When we got to Adelaide we discovered the tour company had booked us a basic dorm room in a backpackers, which was alright for me and Anthony, but my parents hated it. Somehow all four of us had failed to spot the tell-tale words “overnight dorm accommodation included” on the invoice. We decided to upgrade our accommodation to hotels for the rest of the trip. Whack it on the plastic and to hell with it. I certainly wasn’t going to complain about a bit of extra luxury!
After the Great Ocean Road trip we had a free day in Adelaide. I did laundry while my parents went with Anthony to find him a dentist for his toothache. It is a small city, easy to explore on foot, but our sight-seeing was curtailed by scorching 43˚C temperatures. That’s a heatwave even by Australian standards. Stepping outdoors was like walking into a furnace. We smeared ourselves with as much suncream as possible and went out to do some shopping. Then we sat out in one of the parks, which was deserted. Anyone with any sense was sheltering indoors. My mum got a bit ill due to the heat, but she recovered once we sat down in a cafe and gave her some water.
Later on we had dinner and a few drinks with Seana, a Scottish girl we met on the trip. Everyone had an early night. I was suffering from a profusion of inflamed mosquito bites all over my back and shoulders, due to sleeping next to an open window in Halls Gap. Much as I was grateful for the holiday I was tired of living out of a rucksack and starting to feel like I was losing my grip. Every day I’d pack; then unpack; then pack again; then unpack; living in a permanent state of travel.
The day after, it was time to start the next leg of our journey, an epic six day trip through the desert that would bring us to Alice Springs. No more coastal rock formations for us now. We were joined with some of the people from the last trip and a few new people, including a cantankerous old lady called Esther who seemed decidedly out of place. Other than that the group was mostly young travellers in their twenties. It was a big group; the pavement was strewn with backpacks and mounds of luggage as we loaded up the van’s massive trailer unit.
Our guide was Nick, a burly man of the outback who dressed in khaki shorts like Steve Irwin and carried a fearsome Bowie knife. He had a different style to Dave (the last guide), much more serious in tone and less extrovert. However he too was a bloody good guide and turned out to be a right laugh once we got to know him.
On the first morning we stopped in a country town for breakfast, passing through the last set of traffic lights we would see in a very long time. The road north into the desert was long, straight and lonely. South Australia was the only colony in Australia to be settled exclusively by free men, not convicts, and they always make a big thing of this. It’s hardly a populous state, made up mostly of farming country and arid desert plains. Most of the farmlands inhabited in the 1800s soon dried up, leaving a trail of abandoned settlements stretching north.
Much of our time was to be spent on travel; be it on the road, packing up the trailer unit or unpacking it. Nick organised us with military precision. This was by necessity, as the distances we covered were huge and the places we would visit were unimaginably remote (from start to finish the road journey from Adelaide to Alice Springs measured about a thousand miles). Everybody pitched in preparing the meals – we mostly survived on burgers and salad, those staples of Aussie food. Flies were just extra protein. All of the supplies and cutlery were carried in two or three big cooler boxes in the trailer and had to be carefully looked after.
Our first stop was at the Kanyaka homestead, a cluster of stone ruins dating from the 19th Century. The farm was abandoned long ago when the lands dried up, and it presented quite a ghostly spectacle. The weather was once again scorching hot, topping 40˚C. Nick warned us gravely that it would get even hotter as we travelled farther north. For now I felt safely protected with a hat and sunscreen. We’d all bought fly-nets too – an essential item of headgear for keeping out the marauding waves of flies.
We travelled on into the hills of the Flinders Ranges, and went to look at some Aboriginal rock paintings in Yourambulla Caves. Nick explained all about the local indigenous cultures, and it was clear he held them in high respect and wanted to give us a comprehensive education on them. He told us lots about the native wildlife too. The paintings were simple groupings of animal pictures and symbols and apparently date back to 5,000 years ago. Up until the 20th century the caves are thought to have been used as a school for the Aboriginal children.
Once again we did the introductions over the bus’s mic but this was halted by a technical malfunction and never finished. That made learning the names of the new people a bit harder, but soon everyone was chatting away and having a good time. It was a bit of a mystery why Esther had chose to come on the tour – she wandered round muttering under her breath constantly and was appalled by the fact the dorms were mixed. She would probably have been better off going on a luxury coach tour but she seemed intent on saving money.
Our first overnight stop was in a country town with the odd name of Quorn. This was once a railway outpost and agricultural centre but now the town mostly revolved around tourism. It had nothing to do with quorn whatsoever. We stayed at an old mill that had been turned into a restaurant and motel development. Down the road was the grand-sounding Transcontinental Hotel which in reality was a redneck pub. Now the four of us had upgraded our accommodation we were spared another dorm and given our own room with a fridge and en-suite bathroom. Cold drinks were bought and placed in the fridge by us ready for early-morning consumption. Say what you like about Anthony – he knows how to plan drinks refrigeration for maximum enjoyment.
We all sat out in the long summer evening, enjoying an eclectic barbeque of emu burgers, kangaroo steaks and camel sausages. Vegans must have such a shit time when they come to Australia – it is a country of staunch meat-eaters. Anthony got chatting to a Scottish couple who knew Blackpool well and had even been to Popeye’s, the takeaway round the corner from our house. We were joined by Matteo, an Italian guy from our last trip, and Franco, another Italian.
With some prompting, Nick told us the tough story of his life – orphaned at a young age, he had been left to raise his sister alone. Now his sister, grown up, had run off to join a religious cult in England and severed all ties with him. He’d got back in touch with her eventually but relations were strained – any attempt he made to talk her out of it was met with fresh hostility, and there seemed to be nothing he could do to change the situation. Much like Abdul in Manjimup, he was bravely ploughing a lone furrow in life and not looking back.
The wake-up times on this trip were extremely early, ranging from 4am to 6am each day depending on how much travelling needed to be done. As the sun rose the next morning, we went on a hike to Warren Gorge to observe the rare and timid yellow-footed rock wallaby in its natural habitat. Wallabies are native marsupials that resemble small kangaroos. We saw a few of them watching us tentatively from a distance, and they would disappear into the undergrowth at the slightest movement or noise. They had rather endearing yellow-and-grey striped tails.
The hot weather meant some of the itinerary changed – the more demanding hikes were out of the question in this heat. But we still did a lot of strenuous bushwalking, which I was glad of. The next odyssey we went on was through Wilpena Pound, a huge circle of mountains that resemble a giant meteor crater from the air. After a barbeque lunch we spent the afternoon walking through the woods in the hollow.
Several of us took the more ambitious option of climbing to the top of Mount Ohlssen Bagge, a huge, steep climb. Some of the others made it all the way to the top and saw the splendid views of the surrounding mountains. I got about two-thirds of the way up but couldn’t finish it – the levels of heat were insane and I would have got ill if I’d gone much further. I was gutted I missed out, but everyone has a limit in these circumstances.
Somehow on the way down from the hill Matteo and I got separated from the rest of the group. We ended up waiting in a car park, the wrong car park entirely as it turned out. However this gave me a thrilling close-up encounter with some wallabies skulking in the bushes, and I got some great photos of these strange, shy creatures. I wasn’t skulking in the bushes at the time, I might add. I was looking for somewhere to throw away my Calippo wrapper.
Back on the bus, with zero fatalities from the death hike, we left Wilpena Pound. Next off was a stop at Huck’s Lookout, a scenic roadside stop, followed by a visit to the roadside location used in the Wolf Creek movie poster (much of the movie was filmed in South Australia). Everyone was keen to get a photo of this, and Nick posed in the road clutching his bowie knife, looking every inch a psycho outback farmer. He did various comedy poses of ‘murdering’ people too.
We stayed at the mill in Quorn a second night and enjoyed another barbeque. For after-dinner entertainment we of course watched Wolf Creek on DVD. Nick dropped a few hints that he would play a prank on us when the movie reached a scary point – something along the lines of bursting into the room waving his knife – but he didn’t. Sometimes the Aussie humour doesn’t translate to us delicate foreign souls, and maybe he knew this. My dad and I watched about an hour of the movie then went to bed. No disrespect to the Australian film industry, but it is a bloody terrible film.
Friday, 10 July 2009
Wednesday, 8 July 2009
Feb 09: Meet the family
At the end of January I left Manjimup. My parents were flying into Melbourne from the UK, and I was going over to meet them. Also coming from home was my good mate Anthony, known variously to our friends as Josiah, Safe Anthony and Silverback. I’d not seen any of them in a year and was both excited and – after all this time – a bit apprehensive.
I should explain something at this point: us northerners aren’t a rich people. International air travel is something exotic to us. None of my family or Anthony had ever been to Australia before, and with me being here, they decided to pawn various family heirlooms and bodily organs in the hope of joining me on holiday. The grand plan was coming to fruition.
My dad had meticulously organised a three-week trip round Australia for the four of us. We would go in a clockwise circle west to Adelaide, north to Alice Springs, over to Sydney and back down to Melbourne, taking in all the popular tourist gubbins on the way. I’d been in Australia nine months and not yet seen any of the famous sights like Uluru or the Great Ocean Road. It was a travesty. Thankfully my dad had killed two birds with one stone – not literally, he wasn’t into hunting or anything.
At that stage I thought I’d never set foot in Manjimup again. Our fling had run its course. I left on the Friday morning, and one bus and train later I was back in Perth, the state capital. After seeing nothing but trees for weeks on end I was back in the midst of skyscrapers and traffic, and it felt intoxicating. I stayed with friends in the city that evening and flew to Melbourne the next day. Similarly, I thought this would be the last time I’d be in West Australia, but I was to be proved horrifically wrong.
This was my first visit to Melbourne and I was keen to see the city. All and sundry in Australia rave about Melbourne. “You’re going to Melbourne?” they’d say. “Oh, you’ll love it, it’s brilliant.” I heard this so many times. For the uninitiated Melbourne is basically just a massive city, cold and wet and expensive. A bit like London. But I didn’t know that then, and was anticipating streets paved with gold and circus jugglers performing cartwheels on every street corner. Bondy’s verdict: thumbs down plus.
Fortunate scheduling meant my cross-country flight landed a mere hour before my mum and dad and Anthony touched down at the same airport. I didn't have too long to wait in Arrivals before the long snake of bleary-eyed people came out off the plane, and right at the back I recognised my parents and Anthony!
I waved frantically through the crowds. My mum saw me and ran over to give me a big hug but my dad and Anthony carried on, oblivious to the straggly-haired sun-bleached ocker standing before them. Eventually they recognised me and came over to shake my hand rather gingerly. We’d got a lot of catching up to do.
And after that it was just like old times; like I’d not been away from them at all. After a year immersed in unfamiliar places around totally new people, it was good to have a bit of familiarity back. We got a cab into the city centre, with my dad firmly in charge of the itinerary, and checked in at the swanky Pensione Hotel. This was one of those mid-range ‘boutique’ hotels, with fittings straight out of Ikea, en-suite bathrooms and flatscreen TVs in the bedrooms. No more bunk beds or communal showers for me. Brilliant!
Me and Anthony shared a room and caught up on old times. We’re not a couple or anything, don’t get the wrong idea. Anyway, the next day, once they’d recovered from jetlag, off we went sight-seeing round Melbourne. It seemed quite nice. It has a lot of bridges. The river Yarra features prominently. Endless processions of trams buzz up and down the city streets like big metal pigeons. My dad was enjoying the trams and the architecture. He is what is known as a ‘transport nut’ and enjoys seeing trams thrive in urban surroundings.
We went on a cruise up and down the river seeing some of the famous landmarks. The skyline looks impressive from the river; the old Flinders Street station contrasts very nicely with the jungle of skyscrapers rising behind it like mutant concrete palms. In the evening we dined out at a fancy restaurant, setting a precedent of high living which would take us through numerous culinary spheres and leave me with next to no savings by the end of the holiday.
Initially we planned to do a self-drive holiday, but after checking the logistics we decided it was simpler to go on a couple of backpacker tours, for slightly extra cost. My mum and dad were up for the adventure and so were Anthony and I. So after another day in Melbourne it was time to start our travels along the Great Ocean Road, with Dave and his merry Oz Experience bus.
Dave was an energetic curly-haired fellow who was constantly cracking jokes in a Butlins redcoat stylee. I was initially dubious, but he turned out to be a fantastic guide and a proper good bloke. There were about twelve of us on the trip: us four, and a mix of other European travellers in their twenties.
As we left Melbourne on the first morning, Dave forced us all to get up at the front of the bus and introduce ourselves over the mic. Despite being able to sing confidently on stage, I hate public speaking and really phoned it in, with none of my trademark witticisms. But it was good to hear everybody else’s story and this was a great tactic to kick off the getting-to-know-each-other process.
On the first day we visited Bell’s Beach, which is, erm, a beach. Then we carried on along the Great Ocean Road. Bit of history for you: this sprawling coastal highway was built in the 1930s to provide employment to out-of-work war veterans. It was a great journey, twisting and turning along the scenic coast, heading up and down misty hills and through lush valleys. Dave played a medley of Beach Boys tunes on the stereo to complement the amazing views. From that moment on I realised he was a dude.
Next we stopped at a koala sanctuary and fed some colourful parrots. They were very excited around people and kept jumping on our heads. After lunch in Apollo Bay we headed inland to the Otway Fly treetop walk. This was a series of massive trees spanned by metal walkways a hundred feet up in the air. There was a display of plastic dinosaurs too, for some reason. After months and months of working and saving and trying to live like a local I really enjoyed being a slack-jawed tourist again.
That evening we went to see sunset at the Twelve Apostles, a coastal rock formation that provides some amazing photo opportunities as the sun goes down. This was a memorable experience, though it was packed with travellers, and I must have taken over a hundred photos that day. We stayed overnight at the tiny country settlement of Princetown, which numbered literally four or five buildings. The backpacker tours always stopped off at the hostel there, which was wittily named the Thirteenth Apostle.
The next day we went to look at the Twelve Apostles again from Gibson’s Steps (a nearby lookout point) and by helicopter. The helicopter trip cost $70 – nearly a day’s wages with Abdul – but I was very keen to try it as I hadn’t flown in one before. And yes, it was quite good. Basically the Apostles are tall needles of rock which have been eroded away from the coast by the sea winds. And there aren’t even twelve of them so it’s a bit of a con. It was decided in the 19th Century to rename them to attract tourists – formerly they were known as the Sow and Piglets. How someone looked at lumps of rock and thought to name them after pigs I don’t know, but those were very farming-oriented times.
We travelled further along the coast, pausing to appreciate more limestone formations. This trip would be a geologist’s wet dream, it really would. Loch Ard Gorge was the site of a shipwreck in the 1890s, and London Bridge was a peninsula of rock with naturally-formed archways passing underneath it that made it look a bit like a bridge. A few years ago one of the archways collapsed into the sea without warning, leaving two day-trippers stranded.
There was a famous story (possibly untrue) that the trapped people were a man and a woman from the city who were having a secret affair. Being cut off from the land by the sudden rockfall, they were forced to shout for help from passers-by, and before they knew it the police were called. Soon the Channel 7 news helicopter was buzzing around filming the scene and it was being broadcast live on TV! They were rescued after that, but unsurprisingly it kind of blew the lid on their relationship. Dave related this story to us by drawing an amusing marker-pen diagram on the bus windscreen. A good use of props.
We were a long way from Melbourne now, and it was time to kiss the coast (and all those rock formations) goodbye. We went for a long hike through the Grampians National Park, and started a lung-busting climb up a steep hill to a lookout called the Pinnacle. The heat was intense, but after a month of wrestling with grapevines my fitness levels were pretty good and I rocketed to the top. There is a photo of me at the summit, plastered with sweat and grinning a shit-eating grin. The views were amazing at the top and you could see for miles around. We all rested in the shade of a rock, passing round snacks, then we began the trek back down.
Dave saluted our climbing exploits by playing ‘We are the Champions’ on the bus home. And verily, we were champions. Well I say ‘home’, it was actually somewhere we’d never been. We stayed overnight at the town of Halls Gap, sharing accommodation with another group coming the other way from Adelaide. Everyone pitched in to cook a giant communal pot of spag bol and it was very nice. I remember being extremely hungry and going back for seconds twice, like a fat bastard.
There was a blonde woman with the other group who looked vaguely familiar. Turns out it was Terri Irwin, widow of Steve Irwin! She was travelling with the group to do tourism research, finding out what the company’s guides taught about ecology. This might be to do with that theme park they've got up in Queensland. None of us twigged who she was until much later though.
We rose very early the next morning to begin the final leg of the trip to Adelaide. As everyone was sat eating breakfast a monstrous bang came from outside; the bus’s engine had backfired. That was a bit worrying but Dave checked the engine and it seemed okay. We had just swapped buses with the other group as this one needed to be taken back to Adelaide for maintenance. Little did we know that it was the Bus of Death.
As we arrived at the Balconies Lookout it played another trick on us; one of the bus windows suddenly exploded, showering the car park with beads of glass. I've never seen a window explode like that before. It was a strange, unexplained event, witnessed by the people on another bus who imagined someone had smashed it from the inside. A girl had actually been sleeping against the window when it shattered – amazingly she wasn't hurt. Dave made sure she was alright and taped up the hole with a bin liner, then put in a call to Adelaide to order a replacement window!
From the high vantage point of the Balconies Lookout we watched the sunrise over the Grampians, and it was pretty special. There was an old fire lookout tower there which we took photos from. Then we went hiking to a colossal waterfall, MacKenzie falls, and did the obligatory group photo in front of the water. Terri was there, posing with her group.
Next it was time to hit the road and cross into South Australia, turning our watches back half an hour as we crossed the state border. We stopped for lunch in the border town of erm, Bordertown, which had some public toilets cunningly installed in an old town jail. This was a famous spot in the gold rushes of the 19th Century. Also we had a look at some rare white kangaroos in a nature reserve.
Then it was time for a long uninterrupted drive to Adelaide in the Bus of Death. The bin liner on the window flapped noisily in the wind but there were to be no more freak accidents. We arrived in the city safe and sound, around 6pm, in glorious late afternoon sunshine.
In three days we’d seen and done a hell of a lot, but now it was time to bid a sorry farewell to Dave and many of our group. And so the Bus of Death went off to the abattoir to be put out of its misery.
I should explain something at this point: us northerners aren’t a rich people. International air travel is something exotic to us. None of my family or Anthony had ever been to Australia before, and with me being here, they decided to pawn various family heirlooms and bodily organs in the hope of joining me on holiday. The grand plan was coming to fruition.
My dad had meticulously organised a three-week trip round Australia for the four of us. We would go in a clockwise circle west to Adelaide, north to Alice Springs, over to Sydney and back down to Melbourne, taking in all the popular tourist gubbins on the way. I’d been in Australia nine months and not yet seen any of the famous sights like Uluru or the Great Ocean Road. It was a travesty. Thankfully my dad had killed two birds with one stone – not literally, he wasn’t into hunting or anything.
At that stage I thought I’d never set foot in Manjimup again. Our fling had run its course. I left on the Friday morning, and one bus and train later I was back in Perth, the state capital. After seeing nothing but trees for weeks on end I was back in the midst of skyscrapers and traffic, and it felt intoxicating. I stayed with friends in the city that evening and flew to Melbourne the next day. Similarly, I thought this would be the last time I’d be in West Australia, but I was to be proved horrifically wrong.
This was my first visit to Melbourne and I was keen to see the city. All and sundry in Australia rave about Melbourne. “You’re going to Melbourne?” they’d say. “Oh, you’ll love it, it’s brilliant.” I heard this so many times. For the uninitiated Melbourne is basically just a massive city, cold and wet and expensive. A bit like London. But I didn’t know that then, and was anticipating streets paved with gold and circus jugglers performing cartwheels on every street corner. Bondy’s verdict: thumbs down plus.
Fortunate scheduling meant my cross-country flight landed a mere hour before my mum and dad and Anthony touched down at the same airport. I didn't have too long to wait in Arrivals before the long snake of bleary-eyed people came out off the plane, and right at the back I recognised my parents and Anthony!
I waved frantically through the crowds. My mum saw me and ran over to give me a big hug but my dad and Anthony carried on, oblivious to the straggly-haired sun-bleached ocker standing before them. Eventually they recognised me and came over to shake my hand rather gingerly. We’d got a lot of catching up to do.
And after that it was just like old times; like I’d not been away from them at all. After a year immersed in unfamiliar places around totally new people, it was good to have a bit of familiarity back. We got a cab into the city centre, with my dad firmly in charge of the itinerary, and checked in at the swanky Pensione Hotel. This was one of those mid-range ‘boutique’ hotels, with fittings straight out of Ikea, en-suite bathrooms and flatscreen TVs in the bedrooms. No more bunk beds or communal showers for me. Brilliant!
Me and Anthony shared a room and caught up on old times. We’re not a couple or anything, don’t get the wrong idea. Anyway, the next day, once they’d recovered from jetlag, off we went sight-seeing round Melbourne. It seemed quite nice. It has a lot of bridges. The river Yarra features prominently. Endless processions of trams buzz up and down the city streets like big metal pigeons. My dad was enjoying the trams and the architecture. He is what is known as a ‘transport nut’ and enjoys seeing trams thrive in urban surroundings.
We went on a cruise up and down the river seeing some of the famous landmarks. The skyline looks impressive from the river; the old Flinders Street station contrasts very nicely with the jungle of skyscrapers rising behind it like mutant concrete palms. In the evening we dined out at a fancy restaurant, setting a precedent of high living which would take us through numerous culinary spheres and leave me with next to no savings by the end of the holiday.
Initially we planned to do a self-drive holiday, but after checking the logistics we decided it was simpler to go on a couple of backpacker tours, for slightly extra cost. My mum and dad were up for the adventure and so were Anthony and I. So after another day in Melbourne it was time to start our travels along the Great Ocean Road, with Dave and his merry Oz Experience bus.
Dave was an energetic curly-haired fellow who was constantly cracking jokes in a Butlins redcoat stylee. I was initially dubious, but he turned out to be a fantastic guide and a proper good bloke. There were about twelve of us on the trip: us four, and a mix of other European travellers in their twenties.
As we left Melbourne on the first morning, Dave forced us all to get up at the front of the bus and introduce ourselves over the mic. Despite being able to sing confidently on stage, I hate public speaking and really phoned it in, with none of my trademark witticisms. But it was good to hear everybody else’s story and this was a great tactic to kick off the getting-to-know-each-other process.
On the first day we visited Bell’s Beach, which is, erm, a beach. Then we carried on along the Great Ocean Road. Bit of history for you: this sprawling coastal highway was built in the 1930s to provide employment to out-of-work war veterans. It was a great journey, twisting and turning along the scenic coast, heading up and down misty hills and through lush valleys. Dave played a medley of Beach Boys tunes on the stereo to complement the amazing views. From that moment on I realised he was a dude.
Next we stopped at a koala sanctuary and fed some colourful parrots. They were very excited around people and kept jumping on our heads. After lunch in Apollo Bay we headed inland to the Otway Fly treetop walk. This was a series of massive trees spanned by metal walkways a hundred feet up in the air. There was a display of plastic dinosaurs too, for some reason. After months and months of working and saving and trying to live like a local I really enjoyed being a slack-jawed tourist again.
That evening we went to see sunset at the Twelve Apostles, a coastal rock formation that provides some amazing photo opportunities as the sun goes down. This was a memorable experience, though it was packed with travellers, and I must have taken over a hundred photos that day. We stayed overnight at the tiny country settlement of Princetown, which numbered literally four or five buildings. The backpacker tours always stopped off at the hostel there, which was wittily named the Thirteenth Apostle.
The next day we went to look at the Twelve Apostles again from Gibson’s Steps (a nearby lookout point) and by helicopter. The helicopter trip cost $70 – nearly a day’s wages with Abdul – but I was very keen to try it as I hadn’t flown in one before. And yes, it was quite good. Basically the Apostles are tall needles of rock which have been eroded away from the coast by the sea winds. And there aren’t even twelve of them so it’s a bit of a con. It was decided in the 19th Century to rename them to attract tourists – formerly they were known as the Sow and Piglets. How someone looked at lumps of rock and thought to name them after pigs I don’t know, but those were very farming-oriented times.
We travelled further along the coast, pausing to appreciate more limestone formations. This trip would be a geologist’s wet dream, it really would. Loch Ard Gorge was the site of a shipwreck in the 1890s, and London Bridge was a peninsula of rock with naturally-formed archways passing underneath it that made it look a bit like a bridge. A few years ago one of the archways collapsed into the sea without warning, leaving two day-trippers stranded.
There was a famous story (possibly untrue) that the trapped people were a man and a woman from the city who were having a secret affair. Being cut off from the land by the sudden rockfall, they were forced to shout for help from passers-by, and before they knew it the police were called. Soon the Channel 7 news helicopter was buzzing around filming the scene and it was being broadcast live on TV! They were rescued after that, but unsurprisingly it kind of blew the lid on their relationship. Dave related this story to us by drawing an amusing marker-pen diagram on the bus windscreen. A good use of props.
We were a long way from Melbourne now, and it was time to kiss the coast (and all those rock formations) goodbye. We went for a long hike through the Grampians National Park, and started a lung-busting climb up a steep hill to a lookout called the Pinnacle. The heat was intense, but after a month of wrestling with grapevines my fitness levels were pretty good and I rocketed to the top. There is a photo of me at the summit, plastered with sweat and grinning a shit-eating grin. The views were amazing at the top and you could see for miles around. We all rested in the shade of a rock, passing round snacks, then we began the trek back down.
Dave saluted our climbing exploits by playing ‘We are the Champions’ on the bus home. And verily, we were champions. Well I say ‘home’, it was actually somewhere we’d never been. We stayed overnight at the town of Halls Gap, sharing accommodation with another group coming the other way from Adelaide. Everyone pitched in to cook a giant communal pot of spag bol and it was very nice. I remember being extremely hungry and going back for seconds twice, like a fat bastard.
There was a blonde woman with the other group who looked vaguely familiar. Turns out it was Terri Irwin, widow of Steve Irwin! She was travelling with the group to do tourism research, finding out what the company’s guides taught about ecology. This might be to do with that theme park they've got up in Queensland. None of us twigged who she was until much later though.
We rose very early the next morning to begin the final leg of the trip to Adelaide. As everyone was sat eating breakfast a monstrous bang came from outside; the bus’s engine had backfired. That was a bit worrying but Dave checked the engine and it seemed okay. We had just swapped buses with the other group as this one needed to be taken back to Adelaide for maintenance. Little did we know that it was the Bus of Death.
As we arrived at the Balconies Lookout it played another trick on us; one of the bus windows suddenly exploded, showering the car park with beads of glass. I've never seen a window explode like that before. It was a strange, unexplained event, witnessed by the people on another bus who imagined someone had smashed it from the inside. A girl had actually been sleeping against the window when it shattered – amazingly she wasn't hurt. Dave made sure she was alright and taped up the hole with a bin liner, then put in a call to Adelaide to order a replacement window!
From the high vantage point of the Balconies Lookout we watched the sunrise over the Grampians, and it was pretty special. There was an old fire lookout tower there which we took photos from. Then we went hiking to a colossal waterfall, MacKenzie falls, and did the obligatory group photo in front of the water. Terri was there, posing with her group.
Next it was time to hit the road and cross into South Australia, turning our watches back half an hour as we crossed the state border. We stopped for lunch in the border town of erm, Bordertown, which had some public toilets cunningly installed in an old town jail. This was a famous spot in the gold rushes of the 19th Century. Also we had a look at some rare white kangaroos in a nature reserve.
Then it was time for a long uninterrupted drive to Adelaide in the Bus of Death. The bin liner on the window flapped noisily in the wind but there were to be no more freak accidents. We arrived in the city safe and sound, around 6pm, in glorious late afternoon sunshine.
In three days we’d seen and done a hell of a lot, but now it was time to bid a sorry farewell to Dave and many of our group. And so the Bus of Death went off to the abattoir to be put out of its misery.
Monday, 6 July 2009
Dec 08/Jan 09: Trunk-rubbing and other activities
At 6am on Boxing Day I was inducted into the world of Abdul. All the newcomers, I’d been told, worked for Abdul. Over time, you’d work your way up the hostel’s pecking order and land a job with another farm, some of them very good, but everyone had to do the hard slog for Abdul first. Whoever he was and whatever it was he did I didn’t know, but he always seemed to need a lot of people. There were about a dozen of us waiting out there in the car park that day for the morning pickup.
Turns out we were doing a job called wire-lifting, working on a vineyard. Abdul was in the labour hire business, supplying temporary workers to vast vineyard estates when they needed work doing on the vines. The vineyards liked it because they didn’t need to keep permanent people on the payroll (and probably because they wouldn’t pay our insurance if we were mangled in a horrific tractor accident, but that’s just me hypothesising).
This hostel was Abdul’s main source of labour, providing a fresh pool of bored, caged-in lost souls badly in need of paid employment. He took care of our transport and essentials like water and work tools. A dour yet humble Afghanistani man, he had fled the Taliban in his home country, emigrating to Australia and building up his own business here in Manjimup.
I don’t know what brought him to this part of the country but clearly it was an inspired move. Since arriving he had sent for his family and worked his way up from vineyard labourer to shift leader to finally now, several years later, running his own company. A pillar of the local community, he worked with tireless energy in building his empire. He deserved a lot of credit for his achievements.
Every day Abdul would turn up at the hostel in a big white bus and drive us to a different vineyard. Often they were very far away, miles out in the countryside, down long unidentified dirt roads. On the way we’d pass through indigenous forests, seeing kangaroos and emus bound across the bus's path in the dawn mist. Recognisable landmarks were sparse. The wilderness was big, green, remote and all-encompassing. The only insight into his mysterious former life would be the exotic Afghan bhangra music he listened to as he drove.
Our crew did three kinds of work. Firstly there was the wire-lifting, adjusting wires on the grapevines to make the vines grow higher and harvest better. Then there was grape picking, which happened later in the year. And finally there was trunk-rubbing, which not only had a dodgy-sounding name, but was the toughest job of the lot. Working as fast as possible, you had to get down on your hands and knees and work along the grapevine, pruning the trunks of excess shoots. After a morning of trunk-rubbing I had the arthritic joints of an eighty year-old.
I’d got what I was after – days ticked off against my working visa. For the next month, I worked nearly every day with Abdul and his crew. The work itself was simple enough and I couldn’t complain about the pay or the hours. But what made the job tough were the heat and the sun. We worked from 7am well into the afternoon, and this being the summer, temperatures climbed above 30˚C most days.
We worked hard. By 4pm our crew of Koreans, Taiwanese and Europeans would collapse exhausted into the minibus and we’d be on our way back to the hostel. There was drinking water on the bus, and sometimes even a beer at the end of our shift, courtesy of Abdul and his voluminous cooler. We’d sleep on the drive home, recuperating ready for the day to come.
The evenings at the hostel passed slowly, alcohol medicating the perpetual cycle of work and sleep. People hung out in groups, playing pool, watching TV, listening to music. Over time you’d fall into the routine, early to rise, early to bed. From 5am each day the kitchens would stir into a flurry of activity as everybody made their breakfasts and lunches ready for the morning pickup.
There were eighty or so travellers staying there in peak season. Backpackers came and stayed for months on end, working and saving. There was much partying. Days off were a blessing and a curse; the opportunity to rest, but the vexing question of what to do out here? There was literally nothing unless you had a car at your disposal. I have to say though that this was the best working hostel I’ve stayed at. Naomi ran it on honest principles and didn't promise what she couldn't deliver.
2008 soon became 2009. The hostel organised a trip to Pemberton for the occasion, sparking more drunken revelry. Several days later, a personal milestone: I’d been travelling for one year. All that time I spent in Asia and elsewhere seemed like a distant memory. My old life at home was a fabled dream, and I began to relish the connectedness and luxury I’d always taken for granted.
Now and then I’d remonstrate with Naomi to let me in the office so I could fire off an email or two to update my friends. Mostly I was too tired from working to be bothered communicating or stringing together the requisite words to describe my situation. Every day felt the same. I was becoming lost within myself. I was like Alex Garland’s character in The Beach, struggling to find my personal Vietnam, but confused about what it was I was actually looking for.
Luckily all that was about to change. I was buggering off again. On holiday!
Thursday, 2 July 2009
Christmas 08: Bondy does Manjimup
This is a big read so I recommend you run off and grab the following:
1 x cup of tea/coffee
1 x muffin OR 2 x biscuits
1 x jazz cigarette (optional)
I’d looked forward to this a lot: my first ever Christmas away from home and my first Christmas down under. Shrimps on the barbie, beers on the beach, playing Frisbee with kangaroos, beaucoup good times. That’s not quite how it turned out.
It was Christmas Eve morning as I struggled up the hill to the bus stop with my bags and guitar. I was as heavily-laden as one of those African tribeswomen who carry the jugs of water through the desert on their heads – not just with my bags, but with a hangover.
I’d spent the previous evening in festive congruence with some Victoria Bitter and the movie Tropic Thunder on DVD. One of them had ended up devoured (the beer), one of them watched (the movie) and one of them pissed (me). Another thrilling tableau from my amazing life.
The town of Margaret River barely stirred in the morning heat. It was only about 9am but already the summer sun was making the transition from pretty golden orb to massive evil burning bastard. I resented the sun; it caused me to feel detached from all around me. Whilst everyone in the area was getting ready to put their feet up and host their loved ones I was itching to ditch the snail’s pace country lifestyle and get to work.
I pictured myself as a sci-fi hero like Buck Rogers from the 25th Century. Ready to make a big leap into the unknown. I had four months left on my visa and it was make-or-break time for finding farm work. I don’t know if Buck Rogers had any experience of applying for a second working visa in Australia, but it stood to reason that he had at some point.
My destination? Manjimup, a small town about 50 miles away, where I was promised work. The hostel reviews didn’t encourage me but they appeared to have plenty of people staying there over Christmas so a party of some sort was guaranteed. I had no plans for crimbo so I figured the sooner I got there the better.
I was joined at the bus stop by Ben, the German dude I met volunteering on Carmel’s orchard. During the couple of weeks we worked together we got along well and combined our efforts to look for work. I persuaded him to make the trip with me, though I think he was less keen to leave Margaret River than I was. In hindsight I fear I pushed him into a personal Vietnam from which he would never recover.
The bus was the last service out of town before Christmas, and was full of exciteable 60-somethings clutching tartan luggage. The driver greeted us cheerily over the mic as the bus inched its way through the backstreets out of town. There is no direct service linking the two towns so we had to make a two-legged trip via Bunbury, and that killed a good few hours.
It was mid-afternoon by the time we alighted in Manjimup, and it looked more or less just like the place we’d left, not that that was a bad thing particularly. We waited around at the bus stop for our pick-up, and eventually a pale girl in a hoodie announced herself from over in the distance.
“Are you from the hostel?” I intoned loudly, in my best ‘talking to the locals’ voice. She answered us in the affirmative and led us to a sleek minibus of Japanese origin caked in the ubiquitous country dirt.
“Hi, I’m Ella,” she announced cheerfully, “and if you’ve got weed on you, please don’t smoke it inside the hostel. We have a special place down the garden for that sort of thing.” This was a standard greeting for travellers it seemed.
Being depressingly un-rock’n’roll, neither of us had any drugs on us of course. But as opening gambits go, it was a memorable one, and a refreshing change from the usual zero tolerance attitude you get in travellers’ hostels. Man, I’ve been in places where they don’t even let you hide dead hookers in the laundry. Talk about uptight.
Ella granted us a quick stop at a local supermarket to buy provisions before taking us to the hostel. I took this as a sign that this place must be bloody miles away out in the middle of nowhere. It was. Never mind, the countryside is an awesome place to be in, right? All those fields and trees and sunshine and shit. It’s like getting back to Mother Nature.
Manjimup had the configuration of a typical Aussie country town. There was a small shopping district laid out in a grid, a couple of pubs offering rooms to stay in and copious amounts of gambling, a smattering of supermarkets and fast food joints, and if you were lucky that was topped off with some patchy mobile coverage.
Stocked up with instant noodles and other basic foodstuffs, we journeyed on. The bus hurtled down a succession of green country lanes, each one redder and dustier than the last. Trees and fields stretched as far as the eye could see. Occasional farmhouses surfed past on rolling hilltops. Eventually we arrived at the hostel, my suspicions as to its remoteness proving grimly accurate.
The photo didn’t lie – it was definitely on the functional side. A series of wooden dorm shacks surrounded a stagnant-looking lobster pond, next to a giant dusty quadrangle lined with various decrepit-looking and well-travelled motor vehicles. Across the pond, a stately-looking farmhouse housed the office and the hostel’s one and only internet PC. Apart from brief periods in the evening this was always locked up, communication with the outside world lying tantalisingly out of bounds.
In the office we paid up for a week’s rent and each received one plate, one bowl, one mug, one spoon (small), one spoon (large), one fork, one knife, one container (plastic) and bedding. These would be our only comforts on the inside. We would have a day off to relax (Christmas day as it happened) then, we were assured, there would be work waiting for us. The local agriculture industry was working at full tilt, messiah or no messiah. Boxing Day couldn’t come soon enough for me.
Just then a wild-haired Irish backpacker called Mikey appeared and led us to our rooms, showing off the various bits of the building to us and chattering excitedly in his semi-comprehensible brogue. He had a walkie-talkie so seemed to be in a position of command. I took a liking to the guy – anyone who wears a mullet with a baseball cap is alright with me.
Walking through the hostel it seemed deserted, but Ella had told us most of the travellers staying there were still out at work on farms. As the afternoon wore on droves of people returned in the same minibus and soon the place was crammed to capacity. Ben and I had taken the last two beds, shoehorned into dorm rooms filled exclusively with meek-looking Asian girls.
That in itself was a bit weird, and the rooms were extremely cramped. Everyone lived in each other’s pockets. My room was right next to the communal kitchens and teemed with smells, sounds and people well into the night. I slept on half of the top bunk with my clothes and books strewn on the other half. There was no space to put them on the floor.
The kitchens themselves were even more cramped, the shelves and fridges overflowing with people’s bags of food. Every inch of kitchen space was more highly prized and fiercely contested than prime Tokyo real estate. A bizarre irony that in the middle of the vast wilderness, here we were squeezed in like sardines. Too many people and too few cookers made cooking dinner like playing a game of Twister around the stove.
Over time I became the master of fixing myself a sandwich with the minimum number of chess moves around the kitchen. Hanging on to your plates and cutlery was a challenge – if you didn’t hand back the same number of items to the office when you left you’d lose your deposit, and stuff was always going missing.
Having said that the hostel was also a friendly and welcoming place – the cramped conditions bred a strangely tolerant and convivial atmosphere amongst all the nationalities. What’s more, you could regularly leave valuables like iPods and laptops lying around in your room without fear of them being nicked. I’d been backpacking in India and south-east Asia by that point and was used to slumming it. Ben however disliked the place intensely and returned to Margaret River a few days later.
Go to the east coast and you can’t move for British backpackers. But here in the untamed west I was the only Brit in the entire hostel. A novel situation. The dominant nationalities were Taiwanese and Irish. I think we had roughly half the population of Taiwan staying at our hostel. Taiwan’s only a small country, a bit like Wales or Belgium or something, stuck out in the Pacific Ocean. How does it produce so many people, and how do they all end up in Manjimup?
These, and many other questions, were vexing me, so I turned to drink. The hostel handily sold wine, a distressingly obnoxious brew called (appropriately) Foul Bay. Frankly, it was that bad that tramps would turn their nose up at it. But at $5 a bottle it would do for the first night, in the absence of other intoxicants. So Ben and I sat up long into the night, hanging out with a bunch of Taiwanese travellers and drinking this awful, awful wine. That is how I spent Christmas Eve night.
Christmas Day was yet another hot December day, a typical antipodean scorcher marked with neither sleighbells nor windfalls of snow. The owner Naomi – who was in fact Ella’s partner – threw a massive party for everyone, with roast chicken, trimmings and free booze for all. An impressive feat of generosity that took a lot of effort to execute.
Then there was the Secret Santa, where people exchanged random gifts like watermelons and umbrellas. Being new arrivals Ben and I missed out on this. I’d already had two presents to unwrap on Christmas morning: a Simpsons Christmas t-shirt from my relatives and some sort of plum pudding in a box from Carmel. So just like being in the Secret Santa then really.
I was introduced to a throng of travellers from all over the world, and an atmosphere of merry debauchery ensued. Many of the Taiwanese got shit-flying drunk off a surprisingly small amount of Emu Bitter. Other people went swimming in the rancid lobster pond. A half-crazed French guy called Jeremy rampaged around chasing the girls and getting his cock out in the background of group photos. It was funny to watch, to say the least, but I was glad it wasn’t me being all nude and drunk and French. I limited myself to several beers and a bottle and a half of Foul Bay – I had work in the morning.
1 x cup of tea/coffee
1 x muffin OR 2 x biscuits
1 x jazz cigarette (optional)
I’d looked forward to this a lot: my first ever Christmas away from home and my first Christmas down under. Shrimps on the barbie, beers on the beach, playing Frisbee with kangaroos, beaucoup good times. That’s not quite how it turned out.
It was Christmas Eve morning as I struggled up the hill to the bus stop with my bags and guitar. I was as heavily-laden as one of those African tribeswomen who carry the jugs of water through the desert on their heads – not just with my bags, but with a hangover.
I’d spent the previous evening in festive congruence with some Victoria Bitter and the movie Tropic Thunder on DVD. One of them had ended up devoured (the beer), one of them watched (the movie) and one of them pissed (me). Another thrilling tableau from my amazing life.
The town of Margaret River barely stirred in the morning heat. It was only about 9am but already the summer sun was making the transition from pretty golden orb to massive evil burning bastard. I resented the sun; it caused me to feel detached from all around me. Whilst everyone in the area was getting ready to put their feet up and host their loved ones I was itching to ditch the snail’s pace country lifestyle and get to work.
I pictured myself as a sci-fi hero like Buck Rogers from the 25th Century. Ready to make a big leap into the unknown. I had four months left on my visa and it was make-or-break time for finding farm work. I don’t know if Buck Rogers had any experience of applying for a second working visa in Australia, but it stood to reason that he had at some point.
My destination? Manjimup, a small town about 50 miles away, where I was promised work. The hostel reviews didn’t encourage me but they appeared to have plenty of people staying there over Christmas so a party of some sort was guaranteed. I had no plans for crimbo so I figured the sooner I got there the better.
I was joined at the bus stop by Ben, the German dude I met volunteering on Carmel’s orchard. During the couple of weeks we worked together we got along well and combined our efforts to look for work. I persuaded him to make the trip with me, though I think he was less keen to leave Margaret River than I was. In hindsight I fear I pushed him into a personal Vietnam from which he would never recover.
The bus was the last service out of town before Christmas, and was full of exciteable 60-somethings clutching tartan luggage. The driver greeted us cheerily over the mic as the bus inched its way through the backstreets out of town. There is no direct service linking the two towns so we had to make a two-legged trip via Bunbury, and that killed a good few hours.
It was mid-afternoon by the time we alighted in Manjimup, and it looked more or less just like the place we’d left, not that that was a bad thing particularly. We waited around at the bus stop for our pick-up, and eventually a pale girl in a hoodie announced herself from over in the distance.
“Are you from the hostel?” I intoned loudly, in my best ‘talking to the locals’ voice. She answered us in the affirmative and led us to a sleek minibus of Japanese origin caked in the ubiquitous country dirt.
“Hi, I’m Ella,” she announced cheerfully, “and if you’ve got weed on you, please don’t smoke it inside the hostel. We have a special place down the garden for that sort of thing.” This was a standard greeting for travellers it seemed.
Being depressingly un-rock’n’roll, neither of us had any drugs on us of course. But as opening gambits go, it was a memorable one, and a refreshing change from the usual zero tolerance attitude you get in travellers’ hostels. Man, I’ve been in places where they don’t even let you hide dead hookers in the laundry. Talk about uptight.
Ella granted us a quick stop at a local supermarket to buy provisions before taking us to the hostel. I took this as a sign that this place must be bloody miles away out in the middle of nowhere. It was. Never mind, the countryside is an awesome place to be in, right? All those fields and trees and sunshine and shit. It’s like getting back to Mother Nature.
Manjimup had the configuration of a typical Aussie country town. There was a small shopping district laid out in a grid, a couple of pubs offering rooms to stay in and copious amounts of gambling, a smattering of supermarkets and fast food joints, and if you were lucky that was topped off with some patchy mobile coverage.
Stocked up with instant noodles and other basic foodstuffs, we journeyed on. The bus hurtled down a succession of green country lanes, each one redder and dustier than the last. Trees and fields stretched as far as the eye could see. Occasional farmhouses surfed past on rolling hilltops. Eventually we arrived at the hostel, my suspicions as to its remoteness proving grimly accurate.
The photo didn’t lie – it was definitely on the functional side. A series of wooden dorm shacks surrounded a stagnant-looking lobster pond, next to a giant dusty quadrangle lined with various decrepit-looking and well-travelled motor vehicles. Across the pond, a stately-looking farmhouse housed the office and the hostel’s one and only internet PC. Apart from brief periods in the evening this was always locked up, communication with the outside world lying tantalisingly out of bounds.
In the office we paid up for a week’s rent and each received one plate, one bowl, one mug, one spoon (small), one spoon (large), one fork, one knife, one container (plastic) and bedding. These would be our only comforts on the inside. We would have a day off to relax (Christmas day as it happened) then, we were assured, there would be work waiting for us. The local agriculture industry was working at full tilt, messiah or no messiah. Boxing Day couldn’t come soon enough for me.
Just then a wild-haired Irish backpacker called Mikey appeared and led us to our rooms, showing off the various bits of the building to us and chattering excitedly in his semi-comprehensible brogue. He had a walkie-talkie so seemed to be in a position of command. I took a liking to the guy – anyone who wears a mullet with a baseball cap is alright with me.
Walking through the hostel it seemed deserted, but Ella had told us most of the travellers staying there were still out at work on farms. As the afternoon wore on droves of people returned in the same minibus and soon the place was crammed to capacity. Ben and I had taken the last two beds, shoehorned into dorm rooms filled exclusively with meek-looking Asian girls.
That in itself was a bit weird, and the rooms were extremely cramped. Everyone lived in each other’s pockets. My room was right next to the communal kitchens and teemed with smells, sounds and people well into the night. I slept on half of the top bunk with my clothes and books strewn on the other half. There was no space to put them on the floor.
The kitchens themselves were even more cramped, the shelves and fridges overflowing with people’s bags of food. Every inch of kitchen space was more highly prized and fiercely contested than prime Tokyo real estate. A bizarre irony that in the middle of the vast wilderness, here we were squeezed in like sardines. Too many people and too few cookers made cooking dinner like playing a game of Twister around the stove.
Over time I became the master of fixing myself a sandwich with the minimum number of chess moves around the kitchen. Hanging on to your plates and cutlery was a challenge – if you didn’t hand back the same number of items to the office when you left you’d lose your deposit, and stuff was always going missing.
Having said that the hostel was also a friendly and welcoming place – the cramped conditions bred a strangely tolerant and convivial atmosphere amongst all the nationalities. What’s more, you could regularly leave valuables like iPods and laptops lying around in your room without fear of them being nicked. I’d been backpacking in India and south-east Asia by that point and was used to slumming it. Ben however disliked the place intensely and returned to Margaret River a few days later.
Go to the east coast and you can’t move for British backpackers. But here in the untamed west I was the only Brit in the entire hostel. A novel situation. The dominant nationalities were Taiwanese and Irish. I think we had roughly half the population of Taiwan staying at our hostel. Taiwan’s only a small country, a bit like Wales or Belgium or something, stuck out in the Pacific Ocean. How does it produce so many people, and how do they all end up in Manjimup?
These, and many other questions, were vexing me, so I turned to drink. The hostel handily sold wine, a distressingly obnoxious brew called (appropriately) Foul Bay. Frankly, it was that bad that tramps would turn their nose up at it. But at $5 a bottle it would do for the first night, in the absence of other intoxicants. So Ben and I sat up long into the night, hanging out with a bunch of Taiwanese travellers and drinking this awful, awful wine. That is how I spent Christmas Eve night.
Christmas Day was yet another hot December day, a typical antipodean scorcher marked with neither sleighbells nor windfalls of snow. The owner Naomi – who was in fact Ella’s partner – threw a massive party for everyone, with roast chicken, trimmings and free booze for all. An impressive feat of generosity that took a lot of effort to execute.
Then there was the Secret Santa, where people exchanged random gifts like watermelons and umbrellas. Being new arrivals Ben and I missed out on this. I’d already had two presents to unwrap on Christmas morning: a Simpsons Christmas t-shirt from my relatives and some sort of plum pudding in a box from Carmel. So just like being in the Secret Santa then really.
I was introduced to a throng of travellers from all over the world, and an atmosphere of merry debauchery ensued. Many of the Taiwanese got shit-flying drunk off a surprisingly small amount of Emu Bitter. Other people went swimming in the rancid lobster pond. A half-crazed French guy called Jeremy rampaged around chasing the girls and getting his cock out in the background of group photos. It was funny to watch, to say the least, but I was glad it wasn’t me being all nude and drunk and French. I limited myself to several beers and a bottle and a half of Foul Bay – I had work in the morning.
Monday, 22 June 2009
Margaret River - Thumbs up, thumbs down (Nov-Dec 08)
Hello! You join me six months further on in my journey round Australia. I have been struck from time to time that there's something I've been forgetting to do, and that thing is to update my travel blog!
A huge amount of water has flowed under the bridge in storytelling terms so I'd best crack on and recount my travelling tales before a whole load more stuff happens. If there's anything guaranteed in this life, it's that stuff (both good and bad) happens.
When I spoke to you last I was still in Margaret River - the beautiful wine-producing town in Western Australia that couldn't be more laid back if it tried. I'd found myself a place to live, a loaf to butter and a glass of milk to declare half-full. The country roads reverberated with the sound of me whistling a jaunty tune as I cycled on by. The sun shone bright day after day after day.
To be truthful I was bored of my surroundings and seeking work. It had been my lifelong dream since about 5 minutes before leaving Perth to work on the area's famous vineyards. But the season was unseasonably quiet, the grapes swelling untroubled on the vines, leaving me twiddling my thumbs at home. My journey on the harvest trail had hit the doldrums big-time.
I passed the time playing guitar, and reading the free local paper, an unassuming weekly bugle concealing a work of unintentional comedy brilliance. I refer of course to none other than the hilariously pointless feature known as 'Thumbs up, thumbs down'!
To the uninitiated (basically everyone outside the Margaret River area) this involves anonymous readers writing in to comment on subjects meeting their approval or disapproval. Examples include:
A huge amount of water has flowed under the bridge in storytelling terms so I'd best crack on and recount my travelling tales before a whole load more stuff happens. If there's anything guaranteed in this life, it's that stuff (both good and bad) happens.
When I spoke to you last I was still in Margaret River - the beautiful wine-producing town in Western Australia that couldn't be more laid back if it tried. I'd found myself a place to live, a loaf to butter and a glass of milk to declare half-full. The country roads reverberated with the sound of me whistling a jaunty tune as I cycled on by. The sun shone bright day after day after day.
To be truthful I was bored of my surroundings and seeking work. It had been my lifelong dream since about 5 minutes before leaving Perth to work on the area's famous vineyards. But the season was unseasonably quiet, the grapes swelling untroubled on the vines, leaving me twiddling my thumbs at home. My journey on the harvest trail had hit the doldrums big-time.
I passed the time playing guitar, and reading the free local paper, an unassuming weekly bugle concealing a work of unintentional comedy brilliance. I refer of course to none other than the hilariously pointless feature known as 'Thumbs up, thumbs down'!
To the uninitiated (basically everyone outside the Margaret River area) this involves anonymous readers writing in to comment on subjects meeting their approval or disapproval. Examples include:
- "Thumbs up to the Margaret River Police for having the hardest job in the world and doing such a great job."
- "Thumbs down to no drinking fountains in Margaret River."
- "Thumbs up to sugar-coated carob free almonds."
- "Thumbs down to people not paying tradespeople on time."
- "Thumbs up to all the shops who decorate their windows at Christmas."
- "Thumbs down to people who take social sports too seriously."
- "Thumbs up to Nanna Rose's new smile."
- "Thumbs down to the P-platers (learners) and other drivers who scared me and my horse on Caves Road."
- "Thumbs up to great beauticians."
- "Thumbs down to anyone who wants to bring one million people to Margaret River."
- "Thumbs up to the Augusta Pharmacy."
- "Thumbs down for vineyard workers not being supplied with portable toilets."
- "Thumbs up to those taking part in Movember."
- "Thumbs down to those who broke into the privately-owned helicopter at a hangar party."
- "Thumbs up for Saul's blue cheese pizzas and burger Fridays."
- "Thumbs down to people who try to get out of paying their bills."
- "Thumbs up to our beautiful display of native flowers."
- "Thumbs down to people who steal wood from their workplace."
- "Thumbs up to Mess Fest – best ever!"
- "Thumbs down to rude graffiti on signs."
Fantastic! I always enjoyed those. But not as much as I enjoyed imagining the respective authors clutching the paper in triumph and yelling, 'they published my idea! Yes! The system works!'
And even now, many months later, I lie in bed at night wondering if the workplace wood-stealer was ever brought to justice.
I enrolled as a WWOOF volunteer in a bid to clock up some time towards my second working visa. This entailed me cycling out to a palatial countryside residence to help a lady called Carmel dig irrigation trenches round her fruit trees. In exchange for working mornings I received nutritious vegetarian lunches and the healthy glow of a man at one with his spade. Who needs money anyway? It was an interesting diversion for a couple of weeks.
I was joined by another volunteer, Ben from Germany, who had a cracking beard. He smoked rollups and had just travelled by car all the way from Darwin, an immense journey (and one I’d like to do someday). Soon we’d dug all the trenches, weeded all the weeds and dotted all the Is and crossed all the Ts in a gardening sense on Carmel’s property so it was time to say our goodbyes.
Around the same time my tireless inquiries about work finally hit paydirt. I got word of a working hostel that lay an hour down the road in Manjimup. This being of course a place where the twin baubles of farm work and accommodation happily collide!
I tried to research this fabled place of labour on the net but found nothing but a fuzzy JPEG of some wooden sheds and a couple of old reviews from 2005/6. As per most working hostels it was as well-advertised as the average Taliban hideout, and twice as mysterious.
I phoned the number and spoke to a flustered-sounding woman called Naomi who assured me yes, they had a couple of beds free and some work. After weeks without earning any money, that was good enough for me! I arranged to leave my house-share at short notice, and it was only a matter of packing my bags and booking a bus ticket to Manjimup.
Just one problem: the date was now 23 December.
Oh bollocks… Christmas!
Coming soon: Christmas 08 – Bondy does Manjimup
Saturday, 15 November 2008
Margaret River - beginning the harvest trail
And so I have come to a new town. And that town is Margaret River. Margaret River is notable for being two things: a town, and a river, also called Margaret River. To reduce confusion I shall call the town Margaret River, and the river Margaret River-river. Still with me? Good.
Margaret River (and Margaret River-river) is in a remote rural region of south-west Australia. Never-ending miles of hills and unspoilt woodlands lie on all sides. The climate is temperate and wet, making it a little reminiscent of West Yorkshire, albeit with drastically improved weather conditions!
The feel is of a remote, countrified place in a lush rural setting, first colonised less than two centuries ago. Apparently the river, and the town, were named after a woman called Margaret who the original settlers knew. She must have been quite something. Or maybe she paid them lots of money to do it, I don't know.
There are lots of vineyards in this region, and orchards too. 200 miles south of Perth's sterile pretentiousness, the two are worlds apart. This is a sleepy country town where folk stop to say 'how do you do' in the street and neighbours lend a hand churning your butter. Probably.
And what is it brings me, intrepid explorer and cultural ferryman of the masses, to this pretty and unspoilt corner of the world? Well my visa lasts till April next year. If during that time I spend 3 or more months doing specific types of labouring (e.g. vineyard work, orchard work, construction) in remote rural areas of Australia I am entitled to apply for another 12-month working visa in the future.
I've fallen in love with Australia and I'd love to come back. Problem is, a lot of the jobs on the list are back-breakingly arduous and no-one in their right mind would want to do them. Hence the immigration department's special concession allowing desperate backpackers eager to risk life and limb (that's me!) to work towards the golden ticket of a second working visa.
And loads of travellers do it! It's known as the harvest trail, and it has a whole supporting infrastructure of work agencies, backpacker hostels, pamphlets and free advice guides built up around it.
In the grand scheme of things I would rather be poncing round with a pair of secateurs on a vineyard, or trampling grapes like Sideshow Bob on the Simpsons, than hoisting cinder blocks up a ladder in 40 degree heat. Time will tell if I am being cavalier or misguided in my romantic flirtations with viticulture!
After a final whirl of farewell drinks and parties, and the tying up of various loose ends, on Sunday (9th Nov) I left Perth. Loading my bags into my housemate Maria's car I felt a curious mix of elation and nostalgia at a huge chapter in my life closing. Shortly followed by frustration when I realised, halfway into town, I'd left some stuff back at the house!
We drove back to get it but it made us late for the bus. Maria 'put the pedal to the metal' as the young people say, and got me to Esplanade bus-port on time, the light Sunday traffic not posing much of an impedance. I hugged her goodbye and staggered off down the concrete forcourse carrying my entire life: 65 litre rucksack with sleeping bag, roll-mat and travel guitar attached, small rucksack, two bags full of clothes and a full-size guitar in a heavy case!
Stepping into the bus's air-conditioned interior, I felt a cool sense of relief and smugness that I, Andrew Bond, was advancing on my mission. The bus glided off in a hiss of air-brakes and I soon drifted into sleep.
Opening my eyes a few minutes later I couldn't believe what I saw: the bus only made a stop to collect passengers outside Murdoch Uni, 200 metres from my house! I'd made us embark on a whole mad scrambled journey into town for no purpose! Thankfully Maria saw the funny side too when I texted her.
That comedy moment aside it was a pleasant journey south to Margaret River. I caught up on more sleep as lush green countryside sped by under a watchful azure sky. My slumbers that particular day were soundtracked by Captain Beefheart and then some ambienty Radiohead stuff on my music player. And that perpetual moment of inner peace and tranquility finally encapsulated for me what travelling should feel like.
After arriving in Margaret River I spent a few lazy days writing, playing guitar and drinking endless cups of tea at my friend Ruth's house. There was no TV so at night I sat outside listening to the rustling of the trees, bathed in multicoloured lights on the veranda. This, my friend, is what backpacking should all be about. Now to find some work!
Having paced the quiet streets I have found the town's attractions to number: some shops, a few cafes, restaurants and pubs, an internet cafe or two, a cycle trail out through the woods, and a bridge over a lily pond. That's right: a bridge. Over a motherf***king lily pond. Jealous? This town is where it's at.
The town's free weekly paper, the Margaret River Mail, carries an astonishing lack of headlines. This week its readership were treated to the exciting news that CowParade, the international cow art festival, is coming to Margaret River next year. Maybe. Apparently it is next on the list after major cities like Prague, Sydney and Chicago. A likely story!
Also a local author is launching a children's book featuring a talking lamprey. All this while a black man has been elected to the White House and the times they are a-changing. You don't know what you're missing folks!
I have been taken aback how the people here are very friendly, generous and helpful. The woman at the internet cafe knocked two dollars off my bill the other day just because I seemed hard-up. Country people rule!
I've just moved into a house-share with a guy called Nick who is a chef, who brings home free boxes of red wine from his work! And all I have to do now is watch and wait for the phone to ring with work. And I might just get shit-flying drunk while I do so! Doing nothing never felt as good as this.
Margaret River (and Margaret River-river) is in a remote rural region of south-west Australia. Never-ending miles of hills and unspoilt woodlands lie on all sides. The climate is temperate and wet, making it a little reminiscent of West Yorkshire, albeit with drastically improved weather conditions!
The feel is of a remote, countrified place in a lush rural setting, first colonised less than two centuries ago. Apparently the river, and the town, were named after a woman called Margaret who the original settlers knew. She must have been quite something. Or maybe she paid them lots of money to do it, I don't know.
There are lots of vineyards in this region, and orchards too. 200 miles south of Perth's sterile pretentiousness, the two are worlds apart. This is a sleepy country town where folk stop to say 'how do you do' in the street and neighbours lend a hand churning your butter. Probably.
And what is it brings me, intrepid explorer and cultural ferryman of the masses, to this pretty and unspoilt corner of the world? Well my visa lasts till April next year. If during that time I spend 3 or more months doing specific types of labouring (e.g. vineyard work, orchard work, construction) in remote rural areas of Australia I am entitled to apply for another 12-month working visa in the future.
I've fallen in love with Australia and I'd love to come back. Problem is, a lot of the jobs on the list are back-breakingly arduous and no-one in their right mind would want to do them. Hence the immigration department's special concession allowing desperate backpackers eager to risk life and limb (that's me!) to work towards the golden ticket of a second working visa.
And loads of travellers do it! It's known as the harvest trail, and it has a whole supporting infrastructure of work agencies, backpacker hostels, pamphlets and free advice guides built up around it.
In the grand scheme of things I would rather be poncing round with a pair of secateurs on a vineyard, or trampling grapes like Sideshow Bob on the Simpsons, than hoisting cinder blocks up a ladder in 40 degree heat. Time will tell if I am being cavalier or misguided in my romantic flirtations with viticulture!
After a final whirl of farewell drinks and parties, and the tying up of various loose ends, on Sunday (9th Nov) I left Perth. Loading my bags into my housemate Maria's car I felt a curious mix of elation and nostalgia at a huge chapter in my life closing. Shortly followed by frustration when I realised, halfway into town, I'd left some stuff back at the house!
We drove back to get it but it made us late for the bus. Maria 'put the pedal to the metal' as the young people say, and got me to Esplanade bus-port on time, the light Sunday traffic not posing much of an impedance. I hugged her goodbye and staggered off down the concrete forcourse carrying my entire life: 65 litre rucksack with sleeping bag, roll-mat and travel guitar attached, small rucksack, two bags full of clothes and a full-size guitar in a heavy case!
Stepping into the bus's air-conditioned interior, I felt a cool sense of relief and smugness that I, Andrew Bond, was advancing on my mission. The bus glided off in a hiss of air-brakes and I soon drifted into sleep.
Opening my eyes a few minutes later I couldn't believe what I saw: the bus only made a stop to collect passengers outside Murdoch Uni, 200 metres from my house! I'd made us embark on a whole mad scrambled journey into town for no purpose! Thankfully Maria saw the funny side too when I texted her.
That comedy moment aside it was a pleasant journey south to Margaret River. I caught up on more sleep as lush green countryside sped by under a watchful azure sky. My slumbers that particular day were soundtracked by Captain Beefheart and then some ambienty Radiohead stuff on my music player. And that perpetual moment of inner peace and tranquility finally encapsulated for me what travelling should feel like.
After arriving in Margaret River I spent a few lazy days writing, playing guitar and drinking endless cups of tea at my friend Ruth's house. There was no TV so at night I sat outside listening to the rustling of the trees, bathed in multicoloured lights on the veranda. This, my friend, is what backpacking should all be about. Now to find some work!
Having paced the quiet streets I have found the town's attractions to number: some shops, a few cafes, restaurants and pubs, an internet cafe or two, a cycle trail out through the woods, and a bridge over a lily pond. That's right: a bridge. Over a motherf***king lily pond. Jealous? This town is where it's at.
The town's free weekly paper, the Margaret River Mail, carries an astonishing lack of headlines. This week its readership were treated to the exciting news that CowParade, the international cow art festival, is coming to Margaret River next year. Maybe. Apparently it is next on the list after major cities like Prague, Sydney and Chicago. A likely story!
Also a local author is launching a children's book featuring a talking lamprey. All this while a black man has been elected to the White House and the times they are a-changing. You don't know what you're missing folks!
I have been taken aback how the people here are very friendly, generous and helpful. The woman at the internet cafe knocked two dollars off my bill the other day just because I seemed hard-up. Country people rule!
I've just moved into a house-share with a guy called Nick who is a chef, who brings home free boxes of red wine from his work! And all I have to do now is watch and wait for the phone to ring with work. And I might just get shit-flying drunk while I do so! Doing nothing never felt as good as this.
Thursday, 6 November 2008
Perth part 3 - departure imminent!
Hello and welcome once again to my travelling tales. Please help yourself to a mint imperial and tell your fellow guests to do the same.
How am I and where am I at? Apart from a brush with shingles and a recent head-lice scare, I am well and good. I am still in Perth, though at long last I shall soon be leaving. Off to the countryside to work on a vineyard, where exactly I cannot say.
And what of the intervening weeks and months since last I wrote? A strange and wonderful time it must be said. New friendships have been made and new places have been visited. My fresh and revitalised mental state has sent a cascade of creativity gushing forth, revealing a shower of wondrous new songs and lyrics galore. I feel I'm writing (and thinking) on a higher level than I have ever done in my life.
I've played a few gigs in Fremantle and Perth which, while not leading to any great new opportunities, left me in no doubt my music has been well-received over here. I am also busy finishing off two new songs in a recording studio. The studio is in the suburb of Bassendean - birthplace of Rolf Harris, no less! Bassendean is a quiet suburb much like any other – there were no tributes or statues to Rolf evident anywhere. How can their famous wobble-boarding son continue to be overlooked in such a way?
Anyway, the songs will go on a compilation of local artists which will hopefully garner some modest airplay on the radio. And I want my songs playing on the radio – it would make me feel I've finally achieved something with my life. And then my mum can go around telling people, "My son gets played on the radio in Australia you know," as she has no doubt long been craving to do.
"But Bondy!" you ejaculate. "Enough of your music news, what of your travelling?"
Well beloved reader, I have been getting up close and personal with the wheat belt. This isn't some item of farming fetish wear, but rather a vast tract of farmland that surrounds Perth on all sides for hundreds of kilometres. Nipple/areolae is the relationship we're talking here, on a vast scale. And it's the closest I've come to seeing any boobies in a long time I must say!
My friend Shannon took me to spend a weird and wonderful weekend in the country with her family. Some of her 'rellies' (that’s what they call relatives over here) have bought a vast plot of land out in the wilderness. We pitched a tiny two-person tent amidst the empty acres and joined them around the bonfire to listen to rude Australian music and enjoy a beer.
With the WA property boom sending house prices to astronomical levels over recent years, many folk have taken to buying an empty plot of land out in the middle of nowhere and building their own home on it. It takes years to do – the people we stayed with had only been there long enough to set up a homely tin shack and a few caravans on their land to use as an occasional weekend retreat.
Using this as our base, Shannon's dad (a colossus of geography and plant knowledge) led us on a series of bushwalking adventures around local rock features. This wild terrain was all new to me and in my eyes it was a fantastic and authentic Aussie experience.
I have seen the sun set over the rolling open farmland, and spied the shining of the moon in rock pools fashioned by angels. I have ridden a dune buggy over the crest of majestic hills like a medieval knight atop a proud steed. And also I have gone for a dump in a wooden shack humourously titled the ‘site ofice’ (sic).
This was also my introduction to the great flora and fauna that lurk out in the vast wilds of WA: namely lemon-scented orchids, red snapper orchids, chicken burrito orchids, kangaroos, emus, flies, more flies, tics, head lice, gonorrhoea and drop bears. A drop bear is basically a cross between a kangaroo and a rhinoceros that can bounce up to fifty metres in the air and spits poisonous acid in the direction of whatever perturbs it. They look like this:
I’ve been on another trip away, down to Castle Rock near Dunsborough, to camp right next to the beach! Castle Rock is notable for being, err, a big rock shaped a bit like a castle. It’s in the middle of a national park on a beautiful stretch of coastline 250 kilometres south of Perth. Notable things about that weekend include:
How am I and where am I at? Apart from a brush with shingles and a recent head-lice scare, I am well and good. I am still in Perth, though at long last I shall soon be leaving. Off to the countryside to work on a vineyard, where exactly I cannot say.
And what of the intervening weeks and months since last I wrote? A strange and wonderful time it must be said. New friendships have been made and new places have been visited. My fresh and revitalised mental state has sent a cascade of creativity gushing forth, revealing a shower of wondrous new songs and lyrics galore. I feel I'm writing (and thinking) on a higher level than I have ever done in my life.
I've played a few gigs in Fremantle and Perth which, while not leading to any great new opportunities, left me in no doubt my music has been well-received over here. I am also busy finishing off two new songs in a recording studio. The studio is in the suburb of Bassendean - birthplace of Rolf Harris, no less! Bassendean is a quiet suburb much like any other – there were no tributes or statues to Rolf evident anywhere. How can their famous wobble-boarding son continue to be overlooked in such a way?
Anyway, the songs will go on a compilation of local artists which will hopefully garner some modest airplay on the radio. And I want my songs playing on the radio – it would make me feel I've finally achieved something with my life. And then my mum can go around telling people, "My son gets played on the radio in Australia you know," as she has no doubt long been craving to do.
"But Bondy!" you ejaculate. "Enough of your music news, what of your travelling?"
Well beloved reader, I have been getting up close and personal with the wheat belt. This isn't some item of farming fetish wear, but rather a vast tract of farmland that surrounds Perth on all sides for hundreds of kilometres. Nipple/areolae is the relationship we're talking here, on a vast scale. And it's the closest I've come to seeing any boobies in a long time I must say!
My friend Shannon took me to spend a weird and wonderful weekend in the country with her family. Some of her 'rellies' (that’s what they call relatives over here) have bought a vast plot of land out in the wilderness. We pitched a tiny two-person tent amidst the empty acres and joined them around the bonfire to listen to rude Australian music and enjoy a beer.
With the WA property boom sending house prices to astronomical levels over recent years, many folk have taken to buying an empty plot of land out in the middle of nowhere and building their own home on it. It takes years to do – the people we stayed with had only been there long enough to set up a homely tin shack and a few caravans on their land to use as an occasional weekend retreat.
Using this as our base, Shannon's dad (a colossus of geography and plant knowledge) led us on a series of bushwalking adventures around local rock features. This wild terrain was all new to me and in my eyes it was a fantastic and authentic Aussie experience.
I have seen the sun set over the rolling open farmland, and spied the shining of the moon in rock pools fashioned by angels. I have ridden a dune buggy over the crest of majestic hills like a medieval knight atop a proud steed. And also I have gone for a dump in a wooden shack humourously titled the ‘site ofice’ (sic).
This was also my introduction to the great flora and fauna that lurk out in the vast wilds of WA: namely lemon-scented orchids, red snapper orchids, chicken burrito orchids, kangaroos, emus, flies, more flies, tics, head lice, gonorrhoea and drop bears. A drop bear is basically a cross between a kangaroo and a rhinoceros that can bounce up to fifty metres in the air and spits poisonous acid in the direction of whatever perturbs it. They look like this:
I’ve been on another trip away, down to Castle Rock near Dunsborough, to camp right next to the beach! Castle Rock is notable for being, err, a big rock shaped a bit like a castle. It’s in the middle of a national park on a beautiful stretch of coastline 250 kilometres south of Perth. Notable things about that weekend include:
- Seven of us travelling down in 3 cars, in various states of inebriation and tiredness
- Arriving at 1am on Saturday and pitching our tents in the black of night
- Waking up later that morning to discover a stunning ocean view right in front of us
- Climbing Castle Rock and standing triumphantly atop it, hollering into the ocean breeze
- Everyone seeing a whale in the sea, but me missing it
- Me and Josh drinking a beer at 6am on Sunday while we attempted to keep the fire lit in adverse weather conditions
- One of our brand new camping chairs collapsing into the fire and quickly bursting into flames – flame-retardant my arse!
- Enjoying a replay of Radiohead’s Glastonbury ‘97 set on Triple J (radio station) on the drive back up to Perth, to soothe the hangovers
What more could you demand of a weekend? Well, sex and loads of money perhaps. Nevertheless it was pretty cool.
I am still house-sharing in sleepy old Murdoch. There have been upheavals of the housemate variety – Dave did a runner owing us all money (as we long feared he might) and lives to fight his battles another day in locations unknown. Our empty room was taken by Tim, a punk guy from Sydney who’s just moved over to Perth.
It’s been a nice enough house to live in on my occasional forays outside my head, but the living area now festers in a state of woeful untidiness. As is usually the case with house-shares, no-one wants to concede the mind-games and undertake any housework! Though I now suspect beer and TV have probably left us too lazy and defeated even for mind-games.
The atmosphere in the house is one of neglect, and soon the four of us shall all go our separate ways. But weep not dear reader - even the radiant chrysanthemum must wither and die as part of the great cycle of life.
I have also been on a voyage of momentous personal discovery. A couple of months ago I did another personal development course with Mitch Behan called ‘Letting it go’. Essentially it was a two-day cram-a-thon held for the benefit of me and a few dozen other people coming from all walks of life. We received an expert education in quantum physics and the principles that govern the divine order in the universe. Then we learnt how to apply these principles to achieve lasting success in our own lives.
Simple eh? Actually, the courses were among the toughest things I’ve ever done – not only for the work I did but the concepts I was trying to grapple with and understand in my head – and they pushed us very hard. Much as I don’t want to be a killjoy I have to be vague and mysterious as it is all proprietary knowledge. It mostly concerns building and then deploying nuclear weapons.
I know what you’re thinking and it’s probably, “what the f**k!?” Well I’ve not changed. I’ve not joined a cult or become a scientologist or anything. Everyone makes their own way in life and whether you choose to believe in a ‘higher power’ and all that jazz is up to you.
The jury’s still out on whether this will help me fulfil my dreams, but so far the work we’ve done has taught me a great deal about life and I feel much happier and more complete. In the immortal words of Homer Simpson, “All my life I've had one dream: to achieve my many goals.”
In a work sense not much has changed. I am still a humble research officer for the Office of Public Sector Standards, though my job finishes this week – hence my decision to move on. It’s been a rollercoaster ride and during my time on the 17th floor I have bonded meaningfully with my erstwhile colleagues in an atmosphere of supportive cerebralism. I have had some sucky temp jobs in my time but this is one I shall most definitely miss. Just one of the varied worlds I have inhabited upon my journey.
And my final thoughts on Perth? Well, after spending 6 months here, I will be f**king glad to see the back of the place. Much as it is a beautiful, unspoilt little city it is ridiculously cliquey. Making friends as a new face in town was impossibly difficult. As a handsome well-heeled motherf**ker-about-town I was not accustomed to having gaping open spaces in my social calendar. It’s given me plenty of opportunities to work on my writing at least – just like being a teenager all over again really. And now I’m counting down the days till I move on!
I hasten to add I’ve had a great time in Perth, but the flimsy little world I’ve built for myself here has all the staying power of a paper bag and is about to blow away. A pocketful of dreams and a heart that’s willing will only get you so far in this world, and I feel a lot of the time like I’m sinking in the quicksand of indifference. What better reason to hit the road, Easy Rider stylee?
One thing’s for sure – I ain’t coming home anytime soon!
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