It all sounds lovely, but all I can think about right now is the fact that I have to negotiate that terrifying hairpin turn again at some point today to get us back down into the world again.
Unbelievably, there are a lot of vehicles up here with us in the parking lot, suggesting that I’m not the only lunatic who’s braved the journey. There’s even a minibus. I haven’t seen the driver as yet, but he must have testicles the size of my head.
Past the multitude of cars parked around me, there are toilet facilities, refuse bins, and seating areas available to those who choose to visit this area of Springbrook. Does nobody realise we’re at the end of a treacherous uphill climb and are currently seventeen miles above sea level, at the very top of the world? There’s a fucking barbecue set up next to several of the seats just in front of me. I can just imagine the conversation:
“D’ya fancy a barbecue today, then, Sheila?”
“Yeah, Bruce, that sounds bonza. Just let me go pack the crampons, oxygen masks, and altitude-sickness tablets.”
Laura takes Poppy off to the restroom, and I fish out the backpack containing our packed lunches from the trunk. If I’d known about the barbecue, I would have picked up a few steaks, but as it is, we’ll be munching on cheese-and-Vegemite buns as we make our way around the walking paths of Springbrook.
“Which way do you want to go?” Laura asks, pointing up at the map, which shows us three separate tracks.
“The one with the least altitude,” I reply.
“You do remember the drive up here don’t you, Newman? It’s all altitude in these parts.”
“The waterfall circuit then, that sounds nice.”
“Okay, come on, Pops. Let’s go see the waterfalls.”
My daughter lets out a happy little cry of pleasure and toddles off in front of her mother and father, straight past an enormous red sign that reads DO NOT LEAVE PATH. STEEP DROP AHEAD. DANGER OF DEATH without so much as a glance at its straightforward message of doom. I would put it down to her lack of advanced reading and writing skills, but it’s more likely to be the daredevil side of her nature—the one that’s likely to leave me grey-haired and deeply neurotic before I’m forty.
“Hang on, Poppy!” I shout and we take off after her as she starts to clamber up a rather steep set of steps cut into the hill in front of us.
It has to be said that provided you do stick to the path and keep your wits about you, Springbrook’s waterfall circuit is a rather delightful place to spend an afternoon.
The path snakes through the dense rainforest around and through enormous boulders and rock formations that you can cheerfully imagine a dinosaur rubbing against. The waterfalls themselves are also impressive. Some you walk over, others you wend your way past along the bottom. There’re even a couple you can walk behind, which is a unique experience, to say the least. There’s something very odd about staring out at the world from behind a curtain of water as it cascades past your eyes. I wonder if this is what having a cataract is like? my treacherous brain pipes up, rather ruining the mild feeling of awe I’ve got going on.
What it can’t ruin is the happy feeling I have inside as Laura and I amble our way through the forest holding each other’s hand with Poppy bouncing around in front of us. This is exactly what I wanted from this trip, a chance to just spend time with my wife and daughter away from everything. I even begin to think that the horrific journey here was worth it just to feel the warmth of Laura’s hand in mine as we make our way through Springbrook’s wonderful forest.
The path does snake its way past some pretty bowel-loosening heights as well, though. I was royally put off my cheese-and-Vegemite bun as we walked out onto a gantry that seemed relatively innocuous until I looked down through the wooden planks to see a two-hundred-foot drop straight down into the tree canopy below.
“Meep,” is about the only sound I’m able to make as I start to back up slowly towards the safety of the forest.
My heart rate soars again when three Australian teenagers come bouncing past me like they’re on steroids.
“Wow!” one of them exclaims as she leans right out over the barrier that separates her from becoming jungle pancake.
“Get your camera out, Milo!” another girl squeals at the only boy in the group. He whips out his mobile phone and proceeds to lean out with his friend and snap happily at the sheer drop below him.
I always knew Australians were a healthy bunch with a refreshing down-to-earth way of dealing with life, but I never knew they were also completely fucking crazy. It’s like vertigo was banned by the government in 1986, when Australia became independent from the Brits. Mind you, the way Poppy is sitting and dangling her legs over the drop from between the railings suggests this place is really starting to rub off on her.
“Pops,” I say in a strangled voice from my perch ten feet behind. “Maybe you should come back here with Daddy.”
“Looking at the sky, Daddy!” she pouts from between mouthfuls of bun.
“Leave her be Jamie. She’s perfectly safe,” Laura chides.
“When you’re standing on a precipice with only a couple of inches of wood between you and certain death, safe is a relative term, wife of mine,” I respond and shuffle back to make room for the hyperactive teens as they bound back past me.
I breathe a sigh of relief as the path changes to a comfortable downhill direction. My happy feelings return as we reach an apparent low point on the course and I retrieve what’s left of my bun from my pocket, secure in the knowledge that no great heights are about to leap out at me and force it back up my oesophagus.
I have to say that these tasty cheese-and-Vegemite treats are something I’ve fallen deeply in love with since we arrived in Australia. I must be helping to keep the profit margins of the local Coles supermarket very definitely in the black, given the number of them I’ve bought from the bakery section in recent weeks. I’m just licking the last few crumbs off my fingers when Laura says something that part of me must have been expecting, as I don’t feel that much surprise when she comes out with it.
“I think we’re lost,” she says, coming to a halt next to a particularly large fig tree.
Hello Jamie. This is your brain.
Hello brain, what’s up?
Well, now. You remember what happened a couple of years ago in Wookey Hole don’t you?
Ah yes, the day I got us lost on the way back to the campsite?
That’s the banana.
What of it, oh soft and squishy originator of all my worldly thoughts?
If you recall, we had a conversation with one another in bed that night and you promised me something. Do you remember what that something was, Jamie?
I do brain, I do indeed.
And what was that very thing?
That in future, if we ever got into a similar situation, I would immediately and wholeheartedly defer to Laura, thus saving us from potential embarrassment and physical injury at her hands.
That’s right, Jamie. Well done. So to that end, what do we say to Laura right now?
“Which way do you think we should go, baby?”
Well done, Jamie. I’m very proud of you. Have another bun.
Laura looks back the way we came. “Not sure. It looks like we strayed off the path without realising it. We should probably backtrack.”
“Okay, whatever you say, sweetheart.”
Laura takes the lead, and I pick up Poppy, putting her on my shoulders. This is a preemptive strike. She hasn’t said anything about being tired yet, but I know the signs. For the past two hundred yards she’s been doing that funny stamping walk kids do when they’re getting sick of putting one foot down in front of the other. I dutifully follow my wife in what feels like the right direction.
Ten minutes later we’re back at the fig tree.
“That’s the fig tree,” I helpfully point out.
&n
bsp; “Shut up, Jamie.”
“Just thought I’d point it out.”
“I said shut up, Jamie.”
“Yes dear.”
And off we go again, this time in a more lefterly direction from the one we went previously.
Now, I should be somewhat concerned when we arrive back at the fig tree about a quarter of an hour later. After all, this is fairly dense rainforest we’re talking about here. Being lost in it is not a trifling matter. However, I don’t feel that concerned for two very important reasons.
One, the feeling of smugness that I’m not the one who got us lost is quite overwhelming. It’s quite unprecedented for Laura to be the one with a poorer sense of direction than mine, and by golly I’m going to wallow in that for as long as possible.
Two, I’m pretty sure the way back to the path is to go right at the big boulder that looks like an upturned boob. Its breast-like qualities caught my eye the first time we passed it, and that was only ten or fifteen yards past the well-marked pathway.
In a few minutes I will suggest we make a move towards boob rock, but for now I am content to let my wife huff and puff her way past the same fig tree for the third time. I love Laura with all my heart, but she did once let me nearly drown in a tent, so fair’s fair and all that.
Eventually though, the vein on her forehead looks ready to pop, so I pipe up. “Why don’t we go back to the boulder with the bit on top that looks like a nipple? It could be that way.”
“I doubt it. That was nowhere near where we came off the path.”
“Well, let’s try it anyway. It’s getting a bit hot and Pops is wilting. We could do with getting back to the car.”
“Oh, alright smart-ass. Let’s see if you can do any better than me.”
I give my wife a shit-eating grin an apologetic politician would be proud of and march off in the direction of the stone tit with purpose and aplomb.
Aplomb gives way to barely concealed smugness when I march us back onto the pathway heading back up the hill.
Laura eyes me suspiciously. “I don’t know how Jamie Newman, but I know you know something I don’t. Rest assured I will find out what it is.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say in a voice dripping with honey, and turn to follow the path back to the parking lot.
We arrive back at the Magna tired but otherwise fit and healthy, which, when you think about it, is some kind of miracle for this family…a miracle that lasts for another three or so miles until we arrive back at everyone’s favourite single-lane hairpin turn.
This time the harrowing passage is made even more fun by the fact that it’s started to rain. Great big drops of Australian rainwater hammer off the car’s windscreen as I slow the Magna to a crawl and drive past the point where the road narrows into one lane. Everything is going fine—or as “fine” as anything can be when you’re less than two feet away from falling off a cliff—when the Magna decides it really doesn’t like all this heavy wet stuff and conks out.
“Meep,” I utter in a very small voice.
“That’s not good,” Laura remarks, the understatement fairy having paid a swift and invisible visit to her cerebral cortex.
I turn the key and the engine sputters.
I try again with much the same result.
“Meep,” I repeat.
“What does meep mean, Daddy?” Poppy asks.
“It means Daddy is having a little moment to himself Poppy. Just sit back and everything will be fine in a few minutes.”
I look out the window at the cliff face beside me and wonder just how Laura expects this situation to resolve itself happily in the next few minutes—unless Superman is passing on his way home to Metropolis and offers to carry us down to the motorway.
It’s not Superman that turns up to offer aid but the three hyperactive teenagers I mentioned earlier. They’re in a bright orange ute that has alloy wheels slightly shinier than the surface of the sun. It pulls up behind us, and scarcely ten seconds pass before the boy is out of the driver’s seat and bounding over in muscular Australian fashion. He walks up to my window and leans in. I steal myself for the inevitable barrage of swearwords about how we’re blocking the road.
“You need some help there, mate?” he says and smiles.
The little shit. Teenagers are supposed to be aggressive and threatening, not helpful and cheery. I hate Australia.
“The engine won’t start,” I tell him and fiddle with the keys.
“No worries. My gran’s got one of these. They don’t like the water much. My name’s Miles, though everyone calls me Milo. Jump out and I’ll get her going.”
Without waiting for me to respond, he flings the car door open and steps back, removing the only barrier between my mortal soul and the sheer drop below. He then expectantly looks at me. I look from his earnest face to the drop-off and start to wish he was more like a British teenager who would just mug me.
I get out of the car on shaky legs. “Jamie Newman,” I introduce myself with a voice even shakier. “We’re quite high up aren’t we?” He doesn’t need me to point this fact out, but I feel he’s not appreciating the gravity of the situation enough.
Milo looks over the precipice. “Could be worse, mate.”
Yes, I suppose there could be a pack of man-eating kangaroos at the bottom to finish you off if you survive the fall. Milo squeezes past me. He has to do this because I refuse to let go of the car with both hands at the same time.
“G’day!” he says to Laura.
“Hello. Nice to meet you,” she replies and can’t help but stare at his biceps.
I’m fine with this. Happy marriages are built on the understanding that this kind of thing goes on all the time.
“You too!”
“I do hope you can get the car going okay.”
She might as well bat her eyelashes and point at her vagina.
“Yeah, it’ll be fine.”
Milo turns the ignition key and starts to pump the accelerator pedal like he’s Hendrix pounding his wah-wah onstage at the Isle of Wight Festival. The engine continues to sputter for a few moments, but Milo’s natural Australian exuberance finally bullies it into life with an ear-splitting roar that echoes around us.
He exits the car to the sound of Laura’s heartfelt and somewhat over-the-top thanks and slaps me on the back. “There you go, mate. Right as rain. Just keep your revs up and you’ll be right.”
He then moves behind me, dancing on the edge of oblivion, before jogging back to the orange ute and the two girls he’s no doubt going home to have sex with.
“Thanks Milo!” I call after him. He throws me a salute and jumps back in his car.
I crawl back into my seat and drive away from the heart-stopping hairpin. I’m still going about four miles an hour, but I’m also revving the engine like an idiot, guaranteeing the clutch will explode within the next few minutes if I’m not careful.
The split second the road divides into two lanes again, Milo and the twins roar past with a blare of the car horn that fades out rapidly as they turn a corner ahead. My wife’s horn isn’t likely to fade as quickly, and I have a feeling I’ll be servicing her requirements once Poppy has been put to bed for the night—and providing she doesn’t tell me to rev her engine at any point we should be fine.
On the drive back to the apartment I reflect on what’s turned out to be a fairly typical day in Australia: one part terror, two parts awe, three parts incredulity. Add two spoonfuls of emasculation and you’re golden.
LAURA’S DIARY
Saturday, June 10
Dear Mum,
I don’t know if you ever noticed this in your years on the planet, but human beings really aren’t meant to be in the water. We may kid ourselves with flippers, masks, armbands, and swimming costumes that advertise our sexual services, but the truth is that the water—particularl
y the ocean—is an environment we are poorly suited to. I speak from cold, hard experience, thanks to the events of today.
“Have you seen the turtles yet, Laura?” Alan says to me on Monday during one of his frequent visits to the store.
“Turtles?”
“Yeah, down at Cooly, where you’re living? There’s a reef system out round one of the islands where you can swim with the turtles. It’s a glorious way to spend the afternoon.”
I guess I have to take his word for it. If anyone knows how to have a good time when he should be at work, it appears to be Alan Brookes.
“I’d be happy to take you out there sometime,” he adds, once again showing how nice a boss he is once you get past the bluster and Australian machismo.
After the beach whore incident though, I decide it would be far better to take Jamie, who is well used to my blunders and won’t bat an eyelid if I do something embarrassing with a snorkel mask.
I bring the dive company’s website up on the computer at lunch. The whole thing appears quite impressive, to say the least. Lots of pictures of happy snorkelling tourists weaving their way through forests of brightly coloured coral while sleek green turtles frolic around their legs. There is even one picture of a blonde girl feeding one of the cute little buggers from her hand.
That could be me. I could be the blonde feeding the cute little turtle as I bob around gracefully above the multicoloured reef. All for seventy-five dollars. It sounds like a brilliant day out. Unfortunately the age limit is fourteen, so Pops will have to take an impromptu Saturday visit to Surf Tots. The trip will do my morose husband a world of good, though.
Things have gone from bad to worse with Jamie’s work situation, Mum. He still hasn’t managed to find a job, and it’s really starting to bring him down. I can tell because there are days I get in from work and he hasn’t even taken off his dressing gown. Jamie can be a lazy bugger if you give him enough of a run-up, but he also has a very active mind and when it’s not being properly exercised, it can lead to a permanent hangdog expression and the kind of loud sighing that really gets on your nerves after a while. You can imagine how delighted I am to return from a hard day at work to find that Jamie has done absolutely nothing with his day, other than sigh and bemoan his lot.
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