Tuesday, June 13th, 2006

Tales from a Sunshine Coast

Like all great travelers, I have seen more than I remember,
and remember more than I have seen. ~Benjamin Disraeli

Oh there you are.. I didn't see you come in.

Well.. Here I sit. In 1770 (no I haven't completely lost touch with reality, 1770 is a town on the east coast of Australia, not the year in which I believe to currently belong). I have made it further up the coast, to Airlie Beach in fact, but I am expected in Brisbane next weekend, so I'm retracing my steps. In more way than one. I can't say I'm a huge fan of Brisbane, for reasons that will surface later on, but there is meaning in this trip back down the coast. It's time to part with our beloved vessel, non other than Ceceecil. A van of many names.

I wonder if my writing is getting confused. Perhaps boring. I do find that it's hard to keep track of the day's events. Way too often, I will pick up my notebook and realize I've lapsed, more than two weeks at times, in my daily journaling. Not good for a mind like mine. I forget details within minutes of happening. During our heavy vanning, I would rub my temples in an attempt to coax my memory into action, but would more often than not rely on Kyle for names, dates, and places. Since we have now parted ways in search of different scenes, I am left with my own memory which is not such a reliable companion. So now, when I stare at those empty pages, I have to start with the present, and work my way back. Each day slipping further into obscurity until it reaches the last entry. Although it's all written in reverse chronological order, in a less than a cohesive mental state, so I easily confuse. So there will be an entry for May 11th , for example. Then I'll try to remember May 12th. I'll fail. Curse myself on the pages of my own journal. Then start from the day I picked it up, May 22nd, and work backwards. Once I've finally coaxed the details of each day back to May 12th, I have written, in obnoxious bold letters: “END OF BACKWARDS WRITTING!” [writing spelled wrong] “(REALLY NEED TO KEEP ON THIS...)”. Then there's some chicken scratch concerning a flight reservation and a hostel phone number. Then the very next entry reads: FUCK! I'VE DONE IT AGAIN... WAITED TOO LONG & HAVE TO WRITED IN REVERSE. Really no need to swear so much, but I was angry at myself, and the expletives made it to the page. Spelling write 'writed', however, is inexcusable, but I found it funny, so it stays. To make matters worse, the Moleskine journal that my Mom gave to me before I left is devoid of free space, so I'm shooting from the hip to cover the last week. So my apologies in advance. This is bound to be a little convoluted.

And I know some of you are already shaking your heads. I've received criticism before about my length (pardon!?), but I realize now that all this writing is more for me than anyone else. So I try to cram in every little detail before it escapes from 'hardly remember' to 'gone forever'. So let this be the last time I make excuses for my wordy lengthy writing. And be warned... since this text, and a handful of pictures, will be my only memories to serve a senior-me, there might be some material that is unsuitable for some viewers. So with all of that out of the way. Let's begin....

Ahem.... Cough...

“So long suckers!” We left the Cape Byron Beach parking lot and pointed our nose towards Nimbin. After a memorable week in Byron Bay, our crew had parted ways and we were anxious to see more of the coast. As nice as it was, work was scarce, and we felt like we had “done” Byron by then. Most of our crew (I know it sounds cheesy, but it would be too mature to refer to them simply as friends) had split for Surfer's Paradise, but Kyle and I had our hearts set on Nimbin, the counter culture capital of Oz. “In 1973, the Australian Union of Students held the Aquarius Festival in the once prosperous, but now near abandoned dairy town of Nimbin. It was a huge success and since then people from all over the the Earth have been drawn here, seeking a new way of life. A tribe is forming...” Or so the plaque inside the Nimbin Museum scrawls. Nimbin is a quick run inland from Byron, and without mincing words, it is the place to buy pot. Plain and simple. I'm sure if you spent enough time there you would meet the locals, and see more into this little hippy town. But for 99% of travelers, illicit substances are the draw. If there were any doubts, the annual Mardi Grass festival (not a misprint.. it's Mardi Grass ) would put them to rest. No shortage of funny smells. Rolling competitions. Books filled with Clouds and Rainbows. Typical pot head's wet dream. But we missed it. Didn't really know it was going on actually, but we were about a week too late. What we did find was a bunch of dopey people, including a girl I went to high school with, and weed being sold at every corner without any intervention by the police. Seems to be an Amsterdam of sorts, where grass isn't exactly legal, but whole heartedly “accepted”. So, with authorities eyes turned blind, we made a small score and ran for the border, nervously glancing in the rear view. Not exactly the stuff of Fear and Loathing, but a simple pleasure that we both enjoy. Unless the FBI or grand parents are reading this.. then it didn't happen. Move along, nothing to see here..

Having spent maybe three hours in Nimbin, more than enough for our purposes, we pushed Cecil into 4th and rambled towards Surfer's Paradise. Alright. Life is good. Plenty of laughs. Should be there in time to meet up with the gang at a local drinkery. Ah, what the hell. Let's break down again.

Fantastic. Once again, Ceceecil, Beloved Clankety, Old Reliable Unit #8, shit the bed. Down shifting into 2nd at a red light, not half an hour from Surfer's, I lost all pressure in the clutch. That whole “It's all part of the experience” mantra got old miles ago. Now it was just getting ridiculous. We managed to coast into a covered parking lot adjacent to the Ambulance station, and once again our resident mechanic jumped under the van. “Okay press the clutch..” says Kyle, he says.. “Pressing!” I says. “Ahh.. Stop!” “What's that?” “STOP!”. Well, at least our latest mechanical woe was easy to diagnose. The clutch fluid that was spraying with hydraulic force all over Kyle made it quite clear. The old tired clutch line had finally rusted through and fractured. With the engine cover open it was extremely easy to get to, but we had a hell of a time trying to patch it. We came up with all sorts of homemade patches that failed miserably. Duct tape. Epoxy. Even a trip to the gas station for some sort of liquid-poly-alloy couldn't stop the leak. Dejected, we rolled out to the curb, popped the top, and enjoyed another forced stop in the middle of nowhere (no offense to lovely people of Coolangata or wherever the hell it was that we broke down).

With birds a chirpin', we arose to summon the powers of the mighty mobile mechanic. For the record that would be the fifth mechanic (sixth if you count Grant in Diamond Beach) who have touched this van since it's Roadworthy in Melbourne. The chap who finally came to our aid, and whose name escapes me, turned out to be a real honest guy who got us up and running without any unnecessary repairs. It could have been so easy for him to rip us off, what with us being stranded, and “not from around these parts”. So with a new hydraulic clutch line, and 16 litres of platinum headlight fluid, we were on our way again. The most painless of our hardships to date.

We finally arrived in Surfer's Paradise (a more appropriate name might be “Highrise Contractor's Paradise) a little after three pee em. We checked into, what I believe was called, Paradise Backpackers, and reunited with the remaining members of Spot On: Mark, Gemma, Anika, Lou and Devin. Our one and only night in Surfer's was lost in a dizzying pub crawl on a chartered bus that dragged from bar to bar until the wee hours of the morning. That night we would once again bump into Princess Becki and Lucy (really easy when everyone is hitting the same spots all along the coast) and would meet a whole new cast of characters who we would continue to find in random places at later dates. The night would end for Anika, Lou and I, quite oddly, surrounded by some Swedish dudes in their apartment at four in the morning. It was a very brief visit. When they invited Lou and Anika, I don't think they expected some Canadian dude to escort them. Further still, I don't think they really expected Anika and Lou to actually show up, so there was a ten minute uncomfortable silence before we finally did the whole “well... it's been great fellas” and vamoosed.

The next morning the whole gang shared a breakfast on the beach, pausing to frolic here and there, before deciding to join as one, and travel to Brisbane in the van. Our first real road trip with real people! Amazingly the trip was without incident. Almost disappointing really... As the steerage played cards in the back, Kyle and I navigated the old girl into the capital of Queensland and dropped everyone off at their respective destinations. Lou had plans to meet up with friends, and Devin, Mark and Gemma had booked rooms in advance at a hostel called Banana Benders (later referred as Banana Hammocks due in part to Australia's weird fascination with speedos, and the idiots who ran the place). Hoping to meet up with a girl Kyle had known from his St Kilda days, we continued to City Backpackers, but found no such dame. Instead we checked into the YHA next door.

New in town, and looking for a place to go for the evening, the girl behind the desk, Emily was her name, suggested some fashion parade she was going to at a place called Jorge, on a street called George. Thoroughly confused, I accepted the offer and dragged Kyle in tow for our first night out in Brisbane. After a couple of false starts at The George Hotel and other George like establishments, we finally found Jorge and took a spot on the patio. As the night drew on we were joined by a Canadian girl, also named Emily, and her Australian friend who we somehow got caught up in a bizarre argument about travel, job complacency, fashion, and, well, anything that could be argued about. Before any real trouble could break out we were joined by Devin and Mark.. I think... and eventually the original Emily and her friend. After several overpriced cocktails, at a bar that we were severely under dressed for, we all migrated to a backpacker bar to meet up with the rest of the gang, sorry... crew, and terrorized the town, the way crews do. Before we could call it a night, Emily had dragged me to half a dozen Brisbane institutions where I danced against my will and tried to keep up with a 5am last call.

The rest of the week had a similar flavour. Bouncing around from hostel to hostel, at times never making it back to our beds. Different bars, different nights. Spending a lot of time Emily. All starting to blur together. Weird things start happening. Brisbane turns sour. While Mark and Gemma were enjoying the activities that the area had to offer (being mauled by crocs at Steve Irwin's Australian Zoo and such) the rest of us were on a different trip. All sharing the common misfortune of missed fortunes, Kyle, Anika, Devin and I were all in search of work. Well “I” should probably be removed from that list as I never really actively applied for any job. Still haven't for that matter.. As our nights continued to blur, our days slipped into frustration. The work that existed was far from enticing. Between working what was described as “a factory job in a factory”, and stripping freighters 12 hours a day at the docks (not as sexy as it sounds), the prospect of being stuck in Brisbane seemed dismal. Then the nights that served as distraction from “real life” got ugly. One night at Emily's, she sat bolt up in the middle of the night and ran outside. Returning, I was awake enough to hear her say “oh my god. someone's been hurt...”, then disappear out the door. Half asleep, half naked and barefoot, I followed Emily onto the street to the scene that had split the night. From where we stood, on a dead end street below a highway overpass, we could see the cherries of ambulance and police flashing. Somehow in the minute and a half that passed between hearing the accident and getting to the road, help had already arrived, so our presence would just be crowding. So we returned and tried to sleep. Six in the morning. Sleep should have come easy, but the whole thing left me shaken. The next day the papers explained that the accident was caused by some kid trying to out run the cops. A family of five, including a one year old, felt the brunt of the accident.

Looking back, that day had been productive. Well sort of. It started with a call from Anika. On her way to a friend's cottage for the weekend, their car had broken down. With damsels in distress I jumped into action and rescued them in my trusty van. Or wait.. maybe I somehow fell asleep and by the time I finally stirred Anika and Angela had been already found a lift. Either way, my intentions were good.. I swear. I must have closed my eyes and slipped into some unconscious slumber. With good deeds no longer an option, Kyle and I sat at the docks and examined our situation. Slipping into debt, Brisbane was not a place to stay without work. I mean really... Of all the places in Australia, we were stuck in a big inland city. Being a surf bum wasn't even an option, as the nearest ocean was miles away. So we did the most logical thing. We went and saw Ben Harper. Didn't really plan on it, but Emily had seen him the night before, and positively glowed afterwards, so it was pulling on the back of my mind. Then right after our little ponder session by the docks, we happened to drive right by the guy walking down the street. “Hey Ben!” I yelled. With a slightly confused look on his face, he waved back to the anonymous hand coming from the window of a 1986 van roaring down the street. Maybe he thought it was someone he actually knew. Perhaps he and Ceceecil had met before... Most likely he's just a decent guy who's happy to say hi to his fans. So when we came to a rest after blindly driving around in search of nothing in particular, we found ourselves right by the park where the concert was being held. After a half assed attempt at sneaking in right beside a security guard, we got a couple of cheap tickets and joined the masses for a great concert. Held in an open air venue, with general admission, we managed to watch not forty feet from the stage. They played a two hour set, were even joined by Jack Johnson for a mellow rendition of Bob Marley's “High Tide or Low Tide”, and returned to the stage for an encore that seemed to last forever. The crowd was amazing. At one point, when Harper lit into “Burn One Down”, I turned to watch a sea of sparks flicker through out the crowd. Not a white eye in the crowd. If it hadn't been for that ugly scene later hours later it would have been the perfect night.

Other oddness led to a breaking point that saw us abandon Brisbane. There was a night out at “Family” where I had been led to by Lou. As I waited for over an hour for Lou to show, it became obvious that it wasn't quite my scene. Too many men without shirts dancing with men without shirts for my liking. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but.... Well, you get the idea. Then another night I found myself being led around town by Emily and her friend who was desperately in search of a man. We heard about that for a couple hours. Then she lost her phone. We heard about that for couple hours. Then she lost her shirt. By the time 5 am rolled around I was sick of dancing (actually I was sick of dancing by 1 am), but Emily's friend had found a man. Glory be. Unfortunately she was hammered and we had to literally drag her out of there, into a cab, and back to Emily's place where she folded herself up in the futon. I'll be the first to suggest that a 5 am last call might not be the most productive thing for society. The final straw that broke our camel's back was what I'm starting to believe might be the most mind boggling robbery in crime's littered past. Waking up with Emily for the last time, my phone had been chirping with text messages from Kyle for a good half hour. When I finally returned the call, Kyle's voice was not it's chipper self. “The van was broken into last night.” Fuck me. My heart sank. Everything I had was in that van. My camera. My computer. Every picture that I have taken in Australia was on that computer. My life was in that fucking van. With hurried goodbyes, I rushed to the van. But when I got there, to find Devin and Kyle going through the van, there was a smile on their faces that seemed out of place. Yes, the van had been broken into. Some things were missing. But the situation wasn't as dire as I originally had feared...

The van had been parked at Bunk, a funky hostel in Fortitude Valley. The center of debauchery in Brisbane. Although it was in a busy place, with decent security, some little punk had snuck in, turned the cameras away, pried open the little triangular window on the driver side that has “break in here” written all over it, and proceeded to raid the van. The great criminal mind that got him that far seemed to fail at a critical moment. With thousands of dollars of electronics, cameras (video and still), computers (plural), one guitar, dvds, cds and plenty of other hock shop fodder, the idiot made some odd choices. We still find that little annoying things are missing, but to date all that seems to have been stolen were three pairs of cheap sunglasses, a cheap compression bag, my leatherman (grrr..), possibly my pillow (although I may have left that in a hostel), and something in a cigarette tin that we couldn't very well report to police as missing. All in all maybe an $80 score. For once, and I know it's odd to think of it this way, we had good luck with the van. With very little missing of any real value, we didn't even bother reporting the theft to authorities. Worried something else could wrong at any moment, we decided to get the hell out of Brisbane. Next stop: Fraser Island.

The day before the Great Van Robbery, Devin and Anika had had enough and booked a trip to Fraser for the following day. With no jobs, and no love lost for Brisbane, Kyle and threw our hands in the air and joined the party. After an impromptu roadside oil change, we all piled back into the van and made our way to Rainbow Beach, a launching point for Fraser Island. Our package included three nights at Dingo's hostel in Rainbow (two before Fraser, one after) and 3 days, 2 nights on a self drive 4x4 tour of Fraser Island. All for a measly 135 shmeckerlings. Our first two days at Dingo's were refreshingly relaxing. Nothing but playing in the surf and sun. On our second day, sightings of what was believed to be sharks, turned out to be giant manta rays (10-12 feet across) who proceeded to crest out of the water, completely airborne for a second, returning to the sea with a crash. Kyle and I bravely grabbed our boogie boards and fought against the break to try to see one up close, but found nothing. Of all the times to not have my camera...

The third day we woke real early like, scarfed down our complimentary pancake breakfast and started loading our trucks. There were four trucks heading out together, each truck packed to the brim with 10-11 people and enough food and supplies to last three days. Our truck, a 1997ish Toyota Landcruiser, was inhabited by the mighty A-Team. Far superior to all other teams. It was our little gang (Kyle, Anika, Devin and myself) and another group who were traveling together, composed of five Brits and two Irish. We were stuck with these people for the next three days whether we liked it or not. Luckily we all got along like a cat on fire (I believe that's the phrase I'm looking for..). And luckily for me, most people were content to sit in the back for an extremely bumpy ride, leaving me to captain the wheely beast around the sands of Fraser. And what a trip. Fraser Island is the world's largest sand island and home to beautiful fresh water lakes, amazing beach in every direction, and Australian wild life at every turn.

Once our trucks were packed, and we had heard all the safety speeches and regulations that could stomach, the four trucks rumbled off towards the ferry to the Island. The first leg of Fraser was a punishing stretch of dusty trail that bypasses an undriveable section of beach. Driving around Team C who got stuck right off the ferry, we all pointed and laughed, then endured the 15 minutes of bone rattling washboard that couldn't be avoided at any speed. Faster. Slower. All over the road. Rattle, rattle, rattle. I started to think that driver was a bum job. But once we broke free of that first test, we were rewarded with beach. Miles and miles of it. So much that it serves as the main road, if you can call it that, all the way up the east coast of Fraser. So we drove. And we laughed. And we listened to Poison. And Guns and Roses. And we sang like children. The highlight for me, listening to the Irish amongst us belt out “Fairytale of New York” by the Pogues. No shortage of good humour and company throughout the trip. At one point Devin, who from that day forward shall forever be known as Matt Damon (long story..), took the wheel and got us to our first real destination on the island: Lake Mackenzie. Crystal clear. Cold. But beautiful. And the weather was brilliant. We took an hour or two to lay on the sand, and swim in the water. Then it was back into the truck, where I took back the wheel to race high tide for a camp spot. We finally came to rest beside Team D, and did the whole camping thing. Set up the tents. Cook the food. Drink the beer. Within minutes of setting up camp, someone shouted “Dingo!”. At last. Little buddies! Now the stupid informational video that we were forced to watch before we left, told us that dingos are wild dangerous animals, and in the presence of one you are to cross your arms on your chest and slowly back away. A: I don't know what twit came up with that “safety” procedure, but it's ridiculous; and B: Humans pose way more threat to dingos than vice versa. Obviously very used to human contact on Fraser, these little guys were everywhere that night. They would come within feet of us and just chill out. Sure they are wild animals, but I promise you I would win the fight if a dingo and I ever came to blows. Okay, I wouldn't suggest leave your baby sitting around unattended, but that's about it. Well you may also want to watch your shoes. Just ask Kyle about that one. Heh, heh.