My own belief in my own personal God, who happens, rather predictably given my nationality and culture, to manifest himself in the Christian image, has only been strengthened by my travels. It is not that I have grown more dogged, more convinced that my own doctrine, the personality, appearance and back story that I personally adhere to when I call to mind the concept of God is the 'right' one. It is more than I have grown ever more convinced that God, in a form unknowable and unseeable and therefore rather a pointless thing to be arguing about, does exist. In nature, which in itself is a higher power, and a force ungovernable by humans, however hard we may try. In my mind, whether attributable to a divine voice or simply a conscience. But most of all, in the people who seek him. Her. It. They.
We go to the Sydney Botanical Garden. We have long since realised we are most easily pleased by natural wonders, and left rather cold by man made monuments to efficiency or progress. We are good old fashioned country bumpkins (M will protest this characterisation) and so we know, already, we are going to love this.
We have travelled to the other side of the world. What marvels of science, biology and survival will we find here! What crazily different organisms? What every day miracles that the Australian people have become so used to?
We are not disappointed.
In a huge web sits a huge Golden Orb spider, large enough for her eyes to be easily visible, bulbous bodied and beautiful and, of course, very dangerous. If you happen to be a male spider, that is.
The Ceiba Speciosa tree, otherwise known as a Silk Floss tree, towers above us, its trunk covered in ominous looking spikes to prevent unwary possums from shinning up it or eating it. When it flowers it will produce fruit in cases, protected by an inner layer of silk.
We walk through an area in which the palm trees seem rather the worse for wear and discover that the 'wear' in question took the form of a population of Flying Foxes which had grown so dense that it had become impossible to walk that way at dusk. The Flying Fox, if you're not familiar with it, is a bat with a wing span of up to 1.5 metres and a face which is remarkably reminiscent of a small fox. It's difficult to conceive of it being a real creature. But if Flying Snakes, Fiddler Crabs (one huge claw and one tiny one), and Wombats (like a badger sized Guinea pig with the face of a koala) can exist, then why not?
The massive bat population needed rehousing for the survival of the trees (and the sanity, presumably, of the garden staff) and this task was undertaken by basically persuading the Flying Foxes that their current location was no longer bearable and so perhaps they should, um, relocate themselves. I've known businesses employ a rather similar tactic on staff.
Loud noises early in the morning and at dusk soon drove them out, with no harm other than a bit of an earache and they relocated to the Paddington Rainforest Garden, where they became somebody else's problem. I can't help thinking that if this happened in South East Asia, much as I love it, the bats might not be so carefully preserved. Everybody would be out taking pot shots for their dinner.
We encounter the rather brilliantly named Amorphophallus Bulbiger (rather similar, though much smaller, than the famous Titan Arum) The fruit it produces is rather reminiscent of a certain sexual organ and produces a disgusting smell to go with it. There is no other discernible point to the cultivation of this plant by humans. Even so, we all hand around staring at it and sniffing it just a tiny bit too long to pretend nonchalance.
We hear, for the first of many times, that bush fires are necessary for many of Australia's native plants who require the intense heat to propogate. I look at the plants with new respect, these foliage forged in fire, and it strikes me that humankind has always assumed fire to be a tool for its own use and somehow not in evidence were some cave man not to have one day decided to see what happens when you idly rub two sticks together. Nature has been using fire for centuries. Humans jump back, burned, by a candle flame. Nature has been incinerating itself and being reborn from the flames long before we even invented the idea of the phoenix.
Our guide tells us of the now inconceivable stupidity of the early settlers, who arrived, regarded, somewhat superciliously, the actions of the Aboriginal dwellers who had been making a good healthy living out of the flora and fauna for decades, cleared the ground of indigenous plant life and planted cauliflower and broccoli. For so long we have failed to listen to each other. We have also failed to listen to our natural planet. Needless to day, the broccoli plantations, not being suited to the climate, failed too. The indigenous plants were indigenous plants because, it just so happens, they thrive here. Only when the settlers faced starvation, did they finally consider listening to the natives, both vegetal and human.
Humans, in our own history and in so far as we have made our mark on the larger history of the natural world, have not exactly covered ourselves in glory. Nor, in our thousands of years experience, do we seem to have learned, simply transferring mistakes from one situation to another, even where the circumstances are so obviously similar it seems amazing that no one could have made the analogy.
Our guide points out the markings on concrete slabs on the wall built for the governor by the convicts, denoting who made the slab as proof of work. She shows us a tree being grown from a fossil discovered in the heart of the Blue Mountains, noting also that the site of this has long since been built over. She shows us another flower which produces a nasty scent and tells us how this was used by the despotic ruler to punish the people for rioting against him.
By the time we finally pause to examine the beautiful Lotus Flower, a plant of enormous religious significance, not least because of its growth out of the murkiest muddiest condition, I understand how important it is as a symbol of hope. My faith in God may have increased throughout this trip but as I live and learn I have to admit that I can't say the same for my faith in humans. Even so, the Lotus Flower grows. For some unknown reason it seems to me that God still, somehow, believes in us. And we need that hope. God, in so many religions, represents redemption, a second chance, be it through reincarnation, a conceptual and spiritual 're-birth' or a series of good deeds. We need to believe that we can start again, that we have the chance to do better.
My philosophical mood is blown out of my mind a little later, when I round the corner and see, across the water, the iconic outline of the beautiful Sydney Opera House. Now I have to admit that I haven't been imagining this moment for ages. In fact, there is so much of so much significance that we are doing and seeing throughout this trip, that I haven't honestly rehearsed many specific moments, other, perhaps, than those in which we get to meet with old friends.
But nothing has prepared me for that first glimpse of the Opera House. Perhaps it is because it is quire so iconic, such a picture which encapsulates suddenly for me quite how far we are from home, quite how small we are on the face of this planet and quite how amazing it is to me that I have made it this far. I know without doubt that if you had told me even as little as five years ago, that I would be standing within a few metres of the Sydney Opera House, I would never have believed you.
The moment brings tears to my eyes. These, after we have, unbelievably, actually gone inside and bought a ticket, on a whim, to see, of all things, Madame Butterfly, become pretty much sobs. I have, on this trip, cried so many tears of absolute wonder at my luck and at the beauty and generosity of the world we live in and the God who governs it.
We go to Manly. Amid M's rather constant delighted quipping on its name, ("Manly Life Guards Association" delivered much enjoyment) we come upon a small outcrop of rock on which there is a handy bench for looking out over what is a stunning view of glittering, but powerful, blue water, grey and black rock and a hint of that reddish tinge suggestive of fire and heat which I am beginning to associate with the Australian landscapes. It is an awe inspiring and a thought provoking view, and there, on a small plaque, I find the words, "Mightier than the thunders of many waters, mightier than the waves of the sea, the Lord on high is mighty!" Followed by the words, "God is always greater than all of our troubles".
When we walk away from the coast and towards town, we are nearly at the pub we have chosen to sample the beer at, when we find another plaque, " Nature, in all its diversity, grants us a glimpse into the heart of God the Father, which is nothing but love "
"Is Manly particularly religious?" We will ask our Australian friends later. "Not really" they reply.
And yet, and yet. Faith, of all kinds, weaves its way through and into everything, even the faith which roots itself on not believing anything. We make for ourselves a meaning, despite ourselves.
And there is something about the kind of powerful, potentially destructive aspect of the natural world which is brought home so particularly in Australia's landscapes of fire and water, which understandably provokes a need in humanity for something. Whether an effort to control, to tame, or to attribute instead some other controller, some God who is, whether we can perceive it or not, instilling some sort of order into this wild power.
And the fact is, wherever we have attempted to tame nature, we have singularly failed. Along the path we walk in Manly, there are small sculptures of animals and birds and fish, set into the stone walls along the waterfront. They are beautiful. (M is of course, especially taken with the legend 'Manly Seahorse', particularly as the seahorse in particular looks anything but manly.) But far more beautiful, and on a larger scale are the sandstone sculptures towering above it, which have been carved by none other than the sea itself, working closely with the wind.
There is something bigger than us out there, whether you chose to characterise it as God or as something else. It's there in the stunning natural backdrop against which we, unthinkingly, live our lives. And it's there, where there is faith, of any form, in the minds and lives of those who believe it.
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