitingly in their shade. A small pool glitters by a verandah where Sue and John, the caretakers, are breakfasting. No worries, they show me where to drop my bag, give me directions to the 'best coffee in the area' and caution me not to swim at the nearby beach 'because of crocs and stingers'. Box jelly fish are around until the end of May and it seems to be always the season for crocs.
Sue feeds rainbow lorikeets twice a day. They gather in a keenly focused and shrieky prattle. Yellow-crested cockatoos flock en masse to disperse the smaller colourful birds, who dart over my head in a volley of ruby and emerald arrows. A couple of bush turkeys chase each other in an indignant flurry of black feathers. In the backyard, Japanese bantams scratch the dirt and ducks waddle. In the evenings, I share coronas with John and Sue and recover from the most snorkelling I have ever done and the most wonders I have ever seen.
A cyclone struck Airlie Beach two years ago and where the waves hit, the coral lies in bleached heaps but everywhere else is stunning. Further north in Queensland, the water is warmer and more bleaching has occurred but there are still areas of sheer beauty, or so I was told, in the 2300km reef that stretches all the way to Papua New Guinea. Shall I mention the crown-of-thorns starfish which munched through 50% of the coral cover in 25 years or pollution from pesticides and various chemicals filtering from the land? Conservationists have a hell of a job and the very recently elected government in Australia doesn't seem to put ecological concerns on top of its list, to put it mildly. I shall not mention Adani. (https://www.stopadani.com)
The sun filters through the clear blue sea like rays of light through clouds. My mask fills with water, my nose runs, my eyes sting, I tire to kick my flippers in an agitated swell but I wouldn't be anywhere else in the world. A strong wind almost prevents us to sail to the reef but, thankfully, it dies down to a manageable breeze. The tide ebbs and our small group swims in quieter pools, edged by coral walls teeming with multicoloured life. Staghorn corals are indigo or show an indigo tip, a sign of regeneration. Tiny fluo dots fleet away among the sturdy lobes of brain corals and the long flat ears of table corals. I float among shoals of blue yellow-tailed surgeon fish, among butterfly, cardinal and banner fish, marvel at the stunning glow of the emerald chromies and at the cobalt flesh inside giant clams...
An old, battered, loggerhead turtle swim placidly in front of me. I won't spot the 3 metre reef shark or the enormous stingray that others, better swimmers than me, have seen. But it is enough marvels for one day.
On a tour to the Whitsundays, I walk on Whitehaven beach, deemed to be the second most beautiful beach in the world. I don't know what you think but, were I a beach, I wouldn't want to be in bloody trip advisor. I would wish for my white sands to only show the rare lucky footprint and to only hear the waves lapping and the shrieks of beady-eyed gulls. Still, it is astonishingly, truly, a gem. Goannas stomp ponderously under picnic tables, hoping for scraps to fall in their toothy jaws. They are a diminutive species related to the Komodo dragon. I wouldn't want to walk on their tail by mistake.
The very tall tour guide has legs like matchsticks emerging from wide shorts and a bagfull of tales. A few years ago, a coastal taipan, the second most venomous snake in Australia, nay, in the world, slithered among groups of tourists munching on their sandwiches on that very beach. The taipan is one of them 'cigarette snakes': when you are bitten, you hardly have time to smoke your last ciggy. Ah, and a saltwater croc found its way into Airlie beach lagoon, the swimming pool at the water front. It is all very entertaining.
Still, that evening, as I walked back to my cabin in the darkness of a moonless night, I carefully scanned the path snaking its way through shadowy mangroves.
Encounters on train journeys can be the most unexpected. On my way to Cairns, the final stretch with the 'Spirit of Queensland', I share a coffee with Suzy in the cafeteria. She is one of those old ladies who don't give a hoot about their appearance. I guess this one never ever did. Her glasses, fixed with tape and elastic bands, perch askew on her long nose, her red jacket is held with the odd safety pin and a frayed flowery scarf completes the ensemble. She jumps from one rapid fire tale to another, of working on missions with aborigines and fighting for their rights throughout her life. Her son owns a solar-powered boat on the Daintree river, silent and flat-bottomed, that can approach wildlife very close. I will follow that lead.
On Fitzroy island, an hour offshore from Cairns, I relax on Nudey beach, have a cool beer in the shade and visit a sea turtle rehabilitation centre, where they are fattened up before being reintroduced into the wild, 250 of them in 15 years. Australian coasts have the most concentrated turtle population in the world. And they are suffering. From plastic ingestion, yes: it makes them float: unable to dive deep enough, they can't feed themselves and also become an easy prey to sharks lurking in the depths underneath them. But the most common reason for their dwindling numbers is hunger. The food they are used to is not in abundance anymore. The centre is ready to release a green turtle, thus named because they eat their greens. Julz had been stabbed twice and went into emergency care before arriving at Fitzroy Island rehabilitation centre, being understandably wary of humans. Who would do such a thing? I despair.
A tour takes me to the stunning Mossman gorge where I swim in cool croc-free waters and to the Daintree forest where a restaurant offers a selection of tropical fruit on the side of the plate. Did you know that oranges originally came from China and are a cross between pomelos and mandarines and that red dragon fruit make you piss pink? The latter taste as if they had been dipped in perfume.
The hills around Cairns and the Daintree are home to one of the few remaining Gondwana rainforests in Australia. The others are in northern New South Wales and in Tasmania. Gondwana was a giant landmass comprising what later became Africa, South America, Australia, Antartica and the Indian sub-continent. So, species seen in those Australian pockets that have resisted an increasingly drier climate are a testimony of what forests would have been like at that time, before those continents separated and Australia pursued its isolated way: king ferns soaring up to 9 metres and the ancestors of olive trees, of grapevines and rhododendrons. 
It has a very primitive, ancient feel, an emotion that is not dispelled by the sight of 4 metre long saltwater crocs lounging in the sun at the water's edge. Among the pictures taken by David, the owner of the 'Solar whisper' Daintree boat, is a croc eating a shark. It reminds me of one of my father's stories that used to make me squeal in delighted fear. He was a radio officer in the merchant navy for 20 years after WW2. Harbours where not so well equipped then, so unloading and loading took longer and sailors had more time on land. In Abidjan, locals came to fetch him in dugout canoes and, as they were paddling to shore, he enquired about the presence of crocodiles in the waters. No crocodile there, but plenty of sharks, he was told.
Well, the Daintree has both and both very toothy.
We drive all the way up to cape Tribulation, thus christened by Captain Cook. The barrier reef gets increasingly closer to land as one sails north. Cook had to slalom in a reef labyrinth until he hit spiky corals, the Endeavour taking water faster than the crew were able to pump it out. They had to throw tons of load overboard to make it lighter and limped to Cooktown. The hill behind the cape was named Mount Sorrow. They really didn't have a good time there.
North of the Daintree, all the way to cape York, there are no more services: except in Cooktown, there is no more electricity, no more running water. The peninsula is home to various aborigine tribes and a 4WD is mandatory.
My trip in Queensland could well continue to be unabashedly touristy, were I not to meet Lucida. She is half Maori and looks like Buffy Ste-Marie. She takes me up the mountains to meet Michaela and Felica who own a beautiful barramundi fish farm. We both drive to Stoney creek water hole and enjoy a swim in gorgeous pristine nature. Lucida writes her own songs and I accompany her on an open Mic pub crawl where she will sing some cover songs and some of her own. She is also part of 'Songs of AustraNesia', a north Queensland group of musician from Aborigine, Torres Straight, Melanesian and Polynesian origins. (https://austranesia.com.au). She is an inspiration.
I remember a conversation with John and Sue, from the Airlie beach Bush Village. Both Kiwis, they have been together a long time. John is half-Maori, and, as such, was invited by tribes in Arnhem land. Sometimes, he would leave, for long months at a time, Sue tells me. He would go walkabout. They share a look of tender humour.
I guess I answered the walkabout call.
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