Doing the Group Thing in Melbourne

A few months ago after booking my trip to Melbourne, I bought The Rough Guide to Australia with every intent to read it and educate myself about the wonders that awaited me in Australia’s second largest city.

As with most attempts to self-educate myself, my education began late and didn’t last very long. I didn’t bother to open the book until a week or so before my trip as I was quite busy with attempts to self educate myself on other matters much more pressing at the time. For example, one weekend I performed a crash course on the intricacies of forensic anthropology (not to mention workplace romance) by watching the entire Season 4 DVD set of Bones. And there was another weekend I felt it imperative to educate myself on the varying forms and functions of Christmas cookies. Of course, this education required lots of hands on experience (and by “hands on,” I mean “put the cookie in your hand, move it to your mouth”).

When I did finally open the book, I quickly found out that as far as wonders go, Melbourne has few. In fact, that’s exactly what the book says; to quote: “Melbourne is a city of few sights…” This is maybe not exactly what a girl wants to hear about the place she has just booked for her next action-packed adventure.

Even finding the section in the guidebook on Melbourne takes some doing. It’s tucked way, way, way in the back of the massive 1,159-page tome, somewhere after the sections on much more exciting sounding places like Mount Remarkable, Bungle Bungles and Wee Waa (admittedly, the book’s description of Wee Waa as a “raw, dispirited town” is not that enticing but, shucks, just being able to say you’ve been to a place named Wee Waa should be enticement enough!).

Compared to the 141-page section on Sydney, the section on Melbourne is a paltry 71 pages. The section on Sydney gushes on; the city is described as “sophisticated,” “cosmopolitan” and “exuberant.” Meanwhile Melbourne is merely “pleasant” and “liveable.”

I’m pretty sure if you hold the section on Melbourne up to your ear, you can actually hear the authors yawning.

While the book claims the city of Melbourne does not have much to offer the intrepid traveller, it assured me that Melbourne is “an excellent base for day trips.” (I’m sure Melburnians would be happy to know that their city is being marketed to foreign visitors as the perfect place to visit and then promptly leave). But in order to get to any of these day trip locations one must either have a car or join a group tour.

As much as I liked the idea of renting myself a car (preferably something sporty and with an optional roof) and tooling around the countryside of Australia (while endearing myself to the locals and maybe a few hot bushrangers), I knew this was not the best idea for me. I consider myself a rather competent, cautious driver in the States; in fact, in the eighteen years that I’ve been driving I am happy to report that the only accidents I’ve gotten in have involved mail boxes (their fault entirely) and parked vehicles (okay, maybe some of those were my fault).

Despite my decent driving record, I am not confident when it comes to driving a car on the left hand side of the road… especially if there happens to be any mailboxes around.

Besides, the last thing I needed was to get myself stranded in the Outback without any food, water or hot bushrangers around to help me out, and I’d end up being forced to drink my own urine. While I hadn’t read much of The Rough Guide to Australia, I had read Bill Bryson’s book about Australia and this thing seemed to happen quite a bit in the Outback.

So with my two options being to either incur the wrath of the locals by taking out all of their mailboxes and end up stranded in a desert drinking my own urine or book a group tour, I chose the group tour.

To be honest, I was really not sure this was the best decision. You see, I’m not exactly what you would call a “group tour kind of person.” Granted, I’m not exactly a “drink your own urine kind of person” either, but sometimes you do what you have to do. I prefer traveling at my own pace, and by “my own pace” I mean really, really slowly… with lots of time for multiple photographs of the same exact thing and hourly snack breaks and maybe some nap time… followed by more snack breaks and maybe a beer or two. Group tours are too rigid, too time-constrained and usually don’t involve enough snack breaks.

Also, inherent with the name, group tours require that you travel in a group… of people… usually for eight or nine hours at a stretch. This is longer than most relationships I’ve had.

You see, in addition to needing lots of snack breaks, I also need a lot of alone time. Even when traveling with friends, I find it necessary to take some time out of the day to be by myself. I use this time to collect my thoughts, write a bit in my journal, read my neglected guidebook, maybe eat a few snacks or drink some beers, and flirt with a few bushrangers. When on a group tour, you can’t exactly ask the bus driver to stop the bus so you can have a little “me time” on the side of the road.

But, again, seeing as my options were limited (read: drinking my own bodily fluids or group tour), I researched my group tour options (read: spent at least 20 minutes on the Internet) and picked a tour company that came well-recommended (read: somebody named “CozyBeavers” gave the company five stars on TripAdvisor).

And in a moment of overzealousness, I booked not one but two group tours. My first tour, a drive along Great Ocean Road, was scheduled for Monday; my second, a trip to Phillip Island, was booked for Tuesday.

Like many things I purchase over the Internet, this seemed like a good idea at the time.

Of course, when 7:00 on Monday morning rolled around this group tour thing no longer felt like a good idea. Upon arriving in Melbourne early on Saturday morning after a full twenty-one hours of travel and armrest wrestling with my fellow passengers, I had spent the day drinking my body weight in Australian beer at a cricket match with some friends. I had topped off the evening with enough wine and food and banana caramel pie to kill a wallabee.

Sunday was spent battling the summer sun and weekend tourists on the streets of Melbourne.

By Monday morning, all I wanted to do was sit in my dark, air conditioned hotel room, nursing a Diet Coke and watching cable TV. Needless to say, getting on to a mini-bus with twenty strangers seemed like a really, really bad idea.

This seemed like an especially bad idea given the early morning hour. In addition to not being a “group tour kind of person” or “drink your own urine kind of person,” I’m also not what you would call a “morning kind of person.” In fact, I usually abide by a strict policy of absolutely no social interaction before noon. I find this is really for the best for both me and anyone who may make an ill-advised attempt to talk to me in the wee hours of the morning… like say around 10:30 AM or so.

After boarding the mini-bus that was waiting outside of my hotel, it became quickly apparent that not everyone else on the bus had the same policies about early morning interaction as I do.

An Italian family of seven boarded shortly after me. Upon boarding the bus, the two middle-aged Italian women who appeared to be sisters spent the entire time chit-chatting animatedly amongst themselves in Italian. From the way these two carried on their discussion without stopping, I can only imagine that it had been years, possibly decades, since they had last seen each other. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the two were twins who had been separated at birth and were using this group tour along the Great Ocean Road as a chance to catch up.

They chatted from the moment they sat down and all the way through the tour bus drivers’ warning about snakes, sunburn, rancid meat pies and being late to the bus. Every once in a while the two women would decide to involve their other family members in their conversation. As their other family members were located in seats scattered about the mini-bus, this meant the women would have to yell fast-paced Italian over the seats while gesturing madly.

Have I mentioned that I also have a policy on no wild body language before noon, too?

In addition to disregarding my policy on early morning social interaction and animated gesticulation, it became quickly evident that the people in the bus also did not follow my policies on other important issues such as the making of bodily noises in public (and by “in public” I mean “directly behind my bus seat”), the wearing of too much cologne (and by “too much” I mean “so much perfume that everyone else on the bus can actually taste it when you walk by”) and the playing of Beach Boys’ music of any kind.

This last policy breach was made by the tour operators themselves, who seem to think that the facilitation of an enjoyable group tour could only come about by blasting the entire busload of people with cheesy, outdated music at 7:00 in the morning. Not only was this not appreciated on my part, I felt it was not even very nice. After all, one should not be on a group tour in Australia heading to the Great Ocean Road of Australia, one of the most scenic destinations in Australia, while listening to the Beach Boys croon, “I wish they all could be California girls.” How do you think this makes poor Australia (not to mention all the girls of Australia) feel?!

After leaving Melbourne and before we hit the Great Ocean Road, our tour bus stopped at a number of scenic spots along the way including one of Australia’s most famous surfing beaches, Bells Beach, the seaside town of Lorne and the popular beach resort of Apollo Bay.

The intent of these stops, I’m sure, was to charm us with the gorgeous beaches and quaint towns located along Victoria’s Coast. But we only had about ten minutes allotted for each location, and our bus driver had made it abundantly clear that we were not to be late to the bus. I was pretty sure he had been joking when he told us he would leave us should we be late for our pickup times, but I wasn’t about to find out if this was actually a joke or a good-natured Australian threat.

To make matters worse, each location was packed with about 10,000 other tourists also attempting to be charmed. Needless to say, it’s quite difficult to be charmed when you’re galloping down wooden steps as fast as possible to get to the beach to snap a few pictures before running back up the wooden steps to get to the bus on time.

It’s even more difficult to feel charmed when you’re doing this with a couple thousand Asian tourists, another thousand or so Australians on holiday, and an Italian family of seven.

It’s damn near impossible to be charmed when you’re doing all this with a full bladder as there is absolutely no time to stop at one of the public restrooms along the way.

Given all the early morning bus chit-chat, the strict time constraints and my incredibly full bladder, I was really not enjoying myself for the better half of the morning. I was also starting to regret my decision to book two days worth of group tours. I was pretty sure I wouldn’t survive the first group tour without rupturing a major bodily organ or someone else’s; I had no idea how I’d manage to survive Day 2.

I didn’t start to perk up until after lunch (eaten in the darkest, quietest restaurant I could find), when we arrived at the Twelve Apostles, one of the main sights along the Great Ocean Road. The Twelve Apostles, which was formerly known as the Sow and Piglets until it was decided this name was not capable of attracting billions of tourists each year, is a collection of limestone stacks towering in the middle of the water. There are actually only eight or nine limestone stacks in the water (this all depends on who you ask), but I guess “Eight or Nine (Depending On Who You Ask) Apostles” does not have a good ring to it.

The Twelve Apostles definitely make for an impressive sight from land, but an even more impressive sight from the air, which is where I was going to be viewing them. In addition to booking my two group tours, I had also booked a helicopter ride over the Twelve Apostles. Like my many Internet purchases of the past (those two days of group tours or any pair of pants purchased on the L.L. Bean website), this seemed like a good idea at the time. Unlike my many Internet purchases of the past (including said pairs of pants), this did in fact turn out to be a good idea… a really good idea.

Of course, it didn’t seem like such a good idea when the pilot was strapping me into the front seat of the helicopter. As he was shutting the door, he took the time to point out the emergency lever that I could use to open the door “in case of emergency.” Opening the door seemed easy enough, but what I was supposed to do with myself after opening the door wasn’t exactly apparent. There didn’t appear to be any life jackets or parachutes or magic fairy wings onboard. Should we encounter an “emergency” onboard and I was able to open the door using the emergency lever, was I supposed to fling myself out of the open door and into the sea hundreds of meters below or was I just supposed to sit there and enjoy the breeze?!

Who was to know?

Luckily no emergencies were encountered on board, unless you can count the three heart attacks I’m pretty sure I suffered while the helicopter was in the air. But they were good heart attacks… good “omigod-I’m-going-to-plummet-to-my-death-but-check-out-that-amazing-view” kind of heart attacks. And if you’re going to have a heart attack, I suppose flying around in a helicopter above some of the most beautiful scenery you’ve ever seen is the way to have one… or three.

After my front seat helicopter ride, I boarded the mini-bus in much better spirits. In fact, I actually smiled a few times. I even started chatting with other people on the bus. I’d hazard to say I was cheerful for the rest of the trip, which included two more stops at popular lookout locations along the Road as well as a quick dinner break.

By the time we arrived in Melbourne at nine o’clock at night, I was no longer regretting my decision to book the tours. I was even looking forward to my tour the following day. I was just sincerely hoping the tour would not involve Beach Boys’ music of any kind…

Luckily, Tuesday’s tour of Phillip Island started at the much more decent time of 11:45. When I boarded the mini-bus, I was considerably more cheerful and more caffeinated than I had been the day before.

I was also a couple minutes late.

This, unfortunately, did not make the bus driver very cheerful. To be honest, the driver, a different one from my previous day’s tour, was not exactly the picture of Australian good cheer. In fact, he was more like the picture of Australian road rage. He was a nice enough guy, but I think he’d been spending a bit too much time behind the wheel of a mini-bus. It didn’t help that people kept on showing up late to his bus. It certainly didn’t help that I was the one who kept on showing up late, and I was the one who had to sit shotgun right next to him in the bus.

After getting confused about the pick up time and turning up a good five minutes late after our first stop at the Australian Garden, he was decidedly chilly towards me. I didn’t even know Australians were capable of being chilly! Luckily, his chilliness was redirected when three British guys ended up overstaying their welcome by a whole ten minutes at the Koala Conservatory.

By the time we reached our final destination on our tour, the famous Phillip Island Penguin Parade, I was happy to get off the bus and away from the road raging driver.

Little did I know that I was walking into a much bigger rage; something I’d like to call Penguin Rage.

You see, the Penguin Parade, may sound all whimsical and delightful.The penguins themselves are quite whimsical and delightful. Officially named Little Penguins, the penguins on Phillips Island are the world’s smallest penguins at only 1 kilogram a piece. And if you thought regular-sized penguins were cute, well, Little Penguins are downright adorable!

Each night at sunset they make their adorable little way from the ocean, across the beach and home to their sand dune burrows where they feed their adorable young or their adorable mates with the fish they caught while out at sea.

So each night at sunset about four thousand tourists descend upon the beach to sit on wooden bleachers and watch the Little Penguins march their adorable ways home. Outfitted more like a sporting event than a natural phenomenon, the Penguin Parade comes complete with three seating options (Standard, Penguin Plus or the exclusive Private Penguin Parade Experience), lights, security guards, ushers and even concessions.

The only thing you won’t find are cameras; as the flashes from the cameras make the penguins throw up which then makes them unable to feed their young and mates.

The Penguin Parade might be whimsical and delightful if it didn’t involve battling four thousand other viewers to see a few dozen penguins, each roughly the size and weight of a grapefruit. As it was, I’ve been to Muay Thai boxing matches where the crowds were more docile.

I had opted to sit in the Penguin Plus seats, which meant an extra $15 but promised “unrivaled views of the nightly parade.” Despite showing up about two hours before the penguins were set to march, there was a number of seats already taken. I positioned myself in the middle of the wooden bleachers where I had been told I could get a good view of the penguins coming from both angles.

Within an hour, all the middle seats had been taken and people started filling out the empty seats at the edges. When latecomers began arriving a mere twenty or thirty minutes before the penguins were set to march at 9:00 PM, people were definitely starting to get disgruntled.

One mother brazenly sent her children, an adorable blonde-haired, blue-eyed bunch, up to sit at the front of the platform in front of the people seated on benches; the same people who had been sitting on those benches for two hours. These kids were taking up some prime penguin-viewing real estate, and people were not happy. Luckily, security was able to shoo the kids away before crowd descended upon them in full-on Penguin Rage.

When the penguins finally did make an appearance, the flared tempers subsided briefly as children enthusiastically pointed and grown adults cooed at the pocket-sized penguins waddling their adorable selves up the beach.

It was a warm, happy, whimsical moment.

But only a moment.

Right in the middle of the penguin’s march, an eight-year old shot up and stood at the front of the platform. The woman next to me, the same woman who only moments before had been cooing and giggling over the cuteness of the penguins, snarled, “Someone should kick that kid in the head.”

The woman in front of her, a mother with two small children, turned around, looked at the woman next to me with wide eyes. And then she said, “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

Penguin Rage, people, it’s real.

After watching the penguins for another 45 minutes or so, I made my way through the crowds to the mini-bus that was waiting for me.

Luckily, I was not late. In fact, no one was late. Maybe we were all scared of the road raging driver. Or maybe we all just wanted to get away from the unruly crowds at the Penguin Parade.

As I settled into my seat, I was happy I had gone on the group tours, but I was much happier that I didn’t have any more group tours to go on. I could spend the rest of the week going at my own pace; a pace that would allow for a lot more snacks, beer and possibly a hot bushranger or two… and lot less rage and Beach Boys’ music.