FLYING LIKE A PENGUIN
WHERE IT ALL BEGAN
It was all a rush of last minute packing and checking and re
checking, and to be honest I didn't know if I was coming or
going. Tonight I would be on a plane, my very first time, and
flying away from Australia, away from home. My parents were in
confusion, and I wasn't much better. There was so much gear and it seemed to weigh a tonne but it all disappeared into my
haversack and airways bag. Well most of it. Some I would have to carry.
Maybe I should put all this in perspective. This year, 2021,
Is a year of large changes in our world. So I thought back to a time when I had lots of memories. I dug out my trip diaries and decided to tell a story of my first big adventure in the world. When I was packing my haversack, it was in 1967. The story you will read about on the following pages, happened then.
A yell from dad. There was someone at the front door. In those
days the family used the front door of our house much more than
today. I went to see who, and it turned out to be a neighbour from across the road. The son actually, as the old lady who owned the place didn't walk very much. Surprise as we never spoke that much except to yell hello. There was a phone call, and the caller was waiting for me. We didn't have a phone in those days. Most people didn't, unless you were in business. In fact, we had never been rung up on the old lady's phone, ever. I rushed over the road and up the front steps.
It was a good friend of mine, Alan, and he was ringing
from Canada. I was getting really apprehensive. It turned out to be a well timed "Bon Voyage " call. It thought it a nice gesture. I would be visiting him in the coming weeks.
Maybe I should fill in a few gaps before we finally head for the
airport. The plane doesn't leave until 7pm, so I have time.
I was 27 years old and not unlike many people my age, wanted to
travel. Somewhere. It was 1967, and most young people, if they
did travel, headed for Britain. At this time in our country's
development, overseas travel wasn't so common. One was regarded
as adventurous or rich. Commercial jets had only been around less than 7 years, but there were stirring's. People no longer had that interesting, but long sea voyage to endure. The age of sea travel to Europe was coming to an end. But not quite yet. Cruises were around for a long time but not as a way of getting from one side of the world to the other.
Nine to Five as a junior clerk at the oil company and life was
needing a change. Besides 'everyone' went to London. No need to
stay at home now. All you needed was lots of time and the ticket
to get there. There were plenty of jobs for Australians and
places to sleep at, then you could travel around a bit more. Oh
the innocence of youth.
I joined the Oil company some 10 years earlier, and
had managed to qualify as an accountant. My friends, Alan and
Reg, from scouts, had actually emigrated to Canada. I thought of doing the same, but having to renounce my Australian citizenship to become a Canadian, was a bit over the top.
My parents weren't exactly over the moon about me shooting off to foreign lands where all sorts of perils awaited. I was going,
only just exactly when, I had not yet decided. It came in an
unusual way.
At this stage of my life, I was heavily into Scouting. I had been to two Australian Jamborees and the desire to make a World
Jamboree was smouldering away. Then came the announcement that
Australia was sending a contingent to the World Jamboree in the
United States. At our local level we could nominate one leader to go. I nominated.
So did someone else, It was a fellow I knew and liked, Bill, a controversial and older scouter, and an announcement by the District Commissioner quickly came. Bill would go. I was disappointed, but I was happy that it was a friend, and I had no hard feelings. I took the dice as it was rolled, and wished him a good trip. I meant it, for it now gave me an alternative plan, which in the long run, was far better.
I would go as a visitor, tour around where I wanted to, and go on to Britain, and maybe even Europe. To dovetail my trip in with the Jamboree, I would leave Sydney in July (1967) and fly to the United States.
Time flew, and in due course, I did all those things necessary to make the trip. And by myself, with no travel agent. Down to Qantas Empire Airways to buy a single ticket to London via the States. Most people went via the traditional route through Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) and not so many ventured to the Americas. How times have changed. Then there were the inoculations, for without that Yellow Card, you wouldn't get into most countries. Those exotic names like Yellow Fever and Smallpox that have today almost died from the memory. The latter made me sick, and I remember telling the boss that I had been bitten by something. A spider, I think. My farewell gift from the company and my workmates was a little unusual, but necessary. A haversack. Not one of the long super models of today with internal frame and twenty five pockets, but the super model of that era. A canvas Paddy Pallin "Explorer" steel H frame with one pocket and less than 60 litres capacity.
That particular haversack was used for many years and finally
donated to the scouts some twenty years later.
Into that bag went also a 3 man tent, a Paddy Pallin "Era" japara
cotton variety and a methylated spirit stove and a suit for those
formal occasions. Goodness knows what else. Probably the most
important item, apart from the plastic Australian flag, was the
camera. A "Voigtlander Vito CD" 35mm which required both speed
and light to be set for each photo. As was the fashion in the
sixties, slides were all the go. The tally finally was 750,
enough to frighten anyone when you mentioned, "would you like to see my holiday snaps?" The camera was originally my 21st
birthday gift from mum and dad. It's still sitting in the
cupboard, overshadowed by newer technology, but probably proud
that it had seen a lot more than some of the later ones. Oops,
time to go, or we'll miss the plane.
Ah, the international terminal at Sydney in 2021, is world famous. Back in 1967 it was still on the drawing boards. Then we had something not so big, but practical. Some converted hangers tastefully camouflaged did the job, and when you were waiting, where did you wait? The Walkabout Lounge of course. The first time I had been there. And I felt important. Somewhere outside in the darkness was my plane. From memory there were only two.
Then I said my goodbyes amid much back slapping and kisses and
Tears, and through immigration onto the tarmac. I walked towards
the aircraft, a darker shape with lights showing from many
windows, stretching the entire length. It appeared to be so huge, I wondered if it would ever get off the ground. I later found out what sort of plane, from the brochure we received on board. We would be flying in a Boeing 707, the latest in civilian jet travel. Like the airport, the Jumbos were still on the drawing board, and would make the 707s look very small. The big 'Flying Kangaroo' tail emblem made me feel important. Each Qantas aircraft is named after something Australian. Ours was called 'Winton' after the town in outback Queensland where the airline started.
The plane was packed, a fair proportion being Americans and
children. I had a window seat and next to me was a girl about my age. Then we were off. That feeling when the aircraft suddenly
goes from level to oblique, was a shock. I would get used to it.
The lights of Sydney were fantastic. Just a myriad of fairy
lights. I tried to pick out landmarks, but at night, it was
almost impossible. Then we were leaving the coast and heading out into the darkness of the Pacific Ocean. The girl leaned over and had a look through the tiny window.
"First time?" she asked. I replied that it was.
"My first time also." In all the good films, the plot goes on
from here. In my story, it ended here. Anyway, I was still over
awed by the experience of flying. There were free lollies and
drinks and food, all very nice.
Our first stop was in Fiji for refuelling, some 2 hours out from
Sydney. It got a little bumpy as we prepared to land. Nandi was
very quiet and we had to leave the plane for the hour it was
being serviced. It was certainly warm, after Sydney's winter. I
had expected a lot of noise outside, but it was reasonably quiet
at the airport. Since Nandi is on the opposite side of the big
island to Suva, that was probably why.
The take off was still exciting for me. The screeching of the jet engines and that moment when the plane lifts off the ground and your stomach wonders what has happened. Hardly up in the air and you think your days have come to an end. We hit bad turbulence and bumped up and down for ages. I was strapped in tight. Didn't sleep much, due to the excitement, and a bright day emerged as we travelled into the sun, and then the Hawaiian Islands appeared on our port side. Green jewels in an azure blue sea. Pearl Harbour was laid out below us, as was Diamond Head, then we were down.
With all my cabin gear, and wearing what I had left Sydney in
some 10 hours ago, a suit with a jumper underneath for the
chilly winter departure, I nearly melted when I walked down the
staircase and onto the tarmac. It was only 9.30am but already 27 degrees Celsius, with at least 100% humidity. I quickly shed the jumper and by the time I cleared customs, also the coat. The pack is looking like a grotesque bundle, with jumper, suit coat, moleskin trousers, cardigan and newspaper, all somehow tied to the top. I just could not easily handle it yet, and needed a few more days experience at packing. The local bus into Honolulu with the crowds of people was too daunting with my baggage, so I had to take a taxi.
About 14km and it cost me $5.30. May be a quick word or two on
money. Back in 1967 the cost of living was probably just about
the same as it is now, with some things much more expensive than
now and some things the other way. But it was all tied to the
earning capacity of that time. I was earning $65 per week then as a qualified accountant in industry, so that taxi fare wasn't as cheap as first appears. In fact, today it costs about $40 in a taxi for the same distance in Sydney. The US dollar was then about 90 cents Australian. (Today it's something like $1.35). This is a holiday, so forget the boring details like money and back to Honolulu.
The apartments I had booked into were made of wood, painted
white and whilst comfortable, had probably been around since the
1930s. They had my reservation, yes, but not my money order. I
had to pay again for my night's accommodation. Don't laugh, but the daily tariff was $6.24. I resolved to get my money back from the post office in North Sydney when I returned. The room even had its own bathroom, sort of. It was a share with the room next door. First in, locked the door on the other side of the room. Two hours into my occupation there was a loud banging on the wall. I had forgotten to undo the bolt when I had finished showering.
It was so hot and humid, my shirt was soaked every time I moved.
A vending machine outside the units sold Coca Cola. You put coins in and out came a can (I still called them tins then). America was certainly progressive. These machines were as yet unseen by me, back in Australia. I cashed $20 with a traveller’s cheque and headed for the beach. Not exactly Bondi, but Waikiki had a name, and I had to sample it. Now everyone who was sunbaking had a straw or raffia mat to lay on. I understood why. The sand lacked the clean golden stuff we are spoilt with. Into the water. Like a tepid bath and flat. Where were the waves? I found out the big "ones" were on the other side of the island. There was no incentive to lay around, as I was white and they were brown. This has nothing to do with race, just that the Europeans all had great tans, and I was embarrassed. Not to mention my standard issue boxer togs, looking a little skimpy against the prevailing knee length variety. I went back to the hotel, for that was its official title, and changed, and retrieved my money from under the bed. I had been warned not to leave anything wrapped up in my towel whilst swimming. What a pain, as we always did back home.
Honolulu wasn't the Mecca of high rise and shopping malls, then.
Difficult to describe, somewhere between a country town and an
island resort. A bit like Sydney’s Manly, with narrow streets and fairly flat, and a bit like our coastal resort town of Port Macquarie, with lots of people. Then there was a touch of the Gold Coast’s Surfers Paradise, the showy side. The population was very mixed. A lot of European, both locals and tourists. A lot of islanders and a lot of in between. Then there were many military personnel.
It was really too hot to walk around the streets, the humidity so draining. I only had brown leather shoes out which were not too comfortable in the weather, but bare feet were definitely out of the question, on the hot pavements. In the end, I went back to the room and rested in the cool. The lack of sleep on the plane and shorter night as we flew into the rising sun, losing some 4 hours, made me tired. No air conditioning in the unit and the perspiration still flows the moment you move. But it is cooler. Then outside again.
The high pitched Yankee accent is still unusual to me, and everyone has one. There are loads of cars, and typically as in the movies, they are big. Yank Tanks we call them back home. I explored the main shopping area, with its large market bazaar called the International Market Place, set out under big ancient fig trees, but found little else to attract me. I wanted a tour of the "USS Arizona", the memorial out in Pearl Harbour, built around the protruding funnel of the battle ship that was sunk by the Japanese on the 7th December, 1941. The ferry left at 9.30 in the morning and I had arrived at 11am, so that was out. Anyway, it cost $7.50! There were no other cheaper tours, so I decided to take the public bus from downtown, and go to Leani Heights, a residential area up in the hills. You didn't pay the driver, but had to put the exact coin, a quarter (25c), into a slot next to him. He then hit a lever or something, and the accumulated coins dropped down out of sight. I had to change buses somewhere out there in suburbia, but I had a transfer ticket which I showed and finally, the end of the line. I got out but I only had a couple of minutes before the bus set off back down the hill. I wasn't sure when there would be another bus, so I didn't want to be caught.
There were great views of the city below, some 2,000 feet below, I reckoned. The residents were certainly lucky here, and less
humidity. A lady told me the bus driver would change bank notes
but you had to put the coin in the slot. If you gave him a dollar
note and said nothing, he would give you 5 bus tickets. Not much
use to me. I looked at the houses as we wound down the hills. Not large, just average to small, most constructed out of brick or weatherboard. We went through Waikiki, about 3 miles out from the city of Honolulu. About 50% islanders here compared to about 80% I saw out in the suburbs. Then we were passing the old Palace of the Hawaiian kings, now the local parliament house. Unfortunately it was too quick to get the camera out.
Don't know why I never knew it before, but discovered that
electricity was only half the voltage of home, only 120v and no
earth pins on any of the plugs. I also found out that the light
bulbs were all screwed in, no bayonets. Being a hot place, about
60% of the blokes were in shorts, like me, but those long baggy
knee length Bermuda's you saw in films. Long pants had cuffs, so long gone at home. Of course today, fashions change every year, and seemingly we follow what happens overseas very quickly. Probably what is foisted upon us by stores who take what overseas supplies they can get.
My first memorable experience was sitting down on the beach front just on sunset, about 8pm, watching the sun set off to my right. The colours and the ambience were washing over me. Even the noise of the cars was lost in the surf folding over and dropping down on the sand. I walked along a few streets in the cool. Narrow streets with white washed wooden houses, often with groups of young people sitting outside, talking or drinking from bottles, and playing cards. The students, the drifters and the tourists. Amongst this, the locals also. How long would these houses and streets remain before the inevitable high rises would swallow them up?
I went back and sat in the front garden of the hotel for an hour
or so. There were 3 young people there, two 16 year old girls and a 17 year old boy. We talked. It was interesting to hear their views on life and the vastly different lifestyle they had. They were from the mainland, on holiday. Then I went inside and packed for tomorrow.
I had a shave with my new razor, the first such shave in two
years, as I had been using an electric one at home. Only 2 cuts.
Maybe I was still cranky about having to pay $5.30 taxi fare or
the $6.24 again for the hotel room! I packed and repacked. I
really have too much gear. Extra suit, pants, jumpers. Sleep came easily, despite the heat.
I awoke at 6.35am. Early you might say. Not really, as I had to
leave at 6.45am to catch the airport shuttle bus, down the road.
Panic. I managed to grab the gear and rush down the road to the
nearby Moana Hotel where the Grey Line bus would pick up for the
airport. I made it with time to spare, and we got to the airport
at 7.40am, and the fare was a reasonable $1.50. There are custom
and plant quarantine checks in and out of the Islands, but they
didn't seem to worry about my haversack. Maybe they saw me arrive yesterday.
You leave the terminal building and get into a small bus that
drives across the strip to the waiting plane, then climb the
stairs to the aircraft doorway. The same as yesterday when I
arrived. The good thing about here, was not having to walk to and from the terminal in the heat or rain, unlike home. Although they do give you an umbrella, so I was told once.
The plane was a Douglas DC8, which looked exactly the same as the Boeing I left Australia in. We left at 9.25am and headed directly out to sea. Great view of the reef and the surf hitting it, but little of the island itself. Lucky again for me, as I had a window seat, and could see bits of island for a short while, then just ocean and cloud. The stewardess's are dressed in sarongs with big printed hibiscus flowers all over them. Since I had changed planes, I was now flying on a United Airlines machine. No doubt about the Americans, we had an in flight movie to while away the 4 hours to San Francisco. "Africa, Texas Style" was the attraction. It helped pass the time. I took it for granted when the cabin crew pulled down a film screen, and the projector at the rear, gave us the movie. Something for our plane from Sydney to think about.
Then lunch. It was a hot meal and it was needed, as I had missed
breakfast. Above us the sky was dark blue, meaning there is
little air. We were at 33,000 feet and at another 10,000 or so,
it would probably be black. If we could breath. I sat back and
thought of my brief visit to the islands. Different to home and
full of things to sample and explore, but at another time. Onward
to the mainland. So much change. I remember in Woolworths in
Waikiki, they had car radios with a built in tape recorder, and
it was in stereo! Would have been nice to have one to show off at home, and at only $60. Then the thought I would have to buy a car first to put it in. The old 1961 Ford Falcon ute went last week.
The mainland! At first just a smudge then gradually getting more
perspective. Green and brown then buildings, and look at that,
the Golden Gate Bridge. Then down to land. The stewardesses had
already changed into something more European, a traditional black skirt and coat with the service cap perched on top.
Through all the formalities and then outside. The era before shuttles. I caught a bus (I’m an old hand now after Honolulu) for $1.10 into the city terminal and walked around a bit, up and down a few streets to get the feel of the place. The temperature is so different here. A cool 19 degrees C, and no humidity. I stopped at a phone box and checked the book for the address of the YMCA, the recommended place to stay. Some more walking and there I was. I got a newly refurbished room for $4.10 on the first floor (or as the yanks say, the 2nd floor) which still had the painter finishing up the window sills. He said he would leave me to it and come back tomorrow. In later years, the Village People gave a new dimension to the YMCA, which was probably there back in 1967, but for me, it was just a cheap and reasonable place to stay. There were other hotels about advertising rooms from $3 a night, but the 'Y' had class.
I went for a walk around the city streets. Not unlike Sydney in
some respects, and they still had trams (called street cars)
which was a good plus for me, as Sydney had taken hers off 6
years back. I had tea at a cafe, the hamburger costing more than
home, at 75c. The meat, as in Hawaii, was highly seasoned, and
seemed off. Even the butter like on the islands, was rancid.
To move around the States, I had purchased before I left home, A Greyhound bus ticket giving me unlimited travel in the United
States and Canada for 99 days (just over 3 months), all for
US$99. Since bus travel is the norm here, nearly every town had
some long distance service connection. All you had to do was book ahead. I found the Greyhound depot and booked tomorrow night for Spokane, up in the east of Washington State, near the Canadian border.
Then some window shopping and some real shopping. In a
supermarket/drug/clothes shop, I purchased some razor blades
which were cheap at 37c. It was Sunday but the shops were open.
Not like home when dead on noon, Saturday, they locked the doors.
And this shop would be open until 11pm tonight.
Lots of picture shows (movie houses here, but I will call them
cinemas like today) around. The big ones were expensive, around
$3 a seat, but there were plenty of second rate theatres at $1 to $1.75. Many theatres had 3 or 4 movies on the one programme. Food is dearer here than home, as is travelling costs. Clothes seem to be on a par or even cheaper.
At 9pm the streets were still very busy with people and cars and
electric trolley buses and trams. Long trams to what we had in Sydney a few years ago. The fares on these were: short journey:15c and long journey:25C. I saw the famous cable trams and planned to have a ride on these tomorrow. Couldn't afford a haircut here, not at $2 plus a tip! Even the sandwiches are a little on the high side, at between 50c to 90c for a cheese/beef or ham. San Francisco is much like Sydney in many respects. I like the feel of it and feel at home. Of course there are no pubs, just cocktail bars and the prices I saw from outside were extortionate. The exception was beer, I noticed, which was only
about 25c a glass. Probably not very potent, but at this stage in my life I didn't drink yet. In fact I had never been into a public bar.
I planned my itinerary for tomorrow and just wanted some sleep. I had a nice refurbished room here at the YMCA and every one very pleasant. The later era of the 'Y' being one of the centres of what is now known as gay culture in San Francisco wasn't evident, or at least to me. I suppose it was some sort of magnet for probably the last 20 years, but discreet. Then came the 'Flower Power' revolution and for a while, nothing was really discreet. But 1967 was still the era of traditional family values, and football for men and whatever it was considered appropriate for the females.
Apart from adjusting to jet lag, there was daylight saving to get used to. We didn't have it back at home, but here you had to allow for it in timetables and open times. Confusing, as some cities and some organisations use standard time zone and some daylight.
It was now Monday 31st, and a cool but clear summer day. I
wondered if the city, subject to the cold ocean currents, ever
got hot. Out there, one could see wisps of fog across the bay. I slept in a little, due to the journey and a whole new set of
concepts, and left at 10.15. First stop was to put my haversack
into the bus station. I wasn't going to carry that around all
day. I walked to Powell Street and caught a cable tram. it was
fascinating watching the driver work the lever with the jaws
attached. They told me these jaws are replaced every 10-14 days.
People joined from both sides and if no seats, crammed into the
small compartment, or hung on the outside in very precarious
positions. The fare collection was interesting. The conductor
registered his fares by pulling a lever near the roof which
tripped a meter. In addition to the jaws lever to pull the tram
along on the continuously moving cable, the driver had another
big lever to work an independent brake. And you need it for the
steep hills they travel down. Also, the conductor has a brake as well. At the end of the run, driver, conductor and willing
passengers would literally push the tram around 180º on a
turntable. We went down to Fisherman's Wharf, and I got off to
walk around this famous icon of the city. Very cosmopolitan with
outdoor markets and loads of stalls selling seafood, particularly lobsters which were cooked in large pots in the street. Old sailing ships lined the dockside, many open for inspection. Famous restaurants like Aliotos and Fisherman Grotto faced the water.
I decided I would take a Bay cruise for an hour and view the city from out on the water. It was very cold and blowy but still a great trip. We went to the Narrows and sailed right under the massive Golden Gate Bridge. It is really huge from underneath and painted a Tuscan red colour. You could not see the top of the bridge as it was hidden in cloud, as were the hills to the north around Sausalito. Then across the Bay and under the Oakland-San Francisco Bridge, or 'Bay' bridge as it seems to be called. This one is 4 miles long and is part suspension and part cantilever with a tunnel in the centre where it goes across a small island, called Treasure Island. This island houses a US naval station. The bridge is double decked, with north and south bound traffic on top of each other. We sailed close to Alcatraz Island, still a prison but soon to be closed. Not many escaped from here as the treacherous currents usually prevented it. Back in the city, I walked for a while covering a few miles. I found the crookedest street in the world, Lombard Street, vibrant with colourful flowers. Across the way was Telegraph Hill and nearby, Russian Hill, so named from the early wild days of sail and gold. I walked down Market Street, one of the main business thoroughfares and poked in and out of government and civic buildings (always free)and parks and fountains. Hollywood was not far away, in a visual sense. In the grounds of the Opera House, I was able to watch a scene of the TV series, "I Spy" being made. (Today I can't remember the series, only the name. It starred Robert Culp.)
A long walk to the Dolores Mission. I had wanted to see one of
these Spanish Missions and this seemed to be in all the tourist
brochures. It was just as the photographs depicted it. Built in
1776, it was typical mission with a well preserved church and
cemetery and pleasant outbuildings. I walked back to Market Street and caught a tram. My legs were feeling a little tired and away from the water, it was