Life's A Beach... And Then You Fry

The Australian Adventure
Part 7
Original e-mail date
Wed, 20 Sep, 2006

Hey up, one and all!

Here it is; the next thrilling installment of my egotistical ensemble electro-mail - love 'em or loathe 'em, they're longer than Shakespeare's collected works and harder to get through than War and Peace...

As everyone in Cairns was mourning the death of crocodile hunter and Australian legend Steve Irwin just a few miles up the road (well, almost everyone - within hours the evil text message jokes were whizzing around the town) and the humidity levels seemingly pushed themselves to an all time high, I decided it was time to leave.

Craig, living up to his MacGyver reputation, had splurged some of his hard-earned dollars on a white-water rafting trip, bungee jumping and a voyage to Fitzroy Island, and thus he decided to stay on in Cairns a while longer. I, however, had no such commitments. And so, on the Wednesday morning, I hopped on the Greyhound coach, and was gone.

On our journey so far we've met countless people that are travelling alone, and once you're over here you see just how they manage to do it. It's a bit like going down a really steep flume at a water park or swimming baths - possibly even the Waterslide to Hell... When you're standing at the top, peering over the edge, it seems really daunting, but once you've plucked up the courage to chuck yourself down you end up having a right old giggle.

My first stop on my one-man mission was, aptly enough, Mission Beach. I checked into a hostel less than 100m from the beach (as the advertisement boasted). Once I'd dumped my stuff in the dorm, I felt ridiculous - I didn't know what to do with myself! I walked around the village itself, which took all of three minutes, then went for a swim in the pool. Then, feeling adventurous, I wandered down to the beach. This is Australia, not Mauritius, but it was almost like a Bounty advert...

It was stunning, and pretty much deserted. The mountains of Dunk Island created a luscious vista across the sea, fading to blue in the hazy midday sky. After admiring the view I looked down and saw the most peculiar thing - a pile of tiny, perfectly sculpted sand-spheres. In the centre of the pile was a small, black hole, leading vertically downwards into the ground. Then I looked up, and it was like discovering that the pattern on your kitchen tiles actually makes up a chicken, and you can suddenly see it on every single tile (worse still, you notice the ones that have been grouted on upside down...) - the entire beach was covered in these miniscule sand-balls.

It was then I discovered the strangest thing - tiny beige coloured crabs, running around my feet, camouflaged by the wet sand. I realised that these were responsible for the carpet of sand-balls; they were clawing out their holes and leaving the excess sand deposited on the beach! After hunting down some fish in the rock pools and walking to the end of the beach and back, I sat down under a palm tree and continued reading Michael Crichton's 'Prey', suddenly imagining that a swarm of crabs would attack me a la the nanoparticles in the book...

For my evening meal I bought a burger with 'the lot', which meant lettuce, cucumber, tomato, carrot, cheese, bacon, a fried egg, a ring of pineapple and a thick slice of beetroot... I couldn't fit the bloody thing in my mouth. I've got to stop buying burgers with 'everything' on - I mean, pineapple? On a burger? What's that all about? It's hardly garlic bread, is it? (Ooh, it's the future - I've tasted it!)

That night I went to a bar called 'Coconutz' with a few people from the hostel. I was talking with a couple of fellow backpackers; a girl from England and a girl from Israel, and as they were pretty much the only females in the bar we ended up being besieged by a pack of Australian labourers. To be fair, they'd just got back from six months working over on the nearby island, so I suppose it was a little like re-emerging into society after a stint in prison. One even said they had to queue up for food like they do in jail...

The next morning I caught the coach to Townsville, which took around four hours of travelling. The small city was pleasant enough, if a little empty, and the next day I hiked up Castle Hill, a dominant feature in the town skyline. I opted to take the 'goat track' - I soon realised it was called so because only a mountain goat would have the stamina (and, indeed, a much better beard than mine) to climb such a steep route... Later, after my "Englishman Who Went Up A Hill And Came Down A Mountain" jaunt, I meandered my way along The Strand and took a dip in the artificial rock pool.  

My next stop on the coast was a little town called Ayr. Even though you could describe it as a real one-horse town, there was still a very dominant fast-food presence. (As Craig is so fond of saying each time he spots the golden arches on the horizon: "M for Mass Production; M for Capitalism...) However, scary looking clowns and colonels aside, I was pretty much all alone as I wandered around the streets, so I went back to my hostel.

Little did I know, I'd happened across Ayr during the one night of the year when anything actually happens in the town - it was the Ayr Water Festival. A couple of hours later and the main street was teeming with people, so I went outside to watch the parade. Afterwards, the crowds poured onto the street, and I peered down from a balcony in my hostel. Ayr is surrounded by sugar cane fields that are harvested by hand, and so these are often set alight to burn away dead leaves and venomous snakes. And, sure enough, as I watched the festivities from on high, plumes of smoke began to fill the sky as the sun went down.

At night I was sitting in the bar with a jug of what Australians laughably call 'beer', when, much to my surprise, a Scottish marching band paraded right through the middle of the beer garden. Later, I went along to the local club with a fellow called Pete from Leeds. The group on stage started playing AC/DC tunes, and so I nodded along accordingly. Bizarrely, the club seemed to be mostly full of fifteen year old girls, and yet I still got asked for ID on the door! But it started me thinking - despite only having one social event per annum, the large amount of teeny-boppers leads me to believe that in a few years time Ayr will be the place to go...

Next stop was Airlie Beach, yet another nice little coastal town nestled between green hills, and also the springboard for most visitors to the Whitsunday Islands. Here I met up with Tom, the drifter from Kent who we met in Melbourne. He'd volunteered his services on a boat for a couple of nights, so I spent my time relaxing by the lagoon, getting sunburn on my knees, and reading, reading, reading. Over the week, I tried out most of the hostels in town, (including one particularly weird one with a long, triangular attic dorm), and I even spent a night in Tom's van. At the end of the week Craig finally caught me up from his travels, and, that night, the three of us re-united hit the town. 

The next day, Craig and I embarked on our trip to the Whitsunday Islands on a boat called the Atlantic Clipper. We set sail in the afternoon, dropping anchor by one of the islands before nightfall. Everyone on board had brought bucket-loads of alcohol, but, perhaps because we were still suffering from the previous evening, we'd been quite conservative with our beer purchasing, so we didn't drink much on that first night. (I even had a nap; that's just how hardcore I am...)

The following morning we sailed to another island and took a short bush walk to a lookout point. From here you could see the famous Whitehaven Beach, with its ultra fine high-silicone sand. (It even squeaked when you walked on it.) That afternoon I went snorkelling, while Craig and some others did a spot of scuba diving. You're advised to swim in groups, so I went with an English lad called Michael and a Dutch guy called Pim who looked like my Uncle David. As far as I'm aware, however, this guy wasn't involved in the adult entertainment business...

The snorkelling itself was really good fun; like floating over a vibrant city. We saw dozens of beautiful fish of all shapes, sizes and colours; starfish, butterfly fish, parrotfish - one was so bright it looked like a 1970's disco. Conversely, we saw some mean looking denizens of the deep too - a small school of dark green fish with protruding brows reminded me of the underwater gangsters from early morning cartoon Sharky and George, crime-busters of the sea...

We had to tread water constantly as not to damage the coral. I was a little clumsy at one point, and broke a few small pieces off with my foot. However, it was OK, because when I glanced down I saw six or so fish of differing species swarm around and swallow it all up, so I know it went to a good home. We spent a few hours swimming around the bay, and then it was back to the Clipper for lunch and a much-needed cup of coffee.

That evening, everyone went a bit crazy and we all got very, very drunk. We started out with a few games of cards in the bar area, then we all went up on deck to play drinking games. It was someone's birthday, so the crew made a birthday cake (which actually tasted like a real sponge) and organised a "wedding ceremony" between the birthday girl and one of the horny young crew members. We were all given roles to play in the service, such as best man, maid of honour, etc. I was given the part of the "drunken uncle", and my speech consisted of me staggering to the front and shouting "You're all a bunch of wankers...! I've been a bit sick, and I can feel it burning the back of my throat..." and then staggering off.

Craig and I were sharing a cabin with a bloke called Big Al, someone else on our travels we've designated as a legend. (Everyone knows a legendary Big Al...) He'd fallen asleep early, so after the ceremony everyone on ship all piled into our tiny little room to wake him up. It was like the Guinness World Record for cramming as many people as possible into a telephone box - there were writhing bodies everywhere. It was manic! He took it all in good spirits though, and soon enough he was out of bed, necking a cup of Goon and playing his guitar.

Later, after yet more inventive drinking games (most of which were new to me, but I did bring a few old favourites of mine to the fore - The Which was particularly popular) the last few stragglers stayed up on deck singing Beatles songs, and an Irish girl called Anita sang a beautiful Gaelic song. Then, myself and a couple of others thought it would be a really good idea to strip down to our underwear and get in the spa. The water was at absolute zero; yes, that's right, the point on the thermodynamic temperature scale where heat energy is at a minimum: -273.15 °C. Well, maybe not, but it bloody felt like it...

The next morning, with most of the passengers still feeling rather intoxicated, we visited another beach, donned our stinger suits and all went snorkelling again. This time we saw turtles. Craig and I spotted a rather large one we decided to call Keith. It was amazing; we followed him for ages, swimming right next to him and stroking his shell. Then we went back to the beach, and, as if to reaffirm my masculinity, I dug a big hole in the sand and buried my feet in it. It had to be done at least once...

That night everyone met up for an after-boat party. Everyone was still feeling fragile, and even suffering from a touch of land-sickness - at times, it felt as though we were still swaying to the motion of the sea. However, soon enough, the party was in full swing again, and Craig organised the biggest chain of Jägerbombs of the trip so far.

The following day I felt the familiar mixture of pain, depression and guilt (mostly from spending too much money) that often accompanies a hangover. I can see why people warn you that the east coast saps your funds. All in all though, the boat trip was fantastic, and worth every penny.

We had to hang around Airlie Beach for most of the day, waiting for our bus. I think many parallels can be drawn between the life of the traveller and the life of the substitute teacher; seeing a new place each week, learning lots of people’s names, and generally feeling like you're in a constant state of transition. Our night-bus was two hours late, so we didn't board until after 10pm, and then it was yet another uncomfortable twelve-hour journey of fitful naps and a lot of fidgeting.

As we've travelled south, the scenery has gradually changed from the rich, green mountains of the far north with tropical trees and plants clinging to their sides, through flat wetlands and marshes to fields full of decidedly nonplussed cattle. We are in Bundaberg at the moment, famous for the rum of the same name (as in "Make mine a Bundy...") and also the one-time home of pioneering aviator Bert Hinkler. That's pretty much all it has to offer; we're only staying here for one night.

Photographic documentation of our peregrination is constantly being added to our usual nook of the Interweb.

Signing off for now,

Liam

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