On the drive north, I briefly regretted scheduling my next stop beyond Cairns. But as the road curved through increasingly more lush scenery, dotted with banana plantations, I found myself slipping back into my contented traveller state of mind.
And dear reader, as I paused to admire those tidy rows of trees, I felt inspired—not for historical fact-finding this time, but for a small ode to my favourite fruit: the banana.
As a traveller, I know few foods are as trusty as a banana. It’s naturally portable, neatly packaged, and packed with energy, vitamins, and minerals. I've eaten them across continents—bought in dusty markets, peeled at roadside stalls, gobbled from hotel fruit baskets, and have perfected the art of subtly stuffing an extra one into my purse at every buffet breakfast bar. I revere this yellow wonder. I think I’ve become something of a banana sommelier, sampling varieties across borders, learning their textures and flavours like one might study vintages and vineyards.
Most of us in North America know just one kind of banana: the Cavendish. It dominates our grocery shelves and similarly, Australian production, accounting for 97% of the bananas grown here. But there’s a whole world of bananas out there. Globally, there are over 1,000 varieties, ranging from dessert to cooking, like plantains.
Bananas have fuelled my Karl journey: Lady Fingers, also known as baby bananas: short, sweet, and creamy; the Red Bananas with maroon skin and subtle taste and of course, the humble Cavendish have been my primary staples.
Me getting bananas from my neighbourhood “snack shop” while staying in India.
I eat bananas almost daily. It’s the only PLU code I know at self-checkout: 4011. That’s my food. I always have some in the house. I even rescue the “single” bananas at the grocery store, the ones someone has broken off from the bunch. I imagine someone deemed five too many and left one behind. Well, I scoop those up. They’re still worthy. I choose my solo bananas for their ripeness, readiness, texture, and shade of yellow (no green or brown for me!). And when I look at my receipt and see prices rising across the board, my bananas remain remarkably affordable. Honestly, they’re too cheap.
The average cost of bananas in Canada and elsewhere hovers well below that of other fruit. Berries, apples, and other fruit often cost four to five times more per pound. And yet, bananas are the most exported fresh fruit in the world, generating over US$10 billion annually, and serving as a vital source of food and income for millions of people in banana-producing countries. In some regions, income from banana farming makes up three-quarters of a household’s monthly earnings.
But the banana industry is not without its challenges:
Heavy reliance on agrochemicals in large-scale production has environmental and health consequences.
A devastating fungal disease has spread to 21 countries. Once present, it’s tough to control.
And climate change, with its floods, droughts, and unpredictable patterns, is threatening banana production worldwide, as I witnessed firsthand in Queensland!
And yet, there is hope. I came across the World Banana Forum (WBF)—a global coalition of producers, traders, researchers, and retailers working together toward more sustainable banana trade. There’s even a Banana Occupational Health and Safety Initiative (BOHESI) in Ecuador and Cameroon that aims to improve working conditions and protect banana workers’ rights. Who knew? Maybe one day I can apply my professional background to the banana world, not just as a committed consumer, but as a contributor.
From plantations in Far North Queensland, to Tesco aisles in England, to bustling markets in Kolkata—my journey around the world has been energized by bananas.
And now, dear reader, after this banana “detour”, we can continue to get sidetracked in Port Douglas.
Port Douglas is a tropical resort town, known as the gateway to the Great Barrier Reef and the Daintree Rainforest. I had booked into the Lazy Lizard Motor Inn, billed as the “Friendliest Port Douglas Hotel”; honestly, they may be right. It was the perfect place to wind down my Australian chapter: off-season, quiet, and lush with garden paths and a chorus of birds loud enough to convince me I’d checked into the rainforest.
For my final three days, I settled into a relaxing rhythm, early mornings to beat the heat (and dear reader, I haven’t yet mentioned just how relentlessly hot Queensland can be, especially as you head north into the tropics, where the humidity sticks like a second skin). Each morning, I walked through a narrow cut in the trees to reach the renowned Four Mile Beach, but not before grabbing a flat white from a nearby café, my perfect companion for a barefoot wander along the shoreline. Come evening, I usually headed in the opposite direction, to the Superyacht Marina, one of the northernmost marinas in Australia, lined with lively bars, relaxed restaurants, and boats bobbing with possibility.
Karl had his run-in with a crocodile, and the warning signs near every grassy embankment in Port Douglas made me wonder if I’d have one too. I was keen to spot one, but strictly on my terms. So, I booked a seat on the “Lady Douglas,” a locally owned river cruise that winds through the mangrove channels of Dickson Inlet. They promised a 90% chance of spotting crocodiles, sea eagles, ospreys, herons, mudskippers, and a cold beer on boarding, which sealed the deal.
It was a bit overcast, but the journey was peaceful, a moody, mangrove-draped contrast to the golden beaches and turquoise tides I’d grown used to. And yes, we did spot crocs, still as statues in the shadows of the mangroves, but far enough away to feel more awe than fear.
I wrapped up the day with a swim in the hotel pool; there is no need for a stinger suit here. Just light rain and birds competing for airtime. Despite settling into a good groove in Port Douglas, I still monitored the weather alerts. A cyclone was moving in, and the timing wasn’t great.
On the day of my flight, I gave myself an extra two hours; the forecast called for more rain, the road conditions were uncertain, and I still had to return the trusty little car that had carried me all this way. Needless to say, I made it. The journey through Australia had been long and layered from the red dust of Uluru to the great cities of Melbourne and Sydney, through the Sunshine Coast, bushlands, and mining towns, and finally, to the edge of the rainforest.
I was en route to Karl’s next chapter in Sri Lanka — via Bali, West Java, and Singapore (places Karl didn’t visit) — but 125 years earlier, he was still wrestling with how to get out of Australia.
So don’t pack your bags just yet, dear reader — we’ll stay in Australia a little longer.
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The Karl Journey is now registered as an official expedition with the Royal Geographical Society