Friday, May 12th

From Flush to Broke, in Byron Bay..

“Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” ~Dylan Thomas

The winds have calmed. The storm has passed. Our van has struggled, repeatedly, but with a helping hand she's refused to go gently. It took a small fortune, but we made it back on the road, the wind in our hair and smiles on our faces. Freedom. Sunshine. And the rest of it. Although history was about repeat itself, to leave us stranded once more on the side of the road, we were once again back on that familiar road. But all good things must come to an end. Again.

After shipping our van from Cobar on a big rig Friday, April 28th, we caught a bus to Dubbo, then a train to Sydney, to reunite on the following Monday. As we stood on the station platform in Dubbo, I called poor Chad and laid it on thick. “Stranded in the outback!” I cried. And recounted our sordid tale. “So I need to ask a favour...” Chad didn't hesitate for a second and offered the floor of his flat for as long as we needed.

So there we stayed for six days and seven nights. Just like that movie with Harrison Ford. I heard it wasn't that good. But perhaps I'll rent it if we have so much in common... But I've never been a big Anne Heche fan... Anyways.. Our mood was not at an all time high, but we kept busy, and took Sydney in for a second breath. Our first night was uneventful, due to a fussy doorman and his fancy dress code (what... sandles topped with dirty clothes masking unwashed bodies not good enough for your “establishment”?), but we were more than happy to retire to the apartment and unwind. Our second day was mostly a “what the hell are we going to do now” kind of day, interrupted by a repo man in a dress and high heels. Chad's minimalist interior décor was punctuated by some girl repossesing her furniture on loan. Still feeling a bit van-lagged, we met Chad for a couple at the Paddington Inn, and retired for another early night.

Waking with a bit of a jump in our step, we walked to Bondi and mingled amongst the beautiful people. After a good walk, some overpriced beach side corn, and some correspondence back home, we parked our asses in a choice pair of seats overlooking the beach, at the local legion. As we rehydrated and watched the sun set over Bondi, we were rejoined by Chad who would lead us to the Beach Road Hotel to meet up with a bunch of Animal Logic folk. For one night we set our worries aside, and told our story to anyone who would listen. We stayed with that motley crew of animators and the like, and spilled our drinks laughing until they kicked us out. That was Sunday. Our day of rest.

Monday, we knew our van would await us half a dozen train, bus and taxi transfers away in the Sydney suburb of Fairfield. After calling every mechanic who would deal with a 1986 Toyota Hiace, we picked the cheapest (relatively speaking) option and limped our way out of the shipping depot. As we chugged along in the slow lane, emergency flashers akimbo, Clankety made one final cough and died as we rolled into the mechanic right at closing. I shit you not. It could have just been a stall, but I like to believe that that engine held onto life just long enough to get us to the mechanic. We walked away into a slight drizzle, leaving our old van in their (cross our fingers...) capable care.

The next three days were spent licking our wounds and enjoying Sydney on a budget. On Tuesday Kyle went to check out the obligatory monuments (Sydney Harbour Bridge, Opera House, etc.) while I returned to my old temptress Bondi. Noticing that Chad's dvd player was broken (still broken, in fact, since I was last there), Kyle found a cheapo player at Dick Smith's which we thought was a kind gesture, albeit hardly full payment for a week's accommodations in Sydney. It would be three days until Chad would notice the shiny new silver box perched atop his tv. That evening we walked for miles in search of what we had hoped was our last dinner in New South Wales' capital. We ended up in a cool little restaurant tucked away in The Rocks where we cooked our own steak. Pretty good scam they got going there... You had to buy the drinks at the bar, as there were no servers. Then you picked your cut of meat (no veggie option here), chose your accoutrements., then fought over your little section of the outdoor grill. Once you were done, you simply walked out having already paid when you picked up your meat. And all for roughly the same price you'd pay at a decent steakhouse. However, the dinner was great, and the location was spectacular, so we thoroughly enjoyed the unique experience.

I forget what happened Wednesday, but one can assume it was fairly uneventful. I'm pretty sure there was a really bad curry-in-a-hurry experience somewhere in there, but the short and curly of it was another day delay as our mechanic needed to find a part for other things that were broken on the van (hurray!). We probably sat in one place and moped. But, as I say, I can't remember, and I didn't write it down in my journal, so we might as well remove Wed. May 3rd from the history books.

Thursday, however, was a glorious day. We woke early and got word from our Sydney mechanic (starting to assemble a pretty extensive Rolodex of Oz mechanics here..) and left in haste to pick up what I'm starting to refer to as Ceseecil (for reasons that are truly boring and based on some stupid whistle that is a result of being stuck in 288 cubic feet of van with another human being for 3 weeks). A true autopsy of our old engine was never performed, but the final result was a new engine (fixing the old one was certainly more expensive than a swap), new radiator, new water pump, fuel pump and scores of belts, bolts and hoses. Grand total: One Million Dollars. At least it felt like that. After spending five grand on a 1986 van, we were forced to part with another three thousand plus for what could very well be a polished engine casing held together with crazy glue and twist ties. But we were determined to get back on the road, and out of Sydney. And so we did.

Our decided path away from the capital and up the coast, began with a really nice stretch of the Pacific Highway that wound it's way through the foothills of the Great Diving Range, with more variation than the boring old Highway 1 that was built for high speed hauls between cities. We worked our new engine, varying our speed, until we escaped the suburbs of Sydney. Hoping to met up with Ben, an aussie I had met during my time at Core, we arrived in The Entrance, a nice spot on the coast, just as he arrived in Sydney. Every time we've tried to meet up in Oz, our schedules have never meshed. I swear this guy is polkaroo. But that would mean he was me, and I was him... so scratch that. We continued just beyond The Entrance to find a spot to rest for the night. After an hour of searching we settled on a little park overlooking the ocean in Norah's Head. And slept. It only took 3 weeks, but we were officially making our way up the coast.

Friday morning we broke camp and set out for one of Ben's recommendations a couple hours north. Pausing only to feed my ever growing obsession with Australian meat pies in Newcastle (at my weakest, I've happily devoured three of those little meat filled pastries in one day). Around noon we rolled into our first taste of beach at Seal Rocks. Arrestingly beautiful. We spent hours clambering around the rocky shoreline, wishing we had surfboards (and the ability to surf). With our fill of beach, we left Seal Rocks with a handful of intended destinations. Twenty meters down the road we picked up our first hitch hiker, Dave. With a little small talk, and a borderline amusing Cheech and Chong recital, we were slowly introduced to the man that is Dave. Aussie born and bred, Dave served in the military as a youth, and at roughly the same age as Kyle and myself, started his way 'round Oz. That was twenty years ago, and he didn't seem to have any intentions of stopping. Dave came across as a true drifter, peculiarities and all, with many stories littering his past. Although he initially just needed to get to the highway, Dave would stay with us for three days before we would part ways.

As we went through the familiar ritual that night of finding a place to park, our brilliant lucky streak peaked it's filthy little nose out again. In what should have been a simple three point turn at a dead end, we (read: I) finally found 5th gear. It turns out you only get one chance to make it into 5th gear, at which point it stays there and refuses to budge. As I tried to bring the gearbox back to life, a familiar feeling came rushing back. MOTHERFU@&$%!! The best we could do was coerce our stuffed gear box into 2nd, where it would remain indefinitely, and limp into a parking spot parallel to the beach. “It's all part of the experience..” we reminded ourselves, as we cooked burgers beside the ocean. A smoke from Dave and a gruelling game of crazy eights (Kyle cheated, I'm sure of it), helped pass the time. No words were needed as Kyle and I pondered our latest crisis. We would eventually drift off into sleep, Kyle and I in our, once again, immobile camper van; Dave under the stars, with a length of carpet and a poncho as his only shelter.

Bang! Wake up. Bang! Bang! Wake up. Bang! Bang! Bang! “Huh... what?” “It's Dave...” “Who?” “Dave..” “Dave's not here man.” Har-har. For christ's sake, it's six o'clock in the morning Dave. Oh well. I guess we're waking up with sunrise as long as Dave is part of the party... After shaking the cobwebs, and sampling the local bakery's fresh goods, we started to assess the true damage with the aid of daylight. All we could find was some metal bracket that had come loose, and a bolt or two missing, most likely a result of the rushed engine swap. Our only hope was to find a mechanic. Thankfully it was Saturday, so no mechanics were open. Been there, done that. As we were parked right at the entrance to Diamond Beach, we began to meet all the locals as they started their weekend. Almost everyone we met tried to help as best they could. Several people tracked down mechanic's numbers and addresses, but tried as they might, it was pretty clear we were stuck until Monday when someone was working. Then we met Grant. When he heard of our trouble, he told us he'd take his kids to the beach for an hour or so, then return with his tools and help us pull the sucker apart. Once again the kindness of strangers in this country is immeasurable. We didn't know Grant from Adam.. or Eve... or however that stupid saying goes, but it didn't seem to cross his mind that what he was doing was a great deed. True to his word, Grant returned in an hour, tools in tow, to get us back on the road. It wasn't a small job. Shifter rods were disconnected. Various linkages were de-linkaged. The gearbox was completely disassembled, and the Johnson rods were replaced for good measure. With our cereal bowls full of fowl gear oil, half a pint of which intercepted by Grant's skin and clothes, it didn't look too good. With everything pulled apart we still couldn't get the transmission into a different gear. Almost ready to abandon hope, Kyle managed to “push this thing that way, and that thing this way” and we found neutral. A glimmer of hope. We (read: Grant) put everything back in it's place, and we fired her up. Neutral. Check. First. Check. Second, Third, Fourth. Check, check, check. Back together again! (yet still no fifth... odd). Even though Ceceecil was granted the gift of movement, we decided to take a chance to enjoy everything Diamond Beach had to offer.

It was a brilliant day. With our latest stranding over it was safe to call the folks and catch up without unnecessarily worrying them. The daylight hours were spent frolicking around in the surf and soaking up the cancer giving goodness of the sun. My turn in the crashing waves was spent giggling like a school girl, as I had never tried body surfing before. I was amazed by the force of the ocean, and had the time of my life. All of this was a source of great amusement to Kyle and a pair of local 10 year olds. “Even I wouldn't run away from those waves!” the kids would say. Kyle says he backed me up, but I'm sure he had his share of laughs. I don't care. I had a blast. Then I was briskly taken out to sea by the undertow. After my funeral, the local towns folk had a lovely reception. Everyone came out. I wish you could have been there.

As we coughed up sea water and tried to shake the sand from every crevice, we decided to splurge on a camper van park for the night to do laundry and enjoy the other amenities that civilization offers beyond the capacity of an '86 Ceceecil. As the sun set, we polished off the remaining burgers in the esky, and accepted an invitation to a local bash for a couple celebrating their joint 40th (and I do mean joint, har-har). Within seconds we were spotted as outsiders, but were welcomed none the less. As expected, we met a handful of jokers of all ages, and went from sober to not in 10 seconds flat. Mostly a result of Frank the Tank and his insecticide sprayer full of girl shooters. We spent most of the night parked beside the bonfire-in-an-oil-drum, and rocked our heads to the musical stylings of the live band. We talked blues with Grant and passed the honey bear till we were caught in the spins, and decided to split before we were shot for fraternizing with local cops' wives. I sung a lovely ditty about my thermal liner and introduced the stupid whistle that led to Ceceecil's namesake, to help Kyle settle his stomach and get to sleep. Oddly it was of no comfort to him, and only worsened his situation. Revenge. “How sweet it is.”

After another early morning rattling from our buddy Dave, this time accompanied by Han Gover, we packed up, burned a Stevie Ray Vaughn cd for Grant in appreciation of his help the day previous, and made our way north. At this point a ride originally intended to last to the end of a gravel road had turned into a three day tour with Dave, so we figured that we should perhaps take a different prong once that fork came in the road. Our only detour would be an hour or so stop at a gas station trying to find someone who had a spanner or socket that would release the nut on the gear oil reservoir. After a dozen tries we finally got a real blokey bloke who swore and banged his way to success with our transmission. Finally oiled up, we drove sixty clicks up the road to drop Dave at the quaint little town of Old Bar. With Old Bar shrinking in the rear view, Kyle and I were finally back on the road. Again. Through Taree and Kew, pause in Port Macquarie for some surprisingly good street side chicken kebabs, and to Coff's Harbour for the night. Another engaging game of Yahtzee which I'm sure you're all dying to hear about (I won two straight, if you really must know), and it was off to bed at the harbour's edge.

We rose in search of coffee and Nikon repair depots (my camera has been blessed by two frustrating dots of dirt on the sensor), only to find the former. But not a worry. There's always photoshop. So off to another Ben pick: Minnie Water. We had only intended to stop for a swim, but once we saw the beach and met the welcoming locals of Minnie Water, we decided to stay for a day and enjoy some peace and quiet. And unless a tree would fall on our van, or it should get swept away at high tide, parked in one place in one piece sounded like a safe bet for the night. Once again, we were treated to the kindness and friendly nature of Aussies as we spent the day acquainting our skin with salt water and meeting all sorts of folks. Worth mentioning were the couple who were travelling in style in a big mother of a camper van, hitting every dog show from Brisbane to Sydney, who proceeded to tell me there's no such breed as a mini Aussie Sheppard (Tucker cover your ears!); The proprietors of the general store who were such honest people that they came by the van as we were devouring our fish and chips to return the two crisp fifties that I had dropped on my way out; and during the following morning, a local named Merrick (sp?) who we talked with at length about everything from Aboriginal policy to Australian wildlife. Initial introductions were a tad odd, as he jokingly accused me of taking a poop in the ocean (for which I still have no real explanation for.. and no... I did not), but after an hour or so of casual conversation, he invited us back to his house where he showed us some brilliant abo art, the centrepiece being a tribute to his brother who had recently passed. The story behind this piece, which deserves elaboration, is as follows. Following a long battle with, what I believe was, cancer, his brother passed away. During the period shortly following his loss, Merrick took his nephews out to trap crawfish, an activity his brother had enjoyed with his kids. When they returned to the traps, they found that instead of crawfish, there laid seven motionless turtles. Releasing them from their cage, six of the turtles swam away, the last turtle remained, having passed over night. When Merrick explained that there were seven brothers and sisters in his family, it was hard to well up with tears. What was in front of us, as he told us this, was a painting made by an Aboriginal who had been taken with the story enough to represent the story in art. It was truly beautiful, and gave us some insight on the traditions and meaning behind the different techniques used in Aboriginal art. Once again, we left with a feeling that is hard to explain. Amazed that a stranger on the beach, who we had met not two hours ago, had welcomed us into his home and shared something quite personal. And of course, true to form, we couldn't leave empty handed. Merrick gave us some fresh fish fillets, and a set of Kori Mail News t-shirts and hats as a small reminder of the history of Australia's Aboriginal people (of which Merrick was quite well versed having taught Aboriginal studies). I wish I retained more than I did, which reminds me to read more to ensure that the information I pass on in these tireless journals isn't represented falsely... But I could easily write four or more pages on the lessons learned at Merrick's home. And I know I've already lost a handful of readers a couple pages back, so I'll move on.