Sydney Poitier and Fraser Crane

THE MAN WITH NO EARS AND INNOVATIVE COCKTAILS

Brendon and his housemate Gin held up a sign 'The Man With No Ears' so I could recognise them at the airport. All three of us had ears, fine ones, so the sign must have been a homage to a fictional entity, or some kind of grisly summons. Gorgeous and welcoming like the hot winter sun, B and G swept me to breakfast where the enormity of Australian portion sizes became apparent.

The waiter used a forklift truck to deliver the toast.

I eagerly ran into the bathroom to watch water swirling down the plughole in the opposite direction, but I'd forgotten which way it swirls at home. I think one of them is anti-clockwise and the other is clockwise, but it could be the opposite. People in Sydney wear large sunglasses, and Brendon is no exception.

I gorgeously met Hannah, last seen (by me) in Vientiane, Laos, 6 weeks before. I found her and Emma where I'd left them - hungover and sleep-deprived. They'd been peddling vibrators at the Sexpo festival over the last few days. Hannah and I celebrated our reunion with obscene cocktails in the 'W' trendy and expensive hotel - warehouse chic. Each cocktail had an essay devoted to it on the menu, containing phrases like forbidden marriage and gesture of hyssop.

We upheld the backpacker ethos by checking into a split level studio room with an expensive minibar that sirenously beckoned us. Thus born was the cocktail LaBambert - half whiskey, half vodka and double ginger ale. The 'W' bar would have added a circumference of forsythia but some people know when to stop.

I spent a few days in Sydney wandering about. Hannah and I continued our mission to spend a year's traveller's budget in a few days (venison was involved). The harbour shoots with shards of sun. The shade reminds chillingly of winter, but all this changes, sure as the Global Market. Brendon introduced me to the Canon of Heavy Metal, particularly Marilyn Manson who has a malleable and munificent face. I saw several videos of impromptu operations being carried out by the Nine Inch Nails. We ate shnitzels the size of antelopes in a true German tavern. I decided to hop on a plane to Byron Bay with Hannah and Emma. Why not?


CALCULATED HATS

Byron Bay is a hippie hangout, crawling with aging Israelis and ubercool travellers with calculated hats who discuss the structural aspects of each guitarric specimen in studiously loud voices. The Arts Factory is a hostel/centre for organic growth run by travellers who work for accommodation. One behatted acid freak excitedly explained the meaning of this: 'This place is ours, man, I mean, this place is ours.' I accept his point but did he have to be so irritating? The beach is crystal expanse, a plain of frolics. German Johannes drunkenly bewailed female obstinacy in the abhorrent club Cheeky Monkeys. He had been blanked by all surrounding women for trying too eagerly to massage their hands. 'They don't know how good I am at massage,' he moaned. I urged him to engage in at least superficial pleasantry before leaping to the massage stage. The next day with a Scottish girl called Emma we hired a car and gunned the windy roads to Nimbin.


PERFORMANCE POETRY WORLD CUP QUARTER FINALS

Colourful small town Nimbin is famous because you can get a wide range of psychotropic drugs there within 40 seconds from an assortment of hippies representing both sides: intellectual bourgeoisie and down-and-out beatnikdom. Like everything else in our commoditised culture this enclave of ostensibly radical ideas has become a tourist attraction, to be gawped at by passers-by who feed the community by buying weak hash cookies and overpriced 'organic hydro' (hello, yes). We caught the Performance Poetry World Cup Quarter Finals at the Rainbow Cafe!

To the taste of angostura bitters we entered upon a berobed woman of stature poesising a wet dream. She was the compere. We watched 9 contestants. One man read a poem about Jesus visiting him. Apart from his shaven headed girlfriend forming a crucifix behind him, the performative element was undermined by his murmured drone and hooded glare. Another man called Brian or Mark (or possibly Robert) blew everyone away: a fluid poem about summer days with a rhyme scheme almost worthy of Eminem but more regular, and pictures painted of stone skimming and breathless delight in nature - phwoar. One act was a trio: halfly skinhead halfly punked-yellow woman swirls arms and shouts sex in the shower; older continentally beautiful woman stands eyes closed at other mike muttering sensually in Portuguese; dreaded hippy stereotype sits on stage and plays haunting yet faintly ridiculous guitar. First glance had my self-conscious critical hackles flaring but the interplay and their sheer absorption caught me up in a trance, and it worked. Now that's what I came for! We also came for mushrooms but the mushroom people had moved on when we emerged from the crazy-painted shim-sham bright-eyed world of hippy untouchability into the darkened puddle of night.


BRIEFS AND BONDAGE

Hannah, Emma and I shoveled ourselves with bags onto the street at 3am to wait a worrying time in the silent road until a bus arrived like Jean Claude van Damme popping out of the rubberised ether in Timecop to puke a grumblingly officious (I told you) and grizzled driver. He did us a big favour and let us on his bus. Thanks, you old bastard.

Hervey Bay; starched in sunlight and rather like a beachside retirement town. Actually it is a beachside retirement town. We got to Beaches hostel in time for a Fraser Island briefing. Fraser Island, the largest sand island in the world, is mostly accessed by backpackers in groups and 4x4s arranged by hostels. That's what we did, and were therefore part of a group of 9 travelling in the same truck. There were three groups of nine going out at the same time from Beaches so we suddenly had an extended group of temporary friends.

Each group put together a food list and booze list for the next three days. Our group was very proud that we bought double the booze of the other two groups put together. This included 16 litres of wine for some reason. Hannah & I also wisely bought some sparklers and face paints. Scouts say: Be prepared.

That night Beaches threw a party for us including drunken physical challenges. I'd have felt like I was back at uni if I'd ever actually done that stuff at uni. The Ozzie backpacker scene is like a big campus. The birthday boy Sean frequently tried to snog me and then played a whale song on his banjo (not a euphemism). Hannah and I escaped and hit the beach where stars gaped and cold sand beckoned.


GROUP KANGAROO, OR PERHAPS DINGO

Dominic from Ireland surprised everyone at the pre-Fraser bonding party by being able to pick up a piece of paper from the floor without using his hands. This Houdini-like flexibility had been unknown to him up to then. The only other person who could do it was a gymnast who could also bend both arms backwards, which she did on a table to drunken roars of appreciation. At the start I understood barely 30% of the words Dominic said, but it was a steep learning curve. A berocca addict, and all round bouncy fellow. Damien and Aine completed the Irish trio, and then we had Kelly and Mike from America, who were travelling together despite their intense mutual hatred. Gary from Blackpool was a wonderfully mental driver. And finally there was Hannah, Emma and myeself who were the demonic impetus behind the excessive alcohol buying.

The potent aroma of a dead stingray permeated the dock. I befriended a local fisherman and he showed me his bream. Romping Rhonda (name trademark Hannah Lambert) with large shoes and an expansive midriff ran tirelessly to and from the ferry when it arrived. The sea alongside was peppered with constellations of sun shrapnel.

And then the island - the largest sand isle in the world! Have I mentioned that? I drove on the endless beach alongside the roaring slapping sea that we couldn't swim in because of the sharks. I drove the van through a crevice which scared everyone and scored a '9' from a passerby. Not understanding Dominic's Irish accent I unwittingly affirmed that I was an experienced surfer. We stopped at a barnacled shipwreck and took photos. Then we decided to go to the campsite and drink. We played bizarre drinking games and Hannah and I produced the sparklers. I was having difficulty speaking. 'Sentences are fucked!' I declared post-structurally. I whipped out my tiny guitar and thrashed obsessively for a thick crowd of drunken people. And don't they always go crazy for Don't Look Back in Anger?

The next day we hit the Champagne Pools. They are actually like champagne! Waves crash over the rocks into pools, and fizz up like a natural jacuzzi. From Indian Head, a high point, we saw whales frolicking in the sea. Drinking games involved face paints. Everyone crashed down to the beach where a dazzling canopy of stars loomed. I've never seen a sky like it. Rings and clouds, and the milky way like a cummerbund across an boundless besuited belly.