The East Coast Road Trip

by Steve Deeks

  For the purpose of communication, give me a Swedish or Dutch person any day over someone from the far regions of England, Ireland, Wales or Scotland – like poor Julie for instance, who was simply impossible to understand at times. It had always baffled me how for one such small country many of us struggled to understand each other. It seemed a miracle that in bygone days during the Empire how we had managed to successfully mobilise the troops and communicate to one another.

  Anyhow, the problem with all these different forms of English was that your mind could start to play tricks on you, leaving you utterly at a loss sometimes when attempting to decipher where someone was from. In the case of the Liverpool girls, with their hyper weasel voices that often left you rubbing your ears, I initially got it into my head they were from Eastern Europe. Then it occurred to me they could be German, as one had a reasonable amount of facial hair, while the other had shoulders like an American footballer. My cause wasn’t helped by the fact we had Sarah (the German female Mark had been chatting to in our room), a Swedish girl and a couple from Denmark in our group. Trying to make out the difference of accents wasn’t easy, especially when a room was noisy with excitable chat.

  Taking the initiative in the conversation I boldly announced to the Scousers that I was from England, although I think they had already assumed this obvious fact, before I made a polite inquiry. “So whereabouts in Europe are you both from?” I asked curiously, anticipating an exciting cultural discussion with my European cousins about the city of their residence, be it Stockholm, Venice, Munich or some other fine place. I immediately felt something was lost in translation as they both looked at each other and then back at me before bursting into laughter, when realising my question was completely serious. “We’re from Liverpool…you know that place up in the north of England,” came the squealing, sarcastic voice of Kate. After confusedly pausing to take in this surprising reality, I steadied myself before offering a sincere apology. “Sorry about that, it’s so noisy in here you just can’t make out people’s voices.” My faux pas seemed to set the tone for the jovial mocking that flowed between them, myself and Mark, who had by now turned up.

  An upbeat mood had been replaced by one of silent reflection after the talk as backpackers bore the look of people who had been promised a trip to Disney Land but now faced the reality of going to a concentration camp.

  After getting our supplies for the trip from the only available shop nearby – which inevitably, much to my disgust, was heaving with travelling folk – myself, Mark and the Swedes walked down to the beach with body boards supplied by the hostel (at least we had assumed they were, before happily marching off with them) for an early evening dip in the ocean. Having cautiously dangled a toe in, I impulsively jumped backed, thanks to the freezing ocean. Slowly I ploughed my way through the choppy waves crashing into my torso. I hadn’t seen so many grown men sent flying while happily standing around in ankle deep water since I was in the south west of France on the Atlantic Ocean as a child.

  Then, as on this occasion, it was difficult to not laugh at those individuals being tossed about like plastic dummies, particularly when they lost their shorts or bikini top, as happened to at least three people I saw. “Look, look you can see her baps,” Mark excitedly yelped, pointing at a large pair of female breasts that had suddenly become exposed.

  “I thought you would be more interested in checking out that old boy’s package instead,” I replied, but I don’t think he heard me, as he stood staring open mouthed. Sam, meanwhile, had played the hero by very kindly fishing out the lady’s bikini top and handing it back to her while clearly fighting to keep the smirk off his face and the bulge in his shorts out of view.

  As the embarrassed brunette lifted out an arm across the water to collect her top there was the inevitable sighting of some more nipple, which had been richly anticipated by the Swedes and Mark. “Yep, thought so,” Simon announced with the confidence of a seasoned pervert who specialises in breast watching, as he caught a further glimpse. “I was waiting for that too…lovely view I must say,” Mark added ecstatically. Even as the lady attempted to put her bikini back on, while struggling to cover herself, there was no let up in the ogling.

  Had this happened in Spain or France where many women get their boobs out on the beach no one would really have batted an eye-lid but because she had fought to protect her privacy so hard, and with this unfortunate event taking place in Australia, where the ladies like to remain covered, the taboo of having her chest so vacant was all that was needed to be the highlight of the day for so many men on the beach.

  We continued with our attempts at mastering the body boards, though invariably I would end up half way down the beach, out of the safe zone with my shorts wedged right up my buttocks like a razor thong, thus leaving the majority of my pale cheeks fully on display. All as the lifeguard would frantically gesticulate and blow his whistle urging me to move back to the safe area. I began to understand what the vicious tour operator had been on about earlier when he said the sea was rough in these parts. Though, apparently what we experienced in these waters paled into insignificance compared to the rip currents of the island.

  After getting bored of using the body board as a float rather than as its intended purpose and growing tired of having tidal waves slapping us in the face, we decided to call it a day at the beach and headed back to the hostel where after a brisk shower we – or rather Mark - cooked up a sumptuous barbeque that we wolfed down with a few beers. Not too many, though, as we had to be up at six in the morning the following day, which for a backpacker was like getting up in the middle of the night.

  The next morning came around quickly and desperate not to miss out on the pancakes, toast and coffee that was being supplied by the hostel I successfully wrestled myself out of bed and made my way to the bar area where breakfast was being served. Ensuring I got more than my money’s worth of food, I then sauntered back to my room with a pleasantly full stomach. I collected my stuff and made my way to the outside area from where we were leaving. After one final warning about safety and how to drive the truck – which I can safely say went right over my head – it was time to climb aboard our machines.

  Sarah, bravely, had volunteered to do the first section of driving, though as it turned out this was the easiest part to do with the journey all being on road rather than sand. You just can’t take the rationality out of Germans. I felt a sense of foreboding come over me; if a girl was happy to do the driving then surely I should too? The truth was that I was perfectly happy to sit back and enjoy the ride while anyone else stupid enough to give themselves more work could get on with driving us about.

  Also, if truth be told, I wasn’t overly excited about the prospect of reacquainting myself with driving a manual vehicle for the first time in nearly ten years, especially in a four-by-four on a steep and sandy landscape, having had the luxury of riding in automatics since passing my test (first time, of course) all those years before. And while common sense may not be my forte it did strike me that my getting behind the wheel was an even worse prospect bearing in mind I would be responsible for the lives of seven strangers in a machine that had some weird operating device that I had not heard being described how to use. At best, all I could see was acute embarrassment and at worse I could see several manslaughter charges having failed to negotiate the tricky terrain, or by getting caught in a swell and getting pulled out to sea.

  As we sat in the back waiting to leave it became apparent that Mark had informed the Scousers of my reluctance to drive. “Oh Steve, you worried about driving? It’ll be alright,” Becky giggled. The more I attempted to bat away the questions the more they seemed to come back at me with more. “Are you one of those people who worries about everything?” Kate asked mockingly. Suddenly I went from minding my own business to being psychoanalysed in front of the entire truck. Even our guide, Brett, turned round from the front to offer me genuine reassurance. “You’ll be alright ma
te. If the girls can do it then I’m sure you can.” Mark and the Scousers were thriving on the pity being shown to me. As we rolled away from the hostel I knew it was only the start.

  Chapter 5 – Fraser Island

  As our convoy made the short journey to the ferry crossing I breathed in a sigh of relief having successfully made the first leg of our trip. Once on board the ferry we watched as we slowly approached our exotic location, Fraser Island. After a 20-minute crossing we arrived on shore to a chorus of cheesy cheers from the excitable backpackers.

  Once again we set off in our convoy as if part of some Desert Storm military operation. Bouncing along on the uneven beach with my head smashing against the steel door, we made our way across the picturesque island, with the glistening blue sea to one side and a tropical rainforest the other. Brett was giving a commentary on how to drive in the conditions. “You don’t want to over turn the wheel. These babies can roll pretty easily,” he said, much to the shock of his audience. “And it’s not a good idea to go through too much water. We have known idiots to attempt this, who have then watched as their trucks are pulled out to sea.” I began to think there was every chance I may not make it off this supposed tropical paradise.

  After continuing the beach some more we then pulled over for what our guide aptly named a “piss stop” before changing drivers. Mark, frothing at the mouth, elected himself to get behind the wheel and was gearing up like a racing car driver. Setting off like a madman it was clear we were in for a hectic journey, jerking from side to side followed by last minute breaking and wheel spin accelerations after coming to a verge. Sat in the front I was left partially deaf as Mark, doing a fine impersonation of riding a bucking bronco, was manically tooting the horn. As we came to a standstill over a small edge where a stream of water was running through into the sea, Brett, sensing a possible hazard, suggested it was time to “go easy” in getting across. I don’t know why but I had a suspicion that Mark’s idea of playing safe may not have conformed to that of our guide. And suddenly, having floored the accelerator, causing my head to thrust back like I was in a rocket, we hurtled toward the stream and hit the water, leaving the windscreen barely visible with all the spray. “You call that going easy?” Brett blurted out in shock from the back, albeit jokingly, after we steamed through.

  As our hazardous journey continued we sought comfort in mocking other vehicles in our convoy that had got stuck in the sand by highlighting their plight via raucously beeping our horn and offering an array of creative hand signals out the window, before smugly speeding off with no thought to help them. “See you later dick-heads,” went the shouts. We then pulled up on the beach and waited in turn as one by one the vehicles had to negotiate a steep climb around a bend, where we would be parking for lunch. The first three vehicles managed the feat successfully, though it was clear to see that this wasn’t a straightforward task, especially as the width of the path was narrow and the grip was patchy. The next four-by-four tried but failed, much to the delight of those watching. Four attempts later he was still no nearer and suffered the ignominy of having to move aside in front of all those who had gathered to watch the show to let one of the guides do the job. Naturally, Mark, screaming like an insane geriatric, pulled off the manoeuvre first time as we hurtled into the slope.

  Following some much needed food and time away from the truck it was quickly time to return to our mode of transport, as we headed inland across a series of narrow, bending tracks, fortified with a vast collection of trees. It was not the place to lose control of the vehicle. Some of the trucks behind us were really struggling, with us constantly hanging around for them to catch up. The man who had delivered the depressing safety speech climbed out of his truck with a scowl on his face several times to hold heated discussions with other guides. I got the distinct impression that patience was not one of his gifts.

  Eventually with everyone in tow once more, we pulled up at a car park and made our way down to one of the picturesque lakes. The beach was busy as scores of young people happily sunbathed and splashed in the clear warm water. Mark, the Swedes, myself and Ben from the Whitsunday trip, who we also happened to bump into on this tour, soaked up the rays as we chatted in the lake, before getting bored and having a sand fight. This didn’t go down too well with everyone, especially those who suddenly found themselves having to rub wet sand out of their hair and eyes, or dive for cover from sand grenades being launched. One disgruntled girl even had the cheek to say something in her native tongue, which I was reliably informed meant “fuck off”. After waving and smiling at her we continued our game full throttle.

  Simon was floating nonchalantly with his buttocks hovering just above the water, prompting a series of bundles, in which attempts were inevitably made to pull his shorts off. Somehow, though, he resisted. However, he was powerless to stop an impressively sized sandcastle being squashed onto his head before being dragged under the water. Sam, taking particular delight at this, performed an elbow drop on his good friend’s skull as he came up to the surface. It was clear there was a lot of pent up energy from driving around for so long.

  Following our exertions in the water before some well earned relaxation on the beach we were ordered on our way again. Back in our truck the perm-haired Danish man in our group had nominated to do some driving, making me the only male on board not to have got behind the wheel. “You having a go driving then?” Becky asked, almost innocently. I confirmed, yet again, that I would think about it, though suggested that if they wanted to remain alive it may not be the best of ideas.

  Making our way through a jungle, we reached the peak of a steep hill from which we overlooked much of the impressive island landscape. Before long we were powering to our final destination for the day, where we would be setting up camp for the night.

  We arrived at the place, adjacent to the sea but over a hill which helpfully protected us from a battering by the wind. To the other side of us were trees. There was, unsurprisingly, no nearby toilets. “If you want to go for a dunny then you’ll need to take a walk and dig a hole,” the tour leader blasted. “But do make sure you dig a hole as there are Dingoes around here and if you leave rubbish or shit about the place you will attract a load of them, which ladies and gentleman, we don’t want. They shouldn’t attack you but best we keep our distance.”

  I found out a Dingo was a kind of wild dog that although generally harmless had been known to attack and even kill small children. I added it to my list of potential killers in this country with absurd wildlife.

  In the midst of another solemn speech to the group from our demoralising tour leader that was generally making everyone wish they’d never been born, Mark, as was his peculiar way, started playing up for no reason. “Is Special Steve getting worried about those nasty Dingoes?” he began teasingly. This was then repeated in a variety of different ways. I tried to ignore him as I listened to our latest monologue on the variety of dangers we faced and how those responsible for us would not be responsible for us, should we partake in any dangerous or illicit behaviour.

  Growing weary of the incessant chat in my ear I offered a swift but not excessive – or at least I didn’t think it was - elbow to Mark’s groin area to shut him up. Unfortunately for him I caught him unaware and right on the sweet spot, as it were. He went down like a sack of potatoes, sounding like a wild oar being castrated, while clutching his particulars as we stood in the centre of the amassed backpackers, whom within seconds were all focused on Mark and, much to my delight, were laughing mockingly at him. I rolled my eyes and shook my head as if to absolve myself of any responsibility, as people suddenly turned in my direction, no doubt wondering what this hairy beast of a man was doing on the floor by me. ”You cunt that hurt,” Mark screeched, wincing in pain as he gingerly climbed to his feet.

  “Oh sorry about that,” I smirked, feeling rather proud of my efforts.

  After the conclusion of the latest health and safety speech we were fina
lly given the all clear to set up our tents. People were vying for appropriate positions like they had just laid down a hefty mortgage deposit for a piece of luxury land. “Shall we go near this bush or that tree? There’s less wind by the first one but the second one is much better if you want to go for a shit,” the conversations roughly went. After some debate we opted for a nice spacious spot, away from the majority of people. “We’ll get a good night’s sleep here mate and the ground’s nice and flat,” Mark enthused, like someone happy with his property purchase.

  “Yeah and just think how much it’ll be worth here in a few years if tent prices continue to rocket,” I said, embracing the excitement of the moment.

  As we unpacked our stuff we quickly became the envy of all around us as we got out our blow-up bed. “Look at you guys with your fancy bed,” one jealous woman observed. By now, though, we were used to being the kings of the tent world, looking down our noses and mocking others, as they had to make do with sleeping on the ground while we slumbered on our luxurious device. “Have fun sleeping on the floor,” I replied smugly to the envious onlookers, as we gloatingly sauntered past with our deluxe mattress.

  After shifting all our stuff from the truck into the tent and organising it into designated sections, we held a discussion between the seven of us to decide what the plan of action was for dinner. Mark had nominated to do the cooking which of course meant I was selected to be his sous chef, which in a way was good as it meant I could rely on him to do most of the work. The others would be involved in clearing up.