Orange van, Mitsubishi L300. Bed in the back. 220 dollars of food beneath. Two full tanks and a Jerry can. Stoves for cooking. Water for drinking. Sunglasses, and a dream to make Darwin.

Leaking Engine oil. Mechanic said it’s not a big deal. Offered us a new timing belt for 280 dollars. We declined. Left on a Tuesday Morning, round 10 O’clock. Van a bit rocky. Stayed in a campsite in Cervantes. Saw the Pinnacles. They’re weird. It’s like a desert with just these limestone pillars everywhere, like they’re growing from the ground. Not that hot yet. Can handle the daytime heat and it’s cool at night. Sleeping in the van’s as comfy as anywhere. These roads are long and this country’s vast. You don’t get it till you leave. We spent weeks sitting in Perth, talking bout driving to Darwin like you could do it in a day. But it’s just mental, and we haven’t even left W.A. yet. Been driving on gas so far. Cuttin the costs a bit, but the price of the campsite stretches the budget. Lovin the life overall. Unbelievable country this, kinda like you’d imagine Africa to look, but without the Africans. Haven’t seen any Aborigines yet. Our mechanic told us not to stop for any, unless it’s to reverse back over them and make sure they’re dead. Wish he was a better mechanic than a racist. The van makes noises. Protests when we start it. Coughs like a man on 80 fags a day. Anyway, laptop about to die. Need to sort out that power inverter. Really miss Perth. Don’t regret leaving, just wish all our friends there coulda come with us. Good times and great barbeques. Best three months of traveling so far.

 
We were somewhere outside Donagara when the van began to slow down. The fuel gauge dropped. The clock went out. The radio died and the speedometer began a grinding descent to the bottom. Thought we might be outta gas, switched it to petrol. No good. She cut out. We sat wondering. Had asked the mechanic the week before to check the alternator. He said it was fine, but recommended a new battery. We bought one. Cost 80 dollars. 8 extra for GST. We ruled out a battery fault. Tried the ignition. Not a stir. Not even a token phlegmatic cough. Just silence and the sun beatin down outside.

          Flagged down a car. He hopped out and jumped us. It started, but not without a fight. Nursed it into the next town, the transmission bitchin all the way. Found a mechanic. He was a prick. Told us to wait a week. Found another. He was sound. Checked out the problem. Said the alternator looked fucked, but he might be able to fix it. Left him the wheels and booked into the nearest hostel. Waited for his call. It came. The alternator was gone, took down the electrics with it and that’s why the transmission was weird after we jumped it. We took his word. Had to wait til the next day for the new one to come.

          Dongara’s a weird place. A real Stephen King town. Shuts down at night except for the weekends. We walked around it. Watched the sea. Big waves. The hostel was empty. We had a whole dorm to ourselves. Cold at night. Ran by a Scottish guy and his oz girlfriend.

          Time passed.

          Mechanic rang the next day. Alternator came in the right box with the wrong part inside. Clowns in the factory packed the whole shipment wrong and now the entire country’s getting wrong orders. Bottom line - stay in Dongara another day.

The next day came, mechanic rang. The company found the right alternator but packed it on the wrong truck. They didn’t know where it was. I don’t how the hell they function as a serious business, either did the mechanic. Bottom line – stay another night in Dongara. That night, Friday, we hoped the place might wake up and the ghosts of the social graveyard might come out to haunt us. They didn’t. It amounted do a meagre game of Chase the Ace and a few weirdos. The pub was close to the hostel, flanked by a bookies. Most customers spent their time in their bettin on the dogs. By most customers, I mean all five. One of them used to live in Kildare, something to do with horses. He wanted to talk about Irish stuff, bring us to the “Real nightspot” We declined politely. He said goodbye and loitered around outside, eyeing the gamblers through the large window next door.  

The walk home was dark, beneath big windy trees. Expected psycho animals to jump out from the Pet Cemetery, or 28 Weeks later kinda zombies to run past. That’s the kind of place it was. Too quite to be normal, too dark to be jut night.

          Rang the mechanic in the morning. Told us we were ready to go. Packed up and hit the road. The van was perfect, but we couldn’t help watching the all the gauges anyway. Hearing sounds that weren’t there, making contingency plans for the worst. Exploding engine, or something like that. Anyway, hasn’t happened yet. That’s the craic for now,

 
Denham, the closest town to Monkey Mia. Seaside place, like Salthill. Got a flat tyre there. Nightmare to change.  Saw the Dolphins at Monkey Mia, very cool but weren’t allowed swim with them. Left for Kilbarri, watched Pelicans being fed. Strange lookin animals. Weird breeze all along the coast. Constant bluster. Drive ya mad to live there. Try read a magazine and it’ll blow into the sea. Quiet pub joined to a bookies. Left for Carnavron. Didn’t like it. Hostile place, everyone looks at ya like you’re lost. Opted for fifty k’s outside, place called the blowholes. Massive bursts of water blowing up from the sea. Supposed to be a worthwhile phenomenon. Took a wrong turn looking for free camping. Unsealed bumpy bitch of a road. Thought the van would break in half. Found the place, like the inspiration for Jeepers Creepers. Greasy guy in overalls, holding a massive wrench, told us we could stay for sixteen dollars a night. It was getting dark. He looked on us like prey. There were abandoned tractors around, barns with hatchets and hooks hanging off the rafters. A makeshift stove for ‘Guests.’ It was eight k’s back and the van wouldn’t be happy about it, but the place gave us the spooks so we left. Reckon if we stayed we’d never be found.

          Drove on for Coral bay. Great spot. Did a snorkeling tour they say’s better than the Great Barrier Reef. Didn’t see any whale sharks though. They come in March. Did three days there. Dodged a bullet from the campsite ranger but two Italians beside us got stung for a twenty dollar fine. We left just before he arrived. Spent the next night two k’s out behind a couple of mounds of gravel. No problems there. Left the next day for Exmouth.

         

Exmouth. Heard it was great from reliable sources, but didn’t stay there. Did a few runs around. Was fulla Road Trains and red dust. Mining town. Dunno what they’re mining but there’s a lot of it. Machines there the size of ten JCB’s. Thought about the hostel, and the local caravan park, but then saw Cape Range National park was only another fifty k’s. Went there instead. Took one wrong turn and afraid we’re still paying for it. It wasn’t our fault. It was the large sign at the entrance that told us to go there. Later, the girl in the visitors said the road was a cul de sac, looked at us like we were mad for trying it at all. It started off as a hill, then went into a vertical slope like we were driving up a wall. The temperature went up like the interest on Bill Gates bank account. Thought the next breakdown was only seconds away. Stopped and turned. Flew back down and into Exmouth. Our wheels survived but not without a barely audible, but worrying, squeal somewhere inside the engine. Larry’s words, of John and Larry’s, All Auto’s, Scarborough, Perth, the racist gangster garage, echo in my head, but I don’t want to listen.

          Got to Cape Range by the normal route and passed wandering Emus’s and wild Kangaroo’s. They just loiter round the road like you’re invisible. Can’t go to fast round dusk cos their nocturnal. They don’t like too much noise either, like blowin the horn, it freaks them out and they might attack. Eased into a space between two giant four by fours at the campsite and slept. Getting the hang of the life. Our lots not that bad. Last week, two guys left Perth in a two thousand dollar van. They were three hours up the road when the roof literally blew off and onto the road. I dunno how someone wasn’t killed. Anyway, they patched it on somehow and drove some more. Then the engine exploded and they had to abandon it in the middle of nowhere. That’s a relatively normal story. I even heard of a guy payin 4000 dollars for a landcruiser with bright blue smoke coming out of the exhaust. One service and they told him to scrap it. It’s a hard thing looking into an engine with these stories on your mind. A couple of months ago, a couple bought a 1983 van for 6 thousand dollars. About 4500 euro. It was so wrecked inside that they spent another 6 thousand just making it roadworthy. Think they had to put in a new engine. Anyway, they drove a bit and the gearbox wouldn’t work so they just had to sell it again. They’ll be lucky to get 4 back. With 12000 dollars they coulda bought something brand new. It can be a weird culture, with some people thinking the old age and short life span of their vans give them some kinda status. Like only a hero would drive into the 50 degree heat of Alice Springs in a vehicle older than themselves. I don’t know about that, but we are driving into Ayers Rock, now known as Uluru, very soon. Might sell out and get a tour instead. Involves sleeping under the stars and an Aboriginal guide to all the sacred sites there. Might be easier than drivin like Mad Max to beat the sun. On the other hand, sometimes these Aboriginal guides can be just well-tanned Australians with a good enough memory to paraphrase the lonely planet. Anyway, we have to get there first, and work it from there…

 

 
Left Cape Range for Karijini national park.  It was a long drive. Spent the night before hangin out with a sound English couple. Had fish and chips and played pool in another small town pub. Lots of eighties music. White ball got stuck and tried the lifting the table trick. The staff weren’t happy about it. Seem’s it’s not the done thing to fix a pool table. Van Halen blared regularly from the speakers, sometimes punctuated with Soul Asylum. Found a tenner on the ground too. First stop the next day was a small town called Tom Price, named after the guy that discovered the enormous mining potential there. The whole town is literally built around the mine. Estates, hospitals, schools, tennis courts, swimming pools, all designed for families that move up from other states to work there. The money’s good and they give you knock down accommodation for 160 a month. We know this cos a local family were nice enough to invite us to a barbeque. They’d moved over from Victoria and were always eager to meet people. We asked them how the local ranger feels bout sleeping on the side of the road and they insisted we park in their garden. There was a Dutch girl with us. Her name was Doreen and she’d parked beside us a couple of hours before. She was drivin a rented Wicked van. We conferred, decided to stay there and followed them home. There, the man of the house, Matt, unleashed a home brew bottle of Wild Turkey and some coke. He was like a man that wanted a drinking partner. I was happy to oblige. Took seats on his front porch. The kids ran around inside. His wife was tryin to clean lice off one of their heads. Matt makes good money, bout 90 grand a year as a general labourer. They’re gonna do a few years up there and head on again when they make enough dough. The house is wired with a state of the art sound system, DVD player and telly combined. The other kids watched an action film that boomed like thunder from the speakers. Matt tells us about Tom Price. It’s a lonely life without company. He’s lucky to have the family. 

Across the road, the shadow of a man sits under a porch light drinking on his own. He looks about sixty, been watchin us since we arrived. Matt says he’s curious bout all of us being there, but too anti-social to come over. He hears us talk about him and goes back inside. You get the vibe he’s there for the money, but too old to spend it and got nowhere else to go.  A blonde girl arrives from next door. She’s in a wheelchair and her hands are too crippled to light a cigarette. Matt’s wife comes out and helps her and she stays with us smoking for a while. She’s curious bout us too, and eager to hear our Irish accents. When she leaves, we’re told she was in a car accident last year with her mother and sister. She was the only one to survive.

          The full moon’s out and the Wild Turkey keeps coming. We eventually finish the bottle. Matt gives us a lot of advice on driving in the Northern Territory. All the time, people told us we’re crazy for going up there. One girl at the blowholes told us we’d come back in a coffin. Others told us the roads are closed, and if they’re not, they should be coz we’ll get washed away. If it’s not gonna be a flood, the lightning will get us, or the cyclones, or the intense heat that will dehydrate us to death in hours. He laughs at all this. Said he loves to sit back and watch the storms over a beer. The rain, rather than flood everywhere, cools everything down and takes the humidity out of the day. It’s hard to know who to believe, but nice to hear a positive review. Doreen decides she’s gonna travel us with us for a while. She needs to be in Darwin for the 9th of November to meet her boyfriend. We say goodnight to Matt. He gives a firm handshke, says he won’t see us again because he’ll be at work, but we can have the run of the house for showers and food in the morning. Warms the heart to meet good people. Decent folks. We retired into our small new home a while later and feel into a sweet slumber.

Left in a two-van convoy the next day. Faced for Karijini national park, worried about the hills. Asked in the visitor centre and they said it’s not a big deal, the hills were fine. They were still steep when we got there though, but the temperature held and nothing snapped or made noise or exploded.

That night, hooked up with another German couple that Doreen knew. They were headed for Darwin too. Eike and Adrian. Both 19 years old in a yellow manual van that screamed every time they changed the gears. Didn’t start that well either but they didn’t seem to care. Bought it for a sweet 1500 in Perth. It takes gas too, but they had to put in a new radiator for 600. They hoped to sell it in Darwin. It was Halloween night and we all decided to travel together. Left two mornings later, at 5am, to beat the heat. It was unholy. Put it in drive and faced it for Broome.

 

Went through Port Headland on the way. Looked like an old Communist Russian town with mile long trains and dusty industry everywhere. The whole place makes noise. Everything makes you feel like you have to shout to be heard. You start a conversation and get drowned out by a road train, or some other grotesquely huge machine that digs for gold all day. Stocked up at Woolworths and left. Eike and Adrian’s van broke down ten minutes later. There was a rhythmic bangin inside, like a dodgy German dance tune. We pulled over and assessed the situation. 600 hundred k’s from Broome and it wasn’t looking good. They had to go back. Three became two. We made it to Broome the next day.

Nice town. First experience with the plight of Aboriginals. Absolutely destroyed with drink. At any time of the day or night, you can see them stagger round, shouting and generally out of their minds. Pity is, these are the only ones you see. A lot them spend time sober, painting, or trying to integrate, but they get overshadowed by the alcoholics. Shop counter conversations tell you the locals aren’t happy. ‘They don’t deserve that.’ ‘They should be sent to here.’ ‘I can’t believe they do this etc…’ New Laws just came in the Northern Territory aimed at cutting out their drinking, so most of the aboriginals hop on the bus down to Broome and drink there instead. The streets are lined with intoxicated people. They’re not exactly homeless because they’ve lived outside for their whole existence. It’s easy to step on them if you’re not careful. Some people call them "blacks," other’s "abbo’s", and some try tact with ‘Indigenous People.’ Rehab clinics and dry rooms are scattered along the streets. Two of them sit in the park as we walk past. One has fallen unconscious on top of the other. The awake one is too drunk to lift himself free and just sits there in mix of confused frustration, like he keeps forgetting how he got there, remembers, then forgets again.

Went back to the campsite. Earlier, a young blonde girl gave head to her boyfriend on the kitchen table. We didn’t have good expectations for the night. It was quiet until about four A.m. when the ambulance arrived. Next day the caretaker told us a woman had died in a tent across from our van. Thirty-two years old. Massive heart attack.

Later, Adrian and Eike rang. Van was fixed and they were in Broome. We all moved to the beach. Stayed in the car park. Watched the Camels at sunset. It looked cool from a distance, but as you got closer, you could see the skin of their humps was a red raw and they screamed in pain when the tourists sat on their backs. Some things look better on a postcard. That night, there was a party on the beach. Met some more Europeans and an Irish guy.

Hung out for a few more days. Great fish n chips there. Didn’t go to the outdoor cinema. Navigated our way round the drunk indigenous. It was like they were part of a parallel world. We could see them, but they couldn’t see us. They always stick to themselves, talking their own language and acting like we’re not there.

Our next destination was Darwin. We set a date and left. Five in the morning again. I’vet got out of bed for worse. As long as the van starts, it’s a good beginning to any day

 NORTHERN TERRITORY -

Flew into the Northern Territory and the landscape changed immensely. Everything got greener, the sky overcast, and a vague sense or wildness lurked somewhere in the trees. The road trains are longer in the North too. Saw one with nine regular trailers on the back. Nearly got sniped by another as it overtook us. He indicated in and almost lashed me with his tail but we veered into the ditch and took a deep breath and throught – so that’s what’ it like to be run off the road. Filled up in Fitzroy crossing. Mental place. Felt like a white man in Harlem. Cruised along with few problems until Doreen’s van began to heat up. We’d joked about the worst place to break down. Like Katherine, where it’s hot. Or Fitzroy where it’s full of hostile Aboriginals. It happened in Hall’s Creek, where they supposedly filmed Wolf Creek. Doreen’s radiator kicked up about a hundred k’s outside. We got it to a by-road and gave her a lift into H.C. where she could ring Wicked. They said it would take a day and we had to stay the night. Strange people lurked around. Like a janitor, all gums and a mop, asked us – ‘Are ye the couple that broke down Wednesday?’ we said no and he shook his head and went back mopping. It was like the worst answer we coulda given. As if only couple’s that break down and Wednesday’s get out alive. Hung out in a Café, reading and waiting. Went for a walk round later in the day. Saw busted out houses with screaming people inside. The window’s were smashed and the furniture was scattered around the front. Inside, it sounded like women were being tortured. Rain came, cooling us down from 45 to 35 degrees. An Aborigine asked us for a light. Adrian gave it to him. He sparked, asked: ‘Where’d ye come from? I said: ‘Perth.’ Eike cut in with ‘But not originally.’ He thought we said something about Aborigine. Got all defensive and walked away, muttering to a waiting friend. A greasy shopkeeper approached from behind. White. He had the Australian equivalent of a Texan drawl, like when your walkman batteries are dying and the vocals are stretched on the tape. ‘Ye arrive today, eh?’

We told him we did. He puts his hands in his pockets, looked us all up and down, then took a pensive glance at the sky, said: ‘Halls Creek, eh?’

Silence. He put out his hands and said: ‘Welcome to Hall’s Creek.’ More silence. His grey hair was matted back in a gelled comb over. Wore a V-neck jumper and slacks, couldn’t help thinking he was like a priest that just got outta prison. He smiled with jagged teeth, asked: ‘Ye like it?’

I said: ‘Yeah, but where can we park for the night? For free.’

He looked around surprised, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing: ‘For free? Oh no no no no. Not around herem mate.’

‘Why not?’

‘You’ll get burnt out, eh… happened to a van a few weeks back. Not around here, mate.’ He jingled some coins in his pocket and looked around at us some more. The rain got worse. He continued: ‘There’s a campsite up the road, eh…try there.’

We said goodbye and left. He seemed sad to see us go. Like we were the last people he was gonna see for a long time.

The fear of being burned influenced our decision to go to the campsite. It was like a compound in Baghdad. Barbed wire fences and large gates separated us from the outside world. Drunken aborigines roamed around the walls, groaning and shouting. We listened to them over a Jim Bean and a swim in the camp pool. Once or twice I looked through the barbed wire to watch them pass up and down. They wore heavy clothes and no shoes. Their arms hung limp, like dead weights. They looked aimless, like animals out of their habitat, too tired to search for the way back

 

Made it to Darwin a few days later. Few more high temperatures but no big deal. It’s a tropical city with a mix of European, Asian and Australian cultures. Spent our hottest night in the van so far. We’d heard it was bad, but this was hell. We were like two pieces of garlic bread and the van was the tin foil. The heat was left on and we were getting seriously overcooked. Booked into a hostel the next day. Air-con. Kitchen. Pool. Movies every evening. Internet. We were sold. Met a friend I used to work with in Perth. He left three weeks before us. Good craic. Hung out in an Irish bar. The Guinness was almost good and a shite side better than anything else I’d tasted along the way. Brought the van for a service. The mechanic was hung over and didn’t give a shit. Changing the oil filter was real hard work for him. Had to follow him around and point things out. They don’t like that, but they’ll screw ya blind otherwise. So damn sick of garages. He cleaned the air filter and told us the van was in perfect nick besides. Asked bout the second battery not working: ‘It’s knackered, mate. Get a new one. Ye payin with cash or card?’

Went to get a second opinion. The second battery needed a two dollar fuse, not a 100 dollar replacement. So now we have power. We bought the van of a French couple called Yann and Axle. He was a real handy man. Built the bed in the back and hooked the second battery with small jump leads. Meant as you drove during the day, one battery charged the other. Then at night we could hook up an extension cord with jump cables at the end and plug in our phones, lap top, I-pods, whatever. We had a tiny fan, boought for 15 dollars, which is about as much use as an ice cube in a forest fire. But apparently ‘it’s cute.’

Drank a lot. Almost got jobs. Went to the cyclone Tracy museum. Harrowing stuff. Whole city was decimated on Christmas Eve ’74. Went to the Crocodile Park. They’re the scariest creatures I’ve ever seen. Back in Asia, A tour guide brought us to a similar park but the crocs were sleepy. We were poking them with sticks and grass. Our guide then didn’t have enough English to tell us that they’re the most predatory creatures in the world and can move at lightning speed. Don’t know why we still have arms, but we won’t be doing it again. Up close, they can look like a log and they may not move for hours. They stalk. Like, one guy up there started cycling on Saturdays. The road was dirty and he always had to wash the bike after. Three Saturdays in a row, at the same time, he went to the same stretch of water to rinse off his wheels. On the third Saturday, a bunch of saltwater vicious bastards were there to tear him apart in seconds. That’s how sneaky they are. On the other hand, there’s stupidity, like the German couple who ignored the signs and went swimming in the infested lake. They didn’t last too long. Or the woman in America who took a weird jogging route and stood on one of their heads. She won’t be jogging for a while either. Apparently, the way to get them is stab them in the eyee, but they can put a protective film over the eyelid that makes it hard. We watched them being fed in the park. When their jaws clamp, they come together at about two tons of pressure. It makes a whoop sound, like you just hit a kangaroo at full speed on the road. The tour guide looked like a bad version of Morgan Freeman. He stank of cigarettes gave the stats in a bored monotone voice. I asked him what’s the chances of surviving an attack. He looked at me wild-eyed and said: ‘They don’t fuck around.’

          Thought more about work and decided against it. The heat was too mental and we wouldn’t save much anyway. Just a walk down the street can cost you up there. Always something to buy, like a pizza slice or a pint or a six pack. Things that everyone’s spending money on and you feel left out if you don’t.

 

Later in the week we left for Alice Springs via Kakakdu. Some people call it Kaka don’t but I thought it was pretty impressive. It’s just next door to the sacred Arnhem Land, where the aborigines still own everything and apparently live as they lived before the arrival of the white man. It’s almost prohibited to go there, but a 300 hundred dollar permit will get you in, and maybe a tour around.

Scenery’s not much my thing, but Kakadu was hard to put down. Surrounded by trees, Aboriginal cave paintings and the distant hum of the wet season was a good mix. Kangaroo’s regularly hopped out of bushes from a few feet away and at night, the sky came alive with lightning. Climbing to the top of the Ubir, important Aboriginal place, we could see right out over the Arnhem Land and the beautiful oasis of forest and lakes and lush green land untouched by the scourge of what we like to call progress. It was they type of place that lets you know you’re not around for long, that it was here before ya, and will be for a long time after. That the things you see are a very small part of a huge, long and complex process that includes every element of nature.

 

Two days later the starter motor went. We’d stopped to use the net and it was dead when we came out. Thought it was the battery and tried to jump it. No go. A maintenance guy came to help us. Went underneath it with a hammer and got it going. Told me the trick. If it doesn’t’t start, bang the starter motor and she should go. We hoped it was a once off but it went again the next day. Had to drive back to Katherine to get it sorted. Every time we stopped, I had to start it from underneath again. Forty degree heat, lying on the tarmac looking for the damn thing wasn’t pretty. But it worked and it got us there and a wrecker slotted in a second hand motor for a cool 170 dollars. Woulda been 240 for new. Better sell the damn van in Sydney for a good price. We named it Jerry. The Travelling Sun was just too pretentious and stupid. Jerry rolls off the tongue better.  

 

Drove a long and desolate road down to Alice Springs. Everything either side was burned or barren. Went through Eliot, a lonely dusty place. Stopped at a roadhouse run by two men that might have been brothers but it was hard to tell. One of them, about ten stone heavier than his counterpart, spent most time following the Aborigines around the shop to make sure they weren’t stealing. He was weird enough, tight shorts and bright white socks that almost reached his knee. The other was the quiet type, looked like he’d lost interest in the place long before yesterday. Every so often he’d look out the window, at the dust and the unused petrol pumps and desert’s horizon. It was hard to tell what he was thinking. He had a long oval face and grey eyes. Balding at the top. Something outside seemed to scare him. The prospect of the day ahead, or the intimidating heat, or just the sheer boredom. It didn’t look much like anything ever happened around there. We sat in the otherwise empty eating area, 10 am on a Tuesday morning. He scrolled through a well thumbed paper, half interested, mostly bored. Conversation started. Where ya from? How long ya on the road? You like it? He told us the Northern Territory’s economy is ruined by rumors. It was the best weather in the country but people were too scared to visit. They thought they’d be washed away by phantom floods, or attacked by wandering vicious emus. We talked more, the only customers. Politics came up. Howard or Rudd for the next election. It was two days before the vote. Said he didn’t care. ‘We do our own thing up here. Voting for them is like choosing between two idiots that don’t care what happens to us. South Australia plays a big part in the Northern Territory alright, but that’s all changing now.’

The big guy hovered around for a bit. He picked things up and left them down again. Rubbed his hands off his shorts, looked at the bacon sandwiches then went sniffing around more indigenous. Our man showed us a brochure for Tenants Creek. He was real excited to be doing something productive. Said: ‘It’s a nice place down there. Lots to see. Lots to eat and you’ ll like the people ‘Cept there’s a lot of black fella’s down there.’

Talked a bit more and said goodbye, the doors bell’s clanging as we left. He’s probably still there reading the paper. Him and the big man and the bacon sandwiches and the empty chairs. It’ll be a long summer for them, and the air con wasn’t all that good either.

          Nothing opens in Tenants Creek in the afternoon. If it was Spain, you’d call it a siesta, but they don’t have a name for it there. It was a one-horse place with no horses, or cafes, or pubs, or anything open except a supermarket that smelled like garbage and rotten fruit. Found a road house near the end of town. The heat was getting stupid. The kind that makes you dizzy and thirsty and forgetful. If the van was a solar panel we coulda powered an airport.

Pulled in. It was a Red Rooster/BP/ who the hell knows what else but it was cold and had showers. Stayed there till late afternoon and hit the road to the next rest area. Pity about Tenant’s creek and that being all we saw, but the damn place didn’t look like much at the best of times.

Stayed at the Devils Marble’s that night. Just north of Wycliffe Well, the U.F.O. capital of Australia. The Marble’s gig is these Uluru type stones that change colour at Sunset. They’re big boulders that form oddly uniformed shapes and it’s tough imagining how they got there. Watched the sunset. It was the kinda thing you’d expect to see at Uluru. The colours in the sky, the atmosphere changing to almost cold. People climbed the rocks and took pictures, shouted across to each other and pointed to the different shades of purple in the clouds. More cars arrived and there was good old crowd at the end of it. Spent an hour later looking at the sky and saw some freaky U.F.O. type stuff. Lots of moving objects with varying colours, probably all satellites, and at least five shooting stars. Apparently, the place is also a site that opens a portal into the Aboriginal afterlife. They come for you in the night and torment yon and sometimes bring you away. Many stories of lost children are attributed to the fairies and the undead that come from the rocks but ae didn’t see any that night, unfortunately. Left the next day and got to Wycliffe Well. It was a camp site of dummy Aliens and an unsettling amount of waxed Elvis statues. The Hulk was there. Got a picture with him. It was 6.30am. We didn’t see any living people.

 

And on to Alice Springs. Stopped at an Art house on the way. This gig in the middle of the desert that sells Aboriginal artwork. The woman there was good with the talk and lured us in. Taught us how to tell a genuine didgeridoo from a mass manufactured. Supposedly they’re made from termites eating through the wood. A quick rub of your finger on the inside mouthpiece will tell us if it’s smooth or rough. Rough means termites and original. Smooth means made by a lathe in a factory. They also have ancient drawings on them. Snakes and serpents and rainbows and the like. Only the initiated and the elder Aborigines know what they all mean. They look like the kinda colours you’d see through a kaleidoscope and they take a lot of talent and learning to apply. However, if you run your finger along the top and find it smooth there’s a good chance the paintings came from a couple of creative Dutch backpackers working for a rip off merchant down the road. He hires people to make and paint them, then sells them from his “Cultural Shop.”

After, she showed us some paintings. Some impressive, some not so much. They all came in over the 250 dollar mark. There were some from local artists. Unbelievably creative people, but they spend too much time drinking to take it seriously. The guy that runs the place pays them fifty quid a day to come in and paint. It keeps them from drinking all the time and at least ensures they’ll have some money – but how it’s spent can’t be controlled.

It all came down to a sale. Did we want to bring anything home? It was too pricey on our budget. She showed us a large piece that a couple of backpackers were supposedly saving 6000 for. Said in a few years, when the artist dies, a painting could jump from 400 dollars, to 4 thousand in Sotheby’s. Tempting stuff. She took  out a roll of her own private collection. Said it was for her grandchildren, will make them rich some day. Offered us few definite investments but we didn’t have the cash or the inclination. Be nice to make a four grand mark-up on a painting but something didn’t ring right. Like the place was supposed to be there in good nature, helping people off the streets, not for big profits.

 

Rolled into a surprisingly cool Alice Springs. It was about 25 degrees with a chilly breeze. From the stories and the media we expected a hardcore town with police on horseback, wrestling boxes of wine from the Aborigines. It was portrayed as sandy dirt track on the far side of hell. A few shacks thrown together as a stopover to Uluru.

 

Walking down the street we were surprised to find a cosmopolitan place, with shopping malls and busy streets and all the modern things you’d find in any coastal city. No cowboy sheriffs or violent natives. Dry laws had come in a while back, making it absolutely illegal to drink in public. Huge signs and hefty fines were in place. You had to go two k’s outside if you wanted to drink in the open. Some said it worked and did great things for the town. But there was still one or two with brown bottled bags and grey stubble and the wild look of people who spend most of the time talking to themselves.

There was talk of a smoking ban too, but you couldn’t have dinner without some punter blowing half a merry Benson in your face. We went to a pub called Bojangles. It was a live webcam place, so you were on the net the whole time. If your family wanted to see what you’re at, they only had to log on and check it out. Asked around about staying in public. It was like Hall’s Creek. Not a good idea at all. Booked into a camp site. Unpowered patch of grass for twenty dollars a night. But they had a pool which was almost a consolation.

An hour into the stay a guy flew in beside us in a filthy four by four. Gave us few dirty looks before he said: ‘You’re in my space.’

I told him I didn’t see any names on the sites, and he explained he’d been living there five years. Was a gem collector. Just back from eleven days ‘…out bush….’ on his own, collecting all he could. We were the first people he’d talked to and you could tell. He was thin as a newspaper and so gaunt his eyes popped out like marbles. Smoked rollies slim as himself and licked the paper with dry chapped lips. When he inhaled, he coughed like he was about to die. We told him we weren’t staying for long and he allowed us to use his patch. He couldn’t resist talking, telling us about the gems and life in the bush. Said he was the best, alive in the days before GPS and the flying doctors and all the other crap that helps you stay alive. He likes to do it all natural. Sends the stuff to Thailand, sometimes Indonesia. It often gets lost in the post, but he makes enough to get by. Takes care of the campsite in his spare time. Self appointed caretaker type of thing. Makes sure the waters are flowered and the pub is free from ‘the blacks.’ He really heated up here. Said the camp pub opened at 10. The blackies were allowed in until three and after that – ‘they get chucked out.’ I said: ‘must be hard, having them drink there all day, then askin them to leave?’

‘Oh, no.’ He said. ‘It’s easy. Just catch him by the collar and fuck them out.’ He paused. Took in some smoke, said: ‘We used to shoot ‘em. Bastards. Can’t do that anymore, though. Pity. I’d shoot the fuckers. Every bloody one of ‘em.’ He coughed more, expected blood on his hand but didn’t see any. He took out more gems from a hidden pouch in the van, compared them to the sun and showed me the refracted light that came through. I’m no expert but they looked impressive. I told him as much and he got all paranoid, like I was gonna rob the van in the night. He put them back and locked it all up and left. From a distance he was like a walking matchstick man in jeans. 

 

Spent the next three days at Ayers Rock, or Uluru, or whatever people call it out here. Turns out the name ‘Uluru’ has got as much significance as ‘Ayers rock.’ That being little. It means Water Hole. When the white westerners’ were negotiating with the Aborigines about what to rename it, they pointed and said: ‘What do you call that?’ The native man assumed he was pointing at a waterhole close by and said: ‘Uluru.’ And so it became christened wrong. Again. We went on a tour of about twenty people. Mostly Irish, some English and Italian and one Israeli. Spent the first day on a three hour trek around King’s Canyon, a few hundred k’s away from The Rock. Great views and lots of heat and history. It was the real wilderness, the type of place you can live for centuries and never see anyone. Snakes inhabited the grass, lizards were everywhere. The crude rocks radiated heat and water became our most precious commodity. Spent that night at a camping ground. Drank a bit and everyone had a go at the didgeridoo. The tour guide was great at it. The rest of us were crap. The next day was the rock.

           

Got there about four in the afternoon. To beat the crowds. We were the only ones till about half five when the tour buses came. They lined up right in front of us with their white cloth tables and plates of sushi. Some were Japanese, most were rich retired people. There were even one or two personal parties. This means a couple can rent a private table and have dinner while watching the sun go down. When they arrived, a waiter stood by a table with their name on a placard. They had wine and food and a hundred thousand neigbours. Thing is, a lot of other people were doing it too, which made it tacky. One couple, Mr. and Mrs. Green, just kinda sat there, looking pissed off and nibbling at the food. One foot to the left or right, were other couples doing exactly the same thing, expecting to be different, crammed beside strangers at almost 300 hundred dollars a pop.

          Some tours offered beer and there seemed to be a lot or merry pensioners. The companies kept a good eye on their stash too. I slipped my hand into a table for a pie and it was slapped away a Japanese woman who, quiet observantly, informed me that I wasn’t Japanese and therefore not entitled to any food. As the sun went down the Rock began to change colour amidst many ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ from everyone. We were about a kilometre away but it was so big it didn’t matter. It’s 9 k’s in diameter and three hundred foot high. Gradually, it went from red to purple to a very dark shade of grey. Cameras were out in a big way. The three Irish lads even stopped playing football and a kind of awed silence took over for a few minutes. Then it got noisy again and everyone started chattering and eating and drinking. All in all, I’d say about two thousand people were there. AATT King Tours had brought the majority. Most Australians say it’s a waste of time going. The usual statement being: ‘What the hell do you want to go into the middle of the desert and look at a rock for?’ I reckon they’re wrong, the place is very magical. It took a while for the people to disperse and we were left alone with our group again. As it got dark, and the horizon settled behind it, you could see why it was so important to the Aborigines. It’s not a mountain, but too big to be anything else. Rock’s the best description for it. Even in the night, you can still see the outline and can’t help but think it breathes somehow. There’s a throbbing pulsation in the air, even from a kilometre away, you’re aware that something big and dominant is lurking in the dark. It’s like the heart of an invisible world.The night sounds take over and the desert starts doing its own thing. We left until the next morning where we’d watch the sunrise.

 

The sunrise was freezing. Had heard stories of scorching heat like the face of Mars, but this was a good day in the North Pole. Some people didn’t even leave the bus. Felt I had to put up with the cold and go look. It was worth it. The sun peeks out from the left hand corner and fills the grey sky with light. The rock changes colour a few times and it’s like it comes to life with the dawn. Not so many people came to see the sunrise on our side, apparently they all go to the west of the rock but the view’s not as good. Something to do with the restaurant over there. As the sun comes into full view, we watched it go from low red to a bright and radiant reflection of sunlight. It sits placid in the desert, illumated by the sun, happy like a dog on it’s back.

 

We’re allowed to climb it but asked not to. When people fall off and die, the Aborigines feel terrible and mourn the soul for a long time. Regardless, people climb it anyway. Korean companies even advertise the tour as: ‘Come climb the world’s largest rock!’ It’s weird how the same people take shoes off when entering a mosque and kneel before Buddha in a temple but find no problem climbing on a sacred Aboriginal site.  Besides all that, it’s very high and you need a good level of fitness to get up there. There’s a fence to catch on to but that doesn’t’t begin until you’re very far up and there’s plenty of opportunities to slide and fall. Later, we did the 9k walk around it. It was kinda like climbing Croagh Patrick. We walked past lotsa guided tours and sacred caves and paintings. Earlier the day before, our guide told us a couple of stories about the place. About a month ago, a tour similar to ours was walking round. They came to a site where the ancient teaching methods are depicted in unique Aboriginal paintings. They’re protected by a surrounding fence and signs are everywhere telling you not to enter. A guy jumped over all the protective fencing and into the cave where the paintings are. Took out his bottle of sun cream and sprayed it all over like he was trying to erase them. Don’t know if he found it funny, or just had issues, but he came a long way to be a dickhead. You can still see the stains. Other stories are there too, like people scratching the walls with keys. Some have even ignored the tour guides and gone on their own bushwalk. They just about survived.

Our group were mostly ok, except for one that bitched the whole time about having to sleep in the open without any proximity to showers or toilets. ‘Wrong tour,’ said the guide.

The tour ended with dinner and drinks back at Alice Springs. Had a pretty drab night in the pub where it all became about games on the stage. It wasn’t hypnosis, or magic tricks or anything like that. There was a punter with a microphone inviting people up to partake. He had the voice of someone who does the same show every night. It all turned all to be a cringeworthy striptease and some idiots imitating 69er’s on the ground. They didn’t even win anything, but they seemed to enjoy themselves. Apparently that’s the heart of the ‘party culture.’ Gave it another day and left for South Australia. It was sad leaving the Northern Territory, but Christmas was coming and we decided to be in Sydney for it. Also needed to get down by the fruit farms and get some cash in. Next big stop Adelaide, with a few minor towns on the way.

 

SOUTH AUSTRALIA -

 

We’d heard a lot about the underground town Coober Pedy. The place is so hot that people built shelters and houses under the ground to escape. It’s a mad place with underground shops and even a church with long steps into the earth for entry. The van got us there in one piece. No protests after its three days rest while we were on the Alice Springs tour. Besides the underground attraction, the place is littered with gem stores, mostly opened by people that have had a few lucky finds and continue to do so. One woman even gave us a few free samples. We met a Swede called Anton and his Irish friend Dave. Anton was a mechanic, which was handy to have around. Spent the day there, hanging around and trying to stay out of the hellish heat. Lots of films like Salute of the Jugger and Red Planet have been made in that area. It’s got the apocalyptic desolation to justify both. Think the only thing keeping people there is the promise of treasure buried deep beneath the hot sand and rugged rock. It can take years to yield anything decent, then one day could produce quarter of a million worth of beautiful gems. That’s the day they all seem to be waiting for.

 

Spent the night before at a rest stop with Anton and Dave and four Germans who just seemed to be tagging along. They went ahead in the morning. Just outside Coober Pedy, an Aborigine tried to flag us down. After some indecision, we kept going. Turned out Anton had stopped half an hour earlier and the man’s wife was sick and needed a hospital. They only had room for one and they brought her. By the time we passed him out, he was just tryin to get a lift in to see if she was ok. He threw his hands town in despair as we passed him out. His whole demeanour screamed: ‘Oh, come on!’

A few towns and days later we got to Adelaide – the city of churches. It’s a quaint place on the south coast that’s almost not a city at all. Relatively easy to drive around and much easier to walk about. Got caught up in the rush of a happy hour and spent our first night on cans of bad Guinness and cheap wine. Good session. Decided we needed work. Rang the harvest line the next day. They told us bout a place in the Adelaide hills and it sounded good as any. Arrived there 24 hours later. It was a cherry farm in a place called Cudlee Creek, the bottom of a high gorge, a place with lots of rednecks and no phone reception. The boss was called Barry, gruff and strong, thick and constantly drunk. Never without a can of Jim Beam and a bad mood. Serious personality issues. Talkative one minute, in a rage the next. He was the kinda man you had to figure out fast. We got him on a good run. He’d just upped the price for a twenty kilo bucket of Cherries from 20 to 26 dollars. Seemed like a good start. Parked the van at a campsite full of other fruit pickers.

 

Got to the farm in the morning with a long haired guy called chief. We all packed into a wrecked mini bus about 5:30 am. There were English, Germans, us, and Chief who’d just finished a joint. He turned out to be a sound guy, looked like Elrond from Lord of the Rings. We got there ten minutes later. They gave us a bucket and a ‘lug.’ - the twenty kilo container. It was chilly as we picked the first cherries. The sun hadn’t come up yet and there was still dew on the trees. Our hands were cold and the tips of our fingers were getting ripped against the stems. We also had bad trees. They were second hand. Been ravaged by people the day before, left for us to finish. We had to get to all the high branches, use the stupid awkward ladders on the rough ground. Spent most of the time trying to keep balance. Did a ten hour day, managed 6 lugs which came in at just under 160 for the day. Not our most positive experience. The next day went better, had nicer trees and managed 11. Got into the swing of things at the campsite too. They were all divorced, alcoholics, on the dole, running from something, hiding from someone, lost in a blitz of drink and drugs with no foreseeable way out, all of the above together. Everything was about getting wasted. Do the work, drink as much beer as possible, get annihilated, work the next day. That was the ethic of the whole place, starting at the bottom and working all the way up to Barry the boss. One morning our Supervisor told us he hadn’t slept the night before. Had taken speed to give him energy. He was a wiry man called Brendan and generally needed a bottle of Vodka to start any day. Couldn't have been more than thirty-four. Later he took a double barrel shotgun outta the boot, asked us what we thought. I asked him what he wanted it for and he shrugged, said: ‘Fighting with the girlfriend.’ Apparently, he’d bought it in the pub for two hundred dollars. A good deal by the going rate for local private gun sales. He had that volatile look in his eyes, like he was on his last stand, on the verge of being a man with nothing to lose.

 

Our work alternated between working with him at the vineyards and Chief at the cherry Farms. The vineyards were a bit of a nightmare but paid by the hour so it was easy to get lost in the rows and do nothing for a while. They were always able to tell at the end of the day though, judging by the amount that was done. Barry came once, realised someone was dossing and roasted the hardest working Belgians in the place. They didn’t understand most of what he said. It was supposedly English, but there was a lot of spittle and slurred foul language. Barry hated most Europeans, but regarded Asians as less than human. One day he heard a German girl had been looking around for other work and fired her. Later that week, he screamed all her friends off the Cherry Farm too. He brought us all round in a circle and explained that they hadn’t been picking the cherries properly. It went something like this: ‘You ‘ave to pick the fucking cherries properly. We’re paying good fucking money to have you all here and get them picked. It’s the first year we took a risk with hiring backpackers. After all, we coulda got the fuckin Koreans, cheaper for a start.’ That day he dropped the price back to twenty dollars per twenty kilos and we handed in our notice.

Friday came, party time. Spent the night drinking Wild Turkey with a Maori called Bob. Had a barbeque at Tony’s tent. Bob was about 50, Tony 46. Tony didn’t work. Just out of a heart attack, had three stents put in and smoked dope and cigarettes all evening long. He liked beer and sausages and good company. His tent was the size of a house and his car was parked outside but rarely had petrol. Sometimes his kids came to visit, but you could tell it was out of duty. They always looked uncomfortable and eager to go, like they were in a hospital. When they stood to leave, he begged them to stay but they put him off by promising to come back on Saturday. It was like a scene outta Cats in the Cradle. Tony also had a pet goose that protected the place. If you tried to sneak around his tent at night, the goose was supposed to attack you. It wasn’t all that effective but made him feel safe. He used to be a truck driver until the marriage went wrong. He’d worked two days with Barry and never went back. Never got out of the campsite either. Think his sausages were out of date too.

 

Tryna get paid was tough. Woulda been easier to have your dole processed in ten minutes. We all assembled in a town called Lobethal. Everyone used to go to Barry’s house, but he didn’t like all the strangers around so he decided to do it all from the pub instead. Good business for the place too. Forty backpackers at three o’clock on a Friday, waiting for money. There was no sign of him til five. Spent the time talking to a Scottish guy called Len. He was around the sixty mark. Came over forty years ago on the ten pound scheme. Dressing as Santa for the Christmas party at work. Looked just like him too.

 

The pub supplied pies and a some jugs of free beer. Later, when Barry finally arrived, he tried to tell us he’d paid for it. Snaky bastard. He only had envelopes for half the people there. We were some of the ones left out. He was giving us a hard time because we were leaving. Spent another hour waiting for his wife to come with it. Apparently she was the accountant. They also had a daughter who was starved for attention. Along the line somewhere, they’d bought her a dog but she generally treated it like a rag doll. Any time you tried to talk to Barry or the wife, the kid would stand in the middle and scream, or throw the dog at you or her father. If it was you, that wasn’t so bad. If it was him, you were likely to hear: ‘Get that fuckin dog away from me!! I’ll burn the motherfucker!’ Long slug of Jim Beam, then: ‘Men are tryna do business here!’ the kid would skulk away and then bother her mother who would send her over to her father, who at this stage had experienced a Zen like calm from dope and offer her a ‘...bottle of coke or somethin..’. He usually looked at her like she was a demented niece that he hated. As if he couldn’t wait for someone to come and take her away. Then when he was stoned or drunk, he treated her mostly human until the dog licked his face or knocked his drink and he’d explode all over again.

 

He was erratic on this particular payday, even by his own standards. His eyes were bloodshot, his face all stubble, and he was bombed. During the week, he’d hinted that he may have to lodge the money into our account if the cheque from the farmers didn’t come through. I woulda believed him more if he’d told me he'd painted the Mona Lisa. I seriously doubt the man even knew what a bank looked like. Everyone else was getting cash, and I strongly suspect had I given him my bank account number, he’d have fed it to the dog right before throwing it into the fire for looking at him the wrong way. One conversation went like this:

‘Barry, how are you?’

(Slur)‘I’m alright, mate. Did ya like the pies? Who says we don’t take care of ya, eh?’

‘How did the money work out? Did the cheque clear?’

‘Don’t hassle me about it, mate. It’s alright, have a pie.’

‘Yeah, but…’

And he walked away, as if he was being radio controlled and someone had steered him into the pub. His friends were there too. Men like himself. When the wife came, they all surrounded the car and became self-appointed bouncers. ‘Give her space, mate. Easy now. Don’t crowd her.’ They were all in check shirts and tight jeans and cowboy boots. Most of them had wiry long hair and a handlebar moustache. (seriously.)

 

In the end, there was Us, two Belgians and three Germans were left to be paid. The three Germans went first. Their pay was wrong. One of the girls argued in the best broken English she could. They didn’t believe her. It went on for forty minutes. The wife, a blond woman called Jody, who didn’t drink, had all her accounts in a notebook and written in biro. Some poor souls had been naïve enough to give their bank details and have the money lodged. The same details were now scattered on the seat, on the floor, and generally all over the car. Jody battled with the disorganization, the insistent German girl and even Barry’s ranting about something being ‘…all fuckin bullshit…’ and almost won, until the daughter ran in and threw the dog at her. Everything flew everywhere. The dog jumped all over the accounts, the bank details were practically shredded with it’s paws. Barry’s friends decided the car door was broken and pushed the protesting German girl out of the way. Jody was frantically searching for lost numbers and dates. The daughter was laughing, or crying, it was hard to tell which. Barry told everyone to ‘Fuck off.’ When they didn’t listen, he started screaming at everyone. The hillbilly friends diagnosed the door as being open too wide and assured Jody it was nothing to worry about. A local Hillbilly pulled up on the road. Shouted to his friends: 'Howya goin, ya fuckin deekheds?' Lots of abuse, best friends, all shouting and gestures. Was afraid they'd break into some line dancing. Cars beeped on the road for the guy to move on. He ignored them. They beeped louder and soon there was enough vehicles to put a New York traffic jam to shame. Jody searched for things, rubbed her hands through her hair, inspected crumpled pieces of paper like they were written in Hebrew. The daughter grabbed the dog and ran. Barry shouted after her like she'd just stolen his wallet. When she turned the corner, he forgot she existed and went back to showing the traffic jammer the finger. When the guy finally pulled away there was a deafening silence and we could almost hear the crunching of the free pies back at the bar.

The Germans regrouped and walked towards the pub. They must have given up cos we didn’t see them again after that. Ten minutes later, the two Belgians moved in and Jody paid them all they were owed. We came next and got the same treatment. Down to the cent. Think Jody just wanted to go home. Get us all paid and worry bout it tomorrow.

 

The bouncer types folded their arms and one tried to make conversation bout Irish politics. Said he hated the ‘fuckin Pommes, man.’ Showed me some incomprehensible tattoos as if to prove it. Barry drank more Jim Beam. Became unsteady. Stared at his wife like he he’d never seen her before.. Like his mind was saying: ‘She looks nice, might try the case with her later.’ He was like a bear just beginning to feel the effects of a tranquiliser. We went back to the bar, relieved and looking forward to hitting the road the next day. Met one of the girls that gave her bank details. She was shaking, on the verge of tears. Asked me what had happened with the dog. I gave her vague details, didn’t want to tip the boat on her emotions. She went pale, looked at me with bright blue pleading eyes, asked: ‘This is true?’ Her bottom lip shook and her hands were no better. Earlier she told me she’d spent eight years as a bank clerk, this was her first time travelling. She’d heard great things bout oz. Only a week in the country and this was her first job. She was like the Eastern European girls that come to London for a promised singing career and get forced into prostitution. She went on with: ‘I want to go down there, but the Barry, he scare me.’ I looked round and he was gone, probably for a Jim Beam, or a joint, or Prozac, or a gun to shoot the dog. I told her to run down to the wife while the goin was good. She did, reluctantly, like the road down was paved with hot coals and snipers lay waiting on the roof, but she got paid in the end and we all felt kinda good for her, like she deserved it more than anyone.  

 

The session that night at the campsite was carnage. It was like everyone was off to war the next day and this might be the last time to party. Hans, a German, who works picking up the lugs on the tractor, went mentally A.W.O.L. He was sixty if he was a day. Another ten-pound scheme veteran. By the end of the night he sat with a can of Carlton balanced on his head while he tried to play maestro to Queen, Bohemian Rhapsody. Blaring heavy metal came from Chief’s cabin, although he was there on his own. Three Italians had a shindig by their tent, singing and smoking weed and eating elaborate things. One of the divorced had his son up for the weekend. The kid had brought his drum kit and a concert was in the making. Maori Bob sat somewhere drinking Wild Turkey and old Tony hung out at his tent, probably talking to the goose. Jamie, the quiet autistic looking, cherry picking chess player, was seen falling over a table somewhere in the distance.

Two dodgy fellas sat by their car drinking beer and whistling at every woman that walked past. ‘Alright, Darlin’?’ Earlier that week, they’d stolen my Woodstock from the fridge, but returned it after interrogation. We also got a lift to work with them one morning and they charged us petrol money. Said they had to cover the costs somehow. Yet they drank at least a 12 cans every night and didn’t rate that as an expense. Tonight they were hurled and having the time of their lives. One of them, Daryl, was off the road for DD. Always had a mobile breathalyser in the car. When it beeped, he had to blow into it immediately. Even one trace of alcohol meant he was off the road. If the cops pulled him over, and they checked it, he was done for. Strange lads, working for a future that already seemed far behind them. Had a handshake with them before bed. Best of luck and all that. I reckon they woke up in the morning and wondered where we’d gone.

 

We drank mostly red wine(goon) for the night. Got that tired feeling around one and hit for the van. Said good night to anyone with coherence. Swapped e-mails with a Belgian couple. Nice people, had spent evenings of Texas Hold ‘Em and Monopoly with them during the week. They were staying on another while. Hans still sat with the beer on his head, looking into some vague abyss behind his eyes. Didn’t bother him with a goodbye. Got a good tip for a Sydney campsite from an English couple. Left the Italians singing and saluted two Germans and left. Sleeping was a relief, knowing there were no more cherries and we’d got paid and could leave it all behind in a few hours. That’s the beauty of this whole thing, when you don’t like something, you can just up and leave it behind ya, like it just collapses after you're gone and doesn’t exist anymore.

 

It was somewhere between two and three when the U.F.O. landed. I was in a deep slumber when Imelda shook me awake. The van was shaking and there was a blinding light in the sky. Something was making a tremendous screaming sound, like we’d shrunk and someone had hidden us in the engine of a big truck. I looked out, there were blue lights, red lights, trees shaking wildly. People running around. We got dressed, wondering what the hell to do. Mel figured Hans had kicked the bucket in the night and this was some kinda ambulance. Loudest damn one I’d ever heard. Outside the van, there was poor visibility, like there was fog, but it was all the dust from whatever was about to land. A woman shouted over the noise. :’Dave, Dave!’ Like you’re in a near death experience and she’s calling from the other side of the light. The roar got louder. Mel insisted we go over, I was reluctant. They mighta been hostiles, looking for victims to bring to distant planets and do weird experiments. We’re in the middle of nowhere, a country shack on the side of a mountain; it’s the kinda place where aliens always come. And we weren’t that far from the U.F.O. capital. Her insistence might come from their hypnotic lights that lure people.

 

‘Dave! Dave!’ kept coming from that direction, like she was getting pulled away in an encounter with the third kind. We stared at it from the safe distance of a fence ten feet away. It was top class X-files material. Recognised people we knew from the campsite over there. They were surely doomed. Mel kept tugging me, said I was being ridiculous. I was still only half awake, taking no chances. I recognised Tony over there, staring upwards in awe, bottle of beer in his hand, excited expression like he was witnessing the second coming.

 

It landed in a screaming crescendo and people in orange suits surrounded it and kept onlookers away. Roswell? We had to go over now. There, we met Pete, an English guy. He’d been smoking weed and was afraid it was the drug squad. Told us there’s been an accident on the road and the guy had to be rushed away by helicopter cos an ambulance would take too long to come and get him in the mountains. The campsite was the only practical place to land. No one was seriously injured or anything. The woman shouting was just some scared chick looking for her husband. We stood watching. Bewildered and robbed of excitement, afraid for the guy in the accident. It was nothing serious. Drunk fella on bike coming from the pub hits pick up truck. Pick-up truck runs over his leg. The biker screams for him to move the truck as it’s crushing him. Guy in the pick-up truck’s afraid bout the insurance, cops, details. Says he won’t roll off him til there’s witnesses. So your man from the bike spends agonizing hours on a dark highway, his leg crushed under the wheel and the only man that can help, won’t. No wonder they needed a helicopter. Half an hour later they had him on stretcher, face mask and drip. Loaded him on and got ready to depart. We watched the ascension with Tony. The choppers screamed to life again and we were assaulted with wind and dust and noise. It climbed into the sky, it’s huge bottom light glaring, and took off into the distant galaxy otherwise known as civilization.

Shook hands with Tony for the last time and had a few more hours of restless sleep. It was an appropriate send off. The last chapter in the life and times of the Cudlee Creek Cherry farm. Faced into high hills the next day. The transmissions didn’t like it. Didn’t like it all. Old Jerry’s getting tired. Next big stop Melbourne, via the Great Ocean Road.

VICTORIA -

 

 

Took a scenic route by a German town called Handorf. It was all European architecture and coffee shops. Stopped earlier in a town called Woodside. Went to the library to check e-mail. The place was small but had good air-con and free internet. The woman behind the counter seemed normal. All smiles and happy to be there. We asked for two machines. She typed something, said: ‘Ok, Spock and Klingon are free.’ We blinked, waited for an explanation. She stared us, like she was wondering what the problem was. I asked: ‘Spock and Klingon?’

          ‘Yeah…’ She answered, like I’d said something stupid. As if to clarify she pointed at the wall. There were computers over there. We walked over, not sure if library was the Australian term for Asylum. As we sat, we saw the signs posted above the monitors. The whole place had a star trek theme. I was on Klingon. The computer beside me was called Enterprise.      Imelda was on Spock. Checked the mails and left, no longer surprised at anything. At least they weren't wearing the uniforms.

 

Drove on. Through more hills and forest. The van creaked, spluttered a bit. Was reluctant to pick up speed. Outside Coober Pedy the overdrive had failed, but Anton the Swede mechanic had fiddled with it and got it goin. The problem still haunted us. Victoria border was on the way. We looked forward to it. Hoped for flat ground and decent proximity to a garage. Was due a service anyway and figured we’d do the whole lot together. Spent the nights in rest areas. As remote as you can get. Like we were the only two left on the planet, watching the sun go down over a bowl of pasta. The sky changes colours and the light reflects off the clouds, giving it a multi-coloured effect. Everything dims, like we’re in a box and someone’s closing the lid gradually. 

          A few nights later, we stayed at a place called Tantanoola. Right outside a pub. There was a Christmas party inside for all the teachers in the neighbouring town. The noise drew us in. There was a Jim Beam promotion inside. You buy a can, they give you a scratch card and you can win lotsa stuff. It was all rubbish. Like towels, and hats and wallets. I wanted to win at least a bottle but it wasn’t going. The guy beside me was buying three cans at a time, scratching the cards like there might be a million dollars inside. A major trend across this whole continent is compulsive gambling. It’s everywhere. Nearly every pub has a bookies attached. If not, then a room full of poker machines, or Pokies. Some even give you free credit on the machines when you buy a drink, just to get you started.     

Got stuck into some pool with the locals. They made jokes bout the two Irish guys that had driven the wrong way down the Tram line in Adelaide. They really got a kick out of it. Got a bit old after a while. Sat into some more Jim Beam. One of the guys we’d been talking to struck up a chat. Went like this.

          ‘What we gonna do bout the fuckin Jews, man?’

          ‘Why, what’s wrong with them?’

          ‘I knew it would come back to bite us in the arse. All this P.C. bullshit, and you can’t say this, and you can't say that, or anything about what happened in Germany. But…you ever think they mighta been right?’

          ‘Who?’

          Looked at me cross-eyed, lowered his voice. ‘Hitler and all that.  Jews are fuckin taking over now…best thing that ever happened to them that was. What you think?’

          I let the silence hit, slugged hard on my drink, hoped he’d stop waiting for an answer. Christmas songs broke out in the back. An overweight guy sat opposite us, working hard on a toasted sandwich. It was too hot and he kept blowing it to cool it down. Then he’d put it on his tongue and wince as it burnt the inside of his mouth. Then he’d blow the next bit and burn himself again. Their women were rough. In black jeans that were too small when they bought them a long time ago. They had curly hair and loopy eyes and they mighta been sisters. The Anit-semitist waited. I went for vague, with: ‘Yeah…it’s a mad world…’ He took this to mean we were both on the same page. Got excited, continued with: ‘And don’t start me with the fuckin Muslims. Towel head fuckin…’

         

We left the next day. Not much to report. Towns. Big and small. Lots of trees and the threat of rain. More hills. Seaside. Got to the Great Ocean Road. It was cold and over rated. Worth seeing, but not the spectacular views and breathtaking scenery we expected. Could be something to do with the rain, but I doubt it. It was very like the West of Ireland. Cliffs of Moher, Aran Islands type of thing. Swarms of tourists from every back end of the world were there. You could even do a helicopter ride over it if you wanted to. Most people acted impressed, but you got the feeling it was cos they were on tours. And the tours cost colossal money and they had to at least pretend it was worth it. Like people that appreciate the taste of bad wine cos it was expensive. Stopped at the Twelve Apostles, the major sigth, and a few smaller sights along the way. Took pictures, shivered and left. More small towns. Fish and chip shops. Gambling houses. Outside the towns the trees were lush green and wet from the rain that was always there or coming. 

          

 Made it to Melbourne. Great city. Almost got hit by a Tram. Apparently the left hooks are a big deal there. You have to go into the left lane to make a right turn across the Tram line. Something to do with not mowing down the passengers as they exit. I got a crash course from one of the drivers. He had a megaphone, or some kinda sound system and shouted into it as I crossed in front of him. Think the whole damn city heard him. Went something like this. ‘...can’t drive in the city!...tram lines...! Your own bloody country...mate.’ They love to get a bite at ya over here. Especially in the east. Attack first, ask questions later. We were long gone before we were even sure he’d been talking to us. Went to the left lane the next time. No one screamed so we musta done it right. Traffic was a nightmare besides. Everyone’s a motorological genius. If they think you’re even thinking bout doing somethin wrong, they’re straight in there with the BEEP. The kinda place that loves to see ya stall at the green light for even a nanosecond so they can go BEEP BEEP. BEEP.BEEEEPPPP. If Road Rage was a university course, Australia would be the best place to go to college.

          We spent the days in St.Kilda, the nights at the free parking near the hip area around Brunswick. Ate African food and drank ridiculous coffee. Embraced the ambience. Had a Long Macchiato. It was so small I thought she'd drank most of it on the way down to the table. No small price either. Went to the pub later. Drank better tasting five dollar pints in the Elephant and Wheelbarrow. Met Adrian and Eike – the German couple we’d travelled with in the Northern Territory. They had about sixteen Germans with them. We all talked Globish (The broken English spoken by Europeans. Consists of a about a thousand words and mostly mixed up tenses) Conversations went like this:

          ‘I have the big boom in my head.’ (I have a headache.)

          ‘Have the medication you taken, probably you should take?’

          ‘No, I don’t have. Do you like the holiday in Australia, also?’

          ‘Yes. It’s nice. What time you make now?’

          ‘Tonight.’

          ‘Tonight?’

          ‘Yes, I want to make some pictures and do a dinner. Then I make sleep and leave in six months. Somewhere my drink?’’

          ‘I don’t know. I must come to the toilet. Excuse me.’

          Left the next day. Got to a gig called Bairnsdale. Looked like a purpose built town. Everything planned and thought about before a brick was laid. Long roads in. High measured aesthetically pleasing buildings. Americana malls and salesmen with bad breath. Got a service in an official number called the RACV. It had clean walls and smelled like a hospital. Well dressed mechanics and a separated office to book in. Unlike the Northern Territory cowboys who attempt to do everything themselves and only manage to charge you too much.

 

Got Jerry in for an appointment at lunch. Went to look at new laptops since I stood on the last one. This is where the bad breath comes in. Didn’t buy anything. Useless idiots in Harvey Norman couldn’t have sold air conditioning in the Sahara desert.. Always clicked their tongue when you asked a question. Constantly said things like: ‘Battery power? Hmm...let me check...’ reminded me of compustore in Galway, and that was a good enough reason to leave straight away. 

          Later, the service didn’t go so well. Got bad news on the van front. Jerry’s transmission’s starting to burn out. Not a big deal, but could be with time. Mechanic said to take off the overdrive in busy towns. Keep it at a steady speed and sell it as soon as possible. Came out feeling down, like the dream was over. The van seemed embarrassed, like it had disappointed us. We hit the road, back to listening again, wondering if every sound was the gears slipping back into redundancy. Decided to sell it in Sydney, had no choice. Work out the East coast somehow else. Reckoned we could nurse it along without any hassle. It’s like we heard of a couple that had no reverse in their van. Any time they wanted to go backwards they had to climb underneath and physically change the gear. Other than that it was fine. Although I’m pretty sure they began to smell fumes soon after. It was a 1980 model and got them most of the way around the continent. They sold it in Sydney for a cool 4000. Admittedly, the buyer was a gimp and didn’t even take it for a test drive. Another guy we know has a dodgy fuel gauge. It  goes up instead of down. Sometime’s his gears don’t change in heavy traffic, but he survives too. Things is, every van’s got something. Just some more than others. Right now, according to our official report, we don’t know when the fan belt was changed, but apparently it sounds alright. ‘Take a punt’ being the advice. The steering column’s a bit out. Not dangerous but likely to cause a loud knocking sound from time to time. Also screeches when we lock the steering. Will get a lot louder. Transmission’s starting to burn out. When/if that goes, we’re not going on anywhere without a 3000 dollar bill that doesn’t include the towing costs from wherever we break down. Still leaking engine oil but we keep a good eye on it. The roo bar’s starting to protrude, most likely caused by the weight of the Jerry can combined with the spare wheel tied to the front. The number plate is attached with green twine. Yet, every morning it starts. We got a second hand motor in Katherine and a new alternator in Dongara all for less than a combined 500 dollars. One day soon, on a quiet country road somewhere, it might start to slow down. I’ll put my foot on the pedal and nothing will happen. And then we might have to walk away from it, but it won’t owe us a cent. 

It’s like back home when I was taxi drivin for the old man. I’d pick up these country farmers on a Saturday night and they’d all have gardens and stone walls they’d built themselves. It would be night and I’d have to reverse out their driveways. I’d always be paranoid about hitting their gate, or backing into their car; but they’d never seemed phased. I’d say something like:  ‘Sorry now just, don’t want to hit your wall there.’

Every time I said somethin like this, there was one guy that always gave me the same reply. ‘It’s alright,’ he’d say, ‘just keep goin til you hear the bang.’

NEW SOUTH WALES -

 
Time to make a run for Sydney. Asked in all the road houses if the highway had hills. The steep climbs are hard on the transmission. One guy said: ‘No way, mate. The roads are flat as you’ll find. Australia doesn’t have any hills. Flat country!’ Later, climbing up the steepest hills we’ve ever seen, we could only pray we’d make it and wish voodoo painful death on the clown that told us not to worry. It was like the van was an ant trying to climb Everest. Temperature soaring, cars screaming behind, speed dropping back all the time. Somehow, we made it to Wollongong, a gig about 80 clicks outside Sydney. Spent the night there. Discussed our options. Everyone told us the traffic’s the most mental you’ll ever see anywhere. Didn’t fancy it. Not after Melbourne and the near miss with the tram. Checked out the map. Devised a route. Decided to hit it at night. Sleep for a few hours and roll up there around 4 am. Wanted to miss the Christmas traffic and dodge the early morning stuff too. It was dicey but worth a go. Had some restless sleep by the beach. Drunk Australians kept roaming past. Woke up around two. Started up Jerry and faced it for the Princess highway.

 

We’d never considered that this was our first time driving at night. Can’t do it besides cos of the Kangaroos. The first thing we noticed was the lights were dim, like a torch goin low on batteries. Didn’t help that the highway had no lights either. It was so dark we could barely see the white lines on the road. The van sputtered at bit, didn’t like being woke up at this time. It started to rain, hard miserable stuff that requires the extra fast wipers. Road trains flew past . Huge monstrous engines with bright flashing lights and long tails. We stopped a couple of times to see if the brakes lights were okay. Seems the electrics don’t like the pressure. For instance, when you put on the lights, the clock and the radio go dim. Sometimes the gear lights don’t show either, to tell you if you’re in drive or what. We could hardly even see each other. Standing there, on the highway, in the rain, checking the brake lights, every sensible organ I had was asking what the hell I was at, but it was much too late for that.

Drove on against the rain and the dark and the fear of breaking down with no excuse except stupidity. It was like the city didn’t want to let us in. Surrounded by a magnetic force field that repelled us. Getting within ten miles of the place was like trying to break through the Earth’s atmosphere from outer space. All rattles and erratic gauge needles. Wipers fit to fly off. Getting progressively worse and we had no radio contact with ground control, advising us of what to expect.

 Soon, we began to see the large green signs, with confusing white lines that supposedly pointed to the city. They were wonky directions, like a child’s scrawl, or like someone had just painted the letter Y over the letter U and drew a line through the middle of both. Be hard enough to work it out with an hour to spare and a Chinese dictionary, but our circumstances didn’t allow those type of conditions.

Not sure where we lost the Princess Highway, the only direct route to our campsite. It mighta been at the toll both, where the drunk guy argued with the squawking radio, or else where we took the impulsive swing away from the airport road. It mighta been tryin to avoid the drunk girl that ran out in front of us in a blind race across the highway toward a taxi. Perhaps it was when we took the route to Sydney North, instead of the alternative to North Sydney. Apparently there’s a world of difference. The map was rapidly becoming the weakest link, with no answers to our tirade of frustrated questions and numerous obscenities and fading hope on top of growing fatigue. Ended up in the City centre. Lot of taxis but nothing besides. Surprisingly empty. Spent a while at the traffic lights consulting the GPSM(Greatest piece of shit map.) The lights went RED GREEN RED before anyone even came behind us. Saw the Opera house for the first time and my only thought was: ‘Bollocks, wrong way again.’ Harbour bridge became our immediate goal. We found it with great concentration and tremendous luck. It was a confusing array of different lanes going in different directions. Some to the toll booths. Some of them E-tolls – the kind that take your picture and invoice ya later. Don’t want to think about how many of them are sent back to my old place in Perth. Got to the far side, saw a familiar name – Chatswood. The GPSM told us to keep going straight. It was the only thing better than winging it. Drove through more empty streets, past steel covered shop windows, closed pubs and abandoned freeways. Past giant mutli-national buildings like Microsoft and IBM, through junctions that could lead to anywhere else on the continent. Our road was Plassey road. Past Lane Cove and Chatswood and onto the highway faced for Brisbane. Things were brighter now. More street lights. Respectable visibility. We found Plassey road and took a right into a side road that mighta led to a bog in the West of Ireland. Past the brightly advertised Crematorium at the entrance and by the graveyard to the left on the way down. Towards the hissing of the strange insects and the buzzing of the mosquito’s and the overpowering trees that blocked all the light again. Through the bumps on the road and the weeping branches and drizzle, and into the Lane Cove national park where our campsite sat somewhere in the middle. We knew we were close when we saw the Telstra phone box. They’re as common as they mosquitoes. The campsite was only another click to the right. There, the barriers were down and we were three hours outside our check-in time. Pulled in close to the office and sat back and relaxed for the first time in hours. The van powered down with a relived sigh and we were left with the natural noise and the office lights and only the lollipop barricade to look at. Slept until the office opened. 

 

 
You need certain things to stay sane in Sydney. This is especially true if you’re there at Christmas, if you’re Irish, or both. A football Jersey is apparently a must. This became obvious on Christmas morning where the majority of the cathedral was full with Irish people wearing their county colours. It’s important to stand close to the back, arms folded like an off-duty guard, appearing to listen intently. Every so often, it’s essential that you cup your hand to your neighbours ear, whisper something, and you both giggle hysterically for a few seconds before going back to the serious arms folded stance again. Next is the accent. There’s no point being there without a brogue. If you have, use it. From what we could gather, the best way to use it is on the street. Ask your friends to walk at least 20 feet away with their back turned. When sufficient distance has been achieved, proceed to roar as loudly as you can, punctuating each word with a swear word, while rapidly gesticulating with both hands. Bus stops are ideal for this. For example, on the way to “County Bondi” on Christmas afternoon, there was a lot of the following:

‘Where the fuck is Eamon?’

‘Across the street buying fags.’

‘Ah, the thick cunt, the bus is here, like.’

‘Hang on ta fuck, I’ll ring him.’

‘No, I can see the cunt in the shop. Stop, I’ll shout. (This is point where the hands are used.) Eamon! Eammon!’ Turns to friend, says: ‘Fucker’s deaf.’ Back to shouting with: ‘Eamon, will ya c’mon ta fuck!’

 
When it becomes apparent that enough people have heard you, established where you’re from, and decided that you’re ‘probably good craic.’ ‘A bit daft but a sound fucker.’ ‘Funny.’ You can then say: ‘Fuck him, he can’t hear me. Try him on the mobile.’

All the above is essentially pointless without stressing your accent to it’s limits, even at the risk of being misunderstood.( Just make sure there’s no doubt about the swear words.)

Finally, and most important is an acute knowledge of history. You need to know every Irish rebel song word for word. To be able to talk at length about the troubles and have a keen sense of the Irish situation in the eighties, when emigration was rampant. The ability to discuss the term: ‘Fuck the English.’ Is desirable, but not essential. A quote from ‘Willie McBride’ will suffice. Your preferred locations in the city are Scruffy Murphy’s. The Cock and Bull. Mercantile. P.J. O’ Briens and The Courthouse. As regards the knowledge of emigration, it’s important to understand your place as someone cast from your home country, unfortunately lost in this strange continent with only one thing you truly understand: The Session. If you can, don’t ever leave your lodgings, except for reasons relating to alcohol. Any other expeditions might be interpreted as deviant, dangerous, and down right stupid. Variance is strongly discouraged with phrases like: ‘Sure ya wouldn’t know what the fuck would happen to ya out there? In Brisbane? Sure you could get stabbed by the blacks, or et by a snake or anything. Stay here ta fuck. Get a pint.’

 

Spent Christmas day at my second cousins. Drinking Woodstock and playing twenty-five for money I didn’t win. Took it easy on Stephens, got ready for the big build up to the New Year. Spent it with an Irish crew from our campsite. The whole Sydney fireworks things is a real big deal. We had to be at our seats by eleven that morning. Spent the day hanging out and playing drinking games. There was a real air of festivity around. The first display was at nine, for the parents and kids. The sky came alive with kaleidoscopic colours, reflecting off the skyscrapers and the water beneath the bridge. The whole city was alive with people cheering and generally drunk and waiting for the big countdown. It came very fast. The three hours to twelve flew by. Took a video from a rock by the water. All twelve minutes of it. We were at a loss when it was all over. Unsure of what to do next. There was a pool there for some bizarre reason. People out of their minds with drink were swimming around. Seemed like the most natural think in the world at the time. Pushed a Dublin girl  in. She screamed something about her camera as she hit the water. Her phone was screwed but the camera survived. It was snazzy too. Wasn’t looking forward to the invoice for that. Went to a party later, took us three hours to find it. There was five of us and we doubled the crowd. Some party. Girl that owned the joint was real picky bout her music too. Anything that deviated from Madonna, U2, or Franz Ferdinand was out. She was a blonde in a red and white dress that made he look like a Barber’s cone. I put on some Radiohead to test her reaction, didn’t go down well. I was accused of ‘Being Bold.’ That’s telling ya.  Other shadowy guests filtered by. Shy and bored types that spent most of their time outside smoking. There was even a punter in a suit talking to some guy about what he does for a living. Something to do with the market. It was like he was on his lunch break, just dropped by for a quick chat. Thumb to his chin, considering what he’d say next. He disappeared real fast too. Probably to some other convention of suits somewhere. Most exciting thing about the place was the Vodka melons. More Vodka than Melon. Also had access to a stash of spirits in the kitchen. Took full advantage of that. The next most exciting thing was that we could stay there the night. Ate more Watermelons, my mind hitting some big waves, getting ready for shipwreck.  Left them all dancing to ‘Like a Virgin.’ Which was being played for the very thousandth time.

.  

Spent the next week in Sydney advertising the van for sale. Had heard wild stories about naive types coming off the plane, payin crazy prices for vans. Went down to the car market in King’s Cross. Waste of time. Power tripping half assed car enthusiasts in a dark rented car park. Wanted a mechanics cert, saying the van was sound. Woulda cost thirty dollars minimum. Then eighty-five to them to park there for the week. Turned down their kind offer and went to the hostels to put up posters. Nothing but vans for sale all over Bondi,. King’s Cross, the city centre. Everywhere. Rumours are an awful thing. Some people had rust buckets priced at 11 grand. The week passed in a haze of New Year’s blues and an ever indulgent appreciation of Jim Beam. Stuff is way too tasty for comfort. Played cards at the campsite, watched the possums every night come and lick the barbeques where we’d just cooked dinner. More time past. Met a distant non-blood cousin that looked remarkably like Hurley from lost. No calls came about the van. Went to town an odd night. Our last Saturday was spent in P.J. O’Briens. Full of Irish people, the majority from home. At about  2am they put on Reeling in the Years and the whole pub relived the moments when Ireland qualified for the World cup quarter finals in 1990. There was so much tension you’d’ve thought it was live, think some of the drunker ones thought it was. Watched Pakie Bonner save the penalty and the place went wild. Old Jack’s famous: ‘Put ‘em under Pressure.’ Came over the speakers and some were ready to cry with joy and memories and the overwhelming ecstasy of being part of it all. When the final penalty went it, the place went into uproar. It was better than winning the world cup outright. Doesn’t matter if it was eighteen years ago, what’s that got to do with anything? Later, when the Irish National Anthem came on, and everyone stood in respectful silence, and afterwards, when the debate about whether we should go to the Courthouse or the Three Wise Monkeys was in full swing, we decided, in a blinding rush of inspiration, that it might be time to maybe leave Sydney. Chance the van to Cairns and hope for the best. Mechanics, what do they know?

Face for Brisbane on the 7th of January. Most people were going back to work, we went back driving. All went well til the shaking started. A terrible vibration surrounded the van, like we were driving along the cracks of an earthquake. Thought it might be just the cold, after the two weeks resting up. Temperature was fine. Had checked for oil and an inexperienced glance at the fan belt caused me no worries. We didn’t want to mention the transmission. It was a taboo, as if to utter the T word would invoke some kinda karma and turn the attention of the gods to this orange menace of the Australian roads. We were on borrowed time, sneaking past the sell by date, eager not to draw attention from the laws of mechanics. This was a purely Irish trip of hope for the best, and we had bright blue Rosary Beads on the rear-view mirror to prove it.

 

Back in Perth, I worked for an Australian man called Duncan. He was a classic straightforward kind of man. Self-made, earned a lot of money in the building game. Liked having different nationalities working for him. He’d even try the accents. In the morning he’d come down and say: ‘To be sure, Micky, tis a lovely day. We might find a pot of gold somewhere?’ or to the Austrian guy he’d say: ‘What time we have now? Or ‘Where is what’s called the shovel?’ Good sense of humour and paid even better. One day he asked me drop a cement mixer back to the hire shop about 10 k’s up the road. Told me to take the 4x4 Ute parked outside. I’d never driven a Ute before, or anything of a 4x4 by nature. Better still, I’d never dropped a cement mixer anywhere. To top it all off, the route was the biggest highway I’d ever seen, or driven on. I was only being a week in the country and still a bit unsure about the Australian rules of the road. Duncan wasn’t the kind of guy that would understand any of these concerns, so I simply didn’t voice them. The mixer was thrown on the back by two guys eager for lunch and I got the keys and left. My destination was Belmont. I got to the turn off in about twenty minutes, feeling confident, like it was all gonna work out fine. There’d been some grinding of gears, questionable lane changing and the eternal worry that plagues everyone on motorways: ‘Have I missed my exit?’ But I hadn’t, and I was now about 500 metres from the hire shop. As I took the wide sweeping arc into Belmont Avenue there was an almighty crash that sounded like a ten ton truck falling down a stairs. My whole body went weak, all jelly and shaking legs. My nervous system knew what had happened much faster than my brain. A plug hole opened it my mind and sucked everything in at break neck speed and left the only thought imaginable: ‘You are so fucked.’

 I foresaw police, ambulances, lots of destruction and certain deportation. Already the rubbernecks were slowly cruising past, staring at this awesome spectacle on the lunch time highway. When I got round to the back, it transpired that the mixer hadn’t been tied. Not badly tied, just completely unfastened. The two guys back at the site just threw it on and forgot about it. The first thing I noticed was it hadn’t left the trailer. It was dangling at the edge, held on only by a small wheel and God’s good will. Had it fallen on the road, it might’ve hit the passing Mercedes, or the cyclist who nearly crashed looking back to see what had happened. Or fallen on the beamer, with the double-chin dogface that was holding up the traffic as he stared. A voice came through the confusion: ‘I knew that was gonna happen, Mate. Saw ya way back. Waiting for it.’ Another came in with, ‘That’s totally dangerous, someone mighta been hurt.’ Thankfully none of them was wearing a uniform. I shrugged, smiled in a  - let’s keep this between ourselves – kinda way and asked: ‘Can you give us a hand to put it up?’ ‘Yeah,’ said the first guy. ‘Just lie it on it’s belly and take it easy.’ The two guys put their shoulders to it and I pulled it up from behind. It was like a dead cow. We got it in and put it on it’s side and I drove away with the relieved absence of sirens and the same shaking legs that didn’t stop for the next hour.  

 

 Anyway, flying up the highway from Sydney, these thoughts were far from my mind. So far, that it to an almighty bang of similar proportions and consequences to bring me back to that same feeling of everything having suddenly gone up in dangerous smoke. The van wobbled, the Road train behind us went to over take. It was raining. Something had gone terribly wrong. Somehow managed to pull it into a hard shoulder, safe and stationary but not free from the tremendous noise of passing cars and lorries. Each one grates on your nerves like a jet engine. Imelda looked out and saw the desperate remains of a blown-out back tyre, all the way down to the rim. Could flipped us, we were damn lucky. Bitch to change it too.

 

Went plain sailing after that. Past Nelson’s bay, Lennox Head and in the direction of Byron bay. Stopped in a few places along the way. All cheesy tourist towns with dirty beaches. The weather had really taken it’s toll on the sand. With the exception of Nelson’s bay, most things qualified as too ugly to spend any time there, or more of the same type of thing we’d seen elsewhere. Every pub was a bottle shop, restaurant and bookies. Spent the nights at the beaches, reading and watching sunsets listening to the parties in the surrounding pubs. Got to Byron Bay a week after leaving Sydney.

It’s a bit of a cheesecake town. Everything seems to be bright yellow and tastes sweet. They have lactose free ice-cream and gluten free bread. Massage parlours line the streets. Yoga, spiritual healing, meditation and all things alternative have a safe and respectable place in Byron bay. It has everything from the high-end restaurants to the world class hippy haunts. Backpacker friendly, party orientated, a nice beach. Organic shops selling mind-altering substances.

Beneath it all is a middle-class locality. People living normal lives. They don’t like you camping on the streets. On our second day we had a Ranger, 6.15am, banging on the side of the van. He didn’t have long hair, wasn’t smoking a joint and his car wasn’t bright green with red flowers painted on the side. He had the constipated look of a man that’s had enough, but can’t do anything about it. A moustache and a paunch and a dislike of just about everything. If he was up banging doors at the that time, I dread to think of what time he got out of bed. He let us off with a caution, told us ‘there’s rest areas out the road, mate. Use them.’

 

 Cheeky Monkeys is the major pub. Gives you two dollar meals and cheap drink. Famous for the party games and dancing on the tables. The games are a big thing on the East coast. Heard lots of stories. One where a girl got naked to win a sky dive or something. A sky dive costs about 300 dollars, don’t know if it’s a high enough price for dignity, but she seemed to think so. People do anything on those stages. It’s like Alice through the looking glass, where everything is reversed. The bedroom hairbrush becomes a real microphone and the mirror becomes a real audience, and you’re the other side of the world and no one will ever know. Stripteases, pole dances, simulations of every sexual position imaginable. Wide –eyed crowds, not sure what they’re seeing, wondering how far it will go, willing it to go further, wishing it would stop, unable to pull away. It’s like some kinda interactive big brother, where the people are hypnotised into doing what you want them to do. When the twat with the microphone demands that girl remove her last piece of clothing, all it takes is a wild jeer from the crowd to make her do it. The spell is usually broken when they don’t win. When the prize goes to their opponent, they get this terrible look of shame and wonder what the hell they’ve just done. It’s like Marylyn Monroe once said: ‘Isn’t it all just make-believe?’ And you can’t help but think she’s right. That’s there’s a certain sense of wonderland around. That all this is in the name of travel, and new experiences and broad horizons. That something should be happening, a sense that any day now the real experience will begin. This is just a bit of fun while we wait. Could have done it at home, probably didn’t have to buy the two grand ticket, but it will be worth it soon. And there’s a terrible thought shouting for attention: ‘What if this is it?’

 

Left Byron soon after that. Booked a couple tours for along the way. Apparently you haven’t seen Australia if you don’t do Fraser Island and the Whit Sundays. Got a good deal on them, should be a bit of craic.

 

To close, heard the best van story so far. Three Irish guys drivin down the road in the middle of nowhere. Doing about a hundred k’s an hour. Suddenly a Kangaroo jumps out and they hit it. Unsure of what to do, they get out to look. The animal is lying motionless on the ground and, rather than feeling guilty, they come up with an idea. They decided to put a rucksack on it and take a picture. Something about a dead Kangaroo wearing a rucksack appealed to their wicked side. They put it on, get the camera and take the snap. Next thing they know the Kangaroo wakes up and takes off into the bush with your man’s rucksack still on his back. They ran after him but it was hopeless. All his clothes and belongings gone. Imagine how freaked out you’d be driving down the road and seeing a backpacking Kangaroo jump across in front of ya? Things are bad enough.

QUEENSLAND -

 

Stayed a few nights in Brisbane. Not a bad city but nothing to do when it’s raining. They’re all happy there cos the dams are rising and the drought’s on the retreat. Went to Fortitude Valley for a look. Supposed to be the highlight of the place. Looked alright, lots of Machiato’s going around. Got turned away from a pub for wearing sandals. Left them to it after that. Made it to Rainbow Beach a few days later. Bumpy enough ride. The hills were high and the overdrive was goin in and out. There, found a woman dressed as a rainbow painting boomerangs. Booked in and decided to put a few more posters there, go on our Fraser tour and hope for offers when we got back. The tour was a 4x4 gig, no guide. Ten people sign up and you’re left to yourselves. As long as you have a full licence it doesn’t matter, not even if you’ve never driven a Land cruiser before. They want your bond and a swipe of your credit card and off you go. Had a mix of nationalities, all European and one Korean. Coming off the boat the first day was wild. At least twenty Landcruisers hit the sand and bomb it up the island at a hundred k’s an hour. Sitting in the back, you wonder what the hell you’re at. All the tents, food and water is tied to the top and has a serious influence on the balance. There’s a lot of swaying and lifting off the seat and the wet sand doesn’t help when the tyres lose grip. The guys driving can’t feel it so they don’t really know what the problem is when you tell them to slow down. Everyone was nice and civil at the start, not wanting to ruin the fun by complaining, but we got to know each other pretty quick. Especially with the picture in the shop of the flipped over Landcruiser that sent 9 people to hospital with serious injuries, and the driver to three months in jail. 

 
Later, we took pictures of a shipwreck. It was one of the highlights of the place. Can’t remember why, but it must have been interesting cos there were hundreds of people there. Spent the first night on the beach, yattering, eating Tofu and keeping a watchful eye for Dingo’s. Apparently they’re vicious. They look scrawny and starved but they’re quick and mean and there’s a serious fine for tryin to make friends with one – if you survive. They’re hunters, scavengers, and they take off with most things. A Dutch girl lost her camera somewhere and there was a good chance that a Dingo took it cos it smelled of humans. The beach there was a bit wrecked. It’s supposed to be beautiful, but the recent bad weather had made everything pretty filthy. The sand was scattered with fallen trees and other debris from the ocean. It was like an obstacle course tryna drive around it. Spent the second night drinking goon and talking bout the huge Python we saw in the trees. Grows to the same length as an Anaconda. It was asleep in the bush and didn’t mind the flash of a camera. The local Ranger had brought us over to see it. He lives in the place, a Lassie type, eager to talk bout things we mighta never seen. ‘Spotted any Spiders yet? Possums? Koalas? Wallabies?’

 
Went to Lake McKenzie the next day. A beautiful fresh water lake in the middle of the island. It’s rumoured that you can safely drink the water, but no one tried it. Got all swimmed up and refreshed and hit the road for home. Everyone got on well, but the Korean had very little English. We wanted to include him so offered him the chance to drive. He was delighted. It was the last stretch before we got back to the boat and figured it should be an easy run. Everyone was tired and looking forward to getting home for a shower. The Korean’s name was Kym. He’d never physically driven a manual before, although he had indicated he knew how. When he rammed it into fifth, at about 110 k an hour, aimed at some jagged rocks, one of the English lads suggested he might want to slow down. He went back to 90, swung an extreme right and faced it for the sea. At this stage the Swiss guy reminded him that we weren’t covered for saltwater damage and a straight path along the sand might be more advisable. Sitting in the back, there were looks of anxiety, worry and mostly fear. It was like the plane had just lost cabin pressure and we were on a vertical descent into the mouth of a volcano. Kym nodded that he understood, increased speed and proceeded to zig zag around the sand like he was trying to write his name. He just couldn’t resist fifth gear. There were miniature water canals which he forced his way through, holes full of rocks which we bounced over, and lots of trees that could have sent us airborne if he hadn’t narrowly missed them. It wasn’t that he was a psycho, eager to show off. Or a super confident driver enjoying himself. It was a simple case of him not knowing what the hell he was doing. Doubt he even knew where the speedometer was. Really nice fella, but he mighta killed us all. We were a Tabloid’s fantasy. FRASER INFERNO – OR – TEN LOST IN A LANDCRUSIER. – BACKPACKERS BECOME FIRECRACKERS!

I asked to drive in the end. Said I’d like one last spin before the boat. He pulled over and I brought us the rest of the way. Later, at dinner, when everyone was talking bout the weekend, someone asked Kym if he liked the driving. ‘Yes... it’s very nice.’

‘A little fast,’ commented an English guy.

‘I no drive manual like that before.’ Said Kym.

‘So how did you know what to do?’

‘I just do what they do on the video games. Put up gears, put foot down and drive. Easy.’

 

Got no calls for the van. Left the next day. Jerry was alright again after having a break. Got back on to the Bruce highway and faced for Airlie beach. Got there a few days later. Cruised up, taking it easy. It’s a nice place. Kept alive by the popularity of the Whit Sunday tours. If every backpacker left, the place would be a ghost town. It rained a lot. We stayed at the Marina, right beside where out boar was supposed to leave from. Next day, got on a Catamaran called the Camira. It was a one day/one night tour, all inclusive. Free drink, free food, snorkelling gear,  flippers and wet suit. It was ridiculously cheap. Heard of other groups that had to pay for all their gear, on top of the overpriced tour, with no food or drink included, and they got robbed by the staff on the boat. Bad deal.

 

The Camira bar didn’t open til eleven. They wanted to get all the snorkelling out of the way first. The lifeguards were unfit dickheads that didn’t give a shit, like they’d been pulled from a day in McDonald’s to work. Snorkelled a bit, supposedly on the outer edge of the Great Barrier Reef. Saw nothing. Not that there was no fish there, but the water was so dirty I wouldn’t have seen a whale. Probably better snorkelling in a stale pint of Guinness. I mentioned this to the lifeguard and he said: ‘Arh....yeah....had a bit of bad weather lately.’ Spent fifteen minutes in the water and got out for the last time that day. Got to Whitehaven beach towards the afternoon. Looks a bit like Fraser Island. Apparently the sand is 98% silicon. So fine that NASA had some sent over to the states to make the Hubble Space Telescope. Back in Ireland, I used to work in a pub frequented by Travellers. They were the traditional type that still made buckets and dreamed of becoming a bare knuckle boxing champion or ‘King of the Tinkers.’ They often shared these dreams with me on long Thursday afternoons, shortly after the dole had come in. One guy was good with cards and loved to talk. You could tell he was the type at the fairs playing the three carded trick on docile gamblers. Anyway, one day, when you could still smoke in pubs, it was just the two of us talking to each other through a cloud of John Player Blue. He’d done most of his card tricks but was disappointed when I wouldn’t bet with him. He went on to tell me he made buckets in Limerick. That he was the best bucket maker in Ireland and made a mighty profit from tourists. His father had taught him, and his father before that, and the beautiful formula had been handed down through countless generations. I must have looked sceptic cos he got a bit defensive and said: ‘You wouldn’t believe who’s bought my buckets.’

‘Who?’ I asked.

‘Bill Clinton.’ He said, taking a long hard darg of his smoke.

‘Really?’

‘It’s sittin above in the White House as we speak. Bought it when he was down in Limerick about two years ago. Sweeney’s buckets written on the bottom. From Johnny to the President. Gave me a good price too.’

 

Anyway, sitting on the Camira, when they told me bout the Silicon sand the Hubble space telescope, I coulda sworn I was back listening to Johnny again. It just had the ring about it. Arguably, the sand was pretty white and fine. A terrible amount of it happened to find it’s way into my camera case and jam my lens from working properly. It’s so fine that you can’t even see it unless it’s in clumps of millions.

 

Half an hour there and it was time to go again. There were 74 islands on the Whit Sunday route, and we had just seen the major one. It was enough too. There’s only so many islands you can look at without getting bored, after a while they all start to look like bowls of cornflakes. They dropped us off at our resort an hour later. Smuggled off some free wine and enjoyed it later that evening. It was a five star joint with a one man band that sang lots of songs about Aborigines. Think they were original tunes too. All in all, the value of the tour was good we could only conclude that it’s all some kinda front for organised crime. What better laundering operation could you have? Set up a tour company, run it at a terrible loss, write off the deficit against tax and come out with clean money. That’s what the vineyards used to do in Adelaide when we were fruit picking, although it was mostly bankers dodging tax. They wanted wine with their own name on it too. Win/win. Anyway, that was the end of Fraser/Whits experience. Another box ticked off our east coast agenda. Seen enough coast to last me a millennium now. Townsville next and then Cairns, where it’s so hot you can’t breathe and no one wants to buy a van. Poor Jerry’s delighted.

   

Spent Australia day in Mackay. Not much happened. Lots of drunk people. Drove through Rockhampton, the Beef capital of Australia. There were huge bull shaped billboards on the way in, advertising Roadhouses and steak and all things meat. Hadn’t heard too many good things about Townsville, didn’t see many good things either. Only ever heard of people’s cars breaking down there. ‘She blew the head at Townsville.’ Being the usual.  Spent a day there, walking the beach, tryna dodge the stingers from the water. They’re everywhere this time of year. Heard of a six year old kid who got stung and killed. Getting back into crocodile territory too. Some say the massive flooding is bringing them down. Spent the night at a rest area a bit outside the town. Campbook said it was a good spot. Toilets, cooking facilities, all that. There, it was still warm, but the sun going down. Made dinner and lit some Citronella. An Oz couple on their way north brought us to see a snake. It was huge, but well respected because it eats rats and other pests that people don’t like. Back at the van, first thing we noticed were things jumping around. After, realised they were Toads. They were the biggest Toads of all time. If Stephen Spielberg made a film about Toads instead of Jaws about Sharks, he would have used these creatures. They seemed intelligent too. Like when I threw a stick at one, two more jumped from behind a tree and gave me a dirty look. There were more of them than we could count, and worst of all, they were poisonous. Can’t touch them. If you freak them out, they’ll spit poison shit at ya. Not easy when you have to dodge at least 45 of them to get to the toilet. They all gravitated toward the light of a nearby playground. Supposedly, they were looking for flies and mosquitoes and other fodder for dinner. They looked like a convention of hostile aliens. Later, when I braved the toilet, and made it through them all unscathed, I opened the toiled lid and found one staring up at me. He’d been happily flopping around the water in the dark. When I shone my torch in his face, he looked up me all frightened and embarrassed like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Left the next day for Cairns. It was a hell of a journey. The rain was a nightmare. Full-blown wet-season. Eager to get there and get the posters up for the van. The highway was far from first class. Full of pot-holes, jagged train tracks and weird twists that could put ya wrong awful fast in the torrential rain. Made it there in one piece, but the steering rack was well rattled from the thumps on the road. Cairns wasn’t as hot as we expected. It was evening and people were starting to filter out on to the street for the night ahead. It was a pleasant city. Laid back and all but dependent on backpackers and tourism. Everywhere is a travel centre with a deal and a discount. Beer vouchers, free internet, half priced dives and packages that can save you hundreds. The competition is great for the customer. Worth shopping around. We spent the evening putting up posters. Hit everywhere. Internet cafes, Hostels, notice boards, storefronts. First night, no calls. Next day nothing. Spent the time sleeping in free parking areas. Went around to the hostels again, a lot of our advertisements had been torn down. Figured it was people that were interested, or others selling vans that wanted us out of the picture. Got no calls, so had to think it was malicious. Printed more and put them up. Went to the outskirts. Hostels most people had never heard of. Saturday went by. No calls. Enquired about a tour to Cape Tribulation to pass the time. The woman gave us stats and vouchers for the big nightspot, The Woolshed. Had dinner there. Good steak, followed by gold fish racing. Yeah, they put a couple of goldfish into long slender tanks supported by barstools. Then a person each side blows air up their arse from a straw and tries to force them to the end. First one there, wins. All fish have a nationality too. Sushi from Japan, Paddy from Ireland, that kinda thing. Of course, the Irish fish was always accused of being too drunk on Guinness to go anywhere. The first night was won by George W. Fish, bought in an auction for 11 dollars. Big excitement.

Read up about selling a van in Cairns. A depressed market where some sell their van for less than 300 dollars and others give them away for nothing. One of the worst places to sell. Didn’t do any good for our optimism. On Monday night, three days after first advertising, our first real call came from 4 gap year students. As fas as I can tell, gap-years have four major modes of conversation. They are:

 

My Mum and Dad.

My Credit Card.

The Greyhound.

Fiji.

 

It’s all they ever seem to talk about, in queues, to friends, to each other. Snippets are always like: ‘I must call my Dad to put money into my account. Mum’s coming over for a holiday at Christmas. She just had twins with her new boyfriend.’ Or  “I need to go to the internet to use Skype and call the credit card people. I can’t have spent that much. It might mean I have to get a job. I have no money to pay for the Greyhound to Fraser. And what about my Skydive?’ or: ‘I like Australia, but the diving’s not as good as in Fiji.’

Anyway, when the 4 came to look at the van it was a diaster, considering it can only seat two people. There was a couple, 18 and 19 years old, and two others that didn’t seem to care. The girlfriend seemed to be the spokesperson. A tanned pair of legs in a denim skirt, straight brown hair and bright blue innocent eyes. The rest just followed her like a litter of ducks. The boyfriend stood beside her at the van.  The other two hovered behind her, looking bored and listening to nothing. They were like a pair of lazy thoroughbred dogs, too spoiled to listen to humans, full of indifference and snobbery, I was afraid one of them might lift her hind leg at any second and piss against the wheel of the van. All of them were ‘Just back from Fiji,...going down the coast. Gonna do Fraser and Airlie beach. Cheaper than the Greyhound. Wanted to be in Melbourne in six weeks.’ The spokeslady  was decent enough to ask a few questions at least. I explained things about Rego, LP gas, the age of the vehicle. I could tell I’d lost her when her eyes drifted to the lagoon behind me. The boyfriend was blonde, quiet and pasty. He was the only one that could drive. The rest were too young and too scared. He didn’t say much, just kept nodding and smiling like a priest at a cake sale. The silence hit and they said they’d think about it. Let them off with some advice to call Wicked.

 

We were feeling down, like our team had lost the final in penalties. We needed the Sydney Syndrome. The naive tourist that wanders off the plane and wants to see a Kangaroo by lunchtime tomorrow. There seemed to be a lot people travelling short distances in groups, making it cheaper and less hassle to rent a vehicle.  The phone rang half an hour after the gap-year disaster. A Cork accent came over the other end. ‘I’m ringing bout the oul van for sale there, boy.’

         

We met him an hour later. He reckoned he was a mechanic. Looking for something to get him down to Melbourne. He had arrived the night before. Ours was the first van he saw. He wanted somethin kinda cheap and with enough space to fit his four friends in the back. He asked about: ‘The heads, and the engine and all that craic...’ gave him the mechanical history. He pretended to read it real thoroughly, pointed out a few things with authority, like: ‘I see ye got a spare tyre there lately.’ We agreed. He read more, opened the engine and shoved his hand underneath. Came up with greasy fingers and said: ‘There’s a seal missing in the transmission.’ We nodded, said we never really had that many problems with it. It was all a game. His aim to buy it as cheap as possible, ours to get the most money, but we all knew he was gonna take it. He slipped into the essential language of all car Irish car-buyers, namely, to refer to it as female. ‘Has she many miles on the clock? How fast would she go? Do ye put oil in her often?’  It went on like that. Him frowning and seeming to think, us laying on the info. ‘You’ll save loads with the gas. She’s young for a backpacker van, 1991. Registered until October. You’ll sell her again no problem.’ Things wandered a bit, got to talking. He’d been in Asia with his girlfriend, a friend of his, and “7 of the burd’s friends...’. Things had gone belly up with the girlfriend and he’d freaked and flew to Sydney on his own. There, he’d got a job as a mechanic. Was supposed to start the day before we met him, but he freaked again and flew to Cairns. He was like a man that was afraid to stay in one place. One day in Cairns and he was going driving back down to Melbourne. Just wanted something to bring him there. Said he was feeling spontaneous. He didn’t have to tell us that. Reminded me of the Dice Man, the guy that lets dice decide everything for him. No matter what the die says, he has to do it. ‘The lads’ were on the way over from Cambodia and he was supposed to meet them somewhere. But who knows, he mighta decided he wanted to go to the outback and live with the Aborigines by then. Our van fitted well into his grand scheme of an erratic life. He was on a manic bender, doing the first thing that came into his head and to hell with the consequences. Tomorrow is for dreamers.

 

Back in the city, before we met him, we’d discussed our price range. Considering the problems with the van, the fact that we had a flight in a week, that we hadn’t had many calls and the market was so depressed, we’d accept a couple grand and whatever we got with it. We were haunted by the tales of people letting  vans go for next to nothing. Also, a vicious rumour was going around. Down by the rail tracks, a man lurked waiting to scoop up unsold vehicles. He was the grim reaper of mechanics, the last call when you’ve got no options. He names his price and you have no choice  His ghost hovered around us like a bad smell, he whispered temptations in our ear, invaded our dreams with offers. If any more time passed, we’d have to take an ashamed stroll down there. When the crunch came with Peter, he sighed and said: ‘The best I can offer is 2,500.’ It was enough to cover the  rest of our time in Oz, cover a rental for a month in New Zealand, and still have a bit left over. It was a sale there and then and we were happy to accept. Yeah, we mighta got more calls, and we mighta got more money, but they mighta been tyre kickers too. Fiji bound scuba divers hoping it’ll drive itself. No thanks. We had a crazy Cork man with a healthy cash flow and an Atm card. It was only 2 o’clock and plenty of time to make the bank. I played hardball  with: ‘We’ll only sell it to ya if you’re serious. I don’t want bullshit tomorrow about cheques clearing and no money in the account. You’re getting a good deal, take it now if you want it. There’s plenty of others interested.’ He came right back with a big raise: ‘I’ll get ya the money right now if ya want.’

 

An hour later, filled out the change of ownership, and he dropped us outside a hostel. It was his van now. I tried to tell him things, like don’t keep it in drive when you’re in traffic, how to switch it to gas, the best time to switch to overdrive. He tutted, like he knew it all. Like he didn’t have to be told things about vans. He asked: ‘Would I make it to Melbourne in two days?’ Wanted to say: ‘Yeah, it’s only six thousand k’s. If you drove at 500 k’s an hour for 6 hours a day, it shouldn’t be a problem.’ Instead said: ‘Sure chance it and see how ya get on.’ He tapped the wing mirror and said: ‘Let’s hope she’s good to me now.’ We moved out in about fifteen minutes. Shook his hand and let him off into the blur of traffic and out of sight and into a future we’d never know anything about. It only really hit us then that we’d sold our house. The place we’d lived for four months. Last time I saw it was at the traffic lights as they went green. He took off with a surge and old Jerry spluttered a bit and seemed to blink forlornly, like a favourite pet on his way to the vet. Or an animal to the slaughter, oblivious to where he’s going. There was no real ceremony, splashing holy water on the windscreen, giving back money for luck, any of that. He simply disappeared and we were left with a shit load of bags and no where to stay. It was a clinical kind of sale, out of necessity. Him being a mechanic eased our conscience about it being a bit dodgy. He knew the score and paid a fair price. Was able to fix most of the problems himself. Woulda felt a lot worse selling it to gimps that wouldn’t have made it to Townsville. And so ends the epic journey of Jerry the orange van. After a terrible start, he got us right round the continent. It’s a whole different animal staying in hostels when you’ve been on the road so long. We can only be thankful we got such a good run out of the road trip. The wind’s been at our back and the hills have certainly risen to meet us. 

 

Spent a total of two weeks in Cairns. Left on a Thursday morning. Had a flight with Virgin to Sydney, then Sydney to Auckland with Qantas. Had seen Paddy the Goldfish lose the race on three separate occasions. Seen enough Coyote Ugly in P.J. O’Briens and wasn’t sad to miss the Miss. Backpacker nights in the Woolshed. Saw Cape Tribulation, had a cruise on the Daintree, went for walks in the rainforest. Saw beautiful trees, endangered Cassowaries, and huge spiders. Heard stories of a Wild West situation north of the Daintree River. Used to be the place to go if you were on the run. The cops considered it a no-go area until the nineties. Saw immense thunderstorms, saw lightning hit a car ten feet away, and rain that could cause a river to burst its banks in a few short hours. Saw the world’s largest moth that had flown down from the rainforest to die. A colourful creature with huge wings. Watched a female crocodile protect her eggs. Had a short tour of Port Douglas where you can buy forty dollar cocktails or spend a 27,000 dollar night in one of the neighbouring islands. After all that, our time in Australia floated to a silent end, like a feather falling from the top of a large tree. We eased out in the cover of darkness, a 5am taxi with a butch driver that talked too much. She wasn’t all that sure of the way either, but at least she got us there in time and we left the rising sun behind us and flew toward the home of the Kiwi.