THE KIWI: FLIGHTLESS, YET LAYER OF DISPROPORTIONATELY ENORMOUS EGG
Travelling is a metaphor for life, and that was a metaphor for travelling. What on earth have I been doing for the last four weeks? I have been in New Zealand though I have barely seen any of it, being camped out in Lissa's bunker-like lounge on a futon. It might be said I have ghost-written an informal fact book for boys for a leading New Zealand author under a pseudonym (his not mine). Though it might be said that I have merely collected facts into organic heaps and piled them up against his shed.
In Wellington, this overwhelmingly trendy city with cloistered and fecund music scene and proliferation of anarchists/barefoot types wandering the pavements, I received great respect from locals for getting a job in Tupelow, a bar so trendy you need a bloodhound and radar system to even find it. However they could only give me one shift every six months so I'm forced to pass them by.
But first I need to return to Australia.
TO BRISBANITY AND BEYOND
Ten minutes before the bus to Brisbane I realised with horror that the pouch with all my extremely important papery things was still behind the desk at the hostel.
I leapt into a taxi and barked at the driver.
'ALL RIGHT SOLDIER - WE GOT EIGHT GODDAMN MINUTES TO GET TO BEACHES AND BACK. IF WE MAKE IT, YOU'RE A HERO. IF WE DON'T, I'M GOING TO ADMINISTER YOU A SUPPOSITORY - WITH THE BARREL OF MY AK47!'
He gave me a firm salute, passion and provenance bursting through the veins of his neck. Seven and a half minutes later the cab screeched into the bus bay. I shot the driver in the back of the neck. Poor bastard knew too much.
Brisbanic contained chillified cocktails in funksome bar the Press Club, garnished by giant cogs and elaborate light fittings. Superclub FAMILY has four floors. It pumps some kind of house through the bottom three. The top level resembles a space pod with breaky tunes and a Tim Burton ice bar. We bonded with Justin and Whassername. Justin was convinced I was an undercover cop. Before long we were all gyrating on a podium amid diverging washing lines of laser light. Spent a while curled in a gazebo drinking gin and tonic. The song You'd Be So Nice To Come Home To is not addressed to 11 people with whom you are sharing a dorm.
There is something of London about Brisbane, and I don't just mean the concrete South Bank replete with art galley and theatre complex. Damn - I like it! Hannah bought a green hat. In the art gallery a film concerning the meticulous destruction of a supermarket warehouse was hypnotic. They were working intently, psychopathically. The camera's slow pan revealed at least three ways to destroy toilet paper, as well as some people diligently pulling down shelves and chipping away at the bricks beyond.
EVOLUTION AND OTHER FACTORS
A deadpan voice above a spiral beard belonging to Dwayne informed us that Elke's Backpackers had mislaid our room reservation. This was at 2am. Eventually we shacked up in the TV room, to be woken by a stream of people gawping through the french windows.
Darwin is small and hot, rednecked but charming. It was great to get back into the heat and all the lack of socks that entails. We feasted on steak. Darwin's nightlife consists of a fantastic market with every food on the planet. A stall called Roadkill served us skewers of crocodile, camel and kangaroo. I think the retching was due to the quality of the meat, not the incongruity of the animals. Aboriginal bands cavorted and belly dancers shook their collective booty. A stargazer sold constellations. On the beach the sun splashed the sky with unset raspberry jelly. Cheap flip flops gauged symmetrical chunks out of my feet.
PRACTICAL PARK PRATTLING
We cruised national parks Kakadu and Litchfield in a rental car with a rental tent. After setting fire to the car on its first journey (nothing permanent) we reached a campsite and realised our grave error. Entire civilisations of mosquitos were born and died on our non-repellented bodies. They love the fleshy bit at the back of the upper arm. My skin was carpeted with thick clusters of red welts. You could barely hear anything above the sound of buzzbombing. We walked five minutes to the toilet block to get water for pasta. While we were there some bastard completely rearranged the layout of the entire campsite. For over an hour we wandered through bracken holding a pan full of water. Our lantern sputtered out. Eventually a drunken Ozzie took pity on us and used Common Sense to find our site.
I had to do all the driving (except for a few unnamed sections) but the car was automatic which gave me a feeling of great power. The roads were mostly deserted which meant we could travel at interstellar speeds. The landscape was reddish and desertesque with endless scrubby trees and terrifying rock behemoths propping up the sky. It was seriously hot. The fizzy jubes flowed freely through our systems manifested in a manic gleam of the eye. Cathedral termite mounds towered cathedral-like. The Moreno Wetlands were obscenely wet. Thousands of whistling ducks stood in groups as if at a community meeting to discuss how wet the wetlands were. They whistled and whooped, and the Aboriginals' favourite magpie geese honked. Jabaru cranes probed. I got the car stuck on a concrete breezeblock. As I edged back and forth to get it off, brain-crumbling scrapes made me fear for my deposit. At the campsite we kept the water boiling and the mosquitos melted away with only the psychotic braille on my arm to confound the blind. The intoxicated moonlight spilled into the tent like frozen vodka and milk.
To Blood on the Tracks we drove to Yellow Water Billabong at 5am. Dawn rusted the sky. Three boatloads of tourists had made it. A Kiwi woman spoke through a PA about crocodiles and birds. We saw plenty of both. Crocodiles are my favourite. Though preening eagles aren't bad. A guy in front had a camera like a rocket launcher, and kept demanding we go back to look at kingfishers. Not another bloody kingfisher. The sun rose and mist shagpiled the saturated plains. I wanted to see an archer fish spit at an insect but they were all off fighting in that senseless war against the shrews. I asked if anyone had a baby to throw to the crocodiles and received a stony silence.
OLD MEN FALL AND A BRECHTIAN FAREWELL
The main campsite of ghost town Pine Creek was locked up and deserted. A small chalk board bore the message 'Gone fishin. Back soon'. Perfect. Fortunately a small site next to the Shell petrol station was open, and crammed with old men positively ejaculating out of campervans. We drove into the corner next to the road and set up shop. We dined extravagantly on steak and mash with onion mushroom gravy and drank extravagantly on red wine. The old men peered at us from behind their fish.
Litchfield had stunning waterfalls in which to swim and frolic. A secret warm rockpool at Wangi Falls was particularly frolicsome. We camped within earshot of Wangi's roar. Our neighbours were long-term itinerants. So many Australians sell up house and board campervans to travel the country. Incomprehensible distances are part of the culture, and campervans a beautiful way to manage them. I would love to do that - outward on the great red roads, self-sufficient and able to eat at a moment's notice. I feel my great skills as mechanic would stand me in good stead.
Darwin Arts Festival was ON. The Threepenny Opera was packed out. The set was thrilling. The actors stood around barking their lines with several seconds delay between each. What is it about the Australian accent? Perhaps I'm slightly prejudiced but the sound of those nasal syllables embarrassing the stage makes me laugh out loud. Sorry. We were forced to escape early to eat pizza. Hannah flew off to the States via Fiji and Mexico, and I mournfully watched Aboriginal dance shows and drank vodka with Irish people.
9 INCHES OF DEMOLITION AND THE END OF AN ERA
Brendan and Gin were overexcited about the Nine Inch Nails concert. They donned a panorama of make-up and monochrome clothes. Fritzi took me to dine with a House of Germans. This reaffirmed my love for the Teutonic people, most of whom have by now infiltrated my family. A Demolition Party was rocking Tamarama.
So they tell me: these houses are/were the last vestige of the neighbourhood's former beatnik character, but finally the siege has been successful. They too will now meet the demolition ball, thus heralding Tamarama Beach's complete gentrification into Yuppie Parquet Floor & Slate Fireplace Land.
I celebrated this highly symbolic occasion by shamelessly booze-scavenging. I found a suspicious premixed caramelly drink in a fridge and guzzled it before delightedley securing a rogue bottle of white wine. I met several assorted beatniks and Teri, a documentary producer, who kindly gave me fruit salad.
Sunday's Opera House gleamed like enamel against polished blue tile. With Lissa's friends Paula and Caroline I quaffed wine and cheese like a newly released prisoner. At home Brendan and Gin were still relishing the 9 inches. I watched some grisly videos and chatted long with Brendo. Nice way to finale.
