High Noon in Nimbin

by Robert G. Barrett

  Well, thought Les, as he followed the traffic through the sprawling coastal town, it looks like this is going to settle in. Bugger it. Then again, I suppose they can always do with a bit of rain in the bush. Concentrating on his driving, Les crossed the bridge into Tuncurry then kept going till he passed a sign on the left saying BIG BUZZ AMUSEMENT PARK. A little further on, Les took the overpass and next thing he was on the F3 heading towards Taree and Port Macquarie.

  Traffic was slow under the leaden sky. Roadworks were continuous and the rain was little more than an annoying mist before Les would get stuck behind a truck and its massive wheels sprayed muddy water all over the windscreen, blinding him. Great, whinged Les. This looks like being a nice annoying drive all the bloody way. Grinding past another prime mover, Norton mulled over what he knew about Nimbin.

  Apart from a grainy old documentary he’d half watched on TV, not a great deal. Some place out in the middle of nowhere, full of tie-dyed hippies with the arse out of their pants, smoking joints and living on lentil burgers. Nothing to get excited about.

  Well, if that’s the case, pondered Les as he slowed down for another stretch of roadworks, why would anyone want to open a bar there and pay me five hundred dollars a night to play house music? Apart from collecting the dole, hippies haven’t got any money. They’re not into drinking piss. And the only music they like is Jefferson Airplane, Iron Butterfly and old Joni Mitchell records. Oh well, shrugged Les, clicking the wipers onto intermittent. If this Lonnie’s a mate of Eddie’s, he must know something. The only thing I have to do is put up with eight hours of doof-doof-fuckin-doof. And take the money and run.

  The kilometres and coastal towns ground past in the rain and Les considered putting a tape on. But after listening to all his favourite rock ’n roll tracks then having to put up with two nights of punishing house music, it would kill his spirit. Instead, Les slipped in a talking book Warren’s girl had bought for him in an op-shop, partly as a nice thought and partly as a joke: The Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow, written around the turn of the century by Jerome K. Jerome and now narrated by Peter Joyce. Les slipped in the first of six tapes and adjusted the volume.

  All the narrations were introduced by a lumpy oboe and cello, à la Rumpole of the Bailey. Then a very English upper-class twit with a priggish Oxford accent would relate his views ‘On The Weather’, ‘On Love’, ‘On The Blues’, ‘On Vanity and Vanities’. Etc, etc. Everything seeded with phrases like ‘expostulate eloquently’, ‘a degrading effusiveness’, ‘ignoble sloth’, ‘flattery and affectations’. Les found it a load of acerbically amusing bullshit. But it helped pass the time with ‘comic dignity’ and ‘aprobius epitus’.

  Les pulled in at Macksville for petrol and bought two diabolical pies, then stopped at Nambucca Heads for a packet of Quick-Eze and a bottle of sparkling mineral water. Coffs Harbour and Grafton went past, along with a few good memories, before Les took a left at Ballina then made it to Lismore and the Nimbin turn-off. Just out of Lismore the rain stopped and he got stuck on a narrow, winding road behind an old grey ute loaded with pipes. It eventually disappeared up a dirt side-road, then in the gloomy mist on the left some spectacular granite cliffs and rocky pinnacles rose out of the lush green valleys. The road climbed through the thick bush and more valleys then Les noticed a sign saying WELCOME TO NIMBIN. REDUCE SPEED. Further on another sign read AN ALCOHOL FREE ZONE EXISTS WITHIN THE VILLAGE OF NIMBIN. It was getting dark when a police station appeared on the left next to a St Vincent de Paul and Les finally reached his destination.

  The town was much smaller than Les had expected. He drove past a big garage, a butcher shop, clothing stores and other shops. On the right was the post office, a bakery, a hall and a small arcade. After five hundred metres of old shops with galvanised-iron awnings, the road forked at a war memorial in a small park edged with palm trees. On the right, the local hotel sat on the corner of a narrow lane opposite the Nimbin Hemp Embassy, then the road went down towards where Lonnie told Les he had the bar. Up on the left the road continued past several more shops before disappearing into the surrounding hills. It’s too late to check the place out now, thought Les, as he did a U-turn at the war memorial. What I need is a cup of coffee then find a motel. Les parked outside the post office, got his black bomber jacket then locked the car and crossed the road.

  The evening was mild and there were people and cars around. But every place Les tried to get a cup of coffee was closing up. Les walked on, passing a white transit van with a blanket over the windscreen, parked back from a low rock wall in front of a big old restaurant with a rainbow on the awning called the Spectrum café. The transit van’s side door was open and seated inside, with a huge, plastic bag of dope and a set of scales was an older Aboriginal man with a white beard, wearing khaki shorts and a checked flannelette shirt. It took the man inside the transit van half a second to realise Les was from out of town.

  ‘Hey, bro,’ the bearded man called out. ‘Want some weed?’

  Les looked at the man dumbly for a moment, shook his head then continued on in search of a coffee. Slouched near some bench tables between the rock wall and the Spectrum café was a group of shifty-looking young Aborigines in hooded white tracksuit tops. The tallest of the group noticed Norton’s unfamiliar face and stepped out from the others.

  ‘Hey, bro,’ said the tall young bloke. ‘Want some ganja?’

  Les gave him a brief once-up-and-down. ‘No thanks,’ he replied.

  Norton continued on then stopped in front of an estate agency and shook his head. Am I imagining things, he asked himself, or was I just offered dope right out in the open? And was that a police station not far down the road? Christ! If they tried that in Bondi they wouldn’t last five minutes. The sniffer dogs’d chew their legs off.

  Near the estate agency was a newsagent and a large restaurant and pizza parlour. Les stepped inside for a coffee and got told the machine wasn’t on. Come back in half-an-hour. Les walked outside and went into the estate agency. Seated behind a desk was a grey-haired man wearing a white shirt and blue trousers.

  ‘Excuse me, boss,’ asked Les. ‘But where’s the nearest motel.’

  ‘Lismore,’ replied the man.

  ‘Lismore?’ said Les.

  ‘Yeah. We don’t have a motel in Nimbin. There’s a backpackers lodge further down the road. Or the hotel caters for backpackers. You’d be better off in the hotel. It’s closer to town.’

  ‘Backpackers?’ said Les.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Thanks, mate.’

  Les stepped out onto the footpath and stared over at the pub. It was a big wooden colonial-style hotel, painted blue, with a wide verandah that overlooked the street. The entrance was on the corner opposite the Hemp Embassy, and at the other end of the hotel a set of steps ran up alongside a steep, narrow driveway separating the hotel from a couple of clothing shops set behind trees. Les took a deep breath and crossed the road.

  Grouped around the entrance were three shifty-looking Aborigines, older than the ones near the rock wall, wearing dark tracksuits. As Les approached, one of the group stepped up to Les. He had a surly face under a crop of untidy brown hair and was wearing a dark blue tracksuit with distinctive red piping along the sleeves.

  ‘Hey, bro,’ he said bluntly. ‘Want some weed?’

  Les gave him a tight shake of his head. ‘No.’

  The man looked at Norton as if he’d just insulted him by declining his offer, then rejoined his mates. Fair dinkum, thought Les, stepping into the hotel. The next cunt that offers me a bag of dope I’m going to kick him fair in the nuts.

  The hotel was big inside with a well-stocked bar featuring a number of beers on tap. A wide-screen TV and a bank of TAB screens sat above the entrance and there was no shortage of stools and tables. The bar angled round on the right to an empty dining room that led to an open loungeroom at the back of the hotel. Facing the bar, a curved doorway led to another loungeroom with a pool table on one side and a bank
of poker machines on the other. In between was a dancefloor, a mirror ball and a low stage with a DJ booth. Hanging from one wall a sign read TONIGHT—TEN PIECE DRUM BAND. On the wall behind the dancefloor was a large red banner with SAMBA SARDANA blazed across the front in white with yellow edging. Half-a-dozen solid men were seated drinking at the public bar and serving them was a dark-haired girl wearing a black T-shirt. Alongside her was a beefy man with dark hair and a salt and pepper beard wearing a blue Toohey’s polo shirt. Les walked up to the man with the beard.

  ‘Yeah. What can I get you?’ smiled the man.

  ‘Can I have a room for three nights?’ asked Les.

  The man gave Les a bit of a once-up-and-down. ‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘Twenty-five bucks a night. Can you pay cash? The computer’s shit itself.’

  ‘Yeah. No problems,’ shrugged Les, pulling seventy-five dollars out of his shorts.

  The bloke in the polo shirt got a ledger from an office at the end of the bar, wrote Les out a receipt and handed him two keys tied to a tab. He explained one key was to his room. The other let him into the hotel. One entrance was at the top of the stairs alongside the laneway. The other was on the verandah behind the hotel and there was a parking area down the laneway. Things were quiet at the moment, so he should have the room to himself.

  Les nodded to the dining room. ‘When can I get a meal?’ he asked.

  ‘You can’t,’ replied the bloke. ‘The cook broke his leg in a car accident. And the waitress pissed off to the Gold Coast with one of the cleaners.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Les.

  ‘The pizza joint across the road’s got a restaurant. The food’s all right. Stick your head in there.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Les, picking up the keys.

  ‘Enjoy your stay in Nimbin,’ smiled the bloke, placing Norton’s money in the ledger.

  ‘I’m sure I will,’ replied Les.

  Norton left the hotel and walked up to his car. He did a U-turn then drove back and hung a right down the laneway, coming out in a small, grassy car park heavy with evening dew. Les pulled up next to a couple of mud-spattered utilities then got out and had a look around in the soft light from the hotel.

  A set of stairs led up to the cellar, another to the loungeroom behind the dining room and another set ran up to a verandah with a door on the right. Les got his bags, locked the car and climbed the stairs till he reached the verandah. The key fitted easily and Les stepped into a gloomy corridor with blue carpet and green walls.

  On the left was the Gents toilets and showers. Opposite was the Ladies. The corridor led to another with rooms running left and right. Les slid the key into room 19 on the right, found the light switch then stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

  Twenty-five dollars a night got Norton a small clean room with green walls and two tubular steel double bunks on either side. There was a narrow bench as you walked in with a kitchen tidy beneath it, and between where the bunks sat against the far wall was another door. Les tossed his bags on the top right bunk, then slipped the bolt on the second door and stepped outside onto a long wide verandah with a scattering of chairs and tables sitting on a solid wooden floor with solid wooden railings.

  The verandah gave an uninterrupted view of Nimbin’s main street and Les was peering towards the Lismore end of town when two banks of arc lights near the door came on, lighting up the immediate area in front of the hotel. Les stared out into the brightness for a moment then walked back into his room, bolting the door behind him.

  What did Lonnie say? Les asked himself, as he sat down on the bottom left bunk and stared across at the other one. Book into the pub. He’s got to be fuckin kidding. This is all right if your name’s Olaf and you wear socks and sandals and a bandana tied round your head and you’re on a budget. But I’m not a fuckin backpacker. I own a house. I got money in the bank. And I can afford a modicum of luxury. Les wistfully shook his head. Oh well, he smiled thinly. Look on the bright side. The bloke behind the bar said things are quiet so I should have the room to myself. On the weekend you can bet I’ll be sharing it with two Japs who stink of miso soup and a Pommy who hasn’t had a bath since the Kelly gang rode out of Jerilderie. Boy! Can I find them. Anyway. Fuck it. I’m here now. Let’s go and have a bite to eat. Les locked his room and followed the corridor left to a set of carpeted stairs that angled down to the side entrance. He took the stairs to the door, opened it and followed a set of wooden stairs down to the street.

  The pizza shop was fairly big. A counter faced the door when you walked in and an arched doorway on the left led to a dining room. Two people were seated next to a drink machine, waiting for pizzas. Les picked up a menu from the counter and ordered a smoked salmon salad, spaghetti bolognaise and a flat white from a young girl in black. After paying up front, he found a table in the dining room, plonked himself down on a wooden loop-backed chair and had a cursory look around.

  Pinned to the walls were a number of gaudy little paintings, windows faced the street and a door on the right led to a narrow alleyway. Alongside him a beefy European family of four was scoffing four monstrous pizzas and three family-size bottles of Coke. Seated in front of the windows, another family was checking out a bag of dope. One of the family rolled a joint then he and another man slipped out the side door. Norton’s coffee arrived and while he sipped it, he debated whether to ring Lonreghan. If he did, Lonnie would probably want him to come down to the bar where he’d no doubt find him something to do. And if Les did go down, he’d probably tell Lonnie what he thought of his accommodation arrangements. No, fuck him, thought Les. I’ll ring him tomorrow. Les looked up as the waitress arrived with both the smoked salmon and the spaghetti.

  The food was good and there was plenty of it. Les got through the smoked salmon, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t finish the spaghetti bolognaise. Shit! That’s got to be a first, smiled Les, placing his knife and fork on the plate and pushing it away. He sat at the table for a moment and found himself yawning and rubbing his eyes; the long drive in the rain had left him drained. The best thing to do now, figured Les, is have a few drinks and try to knock myself out so I can sleep in that bunk. He got up, left a tip, then walked the short distance back to the hotel.

  There were about a dozen at the bar and a bit of a crowd in the loungeroom waiting for the band to start. Two couples were shuffling around on the dancefloor to some low-key house music. Les hung at the loungeroom door for a moment to check out the punters. He couldn’t see any tie-dyed hippies wearing crushed velvet or love beads. More an older crowd in jeans, T-shirts, tracksuits, coloured or plain dresses and jackets. Some women wore high-heeled boots, most of the punters wore trainers and here and there the odd funny hat. Les ordered a middy of Carlton and a Jack Daniel’s and soda, then sat down under the TV and absently watched a game of rugby union on Sky channel. Les was on his third beer and another Jack Daniel’s and starting to mellow out when the music stopped in the loungeroom and seconds later it sounded like the end of the world. He got up from his table and took his drinks across to the lounge.

  Up on stage were ten fired-up men and women in bright red outfits banging away on huge red drums and other percussion instruments. One girl wore a red tutu, two had black afros, the rest wore gaudy red hats or boas and out front, banging furiously on a silver drum, was a fiendish-looking man in a black top hat with a red ostrich feather pinned to the front. And they were putting everything into it, making enough noise to bring the roof down and raise the dead at the same time. With a big smile on his face, Les watched from the doorway then found a spot near the dancefloor and started bopping away to himself, stopping now and again to go to the bar.

  Samba Sardana ended their first bracket to much cheering and whistling from the appreciative crowd. Les finished his drinks, got a fresh round, then went back to where he’d been sitting beneath the TV. He was half on the nod and only drinking bourbon when the band returned.

  Samba Sardana’s second bracket was even louder than th
e first. The leader in the top hat would blow a whistle, they’d all stop, he’d blow it again and with perfect timing they’d all come in on cue and start banging away, chock full of enthusiasm. It was hard to tell who was enjoying themselves the most—the drummers or the punters. The band finally banged out their last number, thanked the crowd and filed off stage right to more whistling and cheering. Les finished his last bourbon and decided it was well and truly time to file off stage right himself. He walked through the dining room, wearily climbed the stairs by the open-air lounge, then let himself in the back door. The band was getting changed in two rooms down the corridor from Les and as he went past, Les gave them a boozy smile and told them how much he enjoyed their performance. They thanked him for the compliment and Norton went to his room.

  Yawning non-stop, Les changed into his old blue tracksuit and decided to sleep on the bottom bunk opposite the one he tossed his bag on. After a quick test, Les was pleased to find the mattress was comfortable and the pillows and duvet were clean and fresh. Oh well, smiled Les, staring up at the top bunk, even though it feels like I’m sleeping in a submarine, things could be a lot worse. He got up and switched off the light. Les needn’t have bothered. The arc lights on the verandah reflected through the glass panes on the adjacent door, lighting his room up like the middle of the day. Did I just say something? scowled Les. He got a black T-shirt from his travel bag, doubled it over, then lay down and placed it over his eyes. It helped considerably, and sleeping in a submarine or not, it wasn’t long before Norton was snoring his head off.

  Les didn’t quite know what was going on when he woke up the next morning. ‘What the…?’ He removed the T-shirt and blinked up at the bunk above him as everything fell into place. ‘Oh shit!’ he said, running a dry tongue over his lips. After a moment or two, he swung his legs over the bunk, yawned, then stood up and stretched, pleased to find his hangover wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be. ‘Bloody hell! Look at the time.’ Les got his towel, shaving kit, two Panadeine and a clean pair of jox and headed for the bathroom.