In Western Australia, where the trees grow into the clouds, the towns have names out of Middle Earth science fiction. Nannup, Manjimup, Greenbushes, Yallingup, Perillup. Signs by the roadside that read "Red Gully" and "Poison Swamp."

Somewhere on my epic drive through karri country, around the time I made a right turn for Pemberton, I was the farthest from home that I have been on this trip, and indeed that I have ever been at all. The point was unmarked and barely noticed by me, as such milestones often are. The farthest I have ever been was merely a right turn on a country road.

Reluctantly, I left that world. Around the same time, billionaire Steve Fossett undertook yet another attempt to go round the world alone in his Jiffy Pop balloon. He took off from near Perth while I was there. Interestingly, you don't realize how well-visited Australia is until you're here and you open the papers. Colin Powell and I were in Darwin on the same day, and he went to Canberra a few days after I left it. Nicole Kidman was said to be house-hunting in Sydney the day I arrived, and Russell Crowe performed a rock concert in his home at Coff's Harbour, near Sydney. Eminem visited Melbourne amid much hubbub, and Rob Schneider visited it amid none.

I was thinking. One hundred years ago--and through time before that--if I had been to all the places that I have, especially by age 30, I'd have been renowned as one of the world's greatest explorers. To have been as far afield, to so many places, and to have done what I did when I was there--what a legendary explorer I would have been.

But this is 2001. Today, I am nameless and unknown.

Almost every rule of humanity has been smashed in that past 80 or 90 years. The world has turned upside-down, and the treasures from its pockets are falling into my greedy hands.

Melbourne! I do love Melbourne. It's not a city that most people think of as one of the world's best, and that's a shame, for it's the one of the most sophisticated cities around. A generation ago, before it was eclipsed somewhat by Sydney, it was Australia's most important; indeed, the previous time this country hosted the Olympic Games, it was Melbourne that won the honors. Indeed, 100 years ago, when Australia first marked its federation, the ceremonies were conducted here at the Exhibition Hall; Canberra didn't yet exist and monied Australians wouldn't have dreamed of inaugurating their new arrangmenr in that hoary backwater known as Sydney.

Today, where Sydney is cosmopolitan and showy, Melbourne is sophisticated and accomplished. And above all, dignified. Stately green-and-yellow trams ply the modest grid of the CBD. North, east, and south of the central area, large green parks are adorned with magnificent memorial structures. It's a city where people still wear dark suits to work, where avenues are still lined with structural reminders of the British crown in bluestone and colonnades, and where the young people are both educated and worldly. Melbourne conducts itself with handshakes and agreements by day, and with celebratory abandon by night. Theatre abounds, as does art, the newspapers behave as sober messengers of global events, and its fringes are ringed with seaside esplanades and haunted Victorian weekend hotels.

Melbourne sits atop a huge inland bay known as Port Phillip, a pleasingly round inlet so wide that you usually can't see from one end to the other. The mouth of this inlet, scarcely a mile wide, accommodates such an immense volume of tidal water that it's known as one of the most treacherous passages on Earth, The Rip. And rip it does; set your eyes on a distant patch of water there and you'll have to turn your head to follow it. Although there are few rocks or underwater obstacles to be seen there, the water there roils and crests with such agitation that even from the shore, observers shudder.

It was near here, in 1967, where a sitting prime minister, Harold Holt, left his home in Portsea, alongside The Rip, and decided it would be a nice place to go for a swim. Needless to say, he was never heard from again. His body was never found, and Australia had to find a new leader.

If it gives us pause today--in this upside-down world where a threatening name like The Rip has become mostly an endearing name to a local natural quirk--imagine how the seafarers felt. For the first 150 years of Australia's history, this hungry swath of sea was Australia's welcome mat. Even making it to The Rip was cause for celebration. Coming from Britain, as most people did, the first sighting of Australia after a three-month landless journey would be Point Otway, a few hours' drive to the west, which has got to be the most harrowing coast I've ever seen. The tumultuous Bass Straight, which separates Tasmania from the mainland, still claims ships of every class; just this week, a fully loaded freighter was stricken. To make it to Melbourne or onward to Sydney, most ships had to "thread the needle," which meant they had to find their way between mainland Oz and King Island, amidst barely hidden reefs.

On the mainland side, the land is known as the Shipwreck Coast, and well over 80 ships met their dooms here in only 40 years. Although the surfing is divine, the waves are nasty indeed, and over time they've beaten the land into a shambles. Splashes up to 15 stories high are common on calm days.

Me and my Internet Friend Mark Sheedy hired a car (that would be number six) and drove down this angry boiling coastline, where the sea churns against Australia like a stomach doing its work. The tourism authorities have named this forboding stretch the Great Ocean Road, and it is. Lovely twisting stretches along cliffs, passages through mighty forests, and runs along milestones such as the Twelve Apostles, which are huge sandstone columns, hundreds of feet high, carved away from the land by the sea. The ocean roars over tough reefs on its way to the shoreline, and once it gets there, it burrows into the earth, carving bridges and boring tunnels that wheeze with sea mist. Fall in that water, and you're cooked, because it heaves over rocks with such force that there's nowhere for respite. One famous ship, the Loch Ard, came to grief on a shoal by the charmingly named Mutton Bird Island in 1878. Although it was pretty much ashore, only two people out of 55 survived. Pretty ironic: Travel for three months through a blank expanse of open seas to reach Australia, only to run into it.

By 1927, the same London-to-southeast Australia journey took 10 days by air, with 29 stops. Since the '70s, it has taken 24 hours.

On the drive back to Melbourne, we passed through Colac, where Mark used to vacation as a boy. It was his first time through it in years, and he could barely believe it. Today, the primary landmark in town is a towering illuminated set of Golden Arches. Across the street, a KFC bucket spins alongside the A1 road. From K-Mart to Burger King (also called Hungry Jack's here), Australia is being Americanized. Obesity is a growing problem. Signs in the park beg people to exercise.

There are also TV ads for sheep de-licers. And for weird civic festivals, such as the Vanilla Slice Ouyen Triumph, wherein an entire town gets together to have a bake-off of the beloved Vanilla Slice, which is a custardy pastry. (We have those too, but never advertise them on TV.) Other beloved pastries: Lamingtons and Anzac biscuits. And meat pies are very big here, as in all English-speaking antipodean countries.

On Sunday, Mark and I went to the footy. That is, we attended an Australian rules football match. It was pretty easy to grasp, but not so easy that I could explain it here. And please never ask me about cricket. Aussie rules, which is a happy mix of soccer, basketball, and football, is fun to watch because there are no time outs, so the game steams along at a steady clip, and the players aren't obscured by bulky pads. In fact, the players wear nearly nothing at all, which could also add to its appeal for the casual observer. They're also required to be full athletes: They must dash for hours like cross-country runners, they must kick and throw and catch, they must be able to leap to their feat and turn on a dime, and they have to be able to tackle and be tackled. In the same way as ballet becomes more impressive once you realize how hard it is, I was impressed by these guys, who master a spectrum of physical requirements in a way no American sports require of their athletes.

I was one of 45,000 people at the Colonial stadium. It was a pretty big match, as the Sydney Swans were taking on top-ranked Essendon Bombers, ostensibly from a Melbourne suburb where the airport is located.

Mark's uncle, Kevin Sheedy, is a major celebrity in Australia. That's because he coaches Essendon. A few weeks ago, Mark and his family appeared on an episode of "This Is Your Life" that feted his uncle. For most of the game, the Bombers weren't doing Uncle Kevin very proud; two of the star players were out, and the remaining players were more fumble than catch. Sydney pulled some 27 points ahead and stayed there. It wasn't looking good, but in the last few minutes, Essendon rallied, and in one of the most exciting games I've ever seen (or, perhaps I should say, one of the only games I've ever cared to watch to the end), Essendon came within four points. And with four seconds to go, they scored a final goal, pulling ahead by two points. Everyone was in fine moods, except for the visiting Sydneysiders, who still clapped politely. Australians are both sporty and sportsmanlike, after all.

The lack of padding on the athletes, despite the intense contact required, got me thinking. Australians don't have a mania for lawsuits--yet; after all, Sydney's top tourist attraction is a climb to the summit of the Harbour Bridge, which I will do on Thursday night (about 3 a.m. to you). It's still not a protectionary age in Australia. The airline clerks often forget to look at passengers' ID, and people still leave car doors unlocked in most places. The national parks invite bowlegged tourists to take strolls along the most precipitous drops you care to imagine (like, climbing to the top of Uluru) or swim in holes where there "might be" crocs. A saleswoman at the Sydney Opera House allowed me to leave a store with two baseball caps, take them across the complex to a men's room, and try them on in the mirror. I love it! I like being allowed to prove that I'm not worthy of the trust.

Now I'm back in Sydney for my final wind-down nights. For a month, I haven't spent more than two nights in any hotel, and most days, I've been up at the crack of Mother Nature's arse. So I took my chance to finally relax. I took at cruise through Sydney Harbour for 2 and a half hours this afternoon.

Without a doubt, Sydney's harbor is the most picturesque in the world. There are innumerable coves, cliffs, and hills, which are sensibly mixed between stellar mansions and pristine bushland. Syndey's planners had the praiseworthy foresight to keep large quantities of land untouched, which they have set aside for national parks, zoos, and the like. As for the mansions, they've got views that would put the moon to shame. They're not as massive as the ones in Perth, but they're ones you'd want to live in, with soulful use of plate glass and natural timber. And since the harbour is ringed with hills and trees, everyone gets a nice view of something. Sydney's ferries ramble through these coves like clockwork; many Sydneysiders use them the way we use buses or subways, and they deliver people straight into the heart of the CBD, Circular Quay, next to the Opera House at Bennelong Point.

Although the harbour isn't usually choppy enough to spill a cup of milk, it isn't quite tame, either. Sharks still swarm through it, so much so that the city's beaches require protective netting. Sugarloaf Bay, in North Sydney's Middle Bay area, is notorious as a shark breeding ground. In 1963, a popular movie actress named Marcia Hathaway was wading ashore through its flat jade-colored water when a shark seized her. Her fiance was said to have fought the creature off with his bare hands, and her final words were said to have been, "I'm not in pain...Dear God will look after me." Nearby, another rich American millionaire used to swim daily off his dock, until one day, the sharks clued into his routine and were waiting underwater, mouths open.

The harbor is rich with history. The original convicts arrived on it and depended on it thereafter, so each little cranny and island has a name and, probably, a terrifying story. Much is still being revealed. Just today, Navy divers located three undetonated bombs near the North Head. They were from the 1870s, still deadly, and pleasure boats had been dragging their anchors across them for generations. The divers blew them up with plastic explosives. Ironically, those bombs were probably intended to be used against raids by the United States. In those days, Britain was at odds with the U.S. over whaling rights. By 1945, the U.S. was saving Australia from Britain's blind eye toward the Japanese advance.

During World War II, a few Japanese midget subs snuck into the harbor to scuttle an American warship, the USS Chicago. They missed. The torpedoes hit a simple ferry being as a serviceman sleeper. Nineteen Australians were drowned in their sleep. It was typical of Australian military history. Time and again, Australians have taken unbelievable grievous hits in the name of distant countries. Starting with Gallipoli and continuing to Vietnam (when, yes, Aussies served alongside Americans--did you know that?), Australians have consistently marched right into slaughter on battlefields nowhere near their own country. And when Australians were killed, it was never just a few. It was hundreds, thousands at a time. I would like to sit down and calculate just how big Australia's population would be if only those young men had not been killed. Right now, it's about 19 million. I wouldn't doubt if the math showed it should be a third again higher.

There are plenty of interesting things going on ashore, though. I went to a fantastic museum in the building where convicts used to sleep in rows of canvas hammocks. (A schoolkid on a field trip: "That looks fun!") One room was devoted to the myriad buttons, clothing, antique bric-a-brac found in the hundreds of rat nests found between floorboards, cielings, crossbeams, and joists.

There are countless pubs and restaurants around Circular Quay that have views you wouldn't believe. Tonight, I had drinks atop the ANA Grand Harbour Hotel, at the swank Horizon Bar, over the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House. It was one of those Travel Writer things; I had to made Sydneyish conversation with a tourism rep and a hotel marketing woman. Tomorrow, I do it again at a posh restaurant overlooking the main harbor. I'll be staying at the swishy W Hotel. Since Australian currency is worth about half America's, everything is a super bargain.

The city's skies are also home to one of the loveliest spectacles linking the natural world with the urban one. The masts of the brightest buildings, including the Citigroup building, the government tower, the Harbour and ANZAC bridges, are swarming with birds which gather to feast on insects in the floodlights. Far above the city, a swirling funnel cloud of seagulls stirs against the night sky. Truly beautiful There are also giant bats around; there's a major colony of them in the central Hyde Park. By day, they hang from the trees like winter coats.

You wouldn't believe the number of Asians who live here. Heaps. The sushi's great, but white Australians feel as if they could do without them. The Japanese and Chinese have too much money. The Indonesians don't have enough. Who's just right?

If you believe the museums, the Aborigines are. As you know, they are the quasi-nomadic people who lived in Australia before the Europeans came stomping abroad. In a solid parallel to Native Americans, they were eventually dispossessed by expansion. Regarding the issue, today's Australia is intensely politically correct. Even museums that you'd think would have nothing to say on the subject -- say, Melbourne's Immigration Museum -- take pains to insert the "Aboriginal" viewpoint. On paper, Australians like to act like Aborigines and the children of the settlers are living together in a diversified harmony.

The reality is not so. White Australia does not incorporate Aboriginal culture except as an asterisk in the ongoing parade of modern development. In fact, I would go so far as to suggest that white Australia exploits Aboriginal culture even as it claims to honor it. A prime example is design. White Australians co-opt native colors and themes as long as it suits a prevailing "one with nature" design concept. I don't think I've stayed in a hotel yet that didn't have some Aboriginal-inspired kitsch on the walls. It's a good thing the natives were so aesthetically pleasing. It allows the country to present an illusion of inclusivity.

Let me tell you, it doesn't work both ways. One of the saddest things I've seen on this trip was in Tennant Creek, in the outback of the Northern Territory. First thing in the morning at the Food Barn. A barefoot Aboriginal woman, her skin the color of rich soil, was slumping along in a the supermarket line clutching a bottle of Sprite. That lurid green space-age bile green set against the earthy tone of her flesh of her seemed so metaphysically wrong. I'm not being PC. It honestly looked askew. Watching her wait at 8:00 in the morning with her plastic-bottle dose of processed high fructose corn syrup made me realize that the modern world is truly a dream. It was the very image of cultural enslavement, even more than the drunken Aborigines who spat English expletives at each other in the streets all night before.

Mind you, when the whites borrow native customs, it's always in the best of taste. Aborigines are hooked on the white man's sugar and grog while it's chic and in vogue for a white man to go native.  No white man ever became a junky to honey ants.

Many whites resent the trend toward returning some land stewardship to natives. "They've never really lived around here," complained one woman I met in Perth. "The ones you see here in the streets are no good. They've been kicked out of their own communities."

I'd heard that view before, in Darwin. I don't think many Australians are struck by the racism of this perspective, as rooted in a type of truth as it may be. The idea that any Aborigine you see can't possibly be a "good" one, that the "good" ones are invisible and never encountered, only serves to justify cultural bias.

To many Australians, Aborigines are the new Bogeyman. They wander otherwise clean city streets looking for grog, they have committed unforgivable transgressions in even their crude bark-eating communities. Terrifyingly, they have mastered the wilderness and can survive in a way many white cannot, so they are both indestructible and immortal, ready to leap from the shadows of the stringybarks to reclaim the land that your hard-won swimming pool now sits on.

If American slaves had ever been landed, we would be going through this, too.

The flip side of this, of course, is that what happened to the Aborigines is not unusual. They are merely the latest and most salient victims of the ongoing steamroller of social change that has been transforming this planet for 2,000 years. Tribal societies have been transformed by the spread of market-based socieites for aeons. Weren't the Irish assimmilated by the English, and the English by the Europeans, and so on? This is not a new story. Sadly (or not?), there was no way a nomadic culture could continue to exist in a world of our era's population boom. The Aborigines were simply among the last to go, that's all. This viewpoint may be historically true, but it bears noting that it isn't much different from the perspective of a typical Australian migrant in the 1830s. The difference is they also felt Aborigines were lower than dogs. (Interestingly, the Aborigines themselves felt no one was lower than the Irish. Guess which group was previously uprooted by the English?)

And Aborigines were no saints, which escapes many modern curators. Many groups treated women like mere chattel, for one, and allowed females to be passed along from man to man and raped and beaten mercilessly. They killed babies they couldn't carry and elderly people whose teeth fell out. Yes, they shared, yes, they didn't waste, yes, they had no concept of materialism. The truth, as usual, is a subtle shade of grey.

Whatever the athropology, there isn't much blending among pure-blooded Aborigines. Mixed-race natives have it easier, since their blackness is a recessive gene. But some might argue that as long as natives are encouraged to retain their "otherness," the harder they will find it to join the progress of the ongoing world of which they will forevermore be a part.

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Anyway, I have another day for explorations before flying home in business class. The final day will be a corker: a ferry trip to the Taronga Zoo and a climb to the top of the Harbour Bridge during sunset. Back in my own bed by Saturday night.

Need I say it? I'll be thinking just of you.