Paul Keating was wrong, fly fishing for crocodiles, and much more.
According Paul Keating, the best way to see Darwin is from 35,000 feet on the way to Paris.
I've had a man crush on Keating ever since he called John Howard a slithering maggot, so I thought I'd see if he was right.
From what I'd heard, Darwin was full of yobbos and shirtless, shouting drunks. Not to mention child-eating crocodiles.
A bit like Lonely Planet's take on Launceston, except Launceston makes do with monkeys in place of the crocodiles (more on that later).
As my Virgin flight (suggested advertising slogan: 'Better than Jetstar') circled the city, I had to concede Keating might be on the money.
The ocean, a muddy yellow/green, looked unappealing. The dirt was red. The trees; stunted and twisted.
Not to mention I'd heard Darwin Harbour is full of sharks, crocodiles, stingers, jellyfish, and probably unexploded armaments from the Second World War.
To ease in to the local experience, the Darwin Hotel (schooner of Carlton Draught: $6.70) seem like the obvious choice.
It was full of shirtless, shouting drunks. Turns out they were from Melbourne, on an end of season footy binge.
The locals? Except for Kenny (who badly needed a freshen-up and a lie down), everyone was polite, helpful and friendly.
After a couple of days here, I've formed some early impressions.
There's a real 1980s vibe to Darwin; but think Guns N' Roses rather than Flock of Seagulls. Yes, up here at least, the mullet lives on.
And fly fishing, for crocodiles at least, is illegal.
I was hoping to get a local fishing shop to fit me out with a fly in a pattern resembling say, a chicken, but was warned against it.
Actually, my host for the evening, haven been bitten by a (smallish) crocodile a couple of weeks ago, warned me against going anywhere near them.
(pic courtesy of Andrea Cooper, who will now forever be known as Crocodile Girl).
And Paul Keating? I think he was wrong.
You see, culture isn't necessarily all about the Rococo and French Empire clocks, and Australian culture is not the flag-draping nationalism espoused by that moron from Ipswich.
There's a very powerful sense of indigenous culture in these parts, which make it a must-visit for anybody who reckons they're Strayan because they arrived on a boat sometime in the last 238 years.
In fact the original inhabitants had formed their own powerful traditions thousands of years before the French had even learned to throw poo at each other.
I've had a man crush on Keating ever since he called John Howard a slithering maggot, so I thought I'd see if he was right.
From what I'd heard, Darwin was full of yobbos and shirtless, shouting drunks. Not to mention child-eating crocodiles.
A bit like Lonely Planet's take on Launceston, except Launceston makes do with monkeys in place of the crocodiles (more on that later).
As my Virgin flight (suggested advertising slogan: 'Better than Jetstar') circled the city, I had to concede Keating might be on the money.
The ocean, a muddy yellow/green, looked unappealing. The dirt was red. The trees; stunted and twisted.
Not to mention I'd heard Darwin Harbour is full of sharks, crocodiles, stingers, jellyfish, and probably unexploded armaments from the Second World War.
To ease in to the local experience, the Darwin Hotel (schooner of Carlton Draught: $6.70) seem like the obvious choice.
It was full of shirtless, shouting drunks. Turns out they were from Melbourne, on an end of season footy binge.
The locals? Except for Kenny (who badly needed a freshen-up and a lie down), everyone was polite, helpful and friendly.
After a couple of days here, I've formed some early impressions.
There's a real 1980s vibe to Darwin; but think Guns N' Roses rather than Flock of Seagulls. Yes, up here at least, the mullet lives on.
And fly fishing, for crocodiles at least, is illegal.
I was hoping to get a local fishing shop to fit me out with a fly in a pattern resembling say, a chicken, but was warned against it.
Actually, my host for the evening, haven been bitten by a (smallish) crocodile a couple of weeks ago, warned me against going anywhere near them.
(pic courtesy of Andrea Cooper, who will now forever be known as Crocodile Girl).
And Paul Keating? I think he was wrong.
You see, culture isn't necessarily all about the Rococo and French Empire clocks, and Australian culture is not the flag-draping nationalism espoused by that moron from Ipswich.
There's a very powerful sense of indigenous culture in these parts, which make it a must-visit for anybody who reckons they're Strayan because they arrived on a boat sometime in the last 238 years.
In fact the original inhabitants had formed their own powerful traditions thousands of years before the French had even learned to throw poo at each other.
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