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.
Saturday 15 November 2008
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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