Kamikaze Kangaroos!

by Tony James Slater

  On our first day we caught the train to Joondalup station, where our new boss Lindsey had been having some difficulties.

  Lindsey arrived in the biggest pick-up truck I have ever seen. It was unfeasibly large. As I stood next to it, gaping in awe, I noticed that the grill came up to my nipples. There was a small ladder to climb in and out of the cab. Most of the cars I’ve ever ridden in would have fitted in the tray on the back of this behemoth, but that still wasn’t enough storage for Lindsey; he also towed a three-metre long trailer, which looked like it had been built to carry a train.

  And Lindsey himself, when he emerged from the cab, was scaled perfectly to fit.

  Actually, it looked a little cramped for him.

  I’ve read books where someone is described as a ‘bear of a man’. I always picture an excessively hairy, thick-bearded fella dressed in a full-length pelt like a Viking.

  Lindsey actually was the size of a bear.

  He had the beard too, but he didn’t go in for fancy dress – he just wore a pair of navy-blue work shorts the size of two sleeping bags stapled together.

  If I’d have been a bear, I’d have run like fuck from him.

  Well, either that, or tried to shag him.

  Counter to expectations, Lindsey was a gentle giant – he was friendly to a fault, and almost genteel at times – for a builder. A typical, bluff Aussie bloke – we liked him straight away.

  Outside Joondalup train station, there was a vast expanse of brick-paving that one of his previous employees had painted bright yellow. Unfortunately, he’d painted it the wrong bright yellow – which was why he was no longer an employee. The paint was bubbling and flaking, clearly not suited to being outside, on the floor in a high-traffic area. Lindsey’s first job for us was to try and rectify this situation… except, he still hadn’t figured out how.

  To start with he offered us a stiff brush and a pressure-washer. His theory was that we’d start at opposite edges and work towards the middle – by which point he’d hopefully have thought of a better plan.

  Now, power tools scare the crap out of me.

  I’m one of the clumsiest individuals on the planet. Even picking up a drill is enough to make Gill want to film me, in case I do anything worthy of putting on YouTube.

  So I happily ceded control of the pressure-washer to her, took up the humble broom, and began sweeping piles of yellow granules off the surface of the bricks.

  Gill’s first experiment with the pressure-washer flung her back a couple of metres, blasting water in all directions and soaking a few inadvertent bystanders.

  “Sorry!” she called, in response to the curses coming her way.

  The thing was a monster – similar to the kind of pressure-washer you might buy to clean your car with, only much, much more powerful. It was able to strip the yellow paint right off the bricks, and would start to eat through the bricks themselves if trained on one spot for too long.

  Watching her get to grips with it was like watching her grapple with an anaconda; she was being flung around all over the place, both hands in a death-grip on the nozzle, while the tail of the beast lashed the pavement behind her.

  “Don’t let it fight you,” Lindsey explained, taking it off her with one hand and directing it as calmly as one might aim a garden hose.

  Probably the same way he’d hold an anaconda.

  I carried on sweeping, but was interrupted by a shriek from Gill. I looked up to see her soaked from head to toe, dripping muddy water from every edge of her.

  “I’ve just found out what happens when you spray the gaps between the bricks,” she said.

  We spent a week trying to get the paint off those bricks.

  And we still didn’t manage it.

  One morning, as Lindsey stood gazing in despair at the mess, Gill said to him, “Such a pity they’re stuck down.”

  Lindsey looked up at her and grunted, “Uh?”

  “The bricks,” she explained. “It’s a shame they’re all stuck down.”

  “They’re not.”

  “Oh. Well, what colour are they on the other side…?”

  Lindsey looked at her like she’d just confessed to peeing standing up – then he roared, and slapped her on the back so hard she nearly face-planted into the pavement.

  And we spent the rest of our time in Joondalup painstakingly lifting every single brick in that concourse, one by one – and turning them over.

  That took us most of the next week.

  Then we painted the other sides in the right kind of yellow.

  At least, I hope it was…

  The work was quite varied after that. We cut down bus stops, re-paved platforms, made ramps out of concrete – it was tough, physically demanding work, which left us pleasantly exhausted at the end of every day. Gill soldiered on throughout, gleefully wielding everything from concrete saws to angle grinders; on these occasions, we agreed it would be safest if I watched. After two months of hard graft, things started to shape up. Gill and I had funds again, and we had a marketable skill for the first time since… well, ever. We’d had plenty of fun working for Lindsey, but that feeling of restlessness was never far away. We were both itching to get on with our exploration of this country, with our adventures – and that’s when Roo called.

  “It’s time to go get Rusty,” she said, and Gill and I gave each other a spontaneous high-five. (We’re old-school like that.)

  But Roo wasn’t done yet. “Oh, and you don’t mind if my sister Sonja tags along, do you?”

  Of course we didn’t. People deal with grief in whatever way they can, and Sonja had decided that getting away from it all might help. An adventure, to take her mind off things back home. And Frieda had been a lifelong traveller; it seemed like something she would have wanted the girls to do.

  So Gill and I checked out of the hostel and headed to Roleystone to help them pack. I hadn’t seen Roo for a couple of weeks at this point, and was very much looking forward to our reunion.

  I snuck in through the front door and tip-toed into the living room, hoping to surprise her.

  Roo was wearing short-shorts and was bent over, fiddling with the zips on her suitcase. Her delectable bottom, thus presented, proved an irresistible target – so I dove right in for a double-handed squeeze.

  At which point she shrieked, and straightened up – and that’s when I realized it wasn’t Roo.

  I sprang back in guilt as Sonja gave me what can only be described as a ‘who the fuck are you and why are your hands on my arse?’ look.

  I’d been on the receiving end of this look several times in my chequered career, but never from my girlfriend’s identical twin sister.

  This was going to be a confusing trip for me.

  And so it was that four intrepid explorers, not three, boarded the tiny plane for Kununurra. I think we made up half the passengers.

  Western Australia from the air looked like an unruly child had left their entire toy collection out, and someone had thrown a dark green sheet over the lot. A folded, crumpled landscape, totally at odds with the flat, featureless red plains we’d driven through. But then, for the most part, the road followed the coast – whereas planes could take the direct route, ignoring the lack of trails, water and landmarks, giving us a view over land where quite possibly no cars had ever been.

  The owner of the campsite picked us up, and I made good my promise by settling the bill we’d been unable to pay when we left.

  And then it was time to see Rusty.

  I half expected to find a pile of spare parts slowly rotting into the undergrowth – but no, he was right where we’d left him. Still faithfully guarding everything we owned, Rusty was slowly being reclaimed by the forest. Tendrils of strangler vines curled around his wing mirrors, wrapped around his wheels and draped across the roof. His paintwork was fading slightly, but the sliding door still opened with its trademark squeal.

  The question on everyone’s lips was: would he start?

  “We love you, Rusty!” Gill sa
id for encouragement, as she turned the key.

  And his engine roared to life on the first try.

  We’d had occasion to say bad things about the van in the past, but now all was forgiven – and after two months without moving an inch, Rusty tore free of the grasping vines and made triumphant laps of the campsite with ease. He was eager to get back on the road too.

  So, stage one was complete; we’d reached Rusty and resuscitated him.

  Which meant that stage two was bound to be a doddle; all we had to do was drive him 5,838 kilometres home to Perth – through some of the driest, most inhospitable territory known to man.

  The Red Centre.

  Dressed To Kill

  Our first major stop was Alice Springs.

  This is because, at 1,052 miles from Kununurra, Alice Springs is the first major stop. Actually, it’s the first stop bigger than a petrol station.

  We had a couple of plans while we were in town. The first was to eat as much junk food as possible, because we’d been cooking for four on our tiny gas stove for the last few nights, and instant noodles were starting to lose their appeal.

  The second – which was far more exciting – was to buy ball gowns.

  Now, there is a reason for this. Honest.

  I’m just not going to tell you yet.

  So after we’d finished eating our McDonalds, I had my first experience with the Aussie phenomenon of ‘op shops’.

  Op shops are rather like charity shops in the UK (or Goodwill stores in the US) – but unlike most countries I’ve visited, here people actually donate things you’d consider wearing.

  I know! Hard to believe, but there it is. I must have traipsed in and out of hundreds of charity shops in the UK, and the most exciting thing I’ve bought was a dog-eared copy of Nineteen Eighty Four. Which was crap.

  But instead of a cramped little shop with racks of ankle-length pleated skirts and size 18 maternity dresses, here the op shops were big, popular, cheap, and well-stocked with genuinely interesting items.

  So it was with considerable excitement that I headed for the ‘size 18 Maternity Dresses’ rack. The trouble with being a bloke, and a well-built one at that, is they just don’t make skimpy outfits to fit me. In the end I settled on a delightful pink number with a scooped neckline – originally knee-length, it ended halfway down my thighs. Not many women reach six-feet tall, and those that do probably have the same trouble finding a nice dress as I do.

  Sonja, Roo and Gill had a much easier time, taking their pick of the fancy things on offer and settling for a trio of bridesmaid dresses in assorted colours. They were delighted to discover that their dresses were less than ten dollars apiece – but not nearly as happy as I was, when I found out that I am, in fact, only a size 16.

  “Does my bum look big in this?” I asked Roo.

  “It looks fucking gigantic,” Gill chipped in.

  “And yet, weirdly appealing…” Roo said.

  “Oi! Stop that!” Sonja was adamant. “We’ll have no fondling in the dresses. This picture is messed up enough as it is.”

  And you know what? She was right.

  The lady at the till offered me a matching pink handbag, and I discovered a delicate straw hat that set off my eyes. I figured I needed the extra bits and pieces if I was going to be convincing. The others dissuaded me from wearing my outfit back to the car, though. For some reason.

  And then we were off, heading into Kings Canyon – where, amongst other things, the movie ‘Priscilla, Queen of the Desert’ was filmed.

  Now, I hadn’t seen this film. Apparently it featured a bunch of transvestites driving a bus through the Australian outback, and according to the girls it paralleled our trip in some way I couldn’t quite grasp. Because as far as I knew, none of us were transvestites – well, apart from me. Three girls hiking around a rocky canyon in ball gowns as a tribute to their favourite movie – that at least was understandable, if not exactly commonplace. Only I would be doing it in drag – and I didn’t have a clue what the film was about!

  But it sounded like a damn good idea, so I rolled with it.

  We dressed ourselves beside Rusty, applying our make-up over copious amounts of sunscreen – which I’m told, in my case at least, added a certain Hammer-Horror quality to the finished effect. But no-one could deny, we looked fabulous in our colourful, flowing gowns.

  Darling.

  Sonja set up her video camera, filming a group of avid hikers as they started up the first incline. As each one passed us, we were treated to a series of surreptitious glances. Guaranteed, every single one of them was thinking, what the fuck? But no-one was actually going to say that to us. Or anything else, for that matter. After all, something as simple as ‘hello’ could result in them being trapped in conversation with a dangerous bunch of lunatics. I had to ask myself what I’d have done in their place; would I, in all honesty, have walked up to a bloke wearing a ball gown in the middle of a rocky no-man’s land and stated chatting?

  Probably not. Folk get murdered that way.

  To show the hikers I sympathised with their dilemma, I batted my eyelashes at them as they walked past.

  They hiked faster than most people jog after that, showing commendable enthusiasm given they had a three-hour trek ahead of them.

  Once the column had passed, we swaggered off up the same route, pausing only while Sonja sprinted back down to collect the camera. It was an interesting sprint, downhill at quite a steep angle, over uneven rocky terrain – and she was wearing a full-length royal blue gown that didn’t allow much freedom of movement.

  It was less of a sprint, more of a fast-motion waddle.

  She complained when I pointed this out. “At least I’m not mincing like you.”

  “I resent that,” I said. Pouting.

  Then I minced off to sulk.

  I’m sure that walking like a lady takes girls many years to master. Some – like my sister – never quite achieve it. So after half an hour’s practice, I thought I was doing rather well… but the proof, as they say, would be in the pudding. Or in this case, the videotape.

  We spent an enjoyable morning wandering around the canyon, stopping often to pose for ridiculous photos. Many other hikers passed us during these periods; old couples, young families, heavily bearded outdoorsmen.

  None of them said a thing.

  When we found ourselves underneath an overhanging ledge of rock, I couldn’t resist indulging in a spot of climbing.

  “Your arse looks really massive now,” Gill informed me, as I clung onto the outcrop with all four limbs.

  “She’s right,” Sonja added. “It fills the viewfinder!”

  “That’s gonna be a treat for the folks back home.”

  “I’m splitting my sides,” I called down through gritted teeth.

  “Us too!”

  “No, literally – I mean my dress’s sides are splitting. And the back!”

  There was a tearing sound as the zip struggled to contain my flexing shoulder muscles.

  “Get down, quick,” Roo said, “or you’ll spoil your dress!”

  This turn of phrase also caused much hilarity amongst the girls.

  I dropped to the ground and reached around to feel the rip in the fabric. “Is it bad?”

  “It’s left quite a hole,” Roo confirmed. “I think it’s safe to say, this dress wasn’t built for extreme sports.”

  “Or else you needed a size 18,” Gill said. “Look! You’re bursting out like a skinny, pink version of The Hulk!”

  I said nothing after that – just tried to conform. To be normal. Sonja was filming everything, in order to justify having hauled the video camera and tripod all the way up here – and Gill and Roo were taking photos of anything she missed. As I posed for the camera, I tried not to think how much fun my friends back home would have with the pictures, were they ever to see them. It’s the kind of thing people do to each other as a joke, involving judicious use of Photoshop. I was doing it to myself, because… well, it sounded like a
good idea at the time.

  “Why do I have to do all the posing?” I asked Roo. She’d been caught on camera a few times, but in her rather flattering peach gown she managed to carry it off quite convincingly. Whereas my pictures looked decidedly seedy, no matter how much I worked my ‘America’s Next Top Model’ repertoire.

  It probably didn’t help that I was sporting a few days’ stubble, and was sweating profusely in the forty-degree heat. No matter what I did, I looked increasingly like a psychotic red-neck rapist wearing his mother’s best church outfit.

  “But you’re important,” Roo explained to me. “You’re the only one who actually is what they say in the movie: a cock, in a frock, on a rock.”

  I had to admit, this was true. If not entirely flattering.

  By the time we got back to Rusty, all four of us were dripping. The harsh Australian sun was unrelenting, and I’d managed to sunburn the outline of a truly impressive cleavage onto my chest. As the others started to peel off their sopping dresses, I reached into my voluptuous bosom and pulled out about half a mile of distinctly soggy toilet roll. “Anyone need to wipe their face?” I asked, offering the paper around. They all took it gratefully and started dabbing at themselves, before it occurred to Gill to ask where I’d gotten it as the van was still locked.

  “Between mah titties,” I admitted, which caused a round of gagging. “What’s wrong? You chicks keep tissues in your bras all the time.”

  “Not for other people to use!” choked Sonja.

  “Oh. Ah well then, give us it back. If you don’t want it, I’ve got a use for it.”

  “Do we want to know?”

  “Probably not, but I’m going to tell you anyway. You’re forgetting, I’m wearing underwear and shorts under here – for the sake of decency,” I thrust a hand down my pants to prove it. “Whatever sweat you’ve got between your boobs, quadruple it – and that’s what my balls are sitting in right now. I’ve got to reach in there and mop it all up, or I’ll make a puddle on Rusty’s seats!”

  She handed back her paper streamer. “Please, for the love of God, go around the other side of the van to do it.”

  “It’s a deal,” I told her, “as long as you don’t try to film it.”