by Steve Deeks
I’m sure it was an exhaustive debate that left no stone unturned and was dealt with in a sensible, grown up manner, particularly when getting in to the various intricacies as I’ve already outlined above. One area they appeared to have overlooked, though, was females playing football (soccer) or even say cricket, neither of which were outlawed for those flaunting their bare chests. Let’s hope from now on they all decide to go for a kick-about or a bowl instead, just to highlight the lack of due consideration applied by the council on this most serious of issues.
Overall, though, it is important to acknowledge that the authority came to the right decision, with it signalling a triumph for local democracy. On hearing the news outside the council chambers, hordes of women would no doubt have joyfully whipped off their bras, jumping up and down to celebrate the watershed moment.
Anyhow, with a good fix of vitamin D from the sun I returned to the hostel later that day for a nap and a cold shower, before meeting up with Lee and Heather in the square. While standing around discussing where to go, an aboriginal man, who was visibly impaired by the enormous amount of alcohol he had clearly drunk, came stumbling towards us. Standing facing us in silence while severely swaying, it’s safe to say we all felt a bit uncomfortable, unsure of what his motives were (though I doubt he even knew himself) and what he would do, albeit of his own accord or through gravity. I then accidentally – though it was impossible to miss – had the deep misfortune of catching sight of his overflowing pubic region and manhood, after his jeans had slipped down his skinny body. Not knowing where to look Heather turned away. But seconds later the man stumbled forward, just about to collapse in to her before I somehow managed to catch and guide him away. It had been a lucky escape.
I looked over the road and saw another aboriginal male passed out, face down on the concrete. Just like in Darwin it was clear this place had a problem with excessive aboriginal drinking. They say things come in threes and so it was in this instance. As we popped into a shop an aboriginal, probably in his twenties, walked in with his domineering and loud transsexual mother, who was so tall with his/her heels on that he wasn’t far from touching the ceiling with his head. Watching from afar the transsexual suddenly took offence for some unknown reason as Heather, completely minding her own business, purchased some cigarettes. “Hey girl, don’t look at my son like that…he’s too good for you,” she yelled in a bitchy high pitched voice from the opposite end of the shop, before briskly walking out while continuing to loudly ramble to herself. It was hard to figure out what was going through his/her head, if anything at all, was.
After an eventful few minutes we unanimously agreed we deserved a drink and made our way to a venue where we would be subjected to the internationally proclaimed Wet T-Shirt Wednesday night. It seemed that wherever I turned in Australia there was one of these nights. The place had developed something of a party reputation, which I recalled from a friend in Sydney as I walked in. Clearly not one to downplay their meteoric rise, the establishment’s reputation had apparently reached “institutional status” after “garnering media attention throughout the globe” according to glowing self-congratulatory tributes on the drinks menu. Apart from one solitary individual informing me of its presence, though, I can safely say I had never heard of it.
After handing over what seemed like a small fortune, I entered the arena of this revered place, with the website having also helpfully taken time to insist that to the “discerning traveller” it would be “an evening experience they won’t forget”. I must say, though, it’s not very often that I’ve come across a place where women get their boobs out while water is seductively sprayed all over them like cheap bits of meat, as hammered men froth at the mouth, that is called “discerning” - but this was apparently it. While I’m sure many would make a strong case that frequenting such a place with near naked women shows shrewd taste, I couldn’t help but think the word wasn’t invented to be applied in the bar’s self imposed context as it was here.
It was still early and the place was only half full, which was a major positive as it made buying beer from the bar much easier than it would, inevitably, be later as it filled up. As I was merrily minding my own business sipping on a beer, I bumped into a backpacker I knew from Sydney. First in Darwin, now in Cairns. For such a massive country it really could seem quite small at times. As you do in these odd situations where you don’t really have a lot in common with the person, we muddled through by way of the usual bland pointless chat. “Remember that night in Sydney?” the lad, whose name I hadn’t a clue and had no intention of finding out, asked.
“The one where she took her bra off and got sprayed by water?” I replied monotonously, having had the same conversation a thousand times before.
“Nice pair weren’t they?”
“Yeah, not bad I suppose. A bit saggy perhaps.” And that was about all there was to the conversation, before the spluttering fool made off to bore someone else with the same pearls of wisdom.
I remembered other bizarre coincidences, like the time when a friend from Sydney went to Bundaberg in Queensland and strangely got talking to someone who knew me from England. I had heard tales from other people of such strange happenings, as well, so it wasn’t even like I was been singled out.
The place filled up and before long people were predictably dancing on the tables – something else the bar had apparently become world famous for. Though, again, sadly, I must have missed this. I never understood the purpose of dancing on tables, especially when there was a perfectly good floor available, unless it was a cunning ploy so men could look up women’s skirts, of course. In fact, come to think of it, perhaps this was the motive for it. And the beauty of it, as far as men were concerned, was that self-absorbed females were only too happy to fall into the trap. “Look, you can see her rat,” Lee suddenly announced, pointing up one girl’s dress.
No matter where I went in the country – and this place was no different - it seemed that countless women were publicly prepared to savage their reputations in the name of entertainment. Or, perhaps more likely, in the misguided belief they would be viewed as sex goddesses as they jigged about and showcased themselves on stage, clearly perceiving themselves as somehow better than the mere mortal women slumming it down by the bar, casting jealous glances. I could see the logic with the less celebrated ones getting up there, lapping up every precious second of rare attention. But some of the better looking girls were simply drunk and only in it for the ego boost. Of course, not a single man in the building cared about their motives as long as they got to see plenty of bare flesh.
I managed to navigate my way through the night, as I had expertly become accustomed over the years, by avoiding any prolonged form of dancing – even when dragged up onto a table by Lee. Under some duress to join in, I managed an impromptu jig, with my trademark finger salute in the direction of the DJ. Seconds later I merrily got down and made my way back to the bar, where I gratefully reaffirmed my masculinity after my ordeal and continued to chat about football and other manly things.
I was able to successfully drag myself away from the bar at a reasonable hour, thus saving myself the pain of waking at the crack of dawn the next morning with an agonising hangover before embarking on a day trip. I had hoped to do one of the many exciting activities that were available in the region – perhaps an adventure jungle tour, or checking out the spectacular waterfalls, volcanoes and castles in the rainforest, followed by some relaxation at a spa – but unfortunately all of these were booked out so I had to settle for a visit to Port Douglas instead.
The coach arrived promptly at 6.30am outside the hostel before we headed north for the hour trip to this apparent tropical paradise along stunning coastal roads adjacent to forest and the Coral Sea. According to our driver it was the only place on earth where two World Heritage sites exist – The Great Barrier Reef and the rainforest of Daintree and Cape Tribulation – and it wasn’t difficult to see why with the idyllic views everywhere you looked.
I made my way back to the bus collection point after a restful afternoon, though slightly miffed I had been unable to do an adventure tour. I consoled myself with a giant chocolate ice cream as I wandered back through the village before climbing on the coach. About half way through our journey – and with darkness now setting in – we began to make our way through dense forest. More worryingly was that trees either side of the road were astonishingly ablaze with giant flames that towered over the bus. I wasn’t alone in my anxiety, as others fearfully looked out the window with stern facial expressions, unsure if we were about to be burnt to a crisp in the outback wilderness.
The chatty driver had reached a plateau and was not saying a word either, adding to the foreboding sense of it all. Although, knowing the Australian tour guides that was probably a deliberate ploy; enhancing the drama and experience for those on their trip. When he did finally decide to talk it was as if someone had lit a small bonfire. “As you can see ladies and gentleman we have a few flames to the side of us to brighten our dark journey home,” he observed dryly. “With the ground so dry we sometimes get these forest blazes but it’s all good.” He didn’t seem like a worried man, which I suppose was reassuring for those of us on board who had naturally assumed we were about to be burnt to a crisp. But with people who talk about being chased by a crocodile like it is nothing out of the ordinary, you always have to make some allowances.
After driving between burning forest for several miles we finally pulled clear, prompting a collective sigh of relief, grateful Mother Nature had decided not to cremate us all. Arriving back in Cairns I joyfully leapt off the bus and into the nearest bar for a well deserved beer, wondering what the life expectancy was for living in this dangerous and unforgiving part of the country.
Apart from the bushfires, I was aware that Cairns, like Darwin, also had its fair share of dangers from the wildlife, so was glad to hear a particular tale about an errant crocodile only after I had left. On this occasion a 1.5 metre crocodile was discovered on one of the busiest streets in Cairns, Mulgrave Road, in the early morning rush hour trying to cross to the other side. A police officer and road worker cornered the reptile using brooms, while a crowd gathered round to watch, rather than run as fast as they could in the opposite direction. A local reptile remover, who happened to be passing, stopped to help out and put a blanket over its eyes to calm the beast before he kneeled on its back to restrain it and place a rubber band over its jaws. Discussing his exploits, the man later said: “There’s no better way to start a morning than by catching a croc.”
Actually I can think of a few others, but you have to admire the blind enthusiasm of this crazy individual, as well as the care taken over the predator’s ordeal, as if it was nothing more than a lost puppy. Even the policeman couldn’t understand what the fuss was about, due to the regularity of such occurrences. “I’m not sure what everyone is getting so excited about,” he said, without a hint of sarcasm. Either way I was glad I wasn’t in the vicinity when it suddenly emerged from a nearby drain.
The following day I had been planning on booking my return flight to Sydney from where I then intended to depart the country having previously convinced myself that I was ready to head home. After all, I had spent a considerable amount of time in the country – a good few months more than I ever would have dreamt of staying, especially with me generally living like a pig since my arrival. Add to this, I had lived and breathed Sydney for a period of time where I felt I had got to know the place and culture, as well as undoubtedly making my mark in a variety of ways. And I had even, against all the odds, expanded my horizons further by exploring some of the country - a proposition that before my arrival would have been as likely as bestiality being made legal.
Yet as I walked past the esplanade in the burning sunshine, I felt like I still had unfinished business in Australia. At the same time it was bizarre to think that I, the great non-traveller, was still not ready to go home; a reflection of my newfound worldliness, I liked to think. Or maybe it was just the thought of going home that filled me with total desperation instead. I began to consider the possibility of staying. And, unlike many of the backpackers I had met on my travels, I wouldn’t need to stay illegally, as I still had a decent amount of time remaining on my visa.
Furthermore, Mark had purchased a vehicle and was making his way from Darwin down the east coast. His desire for me to join him was brushed aside when we were together in the Northern Territory. At that point I still had the vague notion in my head that I would head back to England after Cairns. But now this little expedition had run its course I had come to realise that avoiding the UK for as long as possible was a good thing, while I would also have the added bonus of being able to annoy Mark further. I hadn’t booked a return flight to Sydney, as I didn’t know when I would head back, I had all my belongings with me and Mark was just a phone call away for me to arrange meeting him. It was all starting to make sense. I suppose that was the beauty of travelling; the fact you could just up and leave when you wanted and go in whatever direction you fancied. The east coast road trip now beckoned.
I picked up my phone and rang Mark. “I’m coming with you on the road trip,” I told him, much to his surprise.
“Look mate, my phone battery’s low so don’t fuck around,” he bellowed back, in a slightly miffed voice, over a barely audible amount of background noise as he headed through the bush somewhere deep in Queensland.
“I’m not joking you silly pecker,” I shouted back. “I’m coming with you. Let me know where and when to meet you and I’ll get there.”
“What you really want to come?”
“Yes really.”
“This better not be a wind-up. I don’t want to be driving hundreds of miles out of my way and you not being there, you know?”
“First of all, you’re going down the coast anyway so it will be on route and like I keep saying, I’m serious. Now stop being a dick-head and tell me where to go and when.”
Once he had stopped laughing at the fact I would be joining him, we managed to pull together a vague strategy of where and when I should meet my one-browed friend. “I’ll be in Cairns in a couple of days. I’ll pick you up from the airport. If you can find it,” he sniggered.
I shook my head at his predictable mocking, “Don’t worry about me pube chest, I know what I’m doing.”
And so it was. Out of nowhere I was now suddenly embarking on an impromptu road trip down the vast continent that was Australia’s east coast. And I, for one, although not thrilled about the prospect of sleeping rough and no doubt maintaining the daily food intake of a small rabbit, was prepared to see what the much heralded east coast had to offer, especially after being regularly subjected to endless tales of how great it was by over-excitable backpackers. I rubbed my hands at the thought of putting the record straight.
Other books by Steve Deeks
Baring All Down Under: The East Coast Road Trip
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