THE LIVING JUICE

A missing link...

2010-06-29T23:03:00.005+08:00

Photo: Mark Roy Coddington

Art Director & Author, Perth.

I was hanging half out the door with my rucksack in the left hand, and a rosewood ukulele in the other when the car begun to roll away, mother in her usual fashion screamed her goodbyes from the window and it was over. I was leaving home. Again. It was not that long ago I remember they used to stand at the isle, mum would hold my hand and tears would well as she kissing and hugged the last moment away. I imagined I was dragging my new rucksack to the far ends of the earth. As it turned out I just shifted interstate. From one town to the next, riding on a cheap roller coaster that does multiple laps to make up for it’s short lived thrills. If I'm to be non-sentimental about this, and in light of my age, I’ll have to presume hot chicks probably don’t dig slobbering mum’s doting at airports.

I begin to ponder this while I check the baggage. Late. It had been a tough stint this time around, begging up some sort of entertainment from an otherwise entertaining City. Home life had been hectic, not the place for a young man to have been living with a girlfriend. As it were, I only had to refer to my empty purse to see what had become a big bummer in all of this. I was leaving as broke as I had arrived. Something about the City had become distinctly expensive, and if am to try nail that bitch down I would have to say it was everything. We drank from recycled jam jars that cost $15 and were filled with a squirt of spirits and a freshly squeezed lemon. Like the small wooden benches we were sitting on, the City seemed to be lacking substance. It was not until the Art Director was gone did I realize what, or more correctly, who was missing. Original people. Some suit had built a plastic underground at street level and put Robocop at the door. When I asked around, I only found a fool who was so crazy for women he believed his own trip, and the other guy, well he just had a bad hip.

So, once again I find myself sitting in a queue waiting for an airplane out. It was only a few weeks ago I was strapped to some pokey desk, when a call came through. It was the desert and they were looking for me. I sat in the chair staring at the filing cabinet blankly when the voice on the other line asked how much blah blah. They were going to pay me too! And now here I am sitting in this queue staring at some rank chick. She sat opposite me, okay enough, root-able I guess if you were desperate like those poor pioneers. No wonder half them got locked up for a cock in a rooster. They’re too loud. Off topic. She was not God’s hand picked fruit by any stretch. Thankfully for those around, she hid it under her beloved collection of the stick mags.

She peered out from beneath the naked women, to catch my bewildered eyes staring at her.

“You’ll be right kid”, her salted tongue rasped.

She must have smelt my fear, it was obvious I was staring. I started to think maybe I looked like one of those kids on the first day of school? If that was the case, she was definitely the one a few grades older named Bianca, who was licking sack behind the sports shed.

“Where you off to anyway?” she whispered across her sour lips.

I jittered a little and mumbled, “Karratha”.

She was not going there. Instead she was heading to a huge hole in the desert. She described it to me. “Newman”.

“You’ll be off soon. I still have a few hours”. She informed me.

She cleans after miners, and the miners as well, she doesn’t tell me this last bit.

She had been to Darwin. Enjoyed knifing some wild pigs out off Humpty Doo.

She was a miner’s daughter, and was sick of moving around.

“You got a girlfriend?” She finally asked.

Karratha spilled out over the PA system. It was time, I smiled at her and said goodbye. Clutching my rosewood ukulele I started for the door.

Numbers and stuff... update cheat

2009-11-30T15:16:00.002+08:00

32... number of days I've been walking for.
564... number of kilometres walked.
401... number of kilometres to go before I see the end!
4... number of tigersnakes that have scared the shit out of me, as I've almost stepped on them.

So pretty much, thats my weak excuse for not being in contact with the blogging world. :)

No Title...

2009-10-19T14:51:00.006+08:00

‘I’m sorry.’ She whispers softly beneath her breath. She is standing just meters in front of me, her hands hug her thin and unique body, her face, without expression is soft and delicate.
‘I was confused, I’m sorry, I was scared.’

‘Don’t be scared, I’m here now. You are so beautiful.’ I say as I watch her eyes tense with tears. ‘Come here, hold me, be near me; please,’ I continue as I reach out to grasp her in my arms.

‘Cock-a-doodle-doo’

Fuck where did she go, WHERE DID SHE GO! My heart races and my throat chokes. I lay awake, it’s dark. My sweat grows cold and I reach to the end of the small and lonely bed for a blanket.

‘Cock-a-doodle-doo,’ the rooster crows again.

Quiet rooster, quiet! Not now you piece of shit, not now. She was right their, right their in front of me and you woke me. Fuck.

I fold the blanket around me, tighter, feeling its comfort as it holds me in the night. Where did you go, come back please.. Please come back. I need to go back to sleep, I’m coming, PLEASE WAIT FOR ME.

A gentle gust picked up from the east and through the small timber window beside my bed, I can just make out the shodow of some leaves, beneath the fading moon they dance and rustle to the calling of the wind. It’s almost morning, maybe that’s why the rooster calls, or is it that he is scared. Are you scared rooster, quiet now, quiet now, it’s time to sleep, don’t be scared. Just a few more hours rooster, please, just a few more hours.

‘Cock-a-doodle-doo.’

Fuck, shut the fuck up now! I warn you, I’ll cut your throat before dawn and boil you in the deepest pot. Quiet. Sleep.

‘Cock-a-doodle-doo,’ the rooster sounds again.

What’s the point, she was never really their, was she. The tears run down my face and drop to the pillow, more follow, and I squeeze tighter.

‘Why did you go, why, please tell me why.’

She shrugs her thin shoulders and I watch as the skin pulls tight over the hollow of her collarbone. Her lips are straight and her eyes, sad with unexplained emotion stare around the room.

‘Cock-a-doodle-doo.’

I lay awake in the small cluttered room, my head searching for answers. The rooster keeps calling to the wonder of the morning, but the sun takes an eternity to rise and I sit sleepless in my own sweat. I want to sleep, I’m scared to sleep. I know she will be their, just a figment of my own imagination with no more answers than if I was awake. Please leave. Just leave me alone, I’m tired.

I watch through the shutters as the silky grey of night gives way to the brilliant colours of spring, ripe reds, pinks and greens. Beautiful flowers give glory to those who seek there beauty, as small lifeless limbs sprout supple new shoots. Birds, collecting slaters and slugs, dash from branch to branch and wag there tails with glee as I watch with a fresh feeling in my heart.

‘Cock-a-doodle-doo,’ the rooster crows again.

That’s it; I’m killing that fucking thing!

Midwest Depravity - Carnarvon Part 6

2009-10-15T21:12:00.001+08:00

A few weeks have passed since that ordeal and the river. Of course, the indestructible aluminium hull has since been at the welders’ joint having a hole patched. Suppose it wasn’t all that indestructible after all. The leak however, appeared after a raging stomp out at the oyster farm. The Boss, well intoxicated, went on another demonstration with a few folks from town.

It is said, when in Carnarvon, one must be stupid drunk, period. ‘Once you have learnt this secret’, I imagine the boss preaching one morning as he tosses me a toasted cheese sandwich, ‘any shithole will seem like paradise’.

There was this time when, ‘Hold on’ I shout over The Vandals and that, what song was it again, that’s right, Long Hair Queer. So Shane braces himself across the backseat like a well armed star fish, the .22 magnum slung firmly across his chest. Zac however can see the corner, holding the shot gun through the window, he leans into the passenger door ready for what is about to happen.

The speedo’ needle finds the 100kmh mark, my knuckles go white and I tear at the handbrake like a tiger tears a throat. The car swings wildly across the gravel track, one instance; I shift down, release the brake and throttle the hell out of the pissy carburettor. The car keeps sliding as Zac lets off a round; the power pole on the far corner splinters as hundreds of pellets blister beneath the timbers skin. The front wheels spin through the dust, it takes hold and we’re through the corner. In the rear view I can see a magnificent dust cloud covering the intersection, we’re safe, and I didn’t even spill the beer.

(Authors note: Destroyed that car some months later in a late night sideways flight from the authorities. We didn’t spill any beer that time either, we had already drunk it).

Through the long lazy heat we drink beer, beer and more beer. When we party we drink vodka mixed with beer and roast oysters over an open fire. When we get drunk, we ‘wrangle’ cods with thick ropes, we shoot guns at bricks and drive fast and eat oysters. The desert sun shines in our eyes, our lips crack and we dance around the yard for the joy of the earth, until it’s late, then we fall in the grass and sleep.

And this other time, Zac was nestled against the bow; in his hand he clutches a 1.0m spear gun and in the other rests a Corona straight from the ice box. He said he was hungry, we should shoot a turtle and you know the next thing, that small outboard is labouring away, flat out, hell screamin’. The hull dancing across the chine, throwing to and fro with the rippling tide we pass through the labyrinth of lurking mangroves. The water’s always clear after the change of tide, we’re lucky we consulted the chart; it’s perfect turtle hunting conditions. So pissing down this river we get talking about the logistics, ‘how do you catch a turtle’, you know, ’you jump on it’, ‘Fuck that, I’m just going to shoot it’.

The fish was sweet the way fresh fish tastes and we ate it while a fat mud crab boils in the brine. Turned out Zac was full of shit, you can’t shoot a turtle from a boat unless you hit the head. After the first ten shots our skin grew tight, we threw in the towel so to speak and went out into the bay where the rusted wreck lay. Zac shot some fish and I climbed across the rusting remains, jumping into the cool salty sea when I was too hot and a fresh beer was in order.

So Mum that’s all for now, as you can see, I’m doing okay and keeping away from those ‘filthy whores’ you warned me about. You know, I really have been thinking about those lovely Christian girls you keep harping on about, if you don’t mind, could you please send one up with the next package, my balls are killing me.

Punk Rock Breakfast - Wired To A Beat

2009-10-14T11:12:00.005+08:00

Most girls I know are so lame
Red hot bods
They're all the same
Nothing in between the ears
Just lots of space
Six cans of beer to fuck

See you later
Thanks again
Maybe we can just be friends
All that space inside your head
Makes me want to go to bed and fuck

She lifts the cheap wine glass to her lips and gulps greedily; the outdoor setting is decorated with three empty bottles of Evan & Tate Pink Moscato, some Rosemount Chardonnay and various other Margaret River whites. A desperado at the end of the table explains that he should have got a carton of ‘em; just flown in from site; two weeks pay – time for a piss.

‘I told the guys,’ the platinum blonde, pint sized, beaver screeches, ‘I fucking warned them that if you were coming around, we should fucking hide all this piss. Bad shit always happens when we get on the piss. You remember that time you chased me down the beach, naked, I was only 15.’

‘But I didn’t fuck you that night,’ she continues. ‘I remember my mum telling me that I should hit that shit up, she was like, what the fuck, you should just fuck him.’

She tilts her head back in hysterics, trashy and dogged.

The love I have for her is real
$2.99 the six pack deal
See her with another guy
It makes me laugh
She thinks I cried

Girls in bars they make me sick
But I don't care if they suck my dick
Spend six bucks on dollar night
A prostitute for just one night to fuck

Lyrics by Guttermouth – Just a fuck

The Girl With A Tattoo Of A Gypsy

2009-10-09T11:00:00.007+08:00

‘I can’t read palms’, she frowns as I draw my hand away, ‘anyway that’s your past, this is your future’.

She points to my opposing hand; suddenly I feel a burning pass over me. I hide my hand like a murderer hiding a weapon – did she see the darkness in those veins, did she sense that foul aura – if only I could get rid of my hand – no, not here I couldn’t, I best keep it behind me.

‘I read the cards’, she continues.

‘What, like at the blackjack table’.

She smiles and skips over to a small black bull-terrier leashed to a pillar, with whimpering dark round eyes, she knees down and rubs him gently behind his ear – she’s got no visible underwear, not even a G banger – so fit, round and tight, she must not be wearing anything –what would I find if I peeled back those thin black tights. Would it be bald and juicy, what would it taste like?

‘You coming?’ she calls from the staircase, then darts out of view.

The other two have already left and I rush to catch up. I should never have asked about that book she was reading, what was it again? Damn, I wish I had of read it, or at least remembered the author. She had me look like a fool talking about this natural hallucinogenic stuff.

‘I don’t smoke weed much, but when I was over in Cambodia; yeah we smoked heaps; tore the shit out of my throat; wasn’t very good stuff.’

‘Me neither,’ tom replies, ‘I can’t remember the last time I smoked.’

‘Same, I think I was eighteen when I smoked weed with my sister behind the tin shed back home, that was before I had Sam,’ Rach continues.

‘Which way are we going?’ the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy questions.

‘Oh, over here,’ I point to a raised garden bed and gate, ‘we’ll have to jump it, I don’t know the code.’

We hop the brick wall and drop into an empty car park. Taking Tom’s skate board I push off towards a curb on the far side. I shuffle my feet into position but the board slows and eventually stops. I can hear Tom laughing in the back ground and I turn to see them watching – maybe I’ve drunk too much for this.

‘How far is this spot,’ Tom moans as we pass through the hotel car park and onto the road.

‘Just across the park, a small track leads down to the water.’

It’s longer than I remember and we walk in an awkward drift. Tom talks about his inexperience’s some more, saying things like, ’I always get so stoned when I smoke – everything spins’, I want to agree with him but I say nothing and focus on the thick tuffs of grass beneath my feet.

‘I thought you said this was close by,’ Rach questions.

‘So did I, you can see it just over there,’ and I point to a pathway leading off into the bushes.

The concrete path navigates down a steep seaward cliff. On either side, tall banyan roots tower above us like walls of a cocoon. The air is dense and Tom sighs with relief as he welcomes the coolness on his face.

‘Nobody is ever down here,’ I start, ‘I used too come down after a shit day at work and just daze beneath the trees.’

‘Yeah, that would be pretty cool,’ Tom replies.

The tide is high and the shore is littered with coppery cream sand stones that are smoothed by the sea. Tall trees with coarse, dark brown bark and large sweeping branches flow out across the shore and above the gently lapping sea. Another couple has taken refuge under one of the giants’ branches, he sits busily concentrating on an easel, she knees beside him watching, her hands resting on the inside of his leg.

Trying not to disturb them we find a spot on the far side of the opening. The Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy sits beside a big bushy branch which shades the bright afternoon sun from her face. I rush to sit beside her – don’t want to look like I’m too keen though, remember not to be a cling on.

‘Here you go Rach, you can sit on this rock,’ I point to the rock beside the Girl with a tattoo of a gypsy; Rach eyes me as though I’m acting strange. I am acting strange I think; I’m drunk, drunk for all sorts of reasons and I’m feeling the red of a fool.

‘Look,’ I say, ‘there are crabs under these rocks.’

I take a rock from its place amongst the litter of leaves, coarse golden sand rushes in to the hole that is left behind. I scratch at the leaves around it, nothing – she’s got her tin out, it’s well worn and the print has faded.

‘I can’t roll,’ I say.

‘Neither dude,’ Tom follows.

‘It’s okay, guys,’ she relaxes the tin onto her lap, ‘I can roll.’

I watch for a bit as she thumbs through her print faded tin and produces some papers, careless and with ease she sets them together and folds in a crooked crease – Crabs, need to find some crabs.

I start searching through the rocks and the large brown leaves that cover the shore. Still I can’t spot any.

‘There are crabs here,’ I mumble again.

It’s not until I stop moving that I see them, in the clearing that I have made, the ground has come to life. Small shells, about the size of a penny, drag themselves through the golden sand leaving light trails as they go.

‘Here, here, look,’ and I pick up two and hold them in my palms for the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy.

The small crabs are scared at first and bundle themselves into the safety of the shell. I watch for a moment untill they pull themselves together, in a burst they come out of the shells and dash across my hands, I fumble trying not to drop them.

‘Look,’ I urge again.

She looks away from the half filled paper in her delicate fingers and smiles.

‘Can I see,’ Tom asks and as I lean in to show him, she goes back to fingering the grass within the paper.

‘Wow, they are pretty cool.’

‘Yeah, they are Crazy crabs,’ I reply to Tom.

I shift back and hold the small crabs out to the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy, ‘Would you like to hold it,’ I plea.

She looks up from the half spun, cone shaped joint – the crooked crease, now it makes sense.

‘Yeah, in a moment,’ she smiles.

‘Crazy crabs?’ Tom mutters.

‘Can I hold them,’ Rach asks.

Oh, yeah, sure,’ and I hand the smaller of the two too her.

‘Lets smoke this joint hey,’ the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy interrupts.

I drop the crab into the leaf litter below and squeeze in between Rach and the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy; Rach eventually moves across to the next rock and I nestle in beside the Girl. We smoke the joint quietly, well, apart from Tom who coughs like granddad used too, ever toke. I feel the weed take my body in a rush, from my head down until my whole body feels heavy, warm and comfortable. I rub my hands against my jeans, then my fingers against each other; I lick my gums and then my lips. It feels weird and the saliva in my mouth tastes good, rich like a spicy dish, earthy and enjoyable.

‘Crazy crabs,’ Tom repeats

‘Well they used to call them Crazy… Hermit crabs, they are Hermit crabs… they used too call them Crazy crabs.’ I mumble and watch the languid sea through the shade of the large green foliage. A bright lustre reflects from the ripple on the water, it burns my eyes but I can’t look away.

‘Can I hold one,’ the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy asks – shit, I’ve dropped it. I start looking around my feet for the penny sized crab, but it’s gone – there, just under the rock and I reach down and pick it up.

When I turn to hand her the crab she’s already holding one. It’s the one I gave to Rach earlier. She holds it in the delicate tips of her two forefingers, slightly above her head, she speaks in a smooth and gentle voice, ‘come, come out little guy, I won’t hurt you’.

Her lips are moving slowly and I watch with such intensity I see nothing but her tongue swirling through her mouth – what it would be to taste her, too kiss her soft and gentle, just the way she talks. I wonder, I wonder what is beneath that bandana wrapped around her perfect head, does she have cropped hair, cropped hair just like that girl, Rhian, yes, Rhian, she was such a beautiful girl – should I make a move, maybe later, yes maybe later.

‘Do you guys ever wonder,’ she, the Girl with a tattoo of a gypsy starts.

I’m staring. I look into her hands, there is no crab anymore, they are folded neatly between her legs, I scan the ground and see the small penny sized crab beside her feet, it lifts itself from the heavy shell on it’s back, tired, it starts towards the closest rock.

What did she just ask? I’ve completely missed it – do you guys ever wonder, do you guys ever wonder, do you guys ever wonder – I have to stop this.

‘Crazy crabs; the shops; to sell them,’ I blurt.

‘Ha-ha, too sell them,’ Rach laughs.

And then silence – what should I say, what should I say…

‘It’s so beautiful; trees; it’s so beautiful; sun… on the water; so beautiful.’

‘Yeah it is really nice isn’t it,’ the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy confirms in that calm and gentle voice.

Yes, this is beautiful.

We sat there for a long time, talking when we could, but more just sitting silently. I thought about a lot of things, foremost I thought about the things I had forgotten to think about all that day, all those things that are wholesome and real, that are important, that make me happy – I know what I need to do, I’m going, I’m going, going and I stood up relieved from the weight that carried me into this drunken stupor, only to drop as a huge rush bends me over like a new born calf.

‘Well we should get going,’ says the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy, ‘I have some things I need to do before tonight.’

Meet Derrick

2009-09-30T11:30:00.005+08:00

A fierce gust picked up and Derrick, from inside, felt the car jerk sidewards.
‘The wind’s coming off the ocean, supposed to be a pretty heavy storm tonight,’ he reassures Sasha’s nervous glance.
Leaning across the wheel of the car he feels the chill from outside pass through the windscreen, wiping the fog off the glass with his sleaves, he watches the road in front, outside its wet, the clouds have covered the moon and all that he can see is the glimmer of water across the road. He relaxes back into his chair and squeezes the throttle a little harder. Earlier that evening he’d had been out surfing, it was a wild ride that still had him pumped. He had only ever seen it break on the outer reef like it had been today, a wild rough swell, closing down at different areas before making it all the way to shore. His old man used to tell him stories of surfing it six foot clean, back in the day that is; he was always a bit sceptical but he still lived the old boys stories daily like it was a gospel reading from some old scriptures. During the hot sticky summer days he dreamed as the teacher drew strange diagrams across the blackboard and talked about x this and y that. Outside through the large beige framed windows, Derrick would watch the tall tree on the far side of the grassy field. He watched the leaves of the highest branches as they danced and sung songs to the wind. He watched the direction of the breeze until he could see the ocean forming in front of him. He would be delighted when the wind blew west; it was like a magnet for his mind that drew him away from his work. First he dreamt of the glassy green sea, smothered by the tender off shore breeze and set alight by the glorious sun. He would look out across the ocean like he were sitting in the white of the beach and see the ocean surging behind the dark figure which was the outer reef. He’d watch as peak after peak of perfect swell grew from the deep blue sea and rose up and broke with a thundering growl. He dreamt until he could see himself paddling in, a quick paddle he would think, then a heavy drop as the thick green lip would curl over. He’d play out the drop in his head over and over again until he thought he had it perfected, he’d crouch and grab the inside rail – no, he’d stay standing and hold his hands above his head and feel the roof of the cave which surrounded him. He fantasised for hours on end, up until the very end where the wave would close out across the sandy shore. He thought about just holding in until it engulfed him like his dreams or bursting out the back like a pro in all the videos. He practised this on the weekends, asking the guys if they had seen how high he launched, and when they said no he’d just try again.

The way the old boy would talk about it, he made it sound like the reef had fired every second day, but like all old boys, Derrick figured, they had forget the hundreds of sessions surfed where they waited in between. He had never seen if go off the way he had imagined it, the way his old man described it. You forget over time, all those other days until all you remember is that wave, that moment, that very off chance and that very time you had the best surf of your life. Like it had played in Derricks head, it played in his old mans mind on those same long summer days until he believed that every wave he had ever surfed was very much that same day.

Even if it had been rough as guts, he couldn’t wait to tell Samuel he had surfed Shark Ally. Beat that bitter break, charged the choppy lines and floated around those heavy close outs the both had feared.
‘Derrick,’ Sasha shrieked, ‘slow down, you almost hit that curb.
He eased off the throttle and smiled at Sasha.
‘You scared?’
‘No, I just don’t want to die tonight.’
‘Like we would crash anyway,’ Derrick replied.
‘Well I don’t want it to be tonight if we do.’
‘Don’t worry we won’t crash, anyway, Sam’s is just around the corner, we’re almost there.’

..............
So it's been ages again, sorry about that anyone who reads this. After I got home I ended up leaving again for a trip to Darwin then a trip to Cairns in the sunny state of Queensland on the east coast. Finally I came home again for some work. Been working on a few peices but not finishing any of them. This was a quick throw down to see where I had been going with my writing. Sorry if it sounds like a tacky chapter from a teenages novel, it was the characterisation I was more interested in.

Midwest Depravity - Carnarvon Part 5

2009-08-07T23:38:00.005+08:00

The twenty five horsepower Yamaha sounded off like a cat trapped in a dumpster full of water. Whoring away it compelled the dingy forward through the translucent waters and fortress of mangroves. The dingy or tinny for the uninformed is a small boat hull about 14 feet long, folded from Aluminium - it is supposedly as good as indestructible. That is, indestructible in the hands and hearts of timid owners. This craft however, belongs to the oyster farm, an entity of sort’s, not a loving, caring, meticulous owner as above. Different rules will apply.

‘..And like all “company” vehicles certain protocol, procedure, call it what you like, is to be followed’, Dick, the boss explains as he handles the tiller. For this sort of business he had demanded a full demonstration would be required.

Work must have been taking a back seat today, I thought as he suddenly interrupted the monotonous schedule.
‘Have you driven a dingy before’, he inquired on a slow hot afternoon.
‘No’ I concluded, well, apart from that intrepid flog down the river last week when he was off on R&R. That I’ll keep to myself though, I had to choke the bastard every time I wanted it to stop, couldn’t even find the kill switch.
‘Well grab some beers from the fridge then’, he instructed with his authoritative coarseness and started on about the motor. ‘It’s a real temperamental prick’, he informs me. ‘It’ll cut out just as you come ‘round a tight bend. Cause all kinds of grief - you got those beers yet then?’

Before long he was well showing me all right, as we careered off into the thick mangrove brush, the dingy tipping heavily as the hull connected sidewards with the oyster encrusted banks - wiping off twenty five horsepower of inertia in one smashing instance. I exploded into a prolific rage of curses. Fearing for my life, I stare into him wondering what type of cut snake he was. He laughed.
‘You see what I mean’, he finally starts as he studies my pale disfigurement which is now scrolled across the bow. I nod agreeing and pull a branch from my torn shirt.

You see the rivers, or more appropriately drains, in which we are devouring with great vigour, are rather a branch of small streams that weave haphazardly through the endless salt plains of the north. Most of which are only accessible during high tides, not much larger than a dingy in width they are lined by lush mangrove confines.
‘The aim’, Dick explains, is to drive as fast through it as you can with out achieving the inevitable, which is losing control! As I would learn, this little activity of his was a favourite for passing away some of the tiresome desert tedium. I was sceptical!

‘We got a shuck’r around here’, he instructs and I go-to nervously searching for the small metal blade amongst the leaves which are now scattered across the wooden floor. ‘And pass us a beer’.
He then leans over the gunnels and tears a branch from the shallows.
‘Goes with the beer’, I am informed as I look across in wonderment. The branch he’s holding, I now see is covered with good sized oysters. I find the blade jammed against the ribs and Dick snatches it from me. Skilfully he prises the pointy end of the shellfish. It’s a short fight, brute against small oyster. Once open he gives me a good lookin inside, offering it up for first try. Maybe he’d figured I hadn’t eaten oysters before. I think he rather enjoyed scaring the shit out of this city boy, no doubt he was doing a fine job of it but in this case he was a week late.

The branchial chambers are swollen. I think about telling him this, but it’s too late to start pretending, I was still shaking from the collision… and anyway I only know this as Colby had instructed me earlier that week. ‘It’s like the ball sac’, he had explained, ‘they are best eaten when they are ripe like this, gives it that creamy flavour’.
Reaching across the deck I took up Dick’s offer.

I had to agree, they tasted delicious.

.................................................................................................................
I'm back.....

Where in the hell..

2009-07-15T19:31:00.002+08:00

Is Juice?

Well let me try answer that for you. I am currently residing amongst an endless series of shanty cupboards and shady looking gypsies.. I'm somewhere in Cambodia. Peace fellow people. I will write again when I get a decent keyboard..

Thailand - Phuket

2009-06-03T16:37:00.000+08:00

What a filthy little hole this is... What the hell am I doing here?

Darwin Markets

2009-05-20T09:54:00.004+08:00

Vouge hippies, pig hunters, Supre specials, tourist, smiling kids, locals just to name a few, all set up above the grassy bank facing west with rugs and chairs and table and other homely comforts. All gawk at the colour which erupts the evening sky. Perfect silhouettes of palm trees are imprinted in photos to be sent home. Bright shades of oranges and pinks and blues, cut by a seamless horizon reflected from the sea. Sail boats assimilate the powerful surging light. Noise, the beats, boom-boom-boom, bounce from somewhere unseen, everywhere, chattering, laughing, booming, tapping, sizzling, droning.

Beverages, ‘Don’t forget the beverages, ice if you have some.’ Nobody wants to drink warm beer, though this is the tropics and we are desperate. Kimberley cool. And the sun drops behind an invisible horizon, further and further and gone. At last a flash of great light explodes into the atmosphere, and more colours are splashed across the canvas. The mobs, people, crabs and dogs, all turning away from it, retreating and the sad darkness that is night are left to devour all.

The mobs moving, a sea of sweat, sticky heat, shirts catch on eachother as we shuffle and brush and side step. Freaks in wheel chairs, slobber with canes bashing caps and bounce over toes. Little people dash, trip, trick, all sorts of jolly fun. Hold your wallets as the flavours permiate the sticky mess, all types of exotic fodder tantalises the frenzy into overdrive. People bully past with bowls of spicy squids and roasted shanks. Mouth waters, more slobber, swigging beer. Big blue bins, cram, jam, pack, consume!

Small decorative stalls with gentle coloured lights glow beneath the peppermints. Worldly goods for sale today, all expensively cheap and the organizers empty the bins a third time. ‘You take credit?’ a lady asks? Beep, beep, beep, spending. All sorts of trinkets line the stalls from pretty shawls with small hand sawn sequins to jewels of magnificent conglomeration. Tapping sticks and black murmurs. ‘Dollar for a brother?’ and the crowd keeps pushing.

Frankincense drifts though the air and we gulp another beer. Boom, clash, bang another band appeals. The crowd now plump with stuffing’s of gravy and suckling pig, shuffle and trip and push. Barging, hypnotized, a wall of ashen beneath propped collars and the work men busy themselves with the bins again.

Three fairies dance though the perspiring, slobbering mobs, twirling and twisting (elegant?) with wild arms and the harmonica reverberates across there flushed features, greasy, tanned, lovely hips, delicious lips. Moving, and swinging. Hula hops, great big hula hops and now these lovely hips, all sensual, moving smooth and rhythmic.

I love the way
The sun shines for everyone,
I love the feeling
Of the warmth flowing through my blood,
Well the sun
It recharges me,
Makes me feel happy,
Then it takes me
On a little journey…

Gulp, consume, bins, moving, sweating, laughing, the festivities continue and a quiver of chatter breaks out, ‘did you see that?’ Then pointing, lots of pointing and the fairies pay no attention, they smile and dance, mesmerized, big sauce pan eye’s and the music stops and they dash off as dainty as they arrived. The crowd disperses with urgency, trip, push slob… More to consume, more to consume!

The beach is now deserted, just a few hardcore freaks. Flames zapping through the air and the police at the other end bash some useless drunken black folk. Bam-bam-boom and the hardcore freaks start with a procession of bongo drumming and the fire twirlers dance and a Japanese guy, all bushy hair, blows at the droning didge. Gulp, gulp, gulp, moon grinning and we sit with the weirdo’s until dawn, drinking and singing – total carry on.

Coolibah: Two Women, A Man And A Boat.

2009-05-15T14:13:00.002+08:00

He gets up from under his piss reeking hollow beneath the coolibah. Reaching his hand out, he moves towards me, stumbling, gurgling, hocking… Briefly I think he might just pass out before he reaches me, but with all the awkwardness of a drunken stupor he manages to intersect my path of travel.

‘Excuse me mister,’ he begins and lunges forward in an instant of awareness, trying to shake my hand. But I’ve learnt that this is a ploy in which he uses to iron glove your hand, letting go only when you have become too exhausted with his stench and hand over the coin.

‘Do you have two dollar for me brother?’ he adds seeing his window closing when I ignore his plea to hold hands and do his dance.

‘Yeah mate,’ I reply digging my wallet out, I pass over two bucks.

‘Excuse me mister, but you haven’t got some more do ya,’ he continues after he secures the first coin in his stiff grip.

‘No,’ I say, but I see him pointing to the five dollars stick out of my wallet.

‘Well what the fuck am I supposed to buy with two dollars,’ his tone becomes aggressive. CPI index must be a big concern around here!

‘Fuck off,’ I stop him here, I’m rude and I don’t give a shit. I already know every possible situation, none of which will be a thank you.

‘Arh fuck you cunt, you stole my country, fuck off!’ he begins to shout, but I carry on walking to work. He follows for a few steps with his fists clenched, then tires and turns away.

The Drive Of A Nation

2009-05-11T12:05:00.002+08:00

Words inspired by the film 'Bombora'

We had been driving for days, weeks or even years. Nobody it seemed minded much. We were unanimous content in the feeling of our serenity. Tiresome obligations chewed up by the plied firestones of many miles , left to die on a long stretch of road. Separate us, separating them. It is true that the road will calm all anxieties.

We had gone, unplanned, spurred by our restless dreams, the idea we could live, not by rule, not by reason, but exactly the way we were destined. Free to be Gods children amongst his gardens, baring the fruits of a free man, a smile, good health, and a mind empty to the worries of the world. I watched Casey sleeping. Curled up across the bench seat, her body bounced as the car dived across the pitted road and her hair danced in the gentle breeze. Bleached by the sun, it was no longer than shoulder length. She often wore it down, it suited her. Well I thought it suited her, she was indifferent. I always thought it was an interesting contrast against her tanned complexion and vivid hazel eyes. The road abruptly turned to a dry red dust and the car sunk into the soft earth, momentarily slowing before finding the firm ground beneath. I turned my attention back to Casey. She stirred a little adjusting a crocheted blanked across her legs. She wore a low cut white bikini beneath a delicate cheese cloth dress. As if she had sensed I was watching, she gently laid her hand on my legs, giving it a brief stroke, and then, as slow and as gentle as she had touched me she tucked her hand back behind her head.

The long grasses pushed up against the car as we passed through on the two skinny tracks, my eye’s watched the grass in the middle fold under the heavy front bumper, but my mind drifted along to the music, Pink Floyd’s meddle. It was Todd’s new album. We’d played it continually on his request, I looked up at him apparently aware of my own thoughts, his eyes were closed but his lips followed the smooth lyric’s showing he was awake. The afternoon sun baked the scene a hazy golden brown and the warm wind which drifted though the window carried with it the smell of the arid dry earth. At first the heat had been too much, oppressing almost, it dried my lips and burnt my face. Now though it was much cooler, I smiled as it blew the hair into my face. Home, I started to think, I’m not sure why. Was it the road and its vast openness that conjures up the past to dwell, giving time to the most insignificant details of my consciousness. It wasn’t Melbourne, no it was England. It was never this hot back home. Actually it seemed unfair calling it home. It was now so distant I’d hardly have thought of England as anything other than a place where my Dad was from. Like a past which I’d had no part in. Do I really remember it being cold, or had I just been told that it was cold? If there was a home this was it, this moment, this place, it had become my home. Nomadic days, all spent with friends sunning ourselves on the various pearly white beaches we had found. We living in a large tarp and torn blankets. The thin steering wheel jumped though a loose grip. The wagon juddered for a moment then realigned itself with the track. We had been trying to hold fifty miles an hour but some patches were deep and the motor tired quick. Macca was keeping his distance, if not because of the way the car would suddenly slow but because of the dust which exploded behind us like the scenes from Nam.

Stupid fucking thing that was! Pointless, dishonest political bullshit and they had wanted me to take part. ‘You’re fucking kidding me right,’ I jeered as Dad passed me the letter stamped with the federal insignia. I’d be out that door before I’d even had a chance to open it, there was no chance, no, not me. Dad watched as I secured the board too the roof, his hands in his pockets, a steady expression. He passed a few bob through the window as I went to leave. ‘Stay safe son,’ his words lingered, I tried to smile, but instead got caught on a look which confirmed the stiff terms. He knew I wasn’t coming back any time soon and I’d watch him disappear in the rear view with an unsettled look on his face. This was final, ‘good bye dad,’ I mumbled.

The letter, now aware of it was still resting on the dashboard unopened where I had left it. Suddenly the car bedded in, we had hit a particularly soft patch, I dropped the lever on the column, and the car jerked. I’d thought we were good and proper fucked when the car was within an inch of its life. Thankfully the rev’s started to pick up and we were pulled out to safety. We had already been bogged earlier that day when we stopped for lunch. The girls, Casey, Heather, Lucy and Amber had made a small shelter in the bent and twisted braches of a lonely Eucalyptus. The tree lay almost flat, pushed as if by an unseen wind stirred up by the ocean. It was around midday when we pulled off and the wheels sunk beneath us. We hustled with the heavy girth of the wagon as the girls spread pickles on lovely fresh bread. It was a wholesome meal and after we sat in the field smoking dope, admiring the vast nothingness of a continent shivering in the tender breeze, with it, carried the faint sweetness of the ocean too which we longed.

Wow... Just wow.

2009-05-08T09:38:00.002+08:00

Soft drinks only $1.20!

"Um yeah, sorry hun, yeah... So you know how you keep telling me to save money and all that, well, yeah, um, you see, the soft drink was so cheap and um yeah, thats why Jed saw me leaving .. Yeah'

Midwest Depravity - Carnarvon Part 4

2009-05-05T13:21:00.005+08:00

Peta is a little young, seventeen actually. She is wearing a modest red bikini revealing luscious tasty curves, all bosoms and bum. She didn’t look seventeen at all, more like a lady in the mid twenties, exquisite, full and well supported. Marvellous, yes, breasts full of grandeur, big enough to have their own gravitational pull.

The foot ball drops beside the group of inconspicuously alert girls, landing with a light splash. For a moment they make no movement, stalling and huddling like a surprised school of bait fish, it was a well practiced defensive exercise. A move we, the salmon hunters had expected. In an instant our general chatter, which up to this point has been voluminous and playful, dimmed to a noticeably new level which would have scared any parent within earshot. I looked at Twon, he was standing in the shallows with a greedy smile, his eyes transfixed on the play.

In the car park, some two hundred meter’s amongst the sand dune which hugged the bay, Daisy laughes beside his car. From where I was sitting in the water, I could just make out his body jerking with his laugh and he lifts his hand over his eye’s blocking out the warm midday glare, he gazes down amongst the scene like an elite, watching the game from a corporal box.

Like most weekends in the salmon shack, we, the degenerates, wake late with hands supporting our frail minds. Today by all accounts was Sunday, and like all Sunday mornings, it is not a time to engage in political debate, not that I think we were actually capable of a political debate. Anyway today being the morning of a Sunday was no exception. I’m not sure what started our tradition, maybe it was out of boredom, out of habit, out of pure curiosity, but as usual we had slipped into our cleanest unclean shorts, grabbed the football beside the tatted door and marched off towards the beach.

It was beautiful, actually alarmingly beautiful and if I think back now it is the sort of moment which makes you miss a place, or miss a time. It was a warm and languid afternoon. The sea was looking like a glassy flat field of tranquil blue. People all over the beach moved about, adjusting the occasional hungry bum or rearranging the loose bikini strap. We watched on with undignified fascination. While the bay had become our local hang out, local pick up pocket, it had never been this calm, never this festive, and never with this much pure fleshy pink skin. We jittered about with excitement.

She broke from the pack with a sudden movement, premeditated as if she had always intended to fetch the ball, moving like she had always been part of the game. Although, I think she would have liked us to have thought she had never seen, never heard, or ever known who had thrown the well calculated throw.

She grabbed at the ball while treading the deeper water. As she turned to face the shore I stared at her, engrossed by her soft delicate face. Innocent, pretty, symmetrical with wide brown eyes and curly dark hair. She drew a smile and looked about not dropping the unknowing façade and then met my eyes with affirmation. Weak and unconfident I returned the smile. ‘Hi,’ I sputtered and shyly wiped the back of my head almost forcing a wave.

This is when I noticed the Parasite. I hadn’t been watching him up until now. He was just a few meters to the left of her. All I could see was half of his head, from just below his eyes, drifting through the water like a vicious crocodile ready for an attack.

A good centre fielder will always read the play before the balls left his boot. In most cases, he will read three plays ahead from when the tough leathery exterior connects with his highly strung laces. The centre so meticulous in his ways, so sure of his foot work, swings across the goal square, he is open and he is ready for the mark.
Meanwhile the wing man dodges an opponent, fake right, lung left. As he has practiced many times before, just as the coach has drawn it on the chalk board, he snaps a heavy right foot towards centre, not knowing, yet sure his kick is well placed.

The centre throws his arms into the air, the camera pans in, the crowd cheers and the score sheet is marked beside his name. The wing man, uncelebrated, taps his team mate on the shoulder then jogs towards his position on the outer field. This is when I felt the frown break the smile.

‘We’re on schoolies,’ they blathered amongst the table of countless empty Cruiser bottles. Schoolies if I remember correctly is in November. Let’s not drew on all this too much, her friend was equally proportioned.
…………………………………….

It is now February and I’ve just finished adding the Algae solution to the bigger outside tanks. Ensuring they are getting well ventilated, I drop in a weighted hose which is plumbed to the roof. It is part of a bigger, much more intricate and complex system which feeds the entire Oyster farm with oxygen. Checking the covers are over the spat tanks, I clear the room of loose hoses, pumps and filters. As I’m about to turn off the light I notice my phone is flashing, it’s a message.

Mum said I can come up. Peta

I stop, almost forgetting to switch off the light and fall into another incorrigible day dream. Day dreaming, as I have quickly learnt, is a great way to waste the long dry Carnarvon days. It reminds me of Cashback, it isn’t hard to stop time. Usually all it takes is to leave the nest of grotty sheds and stare out over the desolate plains. Nothing moves apart from the silent breeze which stirs within your ears, for a moment, a timeless moment, I would believe that time had actually stopped. Then, maybe I would catch the flick of a fish tail down beside the creek or the call of a bird in the distance. I would be thrown back into reality with a regrettable forcefulness. It’s not hard to know what I’m thinking about this time, a man can only spend so many days out here in this sort of heat.

I can’t be bothered thumbing a reply so I dial her number.
‘Hello.’
‘Hey, how you doing.’ I reply, it’s an easy opener.
‘Good.’
‘Cool, so she said yes?’
‘Yeah, I told her your dad would be there.’
‘Really, why?’
‘I don’t know she wanted a parent to be there, you know so someone was there.’ She didn’t need to explain anymore than this. I was actually surprised her mum had said yes in the first place.
‘Yeah I guess, you are only seventeen!’
She laughed. Peta was always shy about her age, saying things like, ‘I know,’ as a way to ignore that she didn’t know and would go on to say things like, ‘I was thinking’. I didn’t mind so much, I felt like she enjoyed being around an older person, someone she could bounce idea’s off. Ultimately though, I couldn’t make the mistakes for her.
‘Yeah, so she is going to give you a call to confirm a few things.’
‘Like what sort of things,’ I questioned.
‘Well she wants to get to know you a little and just check that your dad will be there.’
‘Oh, okay well that’s cool by me.’
‘Really!’ Peta replied almost surprised.
‘Yeah, for sure, I can’t wait for you to come up.’
‘Cool.’
‘Zac said something about coming up also?’ I questioned.
‘Really,’ she replied, this time acting surprised, but I had already spoken to the Parasite and I knew she knew.
‘I thought you already knew.’
‘Umm, kind of.’ She didn’t need to elaborate on this and I cut her off.
‘I hope that’s not why you’re coming up,’
‘No, I’m over him, don’t worry,’ She stressed.
‘Cool, Well I’ll give you another call when I finish work.’
‘Later Juice.’
I hung up and proceeded down the corridor checking the hydrogen levels on the laboratory as I past. It was midday and it was getting hot outside, some droplets of sweat had formed on my forehead and I passed out into the opening beyond the sheds. The creek was low, must have been low tide I assumed, I watched it for moment thinking about the conversation, only coming to again when the boss emerged from the Lab….

To be continued….

Note: All photo's by: Colby Elliot

Save The Territory... Seriously!

2009-04-23T13:34:00.005+08:00

Darwinians are bracing themselves today as reports of an imminent attack approaches. Yowies of various sizes have been rumoured to be converging on the eastern bank of Adelaide River, some 50kms from the town centre. Amongst the nervous, some townsmen armed with pitchforks have been reported to be rallying outside parliament building today, holding banners which read;

‘Feed them the homeless, save the dogs’.

NT self proclaimed Yowie expert, David Doubelivtis has urged Darwinians to stay vigilant, but claims the Yowie may have been misrepresented by the press, ‘They are not here to kill our dogs, just snack on the occasional head’, he has claimed. Later in a press conference with Animal Rights Groups he agreed a clean up of the undesirables may be beneficial too the wider community and may also help save young Baxter, the cheeky G-banger munching pooch and others like him.

One txt to the editor read:

‘50km ban on Yowie’ name withheld

A proposal already being considered by the NT government for the bewildered crocodile, a ban could be extended to the Yowie. The ban, another knee jerk reaction to the two tragic deaths of Territorians who, late last month were taken by large reptilian creatures from the fourth dimension.

These deaths were not so much a surprise as it may seem. One victim, a 20 year old father of two was taken late one night after being warned that drinking other people’s alcohol was bad. Two men, one being the late victim, were reported to have witnessed ‘a big black crocodile stalking them along the bank’ before entering the water in an attempt to swim the gauntlet.

It has been recommended by professional experts that some well placed makers could be the solution to the Crocodile and Yowie epidemic. ‘These markers will be placed amongst the river systems and land marks at the 50km line with large crossed circles. Within the cross, it has been proposed that two well illustrated figures of the Crocodile and Yowie will be placed.’ One expert was reported saying. A Politian of questionable ethic’s confirmed, ‘Darwinians have been around much longer than the crocodile and Yowie alike, it has been a shame to see Darwinian’s forced out of the waters and the focus is to make a safer territory where Darwinians can swim once again’. ‘Just think’, he went on the say. ‘Young lovers will be able to picnic amongst the mangroves once again without fear of the Crocodile or Yowie’.

The public eagerly awaits the decision likely to be passed at the next upcoming election. Meanwhile it is recommended to drive the homeless towards the Crocodiles and Yowies.

MAKING THE TERRITORY A CLEANER SAFER PLACE TO LIVE.

PS. Note for Frank.. what ever did happen to the one with a suggest black swimsuit?
PSS. Note the awesome braid!

Your living in a small place when...

2009-04-21T13:41:00.010+08:00

A question to the reader’s, have you ever sat there with a report in your hands, flicking through the countless pages of drab information and thought, who was this nut bag who wrote all this?

I’m thinking this myself as I re-examine my position in life. My title, if I should be titled something other than an office bitch, is a Technical Building Officer.. But before you ask, a technical building officer is one who, refer above, writes tediously long technical reports relating to the legislative requirements one might come across when building a home, a set of stairs or a gargantuan monstrosity in the centre of town.

Someone once told me that I’ve been doing this job for too long (6 odd years), it’s all over for me now, every scent, every itsy bit of creativity, all zapped up by the ‘Creative death ray gun of technicality’ – a mouth full to say the least. All the same, sometimes there seems to be some truth in it. That’s when I come here, the humble blog, with it’s few readers I write ridiculousness in a bid to over power my shame.

So let’s play….

‘Dog Killed By Yowie' - NT researcher says Big Foot beast mauled pup’ ~ Front cover NT NEWS, 21st April 2009

Darwinian’s today are warned of the risk posed by the invasion of the illusive Bigfoot, aka Yowie. Standing an impressive 3027mm tall, covered in a light brown fur with equally large feet, the Yowie is a beast with an inexhaustible appetite for our beloved pet, the dog.

“The way the guy’s dog was killed was typical of a Yowie”, self proclaimed NT Yowie expert is reported to proclaim. “I know it sounds fanciful but over the past 100 years, dogs get killed or decapitated and people report feeling watched, having goats stolen or seeing some tall hairy thing in the days beforehand.”

Alarmed by the sentiment raised by the threat of the Yowie, yours truly, Rambo’s protégé, took it upon himself to undertake an exhaustive investigation to bring an end to this aging mystery. Using state of the art photo identification processes and a marked paddle pop stick, the findings are conclusive.

Bigfoot frolics in the cool cascades of Litchfield

Something tells me this reignited interest in the Yowie story comes at a suspiciously close time to when stoner flick, ‘Strange Wilderness’ a film about a failing film crew who embark on an epic adventure to find the legendary Big foot, was released in Territorian video stands. Coincidence, I’ll let you decide?

Meanwhile, it would seem that the beloved pooch has been up to it again.

“Our Dog Ate My G-String” ~ Front Cover NT News, 15th April 2009

After a serious rescue operation, as reported in Easter Sunday’s NT News, poor pooch is lucky to be alive after he greedily engulfed a ‘ladies black g-string’. The report goes on the say that the cheeky spaniel named Baxter is ‘a real guts and will eat anything’.

From the Crew With Crab's and a wooden chicken.... Peace!

The 'Last Frontier'

2009-04-07T12:59:00.008+08:00

So dear readers after many posts in a row that lack a good amount fun, I have decided, rather then bore you, I would compile a few things which are happening around the Northern Territory.

“KILL THEM ALL Victim’s Grandad calls for every croc to be shot dead” ~ NT News Cover 2nd April 09

Despite a late season tropical monsoon, the gang embarks on a lovely picnic. The day after swimming in the lake at said picnic area, some two hundred metre's from the croc infested ocean, the local news reports wondering croc's captured in area. In my defense, I really needed to pee and swimming was easier than public facilities.

“DUI mum was breastfeeding at wheel” ~ NT News, Cover 6th April 09... Nuff said.

Israeli special forces troop spotted in the top end, or is that Jesus himself?

“14 people bashed in NT each day… and that’s GOOD NEWS – last year it was 15” – NT News Cover 7th April 09

Gone are the days of global domination and evil axis, no it would seem modern Germany is much more concerned with Australia’s well being and financial future as thousands arrive by boat. Squandering great riches of delicious Euro’s, young Germans arrive on Australian shores with only one prerogative. With them they bring various cassettes labelled ‘Nena’. But be warned, these dubbed tapes generally do not contain the once loved classic; 99 Luftballons, instead, they are encrypted with various beats played in rhythmic regularity known to cause severe cases of insomnia. Once played, usually by sheer trickery, a German will reach maximum disco within minutes. Such symptoms to look out for are: violent body convulsion, eye’s rolling back into there head and a parched mouth. Australians are advised that it is extremely difficult to diffuse a German once in 'trance', and are advised to feed infected patients with copious amounts of cheap beer whihc they will consume feverishly… Eventually the patient will become restless, fall over and hopefully pass out. If symptoms persist, or you grow impatient with the treatment, users are advised that a gentle ‘clonk’ across the head with a semi weight love stone should speed recovery.
Below is a demonstration of what a patient should look like after treatment…(Note: Bottle used to speed recovery - Improvise)

“Croc Bait anglers put new spin on stupidity” ~ NT News page 5, 7th April 09

"Hopa hopa"

The Novel.. More Unravelling

2009-03-30T11:03:00.002+08:00

So here is the next section, again completely unedited an un-finalised.

I have spent some time going back over the first post and changed a few things to help it either flow better or just make more sense. In this second post I have used dialogue to add some characterization, but I’m still very unsure (of myself) if I want to keep it this way, especially between Bruce and Dennis the two main character’s as they come across as one and the same people, which ultimately it is as Dennis is like an alter ego, the can do man.

The piece really slows down in this next section and I’m still very unsure if this is best, but I felt as though I need to add feeling and emotion to the City, or how it is perceived by the characters anyway. At first I was going to have just the one night at the backpackers, they get drunk and in the morning they wake up in a van. As you can see I have extended this so I could add further details. Maybe it’s a repeat of what has already been said, but I’m not totally sure. Your comments would be much appreciated.

Enjoy

........................................................................................................................................................................

3

Given that we hadn’t really had much money in the last few months, we decided to head into town and catch a train out to the bigger city, maybe there we could find a lift north up the coast where the weather promised to be much warmer. Ignoring the fee of a ticket we boarded the long slender carriage. In the days leading up to the move we’d decided to just chase the sun , what ever that may bring.

Three quarter’s into the City the train inspector beckoned us to produce our tickets and when we told him we didn’t have one he demanded we produce some identification. Neither Dennis nor I had identification on us, we had gotten used to concealing it so that in these exact instances we could provide a fake name. The inspector wrote us each a $50 ticket and ordered that we get off at the next station where we waited another fifteen minutes, throwing pebbles at a sign across the tracks.

The next ride on the final leg into the City was uneventful other than a baby who cried for the duration of the trip, the mother it seemed was totally ignorant to the infants plead. I watched her for some time, she seemed as if to be distracted by something else that was far more troublesome than that of a fiercely crying baby, a long heavy look lay across her face and a packed bag sat beside her feet. She fidgeted in her seat and when we went to leave I heard the lady cry out desperately.

“Stop crying damn it, just stop crying”, but the baby, too young to understand his mothers torment kept up his own plea. Dennis and I looked at each other thoughtfully, I could tell what he was thinking and asked if we should help, but instead we walked in the opposite direction to where we were going.

The big towering buildings of the City loomed high above the street, sporadic youths hustled in packs, amused by the music playing from there MP3 players, they walked past silently. Asian tourists snapped joyfully at iconic sights while wheelers greased the empty side streets, thinking, planning, dealing and enviably losing. We made our way through the busy street’s to the east end, on Boughfort Street we found an entrance to a sizable back packer’s, a perfect place to start looking for a lift we decided and checked in for the night.

First of all we decided to get a warm shower, it had been some time sense either Dennis or I had, had the luxury of warm water. At first the public showers had not been a problem in the hot months of summer, but since autumn had kicked in, we had become quiet reluctant. I was the first to finish and went out and found a comfortable seat in the commune lounging area. Some people were sat motionless around a big TV, playing on the screen was some show about fast cars with fancy leather seats. Not really interested in the show, my eye’s wondered around the room.

All sorts of characters with different agenda’s lumbered around, there was those that were passing through. They usually sat in two’s or three’s and made jokes which made no sense to anyone other than themselves and the day after tomorrow they would be gone.

Then there were those which had stayed here long enough to know better, they seem to enjoy the scene and would sit around in the evenings and chill out amongst themselves and talk about work and drink quality beer while the rest of the guesses just settled for the cheapest and most effective.

Finally the third type, these were the one’s who, if asked, may not have even known where they were or where they were going.

They confided in sayings such as, ‘we’re on the road’, or ‘I’m half way between here and there’, and ‘Yeah, maybe I’ll see what happens tomorrow’. I guess if I was going to stereotype Dennis and myself we would have to fit somewhere within this group, two lost soul’s, as we were frequently reminded by those who looked at our sad state and say.

‘You’re just two lost soul’s’.

Dennis came out and sat beside me on the empty brown suede lounge, he was clean shaven and his beach blonde hair jagged where he made a rudimentary attempt to trim it back.

‘So, you want to go out for a beer tonight?’
‘Yeah I guess it would be rude not to’, I replied. ‘Better check the notice board before we get too rowdy though’.
‘I had a quick look just before, didn’t really see anything’
‘Cool, well we’ll check it again on the way out’ I insisted, ‘Guess we might as well have a beer here first’.

Dennis got up to get us some drinks while I stayed seated. Surveying the dimly lit room I noticed two blonde girls sitting and chatting amongst themselves. They both had straight platinum blonde hair which sort of just stiffly sat across there faces, they wore make up and spoke softly to each other. I watched them for a while hoping that one might look up and I’d give her a smile, but they didn’t.

Dennis was standing by the bar chatting to another guy who was tall, slender with long dark hair and next to them were another couple, who looked at each other merrily and held each others hands as they spoke of niceties which had little significance to anyone else. In the far corner I could hear a group of American’s who were playing some sort of drinking game which involved a deck of cards.

When Dennis came back, he was holding out two cans of Emu Bitter. Cringing, I took one of the cans.

‘Three bucks’, he said before I had even asked.
‘Who was that’, I asked, intrigued.
‘Matt, an American dude from Arizona’, He replied. ‘Been over here awhile just thumbing it to and fro, reckons he’s been pretty lucky until he made it to the City. He also said he knew of two German girls who had a van. They were hoping to take off day after next’
‘Did he say where they were going?’
‘Yeah he said they were going to head north, didn’t really say much more then that though’.

I looked up and I noticed Matt was now sitting with the group playing cards so I suggested maybe we should join them for a drink.

‘Bruce’, I held out my hand and introduced myself to the crowd of three girls and two guys. Matt introduced himself first holding out his hand, shaking mine, while the others just gave a shy smile and polite wave. Matt gestured I sit beside him and he moved over leaving a gap on the bench between himself and a pretty New York girl named Jen. Dennis sat at the other side of the table across from me.

The game they were playing was Ring of Death, or that’s the name I know it as. The rules are simple. Every card has a different rule, say for example number night is bust a rhyme. The person who has lifted the card from the circle starts the rhyme. Going clockwise the group keeps the rhyme until someone stumbles, to which they are required to scull there beverage of choice. The idea is that you get drunk, like real drunk, stupid drunk and then you fall down.

Tonight was no exception for the group of tourists, they were a good bunch and we chatted until late into the night. It turned out that they didn’t really know each other but had somehow found themselves hanging out together.

Jen was cute and I talked to her for sometime about her travels, the usual questions for a situation like this. She chatted happily about working in London compared to Sydney, the beach parties in Cambodia and the rafting in the Mekong and home life in a City like Brooklyn, New York.

‘Its bullshit’, she started. ‘It’s like one hundred dollars for a shitty day tour. I’m really sick of all this shit.’ She started when I asked her about Australia.
‘Yeah it’s a rip off alright’, I replied. ‘That’s why Dennis and I are doing what were doing, we don’t need money to see some rock every bodies seein’.
‘Yeah, hey maybe I should come along with you guys’. She declared brazenly.
‘Capre Diam’.
‘Carpe Diam’, she replied smiling back at me.

We chatted some more with the group and asked if any of them were heading north. Matt repeated the stuff he had already told Dennis earlier that night and we asked if he’d be able to get hold of the girls for us. He said they were staying here and would let us know, so we decided to catch up with him in the morning to see what we could arrange.

4

That morning we woke up pretty early, it was drizzling lightly outside. We packed the bags after getting in another shower and then stowed them away down stairs in the locker area of the backpackers. We checked out and went for a walk around the City.

It was a dull morning with gray clouds over head and the constant patter of water on our faces as we stepped from one awning to the next. At one point I went to cross the street and accidentally stepped out in front of a speeding car. It screeched to a halt, and I looked up, through the mirror I could see a fit guy wearing a tight white singlet and dark round shades. Next to him sat a girl, made up all pretty who looked out the side window uninterested at the kerb. Stepping out the way he sped past shouting something from his window.

We ended up at a small groceries were we brought a loaf of wholegrain bread and a litre of milk. Outside we sat on some steps and I watched the water drop to the path in large droplets which formed on the roof above. The water collected itself picking up small amounts of dirt and ran over the rough graduals in the concrete and then down over the kerb and into the gutter where a small stream moved with great vigour, off and down the street to the nearest drain.

The street was busy with car’s driving past. People in black suit’s and expressionless faces, driving to work I’d assume, didn’t notice us sitting on the kerb. They were focussed and consumed by something much larger than two guys sitting on a step eating dry bread and slugging on a box of milk.

‘That was us’, Dennis mumbled to himself.

The Novel Begins..

2009-03-26T14:27:00.005+09:00

Okay guys, yesterday I was sitting in the shallow pool with a gorgeous girl. I started out telling her I wanted to write a novel but I didn't have a good plot, a good story and that I didn't know what to write about.

She simply said... Just start writing.

So... The only way to write a novel is too start. With that I present the start of something I hope to develop, its unedited, raw, delightful (Hopefully). Please comment on what you think. (Comment whoring, the greatest bloggers do it the best!)

...............................................................
Untitled
By Matt Dewse
...............................................................

1

It was a lonely evening, a cool rain had been falling for a few days now and when a gust blew up a cold wind could be felt sweep through the shacks modest interior. Huddled in some old blankets we had found, smelling old and musky I watched Dennis caress his warm cup of tea between his palms and forefingers. The shack didn’t have electricity, just a lone candle which burnt silently in the centre of the room.

The small fibro shack was perched among some tall peppermints on a long sandy dune. It was hard to say when it had been abandoned as everything still seemed to be in tact, even the beds had been made, but a calendar with a small reproduced painting of a wooden craft hanging on the wall just above the bunks read April 1981 and we’d assumed this was the last time someone other than us had ever lived here.

The leak in the old rusted tin roof was the most pressing matter when we first arrived but Dennis had gone to work with his resourcefulness and made good the hole with some spare tin which he had found under the floor of the house. Here we lived comfortably for the next four months, collecting water from the public toilets at the end of the street in a good size pot and eating fresh seafood when we could catch it, otherwise we would heat up tins of baked beans over a small gas cooker and we worked when work was available. I had held a good job on a trawler for a month or two before the business had folded.

I could remember this town just two years ago, a great hive of festivity, construction was going on all around, large double story building’s with endless planes of glass which glistened in the sun and people were jubilant, excessive and ignorant. All just enjoying the fruit’s of there labours with champagne and lazy weekends cruising around the coast in powerful motor boats. Even I, like the others had enjoyed these times, soaking up the warm atmosphere of the evening sun and chilling out to the latest pop-rock which played from the in deck CD player.

‘It’s all an illusion’ Dennis had prophesised one day as we sat contently in the sand. We watched the sun hit the horizon and throw up a marvellous orange haze throughout the cloudless sky. I remember the day quiet clearly, we had spent a good deal of time skiing around the headlands behind a friends speedboat, drinking recklessly on cold beers which we stowed in the depths of his built in ice box.

It was rather confusing when he professed that it was just an illusion. It definitely felt real enough as the water had shoot up from the tips of my ski and into my now bloodshot eyes, or the red blotches on my skin where I had forgotten to protect with sunscreen. Actually I would have to say it was one our greatest days we had shared together since we had meet.

‘All this’, he said jerking me from my thought’s. ‘It’s a charade’.
‘You know what I mean’, he protested when I said I did get it and I didn’t and I was just more confused so I changed the subject and made meaningless jokes about how Ryan, who tripped over board earlier in the day, had managed to protect his beer from falling in the drink.

Things soon started changing though, just as Dennis had predicted, friends who worked away started spending more time at home, sitting around the house drinking Jack Daniels in small premixed bottles and joking about what ever uselessness was on TV. When they got bored of that they ordered chilli muscles with a side of a dozen oysters from a restaurant down the road and feasted with great vitality. A month had past and they offered to sell me there TV for a quarter of its cost.

Condemned by our way of life Dennis once again suggested that we leave this rat race, find something a little quieter, a little easier. When he had first asked I made excuses that I was working a good job, I had an apartment and was too busy most days to contemplate leaving, but finally, a week after being fired I agreed to the move on the proviso that we would stay until my lease was up, which fortunately was only one month away. When we checked our bank balances though we had little room to move anyway.

The cost of the apartment sucked up the dregs of my saving’s and Dennis and I struggled to make the last round of bills. When the day had come to move out, Dennis had helped me move all my furniture to my parent’s shed. They argued relentlessly with me as I had predetermined, but I made my case and in the end they came around seeing as there was no sense in getting rid of perfectly good couches. I promised them I’d find a new job, and kissed my mum affectionately on the cheek as I left.

Two weeks later we found the shack. It was a rather great find, although still nestled amongst the big over looking glass monstrosities in the same town as we had decided to leave, it was the right price. Free. Deciding it would be better to just save some cash before we hit the road, arguing that it was summer anyway and it would be a shame to lose out on this great weather.

For the next four months we spent countless hours just frolicking down the beach, in the sun, my board shorts became loose and every day I woke convicted more with something I still could not fully understand. Dennis smiled contently when I told him and just laid buck on his towel to bask in the radiance of the sun. He was of a slim and well built build and by the first month he was well tanned hinting a Mediterranean complexion.

‘You will understand’ he thoughtfully announced after a minute had lapsed. The more we hung out, living like this, the more I noticed him becoming unhurried and he would sit for minutes before answering, more than usual that is. I, myself had even noticed I wasn’t in any sort of rush either. We just went about doing our thing in our own time, fishing, diving, reading and living until at one point I thought time had almost stood still.

2

The rain echo off the thinly lined tin roof, I looked up at the dark mouldy spot on the roof. The patching had worked even after a few day’s had pasted not a drop had come through. Dennis was sitting in the corner apathetically flicking though the box of books we had found in the main bedroom. It was the main room as there weren’t any others. He stopped to for a moment and I thought he was reading the back, then he slapped the book against the ground and squashed a curious roach.

“I’ve read all these”, he moaned. He usually never complained, he was more of a charismatic kind of guy who hops out of bed the second he wakes up, so it was unusual to hear him like this. Though he wasn’t the only one feeling melancholic, I did too. It was the rain, definitely the rain. It seemed to draw the life out of the both of us, we became lifeless and disinterested. Water had seeped in thought under the threshold of the door and destroyed our playing cards.

We tried to go out diving one day, but the swell had come up with the persistent wind and rain, the water being to murky we decided to try do some fishing. After an hour had passed the best we had managed was one thick bull herring, but being so cold we resorted back to the shelter of the shack and shared other the single fish amongst ourselves with a portion of plain rice.

By the sixth day from when the rains had started we busied ourselves packing our rucksacks. Dad had brought me my pack a few years back when I had gone on an extended camping trip with school. It had a large zipper so you could open it out making it easy to fill and a second bag which zipped on and off with ease. With a sturdy metal frame and good set of padded handles it made a great pack for walking.

Dennis offered to carry the cooking gear, which consists of a pot, a pan and the little gas stove, I packed the two bowls, two cups and utensils. When it came to packing the rest of our stuff I didn’t have much, just a couple cloths, an old thin sleeping bag, a well worn book by the title of “The Rum Diary”, a large wrap of plastic and spear gun that strapped to the outside of my pack. Dennis, like me had very little but his bag was bulging with other bits and pieces he thought we might need along the way.

We set out and cleared the small shack. We put the large pot back under the waterless sink, washed the sheets and made the beds. Dennis repaired the leak under the door and locked up all the windows. When we had finished we looked around and then at each other, Dennis looked joyful and we both felt proud. Even though the shack wasn’t ours we felt someway connected to it and we agreed one day we’d return to find it just the way we left it. Neither Dennis nor I ever did though.

3

The day before we’d left we decided to just chase the sun, where ever that may be.

Darwin, Another Day With Dylan

2009-03-25T10:34:00.004+09:00

It was some time in the afternoon when I had just finished a solid day’s work and was back at the sanctity of the back packers. Actually to be honest, sanctity, much like solid, is nothing more than words employed to put an intricate spin on rather dull facts. Let’s just say I did go to work.

You see I’m currently sitting across the table from a gorgeous, dark, wild haired, blue eyed, tanned skinned beauty. So to be most frank, I’m laying it on thick, using words cunningly disguised like Château, romance and Italia indirectly for other much more cynical terms such as submissive and sex. She, to my surprise seems somewhat receptive and the conversation soon swings to where it was inevitably going to go.

“Oh no, I think it’s nice to take things slow”, she starts. “You Australian’s are just straight at it”.

“I agree”, I say with seeming delight. She doesn’t want me to think she’s easy. Okay of course, neither am I. I’m a Gemini gorgeous. I’ll be what ever you want me to be… for the night that is and I give her a dedicated grin.

“Juice”, some strange gaunt character starts beckoning from behind, I can just make him out in the peripheral but I refrain from turning as I’m stuck in a sensual lock of eye’s, even Casanova would find it concerning to look away at this point.

“Juice” He rudely interrupts again not sensing the importance of this display ofg affection. This time though, he gently lays his limp fingers on my shoulder and nudges me timidly. God who is this character I think to myself as I hastily rummage through my pockets for some loose change.

“Just take it”. I snap aggressively and hold out what would be three dollars twenty in silver pieces. Fucking beggars, how have they managed to learn my name and what’s more, make it into the building! Where are those useless baboons anyway who always seem to interrupt me when I’m having a good time?

“Excuse me guys, no smoking in the car park”, he, the one in a tight black uniform starts. “What are your names and which room are you staying in?” He continues then quickly scribbles Matt Juice room 37 and I give him a hostile ‘eat shit’ red stained, cock eyed stare as I walk past in the hands of a pretty girl. I ask her if she has any food but she shrugs and leads me to room 48.

I digress.

He’s wearing a small button up which drops off his thinly framed figure. His hair is short, neat and receding while his skin is fair and soft.

“Dylan”, I ask as I take a better look.
“Hey no way”, he replies. “I thought it was you, but I didn’t really know, you know, like when you see some one and you’re not quite sure”.

Damn shame, I haven’t seen this guy since back when I was on the hunt for the great Art Director. For the uninformed that’s some 3500km’s down the road in a crazy little right-wing, Jesus loving freak town. So I tell him.

“I haven’t seen you since back in Albany”.
“Yeah I know”, he starts. “Crazy little right-wing, Jesus loving town of freaks”
I nod approvingly.
“Yeah”
“So I was thinking about getting a beer, maybe check out the casino” he continues unsurprisingly. “You want to come get a drink with me?”
I quickly look back at the stunning scenery. She’s busy talking with some other people at the table and I decide it’s still a salvageable conversation.

“It’s only $8.50 a jug here” I say knowingly to Dylan and his eye’s light up brighter then a loony in a girls wash basket, without another word he beelines to the bar. Bloody journalists are all the same I think to myself and I turn to face my growing interest. She smiles a purely wicked smile of delight.

“We are going now, would you like come”, She says in her sweet accent.
“Oh really’ I confirm, rather dismayed. “Umm well, I’m having a drink here. Maybe we’ll catch up later?”
“Yeah, maybe”

She holds out her hand for a high five, but I snatch it up in my own and I feel the smooth subtle skin of her palm with the tips of my fingers.

“Wow you held my hand” I lie and grin jokingly.
“Yes this is much too fast” she say’s and smiles back cheekily.

Damn, just my luck I think to myself as I watch her walk away dressed in nothing other than a tight black bikini that folds suggestively to her beautiful shape. I turn away when she has disappeared around the corner. Dylan by this stage is already in the crowd of unruly characters weaving back with a disgustingly wild smile, two clean glasses and frothy jug of beer. He looks like a lion in a flock of flamingo’s and better yet, he holds the secret to well being.

We get talking. It’s mostly about the latest happenings and I fumble with my beer, it goes down unappreciated as my head toils with a raucous hangover. Dylan though pours himself another glass.

“It’s paradise up here”, I start.

He looks away mindfully, observing the sounds and smells. The balcony is perched above the main street, car’s bustle by as the Indi-pop music rings from loud speakers. Tradesmen in soggy singlets whistle and young girls with big heels trip clumsily on the jagged roadway to reveal hints of fancy lace. It‘s a smorgasbord of debauchery that spills out from under dark and mouldy crevices and palm tree’s sway lazily in the mid afternoon breeze.

“Yeah, looks like it” he nods.

……………..

Before long we are sitting around a small table in a dingy lit pub. The Victoria Hotel is long known to the frugal traveller, and it’s no surprise to find that a failing journalist would share this common interest, boasting $7 jugs and free food.

The music resonates loudly from speakers which tower above the stage, men hustle and tourist sitting on miniature scooters spin around the island tables, laughing, they are busy chasing the free beer that pours endlessly around these parts. The MC shout’s some god-awful slur over the PA and we watch on with bemusement.

“Bob Dylan”, begins Dylan as a classic starts to play over the crowded room.
“I just want to make money”. His long thin fingers dance through the air leaving whirling tails of thick smoke. His substituted words are purposeful and to the point.
“He was all about making money” Dylan reaffirms as if clarifying what he has just said and our Israeli friend, Hanani, chuckles and when the next chorus begins they break out in a long fried drawl…
“I just want to make money”.

Dylan’s words are severed and disconnected, his body thin, gaunt and awkward. His hands move with his words, but the words being so disengaged find him lost like he were reading ancient braile. If I were drunk I’d imagine him as a great wizard with all this mystical body talk and gibberish murmurs, but alas, he doesn’t have that magnificent telltale beard of many wise men.*

“Kerouac, now he was something”, I start and Dylan nods approvingly. Is this because he’s just agreeing out of pure admiration for Kerouac’s short self destructive life of alcoholism or because he appreciates his works, I wonder. Dylan, across the table slugs at another beverage.

“There was something about Kerouac”, Dylan decides. “In his time he was a lot freer then we are, he never had to worry about the impending doom”. Dylan’s hands hover, palm down midway above his head, his fingers are limp and point to the ground.
“No, even Kerouac had this feeling in Dharma Bums when he reaches a town and is told he will be locked up if he plans to sleep out”. I say. “I guess it was the start of what was to come”.

Hanani listens in carefully. He’s not familiar with Kerouac like Dylan and I, and rather make bogus claim’s like clammy Australian’s he just listens in to our rambling’s.

Should I explain, Hanani is a mellow man with few words. Not that he’s shy, far from it, but rather he is purposeful within his speech. Under a husky dull voice floats peaceful, patient words matching his rough and weather beaten appearrance. His clothes are torn and frayed like the unspoken memories of his past.

“100 Years of Solitude by Gabrial Garcia Marcas” Hanani begins. “Oh, it is a great book”.
“Yeah I’ve heard of that”, Dylan confirms while tilting his head slightly and pushing it further in.
“I haven’t”.
“You haven’t”, Hanani mutters disbelieving. “Oh man you have to read it.

The conversation drifts along like this for some time, listing the, who’s, who and the, who’s read what and who’s the best. It’s a list of modern literature, the Kerouac’s, Boroughs, Thompson, Marquez, Twain…
Were a fag is a fag, and mescaline trip is a lolly for the lost degenerates who seeks more than the delicious findings of a bible reading. A new vision where we can sit at the front of the bus, as Kesey put it, to be and do as we please without recourse. This is writing which reaches to the bowels of society and tries, but ultimately fails to ignore the injustice of the modern world.

“Impending doom”, Dylan’s hands are now more frantic. “Impending dooooooom”.

………………

The next afternoon the air is warm and the sun is lofting just off the horizon. I take a deep breathe and absorb the sweet smell of the salty ocean. Beside the pool I’m sitting when the beautiful girl from the day before swims up to the edge.

“You coming for a swim”, she starts.
“Yeah I think I will”, I reply nonchalantly.

I look around for Dylan to see if he wants to come for a dip, but like he came, he has gone. Bummer, I’ll miss that guy, I think as I slip off the stairs into the clement deeps of the pool.

*****************

Dylans blog - Lament the Dementted

* Which poses a question in itself, do baby wizards have glorious beards when they are born or are there no ‘baby” phase within wizardry lore? I wonder, anyway I hear it’s a prerequisite for this kind of occupation.

Midwest Depravity - Carnarvon Part 3

2009-03-17T08:21:00.002+09:00

The tall white 4x4 ute comes barrelling down the highway, holding about 120 kilometres and hour, it’s inertia blows up dust as it passes. From inside the cab, the Parasite sucks eagerly at the poisonous port sack, then takes out his rifle from behind the front seat and loads some live shells into the chamber and cocks the level under the trigger..

“Stop the ute when you see a goat”, he exclaims calmly.
“You’ll never get it from the car”, Shane protests. “We need to pull off somewhere and stalk ‘em”.
“Don’t be silly”, the parasite replies confidently, “This is a Winchester lever action 30.30, I could knock over an elephant with this thing”…

Shane shakes his head and peers into the rear view mirror anxiously to see if anyone is coming up from behind. It’s all clear, but up front a few kilometres away he can see an object in the heat blurred horizon…

“Better wait until this car passes”, He say’s.
“Ha hmm, don’t worry about it”, Parasite urges pathetically.

They pass a few goats which are chewing lackadaisically a few metres away on the side of the road. Parasite twitches in his chair and thumbs the handle of his rifle excitedly, almost stroking it like it where an expensive jewel. Shane disapprovingly shakes his head once again but the Parasite is too distracted by the passing shrubbery to notice his disfigurement.

“I bet I’ll hit one”, the Parasite boast’s, breaking the tiresome hum of the roaring tires.
“And what are you going to do with it Zac?”, Shane replies sarcastically, emphasizing his name.
“We’ll eat it!” he affirms earnestly while looking impatiently through the open window.
“You’re not putting that thing in my car”.

The Parasite doesn’t reply and within a few minutes a twin trailer semi rolls past with a burst of sound and momentum. It makes the ute shake violently by the built-up pressure between the two objects. Shane checks the rear view mirror again.

“Stop the car”, The Parasite burst’s with excitement just moments after the truck has passed.

Stones crunch under the heavy wheels, three goats look up distracted by their monotonous task and the car comes to a slow halt. As the car door opens the goat’s turn and bolt sensing some immanent danger. They should - the parasite although a wanker at the best of times, is a bloody good shot, not that they know this. Shane quickly plugs his fingers into his ears, while the Parasite rapidly braces the rifle hard against the corner frame of the window. He balances himself and watches the goats bounce erratically through the open scope. They dart from left to right looking for some shrub to hide under but the land is hard, barren and futile..

The gun sounds with deafening forcefulness and a loud audible crack. The Parasite’s shoulder jerks violently under the recoil and the 80gram lead head explodes from the end of the rifle furiously. The second goat bursts open like an egg in a microwave as the bullet enters its arse and blows out the side of its abdomen the size of a basketball. A bloody mess, it tumbles lifelessly to the ground.

The Parasite grins excitedly and jumps out of the car, rifle in toe.

“Stalking ‘em, pfft” he echo’s. “Haha hmm”.

He bounds through the red dirt on the front balls of his naked feet. His slender body moves naturally against the sterile background. Shane checks the road methodically before stepping out of the cab.

“What are you going to do with it?” Shane asks inquisitively.

The parasite is already standing over the dead creature, flipping it over with his hands and examining his work with pride. It’s a terrible kill shot, but with a bullet as ridiculous as it is, its little work knocking a goat over.

“You’re not putting it in my car”, Shane reinforces again.

The Parasite looks up momentarily at Shane, rather perplexed as to why Shane would be so inconsiderate.

“Well I want its horn’s”, the Parasite decides rather unhappy that he can’t take the whole bloody carcass.
“I have a knife in the car” Shane helpfully suggests.
“Meh, effort!” and with that the Parasite wipes his bloody hands across his shorts, picks up the rifle, cock’s the lever and holds the heavy barrel above the goats skull. Shane turns away and the rifle once again pops like an angry grenade.

When Shane turns back, the Parasite has already reached down and divorced the two horns from the disgusting pool of mush.

“Hehe”, the Parasite sniggers in his own bemusement.
“You are an absolute fucking dickhead”, Shane argues, but he might as well whisper it under his breath as it falls unheard.

Minutes later they are back on the Great Northern Highway, destination Carnarvon. Parasite holds up his trophy and examines them quietly then busies himself again with the Port sack.

It’s not until the next day that the two roll into the Oyster Farm. The Parasite was moving impatiently, all fidgety and smiling as I watch the car pull up. He bursts from the door like an escaping cat, in his hands he’s holding these horns and yabbering on at a speed I can hardly understand, or care to actually listen. I smile and greet Shane as he slowly makes his way from the car.

“Did you have a good drive” I ask, directing the questions towards Shane. He shakes his head disapprovingly.
“Never again”, he exhales, “Not with Zac”.
I look at the Parasite and he’s excited with this statement.
“Feel the bump on my head”, he exclaims as wildly as he had been talking just before. He put’s his hand against the back of his head and feels at an apparent swollen bump. I don’t bother.
“I had to hit him across the head to shut him up”, Shane explains, “He got so drunk last night and he wouldn’t shut up”.
“Yeah and I can’t remember it”, the Parasite interjects then laughs some more and adds, “What did you hit me with?”
“A metal bar”, Shane smiles.
“Fuck”, the Parasite exclaims, ‘No wonder it hurts so much!”.

This makes Shane’s grin grow a little broader and he laughes a little under his breath.

“Well welcome to the farm”, I say, “Make yourselves at home. I have some work to finish off, won’t take long”.

As I turned to head back to work they were arguing about some minor indifference. This was going to be one hell of a weekend, I thought to myself and walked away.

Town Beach - A Weekend Back Home

2009-03-13T11:42:00.007+09:00

Opening my eye’s slightly I could just make-out the silhouette of a man standing over me. Paying little attention I shifted my body some more and dig deeper into the warm moulded beach sand below. Two empty pizza boxes providing all necessary protection, splayd over my filthy stained jean. The shadow. It was Parasite, I presume - moving around doing something. Maybe he's still fishing with Dan. To tired to care, I didn’t take much notice and drifted off again into a heavy exhausted daze. Sleep wasn’t coming on exactly, just a heaviness from the tips of my toes right up to the lashes below my brow.

The water lapped gently against the sandy shore, the open air was still, warm, snug and it was about midnight when I had decided to turn in. That is, right after a big feed of the aforementioned pizza which seemingly filled that large, self induced bottomless pit which formed somewhere deep within my little left toe.

‘What a great day’ I decide as my body got heavier and I breathed out, sinking deeper and deeper until at one stage I figured I was under ground but wouldn’t move, wouldn’t panic.. Just drift, drift deeper, drift further, drift off somewhere into the abyss and I would smile contentedly.

They say too much of a good thing is a bad thing but whoever said that obviously never slept on a beach with a tummy full of delicious golden oat soda and a head lightened by a little friendly smoke. Just lying around - take it all in, the smell of the sea, just still and lazy. No point in moving, theres nothing more than the 'here’s and now’s'. Nothing else to discover other than maybe the pleasant wisp of the salty sea goodness and the feel of the sand between my toes and I slept a deep sleep.

Sometime in the early morning, when it was still a little dark, I awoke slightly cool. The beach was deserted other than a small tent pitched a few yards away. Parasite was sound asleep inside, tucked in his sleeping bag. I think he was sucking on his thumb but I couldn’t tell. Gathering up the two full pizza boxes which I had been using as a pillow I made my way up the beach to the resort in hope of finding some water. I tried opening the rear door which overlooked the beach. No luck. So I snuck around looking for a tap, my mouth was dryer than a bitumen road on a stinking hot day and I made an audible ‘nic’ sound as I drew my tongue from the top of my mouth.

‘Click’, the door sounded, I looked up and Dan smiled. He had just gone to bed, he told me.

“You can sleep on the couch” he mumbled dazedly so I walked in and lay on the stiff suede lounge. He stumbled a little then headed up to the next room where his newly-wed wife was waiting in the room? Maybe she was already asleep, I decided. The lousy couch was uncomfortable so I got up and found some water. Gulping a few times from the container I then brought it to where I was resting. I woke up intermittently, trying to get comfortable but at first light I got up frustrated and went outside.

The sun was warming up the sky. Shades of blue drifted lazily around me and I watched some early morning swimmers paddle through the cool silent ocean. Finding a more comfortable day lounge, I stretched out and drunk some more water while observing the scene. One of those magic mornings where you ponder the definition of heaven, and think, no, decide, that this would probably be it…

Feeling drawn towards the beach I started thinking maybe I could live in that warm sand and just eat fresh fish with a small portion of rice. It was always the dream and I was happy. Town Beach is the name of this particular strip. Dad used to bring me down here when I was young, but these days things had really changed.

It’s another billion dollar project which has reclaimed land, high rise apartments and pompous café’s dwell there now. It's where the latte arrives with a complementary cookie and the man reads his paper bitterly as the coffee cools down.

His wife looks over from across the table and notices she has missed a spot on his shirt and wonders if she should iron it again. Instead she decides not to disrupt him and alternatively pours some water from the bottle into a dish and lays it out for the complacent poodle by his legs. Sitting back she gazes off silently into the marina and admires the morning sun shining through the beautiful boats which are stowed within their locks.

The 'here’s and now’s'. I’m laying here on this day lounge right in the middle of all this. The residences nearby had written to the local paper when this development was first approved by the local council. 'A town beach with no facilities' they exclaimed, other than those provided at the hotel which bounds up casting shadows across the crisp white beach. Facilities we must mention are 'exclusive to those staying at the hotel' it went on to say and the old lady with her dogs now feels forlorn with the whole situation and the council planners busy themselves at some award ceremony.

Watching on I catch Parasite walking up the beach towards his car, tent in hand and Dan’s inside getting a drink. I look around at the ocean with it’s gentle morning haze thinking how lucky I am being here right now and how tomorrow this time I’ll be on my way back to Darwin… Darwin… It’s only been two day’s and I’m missing that crew already. Good people with all sorts of stories and I’m loving life. So is Dan and Parasite and we’re saying goodbye once again. I decide too hell with all this - I’m happy to be leaving.

Thanks Dan for a great day and especially thanks for asking me to be your groomsman. Best of luck to you and the missus!

(Sorry guys I drifted off track with the Carnarvon stuff, it’s a couple of years out of date but I wanted to get some stuff down, and I have heaps more too go. Anyway this is the latest going ons, hope you enjoyed it)

Midwest Depravity - Carnarvon Part 2

2009-03-03T08:07:00.004+09:00

Colby was out cooking up some toast in the kitchenette when I awoke. The air was already hot in the small donga accommodation and I threw off the single sheet restlessly. It is the only protection from the busted up fan which spins methodically throughout the night.

6:00am…

Really was it that early? I stood up tiredly and then sat down again in front of the television for a few minutes of Morning Sunrise. Meanwhile Colby fixed up a strong caffeine mix for the both of us. Most of the time since first arriving Colby would have already had the first pump running before I even thought about waking up, but somewhere, somehow I had ended up on the payroll.

The morning felt soft and warm against my bare skin as I walked outside. There is nothing better than waking up dressed in a loose pair of board shorts, so natural, so normal and just so right. It reminded me of those early mornings during the school summer holidays, all excitement, anticipating another long day on the sandy white beach.

The Oyster farm, most commonly described as the bum-fuck rat warren is located on a small tributary to the south which drains into the Carnarvon basin. Surrounding the oasis of dishevelled structures is kilometres of dusty infertile salt marsh, baked crisp on top. The drive way and overhead powerlines, the only form of infrastructure comes in from the north side off Oyster Creek Road. The road is a skinny compacted gravel path which regularly floods when the tide comes in.

This is certainly a contrast to the cushy office job back down south, I thought as I looked out over the makeshift boardwalk. The knife was in my small canvas fishing bag down near the water and I pulled it out as I made my way to the crude pontoon. Some nights I would sleep out here, in my comfortable swag and just look out into the peacefulness of the Midwestern stars. Last night though, I slept inside.

Through the early ray of light I could just make out the fishing line, the loose couple of rolls I had left unravelled were gone and the line was taught. Always a good sign something had taken the bait I’d left out the night before. Reaching down I pulled swiftly at the line to make sure I had something on the other end, dead weight. I pulled again and the line restricted around my supple fingers. Placing the line back down I looked into the murky waters as the tide rushed in. The line pulled increasingly tight again. After a brief moment I reached down and drew at the line once more, this time with as much strength as I could muster. It was moving, but hellishly slow. I struggled as it bit into my fingers. It hurt, but in a good way.

The blood started pumping though my body - adrenaline. Hell, I wonder what it could be? It didn’t take long to find out unfortunately. The end of the log poked out of the water first and I looked at it thinking how unusually heavy it was. I grabbed at it the first chance I got, hoping to take some weight off my hands. It was rotten and crumbled in my fingers, I wrestled at it some more, grabbing at it, finally getting a good hold and I struggled at the mammoth log to bring it aboard. The line was intertwined and looked like an ornate dream catcher weaved by some spiritual wizard, I traced the line, and there on the end was a nice size spotted cod.

You beauty, I thought to myself and quickly detached it from the hook. Leaving the log on the deck I scuffled off the dodgy pontoon and up to the feeble accommodation. Colby was just walking out to start the day when I showed him the catch.

“Is it still alive?” He asked disinterested.
“Yeah, but it’s been on the line all night”, I replied, holding it out fondly.
“Well, chuck it in the pond” and with that he walked off into the shed and disappeared around the corner.

I could tell he was keen to get started and I knew he didn’t want me to be far behind, though he never said anything. I shimmied between the store and the donga, through the work shop and out of the garage to the ponds. There was a series of ponds which held a variety of fish, I dropped it in the first and watched it dart off into the shallow weed. The Mangrove Jack drifted out and looked up at me in anticipation of some food.

Better get to work I thought mindfully.

Midwest Depravity - Carnarvon Part 1

2009-02-27T15:11:00.004+09:00

It’s been some time on the road; I’ve been drifting in and out of a restless slumber, the scenery slowly changes, getting sparse now. Colby motions his head conscious to the music blasting from the stereo, keeping his eye’s fixated on the long straight barren job ahead.. Kyriss’s heavy percussions vibrate through the small cab of the diesel Hilux 4x4. A painstaking slow piece of Japanese engineering by any standard, but today I don’t feel in a rush, and I drift off again.

The rig starts to slow down some hours after departing Perth City, and I open my eyes to see what’s going on as the change of rhythm disturbs my sleep. It’s a lot lighter outside I notice then when we first departed.

“Piss stop chief”, Colby announces as he swings out the door and proceeds to piss just off the side of the hot desolate road edge. I’m still busy clumsily finding my dick, when he’s already jumping back in the cab..

“Time to go chief”, He informs me, “we got’ a keep moving if we wanna get there today”.

I cut the piss short, and shake twice. Any more then two shakes is just plain fooling around and I don’t have time to be fooling around apparently. I’m not so sure that’s a good thing though as I feel a dribble of urine run down the side of my leg. Some friendly ants have also decided to claw up my feet, better keep moving. The Ute’s already rolling when I turn back around and I quickly clamber along the sharp stone under foot making short painful steps, while struggling to climb the tall awkward side of the moving car.

“You have any water?” I ask weakly
“Yeah sure do chief”, he say’s as he gazes at me with a ‘why haven’t you got your own bottle of water’ look...
“You can use the bottle on the floor”.

Colby points to a beaten up old juice container which looks like something his grand-dad might have found on the side of the road during the great depression. I gather he’s fond of the old bottle. Inside is what I can only describe as a somewhat translucent liquid which swishes around as the car jerks violently on rough bumps of the road, which is many. It’s hard to tell though if it’s because of the beat-up exterior of the bottle or just the opaque bits that float within that make it so unclear. I twist the lid, and the smell hit’s me instantly, old wet boots have been hidden inside I reckon, and I peer down the nozzle to be sure they’re not still there.

“Toughen up princess” Colby jokes noticing my discomfort and I notice he’s got a big grim thick across his face. I look at him, then the bottle and back at him… His grin growing bigger at my hesitation, and he’s bursting for a laugh.
“It’s just water” he stresses, knowing I’m desperate as hell to squish this hangover and have little other options.

Looking concerned at the bottle I take a swig trying my best not to come in contact with the area around the lid, it’s absolutely vile and the smell and the taste are even more rotten. Looking around the cab I try to find somewhere to regurgitate the mess, but I’m stuck. The car pulls along at a steady 90 clicks, I’ll have to keep it down I decide as I do my best to swallow it.

Colby chuckles, shakes his head and settles his eye’s on the road again.

“What the hell is wrong with this bottle”, I blurt as I look at its trashed exterior, “why don’t you get a new one”.
“Arh well, ‘ya know”, He starts, “I like seeing how long I can use the same bottle for”.
“Have you ever cleaned it”, I ask intrigued.
“Arrrh no”, he turns and gives me a slightly queer look.

Shaking my head I look at him and he laughs a little more and then it all goes quiet again except for the sound of the road under the heavy wheels, and the gentle clutter of a smoking 2.8 litre diesel. This is good driving country.

I notice a little later down the road, somewhere around the other side of Geraldton he has another, much cleaner bottle in which he drinks from. He hints a snide smile every time he brings it to his lips as I watch inconspicuously. I sense I’m sucking at the emergency radiator water, but I’m grateful for anything and keep quiet. Anyway I’ll buy drink at the next road house.

The next road house, on the West Coast is generally spaced about every two hundred odd clicks up the road, but when you’re hauling the Northern Coast Highway you try stretching the stops to a minimum… You’ll run a reserve tank seventy to one hundred odd clicks if it means you don’t need to stop so soon, and even sometimes you’ll keep a spare twenty litres on the back in a jerry as insurance. In this case, where about six hundred kilometres north when the tired old Ute finally comes to a deserving stop. My legs are aching from the tight space inside the cab and we still have roughly four hundred to go. It’s still mid morning I think to myself, looks like we’re making good time.

Colby jumped out and is filling the car by the time I’ve found my wallet in the bag on the back seat.

“Come’ on chief” he says as he makes for the door, “time to get moving”.
I’m still busily looking through the selection of beverages in the road house. I quickly snatch up a bottle of Powerade and some water, throw the money on the counter and rush after the Ute which is already rolling.

It’s been awhile sense I came this far north. We used to make the trip regularly with folks when I was younger on fishing trips and what not. Mainly we went fishing around here. Turn off at Northampton we would head to the coast at Horrick’s Beach. Big choppers the usual fair from the beach, but there was one time we snatched a decent Mulloway.

Since starting full time work though, four odd years ago I’d only been up here once, and that was early on in the piece. Work, I thought about it as I watch the scene go by through the dirty window. The land turned red, and the tree’s smaller. Feral goats chewed leisurely at short clippings as roo’s lay lifeless on the hot bitumen road. Lizards and snakes all kinds of reptiles licked profusely at the air, and the big fat wheels speed on past with an audible ‘whoosh’, and then it fell into a ghostly silence, just the air, the dirt and the sparse surroundings.

I’d started work back home and now the first time in four years I was finally free from the tiresome obligations. It was a good feeling, and I was glad to be doing this trip with Colby. He worked up here in an Oyster farm, he told me. Growing pearl oyster spat for exportation to some other farms out at Sexmouth Gulf as he affectionately referred to it, and another at Monte Bello Islands.

He’d be working the next two weeks, and I’d keep out of his hair and just explore the surrounding salt flats and creek system we agreed. Might head out to scratch up some Cray’s (Clawless lobster) off the Quobba coast we also decided. It really all depended on the weather though.

“It’s always hot”, Colby informs me, “It was forty eight the other day”.
“It was almost to hot to work, so Richard the lazy prick’s hiding in the lab and I’m out sweating my box off”
“Had to get a spare tank, fill ‘er up with water and sit around drinking Corries” he continues.

I smiled reaffirming his toughness… No doubt he’s a workaholic. Actually he is the complete opposite to me. He is dark, well tanned, fit and generally healthy. His cloths are old and well worn. Holes in his favourite ‘wife beater’s’ match his equally holey double pluggers. I on the other hand was fat. Swollen from endless nights boozing in dingy lit pubs well into the late hours of the night and I couldn’t even tell you the last time I did a decent days work. This is what I liked about Colby, his outgoing ‘nowness’ persona - rip the bull by the horns and tackle the motha’ to the ground even if it was just a show. He had good intentions.

The day drifted into pm, and the ground got hotter and the shrubs shorter. Not much out here other then an open road and desert for as far as you cared to look. Arid nothingness.. Just you and the desert to think of what ever you feel like thinking about. This is usually just thoughtful nothingness itself. It’s beautiful beyond description.

It was around 3:00pm when we finally hit Carnarvon, turning off onto the HMAS Sydney Memorial Drive.. Plaques lined both sides of the road every few meter’s and above every couple of plaques loomed a tall coconut palm.

“The Council’s out here planting new tree’s all the time”, he asserts, “But they usually just die in the heat and lack of water”.

It would be a glorious drive I think to myself, if all the palms were healthy and green and there was some grass to cover the relentlessly dry red dust and dirt, but like all of Carnarvon as I would soon learn, fails to be anything more then a dreary old dirty fishing town.

Half way up the road, Colby stoves the wheel into a quick left turn sending the Ute sliding out across the gravel road. He smiles,

“We’re here”, he confirms, “It’s just up ahead, eight clicks”

I look down the open dirt track, there is nothing other then small shrub on either side of the road and an over head powerlines which lead off into the distance..

“We’re here” I mutter softly taking it all in…

There is nothing.

Did You Pack The Moral Intuition - Part 2

2009-02-25T09:08:00.001+09:00

“I need a job, can you get me a job?”, Carly blurts excitedly. The pollie looks up at the fine young lass dolefully. Her big wide smile smothers the situation; the look in her eyes is carefree and simple. She picks up a fresh beer and takes another long mindful sip as the Pollie and I watch on.
“Yeah I might be able to get you a job”, he lied
“She’s just finished a journo/PR degree ‘ya know”, I helpfully interject seeing that she’s given him nothing other then an infectious smile to work with,
“Oh in that case I can definitely get you a job”. His head straightened –he laughed a big booming laugh – and looked back at her approvingly.

I quickly grasp the phone from my pocket and slam down on the keys awkwardly. It’s frustratingly difficult while skilfully juggling the phone as well as the delicious soda.

“Quick update, you never know what will happen in Darwin. Be serious, we could get you a serious job out of it. I’m a bluff… that’s how I get jobs… It’s never about skill!”

But the message came through late, I caught onto the conversation again and Carly was apologizing.

“I’ll only be here a short time, we’re going to South East Asia”, she announces cheerfully. Her pale skin amongst these tall tanned brutes make her look so small and fragile, eloquent in some strange way, like a freshly opened flower on a cold morning mist, just moments away from the farmers open blade slasher.

“Oh, I’m drunk. Please help me. I’m trying”, her reply reads.

“Haha just bullshit and ask for a job. It’s like we found a gold deposit which is untouched. It’s an easy place to find riches in places you would have thought were worthless”.

I’m obviously very drunk by this stage, but the words seem right. I’ve watched this happen in West Oz, it’s everyone’s game. Riches ready for the plucking.

The pollie however has read the play and we lose his interest. He tells us he would be able to find something if she wanted to stay longer but it’s a missed opportunity I gather.

Meanwhile Heath has shuffled off in a booze induced fantasy, thinking that he’ll beat old one-eyed pirate tooth at a game of darts. A game ‘old mate’ has been mastering for the past few hours, and before long he’s bailing me up.

“Where’s your mate gone?” Crusty one-eye interrupts “He owes me my money”

His body moves awkwardly, one patch affixed across his eye and a tanned leathery completion dressed in smudged tattoos of years before which probably involved many a dart board. What sort of stories he’ll be able to share after some turps, I’m left wondering.

“I think he’s gone to get the money. He’ll be back shortly” I inform the crazy, He looks at me awhile as if not to believe my humble words then grunts doubtfully and moves off.

Truthfully, I have no idea and what more, why does he owe him money and how much? I survey the balcony and notice the pollies also gone, slinked off into the filthy corners of the night I guess. Crap, just my luck, stuck here with the old one-eyed loon…

Carly and I sit around chatting for a little while – its gibberish. I want her to understand the logic behind serious jobs; it’s about not being serious… Take the money and run with it. You make it through three months, they realise your useless at worst and it’s too late, cashed up, fly away. On the other hand, she just wants me to realise she’s 20, adorable and trying to have some fun. Maybe the West Oz has got the better of me and now I’m stuck in this uncontrollable loop of stupidity, like an electric wired cupcake – mmm delicious cupcake. Heath sneaks in and taps me on the shoulder.

“Man I got to win this hundred bucks back, I can win this hundred back”.
“It’s as good as gone mate”, I reply stiffly “You’re not thinking right and your boong drunk”.

On que as if listening to our conversation, old patchworks waddles over to the rotting wooden bench where we sit…

“You want another game”, he gurgles raucously.
“I’ll let you take his hundred” I tell ‘old mate’, “But I’m not going to let you take another”. The one-eye two legged pirate chuckles calmly.
Heaths eyes are fixed on his opposition. His testosterone bubbles through his veins like a mad scientist’s magic concoction over a Bunsen burner.

“Lets go to the pub” Carly suggests carefully, using some of that retarded womanly way of persuasion of hers. It breaks his train wreck of thought, he hands old one-eye the coin in a vice like shake and then turns to Carly smiling delighted.

“Let’s go”

Did You Pack The Moral Intuition

2009-02-18T08:49:00.003+09:00

They could not possibly begin to understand what was before them - advanced dance moves which plagued the DF; control, mystery, delight, like nothing you or I have ever seen, even on the Madonna channel. Outraged with jealously, the baboons grabbed me by the shirt.

“Time for you to leave” and it was.

I stumbled through the rich oak encrusted doors and onto the hard barren kerb. While mumbling something back in protest.. A night in Darwin always seems to end this way and I couldn’t expect the first to let me down. Being ejected from the seediest of pubs on Mitchell Street, by all indicators, is just another good night out. In the morning maybe I’ll sit quietly, a little ashamed of my Bogan ways and wonder what made me do those fabulous moves I did. But what the hell, this is Darwin. The last frontier, they say.

It all started some time after our arrival on the first day. The Drop Dead Redhead and I set off from the airport in a flurry of excited anticipation - similar to dogs wetting the carpet, tail wagging goodness, ‘ya know?.

“The beer is so cheap” I exclaiming avidly despite discussing, just earlier, our vain plan to go sober awhile, save some money and get decent rigs about us.

We stowed the bags at the musky backpackers. First things first, our nerves fried snap-crackle-pop. For Carly this was the first decent trip into the alluring unknown and, well for me, I just have a fear and inability to use airplane facilities. I was cross-legged, just around the time little creamy first saw those big bloody bull, cross the river miss. Yes, it was time to hit the concrete jungle of shame and indulge in some frosty golden beverages of seeming satisfaction. Iron these suckers out and get a feel for the place.

It’s a good heat up here in Darwin, the kind which encourages a steady thirst from the pores, as the sweat rolls to the tips of your fingers, the glass attains your dry parched lips… It started slowly, a pint every now and then between the usual City introduction.

‘This is…’, I exclaimed dapperly, Carly for a brief moment glanced at the monument slightly disinterested.
‘Oh yeah’, she exhaled under a heavy warm breath
‘And this is…’, I continued
‘Oh’, she moaned drearily. Her cheeks were flush with heat.
‘Wanna get another beer?’,
‘Hell YES!’.

By mid afternoon we had settled around the bar atop our backpackers. A few swimming pools surrounded it, wide screen TV, pool table, kitchen and the obligatory hot bodied tourist strapped in nothing more then a thin fragile strip of fascination. It’s a great place to be getting loaded on $8.50 jugs of oat soda, I thought while taking another large mindful gulp.

We had polished four jugs, when a friend of mine crawled in, a head full of booze and emotion – the missus has gone stray he explained. With him was a daggy looking tag along. He’s a pollie, going for the Chief Minister position, met him tonight. The guy beamed a thick proud drunken smile across the table.

“Wow that’s pretty cool” I lied.

He just looked like another phoney, drinking phoney beer and make outrageously phoney claims, but then this is what Darwin is. I smiled back. He dashed off and moments later returned with three new jugs and yesterday’s junk paper. He poured some beers and cheered as if knowing, he returned my smile. Without saying much else he opened the paper to page three, just sort of pointed and grunted. It read ‘Politics Is Boring Hey Mister xxx’. On the page was a mug shot, balanced by an equally huge screen shot from his Facebook page with little writing… I wonder if Krudd has a Facebook page. Drop Dead Redhead trawled though the fine print, a freshly accomplished student, a head full of booze, a shamble of a newspaper and some sort of hairy politician big heading himself. This was sure going to be fun.

Carly busily sieved through the slap-dash horridness that blemished the pages of the Territory’s only paper.

“This isn’t reporting, this is Facebook”, she exclaimed, horrified.

Everyone broke into a laugh, even her, but she caught herself and this annoyed her even more. It was such a terribly desperate scene for a drunken frenzy. Something as pure and innocent and believing as Carly, subjected to this non-sense in such a raw and ugly form. This is a newspaper which failed to be anything more than a piece of paper and a pollie who appeared to be nothing more than a drunk drongo… This is Darwin, a place which does not need to hide it’s ridiculousness in mass media hype, and its pollies need not attend decadent dinner parties…

To be continued…

It Was Time To Move

2009-02-09T15:07:00.005+09:00

It was late afternoon when the hum of the computers had faded and the irritating buzz of the telephones had become lifeless and unthreatening, only the gentle sound of keys being stoked by those dedicated few who could be heard – seniors, co-ordinators and managers, the ones who seemed to somehow appreciate responsibility. I looked around my desk, piles of paper, junk which I failed to discard and an assortment of coloured highlighters. My feet were cramped in the small space where I had hidden files of work that wouldn’t fit on my narrow desk. I was uncomfortable, irritated and ready to move. The Boss was still in. I had been watching his office keenly anticipating a practical time for my announcement.

“I’ve decided I’m leaving” his eye’s thinned out suspiciously.. “Where to now” he asked genuinely. “I think I’ll head to Darwin a little while before my Thailand trip” I lied, I knew exactly when I’d be leaving, we had already booked the tickets two nights ago, when Carly, the Drop Dead Redhead travel companion called “You ready to book, I have the details on the screen”, “yeah sure” I replied, “Do you want my credit card details and we can hook it up now”. And that was that. This idea, this crazy stupid idea of just leaving, midnight express, all happened one day when my brain once again failed to differentiate between reality and my dreams, a sad yet real truth. I called Carly during a routine building inspection. Her voice was full of anxiety as she contemplated the offer I put forward, “Don’t worry about work, something will come up, and you said you wanted to leave the job you already had”, I must have been convincing. The Boss looked at me contemplatively.. “It’s no wonder they thought you were a half-cast. Going walk-about all the time, as it pleases you”. It wasn’t in a harsh tone, but I knew I wasn’t building concrete relationships with the City and I tried to ignore the blaringly obvious fact that it hadn’t even been two months sense I started working here. I had offered a genuine commitment of up to six months.. ‘Up to’ I argued in my head as I left the office, worldly belongings strapped across my shoulder.

The Whisper On The Street

2009-02-06T11:39:00.004+09:00

Parasite and I enjoying some midnight coconut, Darwin style

“Hey brother, you’re a half cast aren’t ya, you understand?” the black fella, dressed in a dirty flimsy polo shirt, tight jeans and the obligatory bare feet asks intriguingly. I laugh acknowledging his observations and smile. “No, he’s not a brother, he’s a white boy” The other black fella condemns. He is short but lanky, dressed much like the first guy, except for one unmistakable feature – a small ghetto blaster perched aloft his thin bony shoulder blade. “Are you a half cast brother?” he then follows on from his own statement.. I turn to him, who for clarity purposes is blacker then the night.. “Look at me, I got a pretty good tan” I let the words linger while holding out my arm, they both look at it slightly perplexed, “I’m almost as black as you” I jokingly confirm. The two burst into a cheerful snigger.. “You aren’t as black as me” he protests between his curious laugh, holding out his arm against mine in comparison. It’s well.. Black against white! They then both burst into another round of infectious cackles. Anyone who has spent some time with the Aboriginal people will know they have a wicked sense of humour, particularly the men and these fella’s dig this joke!

Pulling himself together the first guy introduces himself, “I’m Abraham Lincoln, but without the Lincoln” I shake hands with him, as do Sean and Jen. The other fella without missing a beat infers that he is fact, Snoop Dog. “I thought Snoop Dog was much taller?” Sean interrupts. “Na brother, that’s my cousin” a dirty great big grin spreads thick across his black leathery face, “You are gorgeous” turning his attention to Jen, reaching in, gives her a sneaky kiss across her delicate neck. She looks to Sean and I with the uneasiest expression. We smile back unanimously, this time laughing ourselves. From my understanding this is the first time Jen, a back packer from New York City has ever had any close interaction with some black Australians. Most white Australian females would have slapped five shades of race out-of-him for such a bold manoeuvre an I think Snoop knows this. Sean, Jen’s Sydney based boyfriend finds all this totally bemusing, and again our new friends burst into a fit of laughter.

“You got two dollars for a brother” Abraham asks politely.. I should have expected this question was coming, but today I wasn’t ready for it. I used to feel offended by it, as if somehow it was intrusive by nature and would leave me feeling uncomfortable with the whole situation. In actual fact I’ve grown up with it, white or black. When we were younger it meant imminent danger, usually a refusal to comply would end with fists being thrown, blood lips and a good story to tell the boys.. But these older fella’s aren’t no threat; they are good people, leading a cheap scabby existence – dharma bums by pure instinct. I pulled all the change I had, and Abraham accepted thankfully, meanwhile turning his back to the fuzz paddy that just rolled in ready for the arrest.

You see it all started when we crossed the bridge just out of the Perth train station, opposite the Perth Art Centre sat a lone middle aged Aboriginal man, bare skinned expect for the well worn set of blue jeans which hung loosely around his thin frame.. Drunk presumably. Two eager young policemen stood over him doing there business, a filthy trade to get mixed up with I would say. We passed apprehensively as if ignoring the situation, better off out of site, out of mind type of approach is what we seem to be taking.. The same approach most City Mayors seem to have taken when it involves our indigenous heritage, preferring the non-confronting wall posters and delicate dot paintings which plaster arcade walls and shop frontages which sell chap imitation didgeridoos – usually attended by some entrepreneurial Asian shop keeper with eye for the market.

Twenty odd yards back were Abraham and Snoop Dog dancing to the rhythmic beat of “Hammer Time” which blared from the small ghetto blaster. Was this in protest to the evil which lurked around them, I’m unsure? But what I am sure about is that I’m kinda drunk and I love this song! I jumped in without hesitation and started dancing to the surprise of Sean and Jen, who then laughed at my ridiculousness as they watched on.. Maybe it was my flawless moves on the makeshift D.F. which confused them into thinking that I was half cast, but more likely it was the fact that I was prepared to listen, something I gather is not the priority of others. I had heard all this before, back up in Darwin drinking beers on the foreshore with Sandy and Paul, two natives from Groote Eylandt.. “It ain’t safe for us to be drinking here” they told Parasite and I, “We’ll get arrested”, “its okay for you guys though” they continued. Somehow a law was passed recently that stopped the consumption of alcohol and/or loitering in popular tourist locations. Confusingly this only ever really applied to the native indigenous, “They moved us out of our camp too”, (Which was well hidden in the bushes, precariously hung atop the sea cliffs a few hundred meter’s from where we sat. Parasite later found this camp and spent a night curled up in the black garbage bags amongst the numerus amount of empty flagons, but that’s a story for another time) , and relocated us too the Mangroves out the back of Fanny Bay, with the mud, the persistent sand flies and all other god awful creatures. The story was similar, apparently Abraham’s brother had been warned to move on, and as the story goes the cops followed, hassling him along the way, they then decided to arrest him for whatever.. loitering after a move on notice had been issued. How much of the story is true I’ll never know, but what is clear is there power to confront this matter.. Sweet f*#k all – cop it on the chin – and just don’t forget you are free to do what ever I say. “This is racism!” Abraham echoed it the exact same way I heard Paul say it, over 3000 kilometres away.

Florence Falls - Litchfield National Park

Yes Darwin.. I'm ready to go back.

The Face of Western Australia

2009-02-03T13:03:00.002+09:00

And in the end all there was left to do was sit back and just accept it for what it was. I couldn’t change it, or be sad about it, just embrace it. I pulled the cash from my wallet and handed the thirty odd dollars over the bar – this won’t last forever I thought to myself – all this horrific price gouging – you filthy swine, the ruthless hand of life has already struck and you beg, and sweat and stay awake at night.. I laughed at your pained expressions as you awkwardly steered your pride helplessly into its seaside docks. Your flabby neck-chin floating around in the empty space like a chickens wattles, you bellowed orders to your princess wife who struggled with those heavy ropes – and the kids cringed and looked to sea – you raised your voice again, a meek cover for your incompetence, you coward, you fool. You are a con-man, and now you’ve become the one who is conned. You did this to yourself, sickly nights awake and long day’s sweating as you shouted empty orders at those below you – forever you wanted to just please your wife, it’s what you both thought you wanted. A new house, a new car, furnishings with chrome and leather finish, timber floors, spare bedrooms – then she complained it was all to much – and the kids where a handful. She started drinking with some friends, attending lunches during the long days as your face went red and your eye’s bloodshot with stress. And it was all love and happiness – you ate your food by yourself, late and cold as usual. The plasma’s backlight glowed heavy in your vacant face as you slurped down your Crown Larger. She told the kids not to disturb you – but she need not bother as they already knew.

It’s the cost we pay, and you, well you just went too far – like your other friends you all have dazzling big boats now, but deep down you know it’s just a ship wreck. Or maybe you don’t, maybe you are that stupid, you are that deluded, you believe this is it. You spent so much time believing life was gained though material excess, and as did your wife, but now you don’t talk. Well not in depth, like the days when you were young and free. You remember those picnics under the shade of those beautiful peppermint trees don’t you, the soft green grass and the smell of salted morning mist which sprayed up from off the surf.. You do don’t you? You would spend hours talking about everything and anything, even about having kids – smelling the roses you brought her as a gift of sincerity, kindness and love.

Then you hear it, that god awful sound as the gun rail crashes heavily against the muscle encrusted pylon and the fibre glass twists absorbing the forceful impact. And your face is flush with heat, and your words shoot out like poisoned tipped bullets, yes you meant those words for her. “Why didn’t you fend the boat?”, And for a brief minute she looks to the ground with pity in her eye’s, and the ropes almost fall from her hands.. She doesn’t know you anymore, not these words which cut like a finely crafted double edge sword.

The wheel was in your hands…

When did we let all this happen to our beautiful state – ripping the heart from the ground beneath our feet, whoring it off like an unloved daughter so that we could have more.. More of what I ask?

Bookfaced with boredom!

2008-12-31T11:34:00.002+09:00

Reed: Why dont you come to canada! We could do a documentary!

Dewse: Yeah I can see it now..

..........................................................
The Lion's den - Writen by Juice
..........................................................

Narrator: Deep in the alpine forest lives a Lion,

Camera pans in on Reed sleeping deep in the alpine forest, butterfly circles his delicate whiskers then lands, his lip twitches then reed jumps to life growling furiously at the camera.

Reed: Growl... (In French as it has a sexy time essence...)

(note: grammy right here)

Then a young attractive lady named Bon Appétit, clad in nothing but forest leaves enters from the side of the screen, a wind blows up and the leaves rustle leaving a hint of fleshy goodness..

Bon Appétit: Oh Lion, you big.. and powerful creature you.. (Spoken in broken English with French accent)

.........................

"Cut!!" Reed shout's across the set, "Dewsey, it's supposed to be a movie about epic adventure where I can display my uncontained talent, not another sweet porno"..

"You do not like my director" (French accent for aesthetic reasoning) Dewsey shrugs across his directors chair with a complexed expression on his face..

What can he do to turn this movie.. It's brilliant, oh the shame to lose it here.

"It's not that, it's just I was hoping to get good money for my sterling ability as an actooor".. Brenton throws his fist from his chest and into the air.. eye's fixed on the lofty clouds above. (Very emotional)

"Hmmm" Dewsey muses, then thumbs thoughtfully at his luscious moustache.. "Yes Reeeeed, you are right! We need more drama and suspense. I have an idea" and he set's off to the directors van..

Three minutes later...

"Okay" he muster's, "take your places" winking at Bon Appétit, and licking his lips with seeming delight.

............................

"Action"..

Reed: Well thankyou Bon Appétit, I am a very powerful lion. And you..(The words linger in the air like the scent of a freshly plucked rose peddle) You are a beautiful lady with fair skin and wild hair.. Oh but not down there (His eye's glance down), I did see when the wind blow through"

Reed chisels a hansom thick jawed grin at her, Bon Appétit blushes and palms down the leaves shyly.

After the resent downfall of the "Teletubbies", a popular children's show on prime time television,Tinky Winky, a once famous actor became suddenly unemployed.. Longing to break into the world of movies and show his more masculine persona, he was ecstatic to hear a small new Canadian adventure film was interested in him for a role. He was later reported saying in a interview with Oprah: "I've watched Rambo a couple of times, It's probably my favourite movie at the moment. And you know what Oprah, one morning after a heavy night snorting eight balls off a cheap naked ladies chest, I looked into the mirror... I didn't see Tinky Winky anymore.. No I saw a new breed of Tinky Winky now, a stronger, a tougher and basically better freak man.. A quickly painted myself in blue and pink fluoro SP30+ zinc which I had lying around in the bathroom. A red hanky tied neatly around my head matched my blood shot eye's and I screamed into the mirror..Adrianne!!!!. Instantly I knew I had what it would take".

Tinky winke (Who is sporting a Flynn style pencil Moe) enters the screen from the left, large deadly sword drawn in his right fist.

Tinky Winky: This women is mine you see, you have no right taking her from me!

The sword waves dangerously in front of Reed..

Reed: Does this coward with a sword speak thy truth fair lady with the perkiest of breasts?

Bon Appétit: Unfortunately this is true strong lion, I was a present from his crew.

Reed: F*#K

Tinky Winky: Prepare to reach thy end oh dearest Lion fool..

Reed: You twat!, I have no use in fighting you, you are but weak and fleshy, an easy meal!

Tinky Winky: But I'th have thy sword laced in LSD... You sir.. Are no match for me!

Tinky Winky swings violently at reed's head narrowly missing his handsomely huge square jaw and jams the blade hard against the tree..Bon Appétit gulps loudly, Reed moves with hast, licking the flat of the blade profusely.. then, with precision gives Tinky Winky a round house kick to the face, Knocking him, and his dangerously sharp sword to the ground..

Reed: Hahahahahahaha (The laugh grumbles from deep inside his belly) Quiet contrair dear good sir you are but... no match for me!

Reed then turn's to face Bon Appétit..

Reed: Dearest gentle women, who has'th come to thy for reason I do believe.. May I fondle thy sweet breast..

Bon Appétit's eye's widen in shock.. she points timidly with her finger..

Bon Appétit: Heee...Heee... Has thy gun good Lion

Reed turns..

Reed: Oh F*#K!

Tinky Winky: You don't think it would'th been thy easy do you?

Reed: Well for a second there.. I did!

Tinky Winky: Hahahaha

Then out of no-where, well no not no-where, Out of the pond close-by, leaps a HUGE Great White Shark.... And on it's back, covered in nothing more then a flimsy pink bikini rides Johnston! The Shark loops forward through the air doing an impressive full revolution, then comes down on Tinky Winky head first and in one swift bite, swollows him whole!

Johnston: Gooday'th guys

Reed: Hahahah

Bon Appétit: Hahaha

Johnston: Hahahah

Narrator: And they lived happily ever after..

..............................

The curtain's close and the crowd cheers wildly, reverbarating thoughout the great hall... "It's a master piece" they shout, "Pure genius" another is heard.

.............................

And thats that..

Dewse

The Salmon Shack - Indecent dealings

2008-12-23T16:49:00.003+09:00

It was an uncomfortable deranged kind of scene which had a foul odour that lingered long after the joke tasted sour. Down near the beach perched precariously amongst a tall stand of peppermints stood an old decrepit shack, red orca in colour and dilapidated by sight.. Some old broken cars which were parked out front had hidden the windows, and the untamed tree’s blocked out the rest. The door, a broken flywire and lockless gig was located at the side of the house, under a rusty, dainty, two column carport which ever threatened to fall away.. We would hang off the perlin’s to test its strength “This isn’t too bad” I would protest in its defence, “could lift a motor off’a here”, pointing to the centre truss as if to direct the nearest fool to set up a block and tackle in anticipation. Inside there was always a bunch of seedy degenerate drunken types, tattoos, big dreams, swollen heads and little, if any, motivation. They sat up against the wretched free couches which when you sat against the armrest it would stick to your skin like a strong napalm concoction, locking you in for a hell of a ride, we joked amongst ourselves when the girls weren’t present. Who cared we all thought, and we didn’t. We didn’t care for much really except for just maybe, cheap booze and that distinguished unforgettable stench of even cheaper women. It was always like this. “Welcome to the Salmon Shack” I would cheerfully announce through my wine stained teeth, “I hope you enjoy your stay, I know we will” concluding, as if by suggesting a more sinister outcome. I knew this was the Salmon Shack, everyone did. It was written on the back of an old beer carton box and hung loosely across the door. Salmon Hunters!!

Sunday mornings were useless as long as I could care to remember, and today wasn’t any different. I woke with that instant intangible feeling my head was still bouncing to the beat to the music from the night before, long after it had been switched off.. Swiftly and accurately, as if practised many times before, I reached over grudgingly hoping to scoff another handful of pills. The packet of painkillers was empty, just my f*$king luck I thought. Under the bed I rattled through some empty beer bottles from weeks before, clashing and clanging amongst each other infuriating my lousy head until eventually I found what I was looking for, an old green tinged plastic water container full of stale content. It did little for the pain as I brought it firmly against my lips chugging its tasteless fluid. Large drops spilled down across my chest, caught first by last nights stained white button up shirt which I still wore, then dripped carelessly down onto my uncovered mattress. I gasped for some air and then fell back, head against my yellow marked pillow and lonely double bed. I felt weaker now and fell back into another shallow sleep.

It took some time before things came to life but by midday our festivities were in full swing, the hustle of woken disgruntle drunkards carrying on about some fight and strong fists. I could hear the sound of unfamiliar voices calling down the short corridor which wasn't all that unusual, and I shrugged it off as if to get another minute or two of rest. I remember one time when I was drunk and alone on a dark and cold night, casually stumbling home from the Pub I approached the top corner of the street. In the darkness of the night I made out four figures huddled against each other, sitting on the kerb and I greeted them in a chirpy voice which broke the sullen silence. I never thought it be a good idea to ignore someone in the dead of the night, especially when you’re alone. Nothing worse then fearfully looking over your shoulder suspiciously as you had rudely walked on past, not knowing if they had a clenched fist or something worse, prepping to let go of some twisted fear and dreaded anger, cracking on the back of your weak skull for no good reason.. No I’d prefer to know what I’m dealing with even if it’s a crazed goon coming at you full of drink and compounded hate. Anyway tonight was much different, it was three girls and a boy.. Young, I presumed by there story but couldn’t quite make them out in the darkness. “We were getting drunk on the beach, when we were robbed by some guys with a car”. I laughed. They went on telling me about how they couldn’t go home, an intricate lie meant the parent’s house was closed. “Come back” I said, “You can stay at mine for the night”. A little scared I noticed they hesitantly but took up my offer and followed me down the hill then up the steep drive and under the terribly gloomy peppermints. “Don’t worry I’m not a freak” I reassured, but it just made the feeling worse. They stopped in the dark and whispered amongst themselves. I heard one say.. “Should we really be doing this”. Unfortunately I knew they didn’t have much choice and a few moments later they followed me to the door. They came in across the dirty stained brown carpet and sat in the filthy sticky couches. “It’s not much” I assured as I searched though some scattered disc’s which were lying on the floor, “but its better then sleeping on the beach hey”, “Would you guys like a drink”, I put a inappropriate Guttermouth track into the cheap DVD player, then went over to the fridge, stepping through the puddle in the kitchen were it had leaked and pulled out some beer. “No thanks” the boy whispered cowardly, as if answering for them all. “Suit yourself, but there in the fridge if you change your mind” and I opened one, drew hard at the cold firm glass lip then turned back to face them. At first they said little, but soon warmed to me and one of the girls showed some interest in the music. “Do you mind if I change the CD”, “Yeah sure I have some more in the room” And came back with a bag. She was sitting on the floor sieving through the ones already in the room. We got talking, and I drunk some more, and then some more until a tidy stack of bottles were lying on the floor, my eye’s were blurred and I started on some evangelical speech about drink. “You guys shouldn’t be drinking” I enforced loudly with my hazy drunken voice, “How old are you guys anyway?”.. I slurred my way through some serious parenting and bad speech. They nodded in agreement but didn’t say much, they were frozen in bewilderment as some sad delusional degenerate stood up on an old broken soap box dictating some unlearnt message. And I looked back at them, makeup ran down from there scared little faces and they crossed there legs tightly covering up thin cotton underwear which showed beneath short lousy Supre skirts. It turned out they were only fourteen, and I went to bed, grumbling something about wasted booze..

Finally the noise became too much and got out of bed wearily, Craig was resting on the futon at the other end of my room. “Hey man,” and I walked out towards the toilet. It was a small shack and from the hall I could see right into the lounge. Some naked female was busily looking around for her clothes. A sleeping bag pulled up and hung across her beasts. The Parasite was sleeping on the pull out bed beside her, I came out of the toilet without washing my hands, “You should probably see a doctor” I helpfully interjected, and smiled a rotten toothy smile. Twon sniggered from in the kitchen. She was still looking for her underwear with a pained and twisted expression. She hinted a weak smile, a kindly jest. I knew she wouldn’t find her clothes and we’d all sit around and enjoy her feeble efforts. It was The Parasites little game. I taunted her with some more helpful innuendo’s, no time to waste with pleasantries and idol conversation. This girl knew the score when she opted to take a “walk” with The Parasite, and hell, anyway she’d be leaving soon enough. Sometimes they would handed me a number on a scrunched piece of paper to pass on to the Parasite who pretended to be asleep. Other times they just left.

The parasite laughed as he reminisced about the night before. “Oh man, I rooted some fat salmon in the disabled toilets last night! I asked her for a root and she said she would f*^k me for a drink. It cost me a Jacks and coke, what a slut!!..” His voice in a flurry of excitement, “So then I cracked onto the chick behind the counter” Pointing to the now empty space on the couch which was occupied only minutes before.. “Ohhh.. wow.. hoof.., And man did you do a job on her this morning, did you hear her saying that s&%t about me being the joke, all discussed and defensive like she was playing me, And you told her to go see a doctor because you were pretty sure she just got infected with the clap. Ho, f*%k, I was stuffing my face into the pillow trying not to laugh!, Ha, lets head down the beach and go look for some chicks”.. Then he drew a deep breathe, leaping out on the bed naked. The Parasite was full of energy, thin framed, muscular, blonde hair, blue eyes and one serious weapon against the opposite sex.

He is THE Salmon Hunter.

Quite soon we heard the tireless grumble of a V8 coming up the drive. "Oh wait until Daisy hears about this!” he exclaimed all excited, and crashed through the flimsy door. He’d now had a moment to perfect his story, and he was going to lay it on thick. Daisy knew this, as it was the purpose of his early morning visits. Usually he would bound in through the door looking for some remnants of last night’s activities. He was always excitable and energetic in the morning, impatiently waiting for tales of indecent self indulgence and depravity. He was just about to get married, and would joke about living through our eyes. He was the sensible one and he never hung around the shack long.

Later in the afternoon after a tasty feed of indo-me noodles we shambled down the road off towards the beach. Luxury homes loomed up hard against the verge longing for attention from its foreign owners. The foot ball flu wildly through the air bouncing off one of the windows with a terribly loud crack then came hurtling back into the street, and with another quick fumble, it careered off again further down the street hitting a letter box this time flicking up sand everywhere as it came crashing against the road. Bourbon always tasted sweet on a Sunday, I thought to myself. The beach was pretty empty, even for a nice warm summer day and we splashed in the water and threw the ball around waiting for some activity, Parasite, a keen watchman made sure we wouldn’t miss a beat. We didn’t wait long before three slim fit looking girls came along and set up there long colourful beach towels just a couple of hundred metres from where we stood. “Oh it’s on” Parasite blurted “Go long” just like in the movie he ran out over the water off towards to where they sat. I hitched a huge kick and let it loose through the warm stagnate air.. It was a perfect well practised drop punt which landed dead centre amongst them and Parasite was already within a few metres. He quickly started a conversation and I wondered what he always said in times like these, because what ever it was it worked like a charm. It was stupid actually, I remember one time after a few weeks of steroid’s he once walked up to a girl and asked “Who’s muscles are bigger”, a bigot pretender, they blushed bright red and made some move to test it with there hands grabbing at his biceps. These girls had warm radiant skin which drew from the crisp white beach sand, with flimsy coverings of cloth concealed the spoils of our fascination. They smiled at us as we approached and one moved to take off her tight denim short shorts revealing a small delicate pair of red bikinis. I gasped, kinda loudly “Don’t worry about him, he hasn’t had sex in a while” Parasite shot off, and now it was my turn to blush. They invited us to sit down with them and I offered up a drink. Accepting willingly I passed a popular cheap vodka mix, one which none of us drunk but had brought in sly anticipation. They giggled as they took the drink from my hand, we smiled and the sun warming our backs.. “We have some more drinks back at the shack” Parasite later announced when the esky ran dry, “we’ll play some drinking games?”..

2006...

A rough scetching

2008-12-16T14:27:00.002+09:00

... a world full of rucksack wanderers, Dharma Bums refusing to subscribe to the general demand that they consume production and therefore have to work for the privilege of consuming, all that crap they didn't really want anyway such as refrigerators, TV sets, cars, at least new fancy cars, certain hair oils and deodorants and general junk you finally always see a week later in the garbage anyway, all of them imprisoned in a system of work, produce, consume, work, produce, consume, I see a vision of a great rucksack revolution thousands or even millions of young Americans wandering around with rucksacks, going up to mountains to pray, making children laugh and old men glad, making young girls happy and old girls happier, all of 'em Zen Lunatics who go about writing poems that happen to appear in their heads for no reason and also by being kind and also by strange unexpected acts keep giving visions of eternal freedom to everybody and to all living creatures... Jack Karouac

Eye’s watering, lungs stinging, legs burning. My well greased “Mutiny Burlish” bmx careered down a ridiculously steep Hume road.. An easy 80 clicks I’ll assume - by the way the front wheel wobbled stupidly – reverberating through to my firm grip. I focused laboriously on the traffic lights at the bottom of the hill – praying for a safe passage. With hast I glanced over my shoulder checking for the traffic coming up behind.. A big Toyota 4WD dashing down the hill close behind.. But I’m pulling away effortlessly, putting distance between me and this concoction of death and ignorant one man mediocrity – the hill keeps descending. I focus again on the goal.. a crash at this speed – nothing other then a loose worn pair of boardies, a singlet and a set of clean Dunlop volleys – would have me grinding bone against bitumen.. Fleshy skin folding back like a knife to warmed butter. I bow my head down so my teeth almost bight the cold stiff metal handle bar, with my arse millimeters off the open rear wheel which is spinning ferociously – as to expelling some drag, lightening speed….

It’s a balmy afternoon - here in Scarborough - a coastal suburb north of Perth. The sun hovers somewhere on the horizon, just a lazy slack burning light illuminating my path down this reckless atavistic bum slid.. No brakes.. Sweat cools against my skin as the air bursts across my flush face.. I’m scared. I can’t remember the last time I felt this way.. That flooded river in the bows of Tasmania maybe– too deep to cross – too strong to attempt – just waiting, praying, my only path of refuge lay seventy odd kilometres south. Seventy kilometres of leech infested waist deep mud, rain, mountains, rivers and dense overgrown shrub. Cut from the world I know and love, left here to ponder - the stone cold soberness of reality grabbing sharply at any loose nerve ending. “I could die here” I though as I watched the tannin coloured river pace forcefully through the brush and trees on the flooded banks. I had woken startled in the middle of the night as some rat like creature clawing at my arm, seeking refuge from the hellish cold and wind. I ignored it at first, the pain in my leg muscles being my primary focus, but then as it moved closer around my face I gave it a gentle shove.. “Get me the f*&k out of here”, waking dad from his drowsy slumber. He had few words, sour and twisted.. He grumbled some then rolled over and unzipped the tent, stepped out into the darkness. “You got to be kidding me, come check this out”. By this stage I was wide awake, barely sleeping to begin with, as the pain of torn muscle worked feverishly to repair itself on an insufficient diet of dried food. I folded out of the layers of warmth.. my thermal liner and duck down bag – searched around in the darkness for my head light which floating up around my makeshift blow-up pillow. Finally I found it in the darkness and switched it on – stepping out of the tent. Instantly I felt the freeze between my toes and as I looked around I become somewhat dumbfounded.. Everything was covered with over an inch of icy hail.. It was thick, like nothing I’d seen before. I hurried myself out of the cold and into the tent now, huddling into the warmth of my sleeping bag. A wave of depression rushed over me, and I listened intently to the mad rush of water 20 odd metres over.. Was there any hint of slowing, would we be able to cross tomorrow?

I slammed my foot between the tire and the seat stay.. at first the tire just burned across my sole until it jammed hard enough to lock the rear up.. The back end skidded wildly over the road, clinging to the bars defying I summoned the front to stay in line. I was close to the bottom of the hill when it all went wrong. The lights had changed and I could see a long line of traffic now rushing forward.. I was out of control and had few choices.. I guided the bike towards the curb – now worried this sudden change in speed would have me dead with the force of two tonne all metal madness rushing me down flat. I hit the soft curbed and ejected myself over the bars, taking a short dive into the grassy verge. The bike toppled over and came to rest nearby. My nerves went full steam into electrifying chaos… I lay there momentarily gripping myself from the inside.

That morning I woke restlessly, looking at the roof of the small tent.. Some leeches moved slowly across the fly working relentlessly trying to find the quickest path to my blood. I flicked at them, sending them off in another direction.. I shook the bag off myself quickly, and rushed through the zipper.. I hoppled swiftly to the banks of the river.. I had read in some guide book that flooded river’s recede quickly.. But not this cold and icy morning. The river was now higher then the night beforehand. Another wave of depression hit… the pure isolation left me shaking. Such a desolate place, so venerable and lonely.. Dad and I chatted a little but it was too somber to carry on. I wasn’t hungry and neither was Dad so we huddled back into the tent and waited.. The day was long, cramped and cold. I turned intermittently when my back ached too much, or my hip got sore through the thin thermal mattress. The whole time, flushes of stress gripped at me as the realization came that I was stuck.. There was no way back and no way forward.. I was forced to be still, to meditate. By chance, I was reading at the time the philosophy novel “The Zen and Art of Motorcycle Maintenance”.. kindly lent to me by Alex, one of the intrepid two from earlier adventures. Maybe it was fate.. Page 286 – “Some people are true master’s of stuckness”.. I got up and walked around camp a bit, trying to stretch my tired legs and meditated on those few words. I had left in such a rush – and I knew I had left something behind. A piece of puzzle that was hidden under the couch.. like that silly game I would play on my brother when I was younger.. I’d hide a piece so that I knew I could finish the jigsaw puzzle at the end. But this time I hadn’t, not sure why, but I knew I hadn’t and now I was firmly stuck. Stuck in this rut of life I had built around me and stuck next to this stupid f%$king river. It seemed so clear now, not then.. I needed to go home, back to WA, tally ho! But first, this creek!

I collected myself from the gutter and hopped back on the bike.. All nerves now as I peddled off up the hill on the other side. The intrepid two were having a BBQ and I was going to drop the book off and have a few quite ales. Back at the river Dad and I woke for the second morning. Our hopes were high that the river would have settled. We had observed the day before that it was receding slowly, and it hadn’t rained too hard during the night. At first sight it didn’t look like it was any lower, but as I peered into the water I could just make out the bottom.. Not what I had hoped for but it would have to do. We rushed to pack the rucksack’s again – dad talked about technique which left me concerned.. His mind seems to be deteriorating in his older years and I tried explaining that he should keep his weight high and lean against the sticks, but he was adamant. “face the flow and lean into the current”. He was scared, as was I.. But the adrenaline had taken over his rational. As we approached the water I suggested we get in high as it wasn’t flowing so hard, but Dad in his crazy fueled flurry dropped straight off the bank directly into the fury of the rapid – following quickly with few words I grabbed at his pack… He went ridged, all stiff without words, eyes fixated against the opposing bank – as white as a ghost. He couldn’t move and the water soon started to overpower his stance, slowly sliding him across the slimy stone underfoot. I wrenched him back from the strap of his pack and he lost his balance, then forward as I used my extra weight to move to the safer, shallower water. Dragging him and his heavy pack all the way.. “I told you to get into the section which wasn’t so fast moving” I angrily reaffirmed – totally terrified – then marched off into the shrub leaving him to contemplate. I wasn’t going to leave him here like this – icy cold desolate river.. I needed him.

It was only Day 6…

(Sorry guys I haven't been posting or commenting.. I've been drunk and having way to much fun. Anyway I hope you haven't given up on me yet. Talk soon)

The new adventure begins..

2008-11-06T10:10:00.003+09:00

It should not be denied that being footloose has always exhilarated us. It is associated in our minds with escape from history and oppression and law and irksome obligations. Absolute freedom. And the road has always led west. ~ Alex Supertramp [Into The Wild - Movie]

I tried sleeping last night, but I found myself tossing and turning, dreaming vividly of what has been or what may come of all this. I was expecting it though, the dreams you have before one sets off on a new journey. The excitement built up inside like a volcano ready to erupt.

So tomorrow sometime I’ll be arriving in Tasmania. The first on the agenda will be to catch up with Miss Em over at “Can you me point me to the bar?” ironically, as I hope she can point me to the bar herself. Anyway this will probably end in a nasty tangle, a silver sack and a park bench. Never fear, I’m experienced.

Moving right alone, what I haven’t declared at this stage is that I’m planning, with the Old Boy, who I have dragged along for the first month, is to take on a substantial tramp. If you can recall, Tasmania is a resource rich environment with mountains, river and all that sweet wilderness stuff. Some time in the past, 70’s or 80’s by recollection a large area of the island was reserved as National Park, and later recognised as World Heritage. This was much to the dislike of fat cats and greasy wheelers alike who had already handsomely capitalized by the industrial movement of earlier years without restrain.

‘Forty miles due west of Hobart is a veritable “No Man’s Land”, where any lone traveller would be taking his own life in his hands. It is an inferno of mountains, gorges and impenetrable forests’ ~ ET Emmett, Director of Tasmanian Tourist Bureau, 1953.

“That’s where I want to go” I mumble to Dad one late night in the softly lit lounge room. “Me too” he confirms, “I feel like I’m dying here, on this couch”.. He reaches over and takes another large swig of cheap red, grumbles a little then rest’s his head on the rocker again. I swivel the chair I’m sitting in to face the geek space. I quickly clatter at some keys, pull out the credit card. “Click, click, click”. “Happy 60th Birthday Dad” I resound, “Now you have no piss weak excuse”. “What” he grumbles from his shallow slumber. “We’re going to Tasmania to walk through the wilderness” I announce in a somewhat nonchalant voice. I’ve only been living with him a few week’s, as he moved out when I was pretty young. It’s apparent he has no idea how I operate through life, uneducated and ready to burn.

So this is how it all started. And now some months later we are ready to challenge ourselves beyond the mundane existence of dull suburbia. The plan, being that we are planning to spend 18 days in the wild with everything we need to survive carried on our back. We studied some maps and decided on four tracks, being 181km in total: The Huon, The MacKay, Port Davey and South West Coast, hence why I’ve been using the word training loosely around here.

Anyway with this I say goodbye to West OZ yet again. Let the adventures begin.

THE EARLY YEARS

2008-10-30T16:12:00.003+09:00

Photo: WannaSurf

I woke early with board shorts on, hopped out of bed and rushed through the house. I knew I needed to get out before the dragon awoke, snarling commands: “Time to clean the windows”. It was always time to clean the windows. I made my way through the front door swift and silent so as to not awake her, and off down the street. Hurriedly I stepped my way along the smooth concrete kerb, often losing balance and having to catch myself on the abrasive bitumen road. It felt sharp as the stones dug into my fleshy foot, the worst when a stone stuck to my foot only to push up further again as I stood on the flat form. I hopped, bounded, all excitement, carefully placing each step. The air was warm against my back from the driving summer easterly. It rushed off the scarp, coming from out desert way, around Boddington I assumed, and then down across the coastal plain with certain urgency all the way to where I stood. The beach.

I cornered the last bend and came to the groyne car park. Nezza, a tall wiry fellow with thick-lensed glasses, and Brenton, a handsome fellow full of aspiration, were already there waiting with enthusiasm. They leaned up against the timber rail fence at the top of the dune, boards in hand. “Dewsey,” they called in eager accord as they caught sight of me. I was thin-framed, tanned and dressed in nothing other than a pair of tired boardies. I beamed a big joyous smile. The sun had just come over the land and now shone brightly against our bare bodies as we stared out on the pearlescent white shores. The ocean was crystal clear, low summer tide. A school of blowfish swarmed productively around the rocks, then out to sea and back again like a strong battalion marching efficient, precise, methodical, patrolling the shallows for any unsuspecting victim and the chance to feed this momentous festivity, sometimes this meant a nick from our little toe! A small wave occasionally heaved up from the depths, building speed until it came crashing down around the shallow bank just out off the groyne’s end and peeling left all the way to the shore, where, in a last attempt, it threw everything it had and broke simultaneously across the wide expanse of beach. The sound echoed up the dunes to where we watched, and then the morning silence took up its peacefulness. The waves weren’t of particular size, and we grumbled amongst ourselves. “When will this flat spell break,” Nezza argued with frustration. He loved his body boarding more than anything else. He was a tall unnatural fellow, goofy and uncoordinated until he stepped off those huge long stalks and lay flat on his skinny belly, where he transformed into a purposeful kid with a hungering passion. He yearned for good surf. Cutting across a wave with determination he would feel natural against all the confusion of youth and his bickering peers. “Shove it king,” we would shout jokingly, cheerfully. He replied with a huge flash of stark white teeth, while masterfully manoeuvring the board as to shower us down with a thin layer of cool salty spray.

We took to the beach where the white sand had already heated up for another hot day in the tremendous summer sun. “I can’t wait for tonight,” Brenton stated, girls and parties obviously on his young pubescent mind. I could sense the vibe and questioned, “Is there anything on tonight?” “Haven’t you heard?”, he resounded, astonished and dumbfounded, “There’s a massive party down at Tobes beach tonight.” He spoke with pure animation, the way he spoke about all things. I wondered if he sold honkynuts to bushies in his spare time. “You hold them like this, and blow.” The son of two predominant hard-working real estate salesmen from town, well one at least. His dad he reckons was just in it for the beer and golf, which he consumed fervently. It was his favourite joke, and he looked up to his failing dad with gratitude and admiration. The same as we all looked up to our Pa, unconditionally. It was hard not getting caught up in his crazy zealous nature. “Sweet. I’m up for that,” I replied.

We talked towards the water, our skin feeling dry against the hot air. The water lapped around our feet, it was the dead of summer and the water offered pleasant relief. Nezza was the first in, taking long ugly sweeps with his gangly arms. His head down, he paddled towards the breakers. Brenton and I watched on, laughing at this ridiculous activity. It wasn’t much deeper than our thighs, so we walked out, slowly accustoming to the cool water. This was all ruined as Nezza loomed up in front, playing his favourite trick. Brenton dunked avoiding the spray, still wet but pride intact. Meanwhile, not concentrating, I dripped, so I jumped in and hurried out towards the back. We caught a few waves, returning as soon as we could to get another. Paddle, jump, bound - it wasn’t the best surf but we would make up for that by catching as many as we possibly could. Between sets we planned our party preparation. Most importantly who could get the grog, and then who had money for it. We investigated all our resources, which could we trust. It was always a difficult task and it would take all day before our humble ten dollars would be spent.

As the day rolled on, we periodically rested up on the beach until it became too warm and we would return again to the cold revitalising surf. Others came and joined us during the day - Josh and his younger brother Brock. The Central Gang, Brad, Mileny, Macca, Wayne, Turner. The phantom, Damon who lived in a huge house overlooking the beach but rarely hung out with the rest of us... Then there were the chicks. Katie and her saucy friend Megan from up the street, Sarah with her mystical dark permed hair and soft voice. Kirsty, the younger, glamorous one we tore shorts over. The car park girls who sat around with Hedges smoking cones. And of course the constant blow of fresh talent. We told them all, we’ll see you down there, we confirmed. They all split sometime during the day, talking feverishly amongst each other. “Who can buy us drink, what money?” It was always the same old tired question, but it did little to curve this intense flurry of excitable adolescences all planning to get stone drunk, and maybe even laid.

The day was getting harshly warm, our hair crusted in dried sea salt, skin crispy. This was about the time Diesel Dyson came down, squinting in the bright light. It was always 1.00pm on the dot, never a minute earlier. He sheepishly skated the hundred-odd metres to the car park, looked at the now diminished surf, shrugged, yawned and began to aimlessly skate up and down the carpark waiting for us to catch sight of him and venture to where he was. “Let’s go for a swim in the pool,” he suggested. “Sure thing,” we agreed as we made our way to his beach shack. It was a refreshing feeling to get out of the sun, and into the cold depths of the fresh water swimming pool. Dyson standing near the kitchen window, wet and invigorated argued with his mum, “Can you get us some food mum,” Cheryl, a beautifully warm lady, resisted momentarily, then gave in to her boy’s commands. Dyson was the middle child, with an older sister who lived with an old biker, and a younger, intense brother who persistently looked up to him. And he hated it. Cheryl did her best for the boys, always understanding, tying to make the most of what appeared to be a terrible situation. I hadn’t seen Dyson’s dad in years, and neither had he, I gathered. Dyson, by default, had become the man of the house.

After we stuffed ourselves we decided we’d go for a skate down town. First we needed to change and collect some gear. I grabbed Nezza, I knew mum loved Nezza because of his mum, a strict old lady with a shriek voice. I knew if I was going to try dodging a bullet I needed a shield, a cover. He was the perfect contender. I had studied her movements over the years, watching carefully as she brought hell and breathed fire on my older siblings. She was a scaly menopausal lady ready to lash any disobedient kid. I treated it as a mind game of precise timing and cunning trickery. I walked in quietly hoping she would be somewhere else in the house, buying me time. “Where have you been,” she barked loudly before noticing Nezza was in tow. “Down the beach,” I smiled, “You remember Nezza”. “Hello Nezza.” I loved it when she used their street name. “How’s your mother.” That was the signal, and I slipped off to my room. Hastily I slipped from my wet shorts, kicking them under the bed as I grabbed at my baggy jeans which lay on the floor beside my junk-covered work desk. A shirt lay at the other end of the room. The scented condom was hidden in my school bag, which lay in the bottom of my cupboard all covered in clothes. Two unmatched holey socks were in the drawer, and one shoe was under the bed while the other was on top. I grabbed the skateboard from beside the door, wallet, phone, keys - check. I walked out, and before mum had a chance to fit in another word I signalled Nezza and shot off through the door. I could hear her scream behind me “Were do you think you’re going.” We were half way down the street, already gone.

We regrouped at Brenton’s joint, a ghastly bunch we were. Our baggy jeans hung low around our hips, wild hair, and shoes that had been patched with “Shoe Goo” from where the coarse grip of the board had worn holes effortlessly. This all doubled as our Sunday best, and no doubt would be tonight’s stunning attire. Maybe a quick squirt of Lynx Africa under the arm would finish it off. Speedily we took off down the road terrorizing anyone, especially old ladies on gophers. Just the sight of us unruly bunch taunted them with horror. The south west sea breeze blew through our muddled hair. It felt cool on this summer afternoon. I thought about many things, yet the same thing. It was always the about the girls. Their cute friendly smiles and soft joyous young bodies, just to make them once. Smell her fruity impulse spray which danced playfully around her neck, press my lips against hers. Would she pull away, or would she be inclined? I’m sure the others thought the same.

We skated around the park, then off around the local theatre. We had decided to get Nezza to buy us booze - it worked every now and then. He would take off his thick-brimmed spectacles, and march off blindly into the bottle-o. We were sure he’d get busted. His goofy, fumbling façade gave up his act before he even entered the store. We mucked around at the bottom end of the carpark on a small loading bay. Sure to stay out of sight. In a short while he came back beaming that glorious smile, in his arms a couple of bottles of cheap booze tucked out of sight. We carefully packed it away in Brenton’s backpack. The sun by this stage was hanging lazily in the sky. With an upheaval of excitement, we traced our steps back home high spirited. We had the beverages and the night was young.

The Bluff - Stirling Range

2008-10-28T12:24:00.005+09:00

Photo: Wikipedia

Chewing lackadaisically at the third burger, followed with a long drawn slurp of sugary syrup cola I looked ahead to see the majestic silhouette of the Stirling Range tower into the cloudless sky. With my belly hung portly over my belt I enthusiastically swung the car right.... "When in Rome I guess".

Photo: Juice

One sure way to knock a triumphant Four Star Hungover to another world of hurt! Walk up a Mountain!

Four Star Hangover (****)
Life sucks. Your head is throbbing. You can't speak too quickly or else you might puke. Your boss has already lambasted you for being late and has given you a lecture for reeking of booze. You wore nice clothes, but that can't hide the fact that you only shaved one side of your face. For the ladies, it looks like you put your make-up on while riding the bumper cars. Your eyes look like one big red vein, and even your hair hurts. Your sphincter is in perpetual spasm, and the first of about five shits you take during the day! brings water to the eyes of everyone who enters the bathroom.

Find out more about the five star rating.

Rambling with whiskey

2008-10-22T15:34:00.003+08:00

"They danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn..."
~ Jack Kerouac, On the Road.

Today it occurred to me that I only have seven days of employment left. Yes that’s right after bitching about the taxing task of conscious melancholy it’s become somewhat apparent that well, it doesn’t really apply to me. I guess I always knew this but I was so lost in the whirlpool of enlightenment that I almost forgot I’m going to Tasmania in two weeks indefinitely. Most commonly recognized as the sweet wispy fluff of a female’s erogenous nether regions, Tasmania is a place of dense impenetrable bush. Oh the sweet tragic truth. To some this land of exotic fruit has represented wealth and vitality, and of course for those few who are now the richest in Australia it has not disappointed. I digress

No this is not out of a dodgy 70's flick!!

You see, some years ago I dreamt of a world, a world where I could suckle on the sweet bitter nectar of cheap alcoholic drink and indulge in the even cheaper girls under the balmy sun. All lips and nipples and oily skin, tantalising hands plunging through the icy depths of the crystal blue ocean. I treasured this idea as the epicentre of clarity, truth, beauty and understanding. I set to this as my chore, as audacious as it may sound and the years flew past. But this was without regret as I would learn. Over these “special” years I learnt of things more powerful then the jubilant pleasure of a supple “motor boating” and as skilful as the art of true happiness, or the fulfilling wholesomeness of wonton soup with the Art Director. It was fate some would say, others though like myself would be more inclined to suggest such terms; reckless excessiveness, exuberant alcoholism and pleasurable disappointment. Failure it would seem brought meaning to this chaotic perplexity.

They ask me, “What does this all mean, where will I go and how will I live? “I will write a book” I exclaim, “People will bow to its tremendous awesomeness and bask in its splendour”.. “D.I.L.L.I.G.A.F” <--(Hint; Kevin Bloody Wilson.)

Burn, Burn, Burn..

*Damn I wish I could find a picture of the Mambo art claiming the female anatomy to be a “Map of Tasmania”.. Seriously that was the best sex education I ever got.

Guess it's hard for others to see..

2008-10-21T12:24:00.001+08:00

Monkey boy stood in front of the old pub, the lights were off inside. He wrapped at the door, no answer. He tried again this time successful. Joe the publican, a tall strong character stumbled wearily out from back in the live in quarters, flicking the switch on the wall as he made to the door. Meanwhile 20 odd clicks up the road I wrestled at the wheel, my eyes were growing tired. I had been on the road for about 4 hours now, battling the sweeping curves on the South West Hwy back towards Perth. Periodically slowing down enough to pass another small failing town. Lumberjacks moved unhurried up the street exhausted and confused. “Wanted: Customers no experience required apply within” I read, I considered turning around for a picture.. But instead I kept driving straight on out of town.

It was Monday night and I imagine Joe was busy relaxing out back in front of his television when Monkey Boy arrived. He’s a grand fellow though, salt of the earth - or maybe business was to slow to pass up a quick exchange with some townsmen in need of quite ale. Either way he had set up the bar and switched on the Foxtel by the time I arrived. Out road side the dim light flickered within the deteriorating sign, signally me to turn off. Inside Monkey Boy and another old farmer sat at the bar. Middies have downed, they feverishly talked about the recent harvest. Monkey Boy had only just cut the tractor’s heart the day before. He goes on. On the wall hung a large picture of a cow, ribbons strung around its girth. I took a stool, and ordered some beer. Monkey boy and I laughed casually as we shared an indecent swag of adventure, and well, miss adventure. I realised it’s been a while since we last caught up. I guess the time had come and we had both gone our separate ways.

Sunday, before all this madness begun I was comfortably sitting with James at the old Narrogin Hotel, top end of the South West. We had just finished a three day walk following some over grown railway formations which winds through the felled Jarrah of old, and had hitched our way back into town. Over a few beers we talked restlessly about continuing on, flog work off and take up the 930km track permanently till we hit Albany. Where to after that.. Hell maybe hitch across the border out east.. The Flinders Range, the Great Ocean Walk, Paddle the raging torrents of the Franklin, Its idealist, it’s perfect I though excitedly. But tomorrow we had to work. By the third pint the idea of work wasn’t sitting right with me, I sighed, and suggested to James we should head down south and catch up with the Intrepid Two. He laughed, agreed and passed it off like the rest of our conversations. But it was far too late for me and I was bent on the idea, time to head off, first thing.. Well after another pint.

“Work” he argued. To consider such oppressing obligations and responsibility! I filled a bag with some food and packed the car, fare welled James and hit the road. The plan was to follow the South West Hwy though the old timber towns and out across to Pemberton. A stiff drive for a late afternoon and a belly full of James Squire, I pulled into the bottle shop and grabbed a case of beer. The afternoon smelt sweet with the fresh cuts of hay, the sun burned a bright pink and orange though the smoky clouds which lay across the grassy plains, Hastily, I worked the needle on the Speedo cutting my way south, all the while clutching a bottle with an invigorated grip.

I started thinking for a bit and wondered where I’m going with all this. Mum had always warned me away from my reckless mates, “They’re no good, the lot of them” she would argue. I paused for a moment, and for those few seconds the passenger seat seemed oddly out of place, empty…. “Bad influence”.. The words repeated, as if she was right beside me. I pushed the pedal to the floor and smiled contently. Alone, I burned off into the warm evening sun.

Rotton Beautiful; The Story of Lucas

2008-10-14T09:30:00.000+08:00

I remember he was a weather beaten type with dark wild hair covering his blood shot eyes. Slung across his tanned back was an old worn quicksilver pack, the type we had in the 90’s with the thin padded bridle. His boardies hung loose around his thin frame, and on his feet he sported a well thrashed set of wafer thin plugs.

We were heading to a punk rock show when I met him with some friends. He was one of the other guy’s uncles, aged 30 odd, an intoxicated degenerate. He wrestled with his shirt, covering up as we approached the venue. We shot down a dark alley where the club entrance leered out from beneath the darkness. His rough trodden appearance didn’t really fit these freshly inked, crisp black punk rock bodies which crowded around the door. He was more a wasted surf grunge sort, and he didn’t care for much else.

The gig was heavy in a little venue, the crowd surged forward with furious momentum pushing the front row up amongst the band. I remember feeling the boot of the guitarist rest heavily against my shoulder as he did his best to hold this barrage of atavistic savages from taking up the stage. He pushed his way to the front wild and crazy, throwing his body throughout the set. We drunk Corona’s like deranged sailors and stumbled around endlessly until the concert wore to an end.

He left us at the taxi, trumping off down the busy lit street calling back something about the morning. We carried on to the Casino, where the bouncer’s laughed viciously at our attire and sent us school like children home.. Home was down west end of town, a hotel with an eighties décor which smelt of rotten carpet and creaked loudly as we splayed across the floor. I focused on his bag, sat abandoned in the corner of the room as I dozed off into a deep beer induced lumber.

I woke, to a painful headache and a swollen body. It was around the time I had first been infected with Ross River, a mild version of malaria. The body took to the alcohol like aids, leaving me weak and weary. His bag still stood solemnly in the corner of the room. It looking jagged and rough, I assumed it had seen some hard miles. Within the bag contained only two item's, A carton of cheap Indo cigarettes and 3/4 full bottle of whisky.. He was the real deal. The room spun into festivity, but it was apparent that he was still missing.

It wasn’t until some strange hour just before check out that he re-emerged from the depths of the City’s bowels looking shattered from the night before. He grunted. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel up to sharing where he had been, he just couldn’t recollect.

One of the guy’s drove us out to the coast, figuring fresh air and good scenery might help cure our dreaded hangovers. We ordered some burger’s and took position on the moist grassy banks which overlooked the activity on the beach. I remember him talking softly and politely. He enjoyed treating the girls courteously when they would listen. Conjuring up a light conversation, as they busily strolled past, tightening their clutch on any Gucci belongings. There was something humbling about it, maybe he thought they would look past the deranged mop of hair or his booze soaked breath. They never did and nor did he ever stop trying.

I liked him tremendously, his whole façade and careless nature appealing to a depth that I could not quite understand.. I just knew I wanted to know more. We chatted about the road a little. And when the time came to drive back home, he said he would head back to the City to try find a bus back north. I opted to join him to the City, abandoning my only ride south. I wanted to know more, more about his style and where he had been. My curiosity had been overwhelmed.

We headed off up the road to the train station. I remember it being a sweltering day, the Perth dry summer sun scorched our skin and boiled the beer in our bellies. We sat for some time waiting for the train until we realised it wasn’t coming. It was going to be a hefty trek in this penetrating sun I thought as we made off. Time passed, and we chatted some more. “The beach, sun and beer” he would reminisce of another recent trip. We came across an old corner store still operating amongst the quite streets. We grabbed some water and took refuge under the shady branches of a verge tree. I always loved verge trees, the old ones which spread their wings across the lane and break up the monotony of suburbia.

A grubby black “night party” bus come bustling past full of passenger’s, and we realised our only hope was to get a ride. We rushed off up the street in pursuit waving it down. The bus was tightly packed with sweating bods from the beach which made the air think and humid. It was a disgusting scene, and the alcohol toiled within our brains.. The humidity keep building, and he suddenly became quite.. He looked ill, desperately pushing through the crowd to find a window… I could see what was coming, and tried to ease the mood with some jokes. It made no difference as he rejected the foul poison through one of those small sliding contraptions. The car’s driving on the tight street swerved to dodge it projection. Vomit drizzled down the side of the bus. It was horrific. The bus came to a stop and we rushed to exit before he could let go again.

Instantaneously he tore his shirt from his back and gasped heavily, taking every breath of fresh air with gratitude. It was a drastic scene to say the least, and I was now feeling uneasy from the mixture of dense body odour with the strong hint of spew. We made for some shade to hide from all the chaos. This was the way I met Lucas, no layers of paint.

He told me about his trips afar, across the ocean to tropical paradises where the beer was cheap and the surf warm. The ladies he would continue, full of passion and fire, yet sweet and humble to touch. He worked hard on some boats up north, he told me, quietly saving his pennies for that next opportunity. To lie carelessly once again in the warmth of a soft afternoon breeze, filled with the sweat tender smell of freshly crack coconut. White pearlescent shores, gorgeous girls, turquoise beaches, he would repeat as if in a pleasurable trance while staring blankly into the distance. I was lost with his story as he re-stepped the days of his past, and future.

I went home that evening knowing there was more to life than I had ever believed in, had ever experienced. A five year cocoon had just fallen in two, broken free from its tight mould and I felt animated and alive.. It was the day I felt reborn and swollen with adventure.

The Artist.. Part 1

2008-10-13T10:40:00.004+08:00

Photo by: Lex Harris

Well as part of this ongoing sabbatical of mine (which I consider is the best expression to sum up life) I find that I am continually meeting heaps of fabulously talented and inspirational people. And as part of this blog, dear avid faithful tremendously awesome reader’s I will endeavour to bring to your attention just a snippet of these kind folks.

First off the cuff may I present too you the masterful Mr Lex Harris, a well travelled sort who has an excellent Image Gallery online. (Sign in if you desire a larger version for admiration)

Photo by: Lex Harris.

As you can see from this image Lex isn’t the type sitting around waiting for adventure on his Foxtel account. Opting for the more hands on approach has seen him collect an impressive array of photo’s from varies parts of the world. I think the word ANTARTICA gives you the right impression of what you might expect from his work. Other places include Argentina, Indonesia, Pakistan, Tasmania (Of particular interest to me) and my home state Western Australia.

For those of you who don’t particularly have the time to sift through extensive files of images, I urge you to take a look at the Showcase where Lex has been kind enough to collate some of his favourite shot’s which feature his astounding collaboration with life.

While I have not had the fortune in meeting Lex in person, I can say he is a very courteous fellow and I appreciate his time in replying to my email for permission to host some of his brilliant images. I first heard of his site though his brother John (The gargantuan fellow pictured in my recent post The training begins)

I think that just about wraps up the first in my new series. Please drop a comment if you enjoyed this post, as I have a heap I would love to share.

Photo by: Lex Harris

Without a paddle! Part 2

2008-10-07T16:54:00.002+08:00

Friday arvo my boss made some lame joke to James and I about cuddling for warmth. We laughed merrily at the time, clutching a fresh beverage tightly within our grip.

My feet were dreadfully bruised and James was blistered from his sandals. Not too far to go now, the track should lead off the road and back into the bush. I assured. The pace was really slowing up and the temperature was dropping. We mindfully tried to dodge small stones laid out over the track which weren’t causing difficulty when we started but my feet couldn’t possibly take any more.

It was never considered what we might find when reached the hut. The hut was hidden in the night and we almost run into it before realising we had finally made it. Hastily we searched for Dad. The hut was full of walkers, so we scurried up the embankment and check the tent area. This too was full, but not with the tents we were expecting to see. Our worst fear was now starting to grip us, as we paced further up the track to where the car should be parked thinking the camp may have been set up there because it was already full. I argued. But it was over, and I knew it before we reached the road… Helplessly we looked up and down the track, but there was no sign of activity. Not even some fresh tracks to indicate he had been past.

The weather report said it was going to be five degree’s that night, maybe even a little less out here in the valley. Desperate and depraved, we headed off back towards the hut seeking some warmth. Just out the front of the hut was a sleepy camp fire burning bright red amongst the austere gloom.. Our saving grace and refuge we agreed. We raced over to it and stood in its radiance. And soon enough the piss soaked wetsuits started letting off a horrid aroma, but who are we to complain!

We decided to do some investigation around the hut to see who was around. One of the happy hikers woke by the noise of us stalking the hut and pointed her headlight at me to have a gander.. “I know you” she exclaims, “You’re that guy from last week”. How could she be right, last week some 100-odd-kilometres away, I had awoken her in the exact same manner on a cold Friday night. She must have thought I was a right twit.. And honestly I felt a little embarrassed, seeing as though I swore last week I’d never leave home without a tent. This time I didn’t even have a sleeping bag!

Up on the top bunk just above this person was a right surprise. Alex and Bell the intrepid female adventures from last week’s tramp were curled up snug in there minus ten sleeping bags on cushy down mats. Briefly I thought about waking them up and inviting me and my piss soaked wetsuit up for a crude spooning. But as tempting as a warm sleeping bag and some hot girls sounded, I wasn’t up to waking them in the middle of the night. I’ve had my own experiences before with an axe wielding psychopath in the dead of the night. I was stood helplessly against a tree while he blinded me with an intense beam of light, making crazed suggestion about burying me out here in the bush… Could you imagine the reaction I would get waking a chick up in the middle of the bush, while blinding her with a head light! Freezing beside a fire sounded far more lucrative… Plus, I’ve got a girlfriend! Maybe I should have sent James the Titan Ranga to test the waters first.

The shivers had started setting in as our bodies steadily lost the warmth we gained from moving. I knew it was the first sign of Hypothermia and if the second phase of uncontrollable shivers set in I knew I would need to seek some help. Fast. Sitting beside the fire was our only real hope to get though the night as it didn’t look like Dad wouldn’t be coming any time soon. We stoked the fire and waited..

The night just got longer as the joke grew tired and disillusioned. We attempted to sleep off the hours, but couldn’t shake the cold. Back to back, hugging the fire ring with our legs.. Nothing would work! Spoon??? Hell no! That shit was only ever funny on “Without a Paddle”, which strangely enough resembled this exact same situation. I can’t stress my friendly readers how long the night was, and it really made me think about those who have been much less fortunate then we were.. Holding on to life for days on end in some small icy confinement, often with broken limbs!

The next day couldn’t have come soon enough, and when we heard the hollow call of a kookaburra we both felt relieved. But the situation was still rather tense. While we might be getting a chance to warm up, it didn’t give reason as to why my Dad hadn’t turned up. By this stage I was thinking the worst. Seriously if he couldn’t find the road he definitely knew the trail in. He could have packed a bag and walked in with some essentials. What could have happened that he couldn’t walk?

As the morning broke a few of the campers came to join us around the fire. We shared our story and one of the guys offered us the use of a sat phone. Initially I turned down the offer thinking that he probably wouldn’t get reception, but as the morning hurled into full swing I gathered I may need to stimulate some action.. I called the ranger. The ranger was great and offered to help us conduct a search. I knew the basic procedures, which determined that I couldn’t leave the pickup point for any reason including to search. So with some eyes on the ground I was pretty confident we’d track the wonderer down. It took a fair while, but eventually we heard the sound we had been listening for all night.. Cars arriving. Dad looked horrific, he blamed himself but we reassured him we were fine.

It’s funny how everything is forgotten once the first beer arrives! All the suffering the night before now just became another great saga full of adventure and peril. And even better when the intrepid female adventures woke from there deep slumber and called out gleefully when they recognized me. Kind of excited, probably just shocked they were happy to see us and divulged there plan to take the day off for a rest. Super, we thought knowing we had heaps of drink and food which we never got into the night before.

All in all it was a top weekend and I’m still planning to give this paddle another go if I can find the time before the water recedes. It’s also inspired me to look into some ocean yak’ in.. But that’s for another time.

A deep seeded resemblance of Deliverance

2008-10-06T13:38:00.002+08:00

Sometimes things don’t always go to plan.

For example:

Like that night spent in Melbourne Airport freezing cold and under dressed after a freak occurrence happened and my flight was hit by lightning.

Maybe the time a 34 inch rear wheel hurtled past the passenger side window after some nuts came loose. The car was travelling at 110kmh at the time and we came to a very sudden stop!

Same trip, this time the radiator cracked 180km from the closest bitumen road and further still to the Overlander road house.

Did I mention my finger had also been accidently sliced through the operating thermo fan in a feeble attempt to repair the damaged car?

Then there’s the more recent trip where a hose leading into the radiator burst, leaving us stranded in the desert on a 40 degree day with no tools or water. Just a big blue esky full of beer.

Or when my tent zipper burst open when a drunk Juice fell through the door. Who then proceeded to get out of his wet clothes only to fall asleep a little uncovered and wake up midway through the night with a severe inching condition.

So with all these little mishaps under my belt some could say I was really prepared for this weekend’s short comings. Well you would think anyway and as my last post indicated I was busily preparing myself for a weekend on the high river paddling down some rapids and often long stretches of calm water. There was very little time for trip preparation as it’s been hectic between work, friends and weekly expeditions. It wasn’t decided until late Thursday night where we would attempt to paddle. We, being a friend from work who was also keen.

Opting to go budget for this trip I decided to dig out what I can only describe as an old medieval style polo yak. Sitting about five feet in length, it was a rather snug fit for a 100kg, 6” bohemian like myself. My father, whose judgement at times is rather ill, assured me it’s a good little rig and shouldn’t be too hard to handle. Huge oversight.

Friday afternoon rolled around, so James and I set off straight from work. We had arranged to meet my father in a small country town just out from the desired drop point. I was sick of being starved for the past few weekends hiking so I opted for a lavish weekend of food and booze instead of the carry what you got deal. A support crew was essential, so Dad opting to take the reins for this trip instead of paddling with us which seemed okay by me. So he had a loaded trailer with all the vital items, THE BIG BLUE ESKY being on top of the list.

We then decided being the type that we are, that we could probably handle a short night paddle before pulling in for some more zesty beverages and peppered steak. Simple I concluded on Thursday night, Dad had been to the pickup point before he claimed, and wouldn’t have any trouble getting the car in. I should let you readers know here, that I had never paddled this section of the river, which is much higher up than the mellow flats I’m accustomed to. I should also admit that I had never paddled this medieval creation either. And just to add some topping to an over balanced cake, I’d never paddled at night!

We arrived close to seven o’clock, by which time the sun had settled and the quarter moon was glimmering in the distance. We headed down to the water, which rushed hastily through the fallen paperbarks and off into the bleak darkness. The scene was horrific really but this only heightened our enthusiasm and the adrenaline started thumping. Impatiently we necked another oat concoction and suited up in our wetties. Appropriately named I will conclude. We then insured we had all the right equipment aboard. Beer. Then whatever else that wouldn’t weigh us down.

The water felt cold, but not as bad as I had expected thankfully. We gently set ourselves up in the shallows, with my arse incredibly snug between the hips. We pushed off with our paddles and instantly I was letting on water as the unstable beast avoided control. The small nimble medieval craft did it’s best to buck the sailor so to speak and I exploded into a ball of profanity as I tried to gain some balance with some swift strokes with the paddle. This just pushed me further in the rapidly moving water.. I was off like a whippet on crack, bashing through the bushes and deeper into the night. I was out of control, when I realised this craft was going to win this battle and I was over thrown. I struggled in the busied water to release my clenched cheeks. It was difficult getting in, never mind getting out upside down, in dark icy water! I gasped for some air then went under.

All the paddling lessons came back to me like one hasty kick from a horse. Foremost the one which involved taking a quick plunge into the icy depths before setting off on any expedition in cold waters. The body can shut down from the shock of the water they enforced at the time. I remember I was busy throwing some rocks at my friend.. But this time it was for real, and I was under water. Everything was dark save for the dim beam my head light eliminated. I set to the task of escaping my cell, but it was proving harder than expected. I pushed hard at the sides of the yak, feverishly trying to free the butt. Thank the lordies I practise my breathe hold regularly for free diving or I would be in a serious pickle! I surfaced awakened by the chill of the water and grabbed at the first tree I saw as the water swept me further along. Somehow I had managed to hold onto the yak and paddle up to this point, but things were getting much harder as the yak started sinking with the weight of the water and the push of the current. James meanwhile was having his own shaky start, and he tried to manage his barge through the fallen trees. I urged him to help take hold the raft before I lost my strength (figuratively of course). It was an impossible request though, James having enough difficulties was in no way able to assist, and I had to make a decision soon.

I released my sturdy* grip of the tree trunk, opting to stay with the craft hoping the rapid would expire into deeper waters soon. It was apparent though that this would be some time before I was able to get out of this predicament as the yak levered itself against yet another underwater snag. I’ll inject at this point I should have let go and let the craft do its own thing.. But I didn’t. I dove down and let the current do the rest, under the snag we went. I glared into the glowing murky water unable to see what to expect, but eventually I surfaced with enough to avoid some more tree branches. James was keeping up with me, trying his best to push me towards the bank.

When we finally reached the bank, I was feeling pretty exhausted and instantly started having terrible thoughts as it looked doubtful my beers would have made the epic voyage. Almost tears. But my friend’s, good news was on the horizon as the water started receding from its containment. The distinct sound of bottles clashed at the toe of the raft. Happy days, it would seem. I proceeded to reposition my craft for second takeoff, it would take more than a little spill to buck this cowboy dear avid readers.

The craft was as unstable as a journalist leaving the pub. Twisting up every stoke of the paddle and started letting water in again. A splash deck may have helped here, but again it was the CHEAP option. We battled for some time until we come into a clearing which I thought would be easier. The fight was not over though as the yak sat heavily in the water making it difficult to keep up to the likes of the dagger. We pushed on still until we started into another serious fight with the paperbarks. At this point James offered to make an attempt to ride this bitch out, which I gratefully accepted. But this was to be to no avail, as he instantly found himself in the same predicament as I was a few minutes earlier. But this time, he dropped the paddle and argued loudly as he watched it float away into the night. I chased the paddle leaving James stranded against the tree.

I was standing on a fallen tree, paddle in hand when I caught sight of James floundering along. He was sitting on the capsized vessel surfing in down the river like a cat in a pool. I pulled the crafts to the bank exhausted, ready to accepting defeat. But accepting defeat still didn’t put us in warm clothes or food in our bellies. Actually defeat only put 13km between us, and that which we could only dream about. Sigh. We weighed our option, and quickly decided that the foot falcon was up for a burn. Only problem, no shoes! My trusty set of flip flops were gone too, obviously sailed off with the high tide when we were busily trying not to drown.

I had some idea where I might be able to find a walking trail I walked a few weeks ago and set off up the hill. It wasn’t hard, and we soon found ourselves heaving down a dark single track through overgrown eucalypts. It was a canter of sorts, running until it hurt to breathe or the need to gulp some more beer came, usually the later. We were making good time I thought, but no matter how you look at it 13 clicks barefoot is a long way even if you weren’t wearing a cold wet wetsuit (You can’t just unzip to have a piss!).

We talked about a lot of things, but mainly about the peppered steak and some warm clothes. The joke was growing old quickly and we were starting to crave some comfort. But little did we know, this was only the beginning and it was starting to have a deep seeded resemblance of Deliverance.

to be continued...

The Weary Legs of a Warrior.

2008-10-02T15:37:00.003+08:00

Mount Cooke Jarrah

It was an upwards climb. The morning sun was gently warming the air but I was already feeling the sweat bead steadily, the 14kg pack riding grudgingly against my clammy cotton shirt. I stepped, pivoted and bound off the right foot. Focused on the prize.. I’m alone. The first few kilometres pass without incident but my muscles feel stretched, an avowal of fitness or the distinct lack of. I pick up the pace, racing against myself, against the burn.. I must.

White Spider Orchid (Caladenia longicauda)

Trudging confidently I see the second group up ahead and I sharpen my focus, fixate on the ground, left, right I count.. Faster, again. Secretly I hope they feel a zephyr as I pass and quickly disappear into the old Jarrah Forrest ahead. Yes the old Jarrah Forrest, burnt out maybe a year ago now grows wildly, fresh young shoots spill freely out across the defined track. Flowers spread their bright coloured bloom and greet the much rewarding insects which hover somewhere above. The old trees however, are hollowed and burnt, looking dated, twisted and drab. The strong root’s ploughed deep into the earth held the tree steadfast, as the brutal, unrelenting and penetrating flames leaped higher, consuming the limber canopy in a swift articulated burst. A glorious flame reportedly sailed 30m above the tree line. The heat had eaten its core, slowly, painfully until it stood precariously heavy, worn, charred and tired. Faster I remind myself, stay on the run.

The lengthy strides of this vigour’s march have left my boots rubbing furiously and I start to cringe at the terribly fierce burn on the back of my ankle. Slowing down is an option but to what avail, to limp, to fail?, Anyway the pain feels good I argue with myself, it reminds me I’m alive. A deep breath of air bursts into my lungs reinvigorating my step as the sweat beads rolled off my flushed face. It’s a race, a race against myself.

Blue Leschenaultia (Leschenautia Biloba)

Rocky raccoon checked into his room
Only to find gideons bible
Rocky had come equipped with a gun
To shoot off the legs of his rival
His rival it seems had broken his dreams
By stealing the girl of his fancy
Her name was magil and she called herself lil
But everyone knew her as nancy

I could see the road I so desperately needed to see looming up in front. It had been around 16km at this stage. Hope. I stir into a quickened shuffle while repeating the words from my iPod. My right knee moved contortedly, the bodies last ditch effort to remove the weight off these hideous blisters. It was uncontrollable and uncomfortable. Left, right, I keep the count in my head for the fear of defeat..

Later that evening two young red faced girls trundled in buckled under the weight of a stiff day’s walk and a heavy pack. I pick lazily at the blisters as I watch them come up to the hut. I was surprised to see them actually. They were young and well female. The type you could imagine dressed in a pretty evening frock at some trendy downtown bar on a Saturday night, surrounded my muscularly blokes drinking PURE BLONDE. Anyway side tracked, we got talking about the day’s events as they started the mundane duty of unpacking their burden. As you do of course, when two rather attractive ladies stumble carelessly out from behind some bushes. I was thinking shit hot how’s me luck! Anyway quietly I was feeling quiet chuffed about my epic stomp that day and was probably looking forward to a bit of modest boasting (Wrestled seven stubborn crocodiles, while I peacefully ate home purchased Chinese by a creek blah, blah, killer koala’s, shooting starfish, angry gangster gorilla’s). Yep I was ready to feed’em up a rip snorter, well that is until these girls started flabbering on about why they were so late arriving. I was shattered. Young, lush and petite girls had walked an extra 10km, 3 mountains and 5kgs more than I had. Instantly I felt a yearning to get back on my feet, pack the bag and get moving, keep going, pushing the distance.. It’s not a jealous thing. No it’s just the challenge which is so tempting.

The challenges which will make a man achieve great things, reach his dreams and keep him; on the road.

Actually who am I kidding, my feet hurt like shit and my body felt tender in parts I don’t care to know about. Dumbfounded that these chicks had walked so far highlighted something rather significant, I’m really am unfit! There was no way I could have just done what they did. Possibly it’s the copious amount of delicious oat soda I’m quite partial too indulging on any other week, no. night. Maybe it’s the extraordinary amount of hours I spend firmly flat on my butt in the office or in the car. Whatever it is, I probably should think about doing less or more of it or I’m going to be in a world of hurt when I get to Tasmania. Training so far my friends has not scratched the surface!

This weekend though, I will attempt what I set out to do quite some time ago.. Paddle the Murray (For clarification it’s the dreary and dingy Murray one on the West Coast, what did I say. I’m unfit!)

UGLY!

Anyway I will endevour to attach some delightfull pictures later (when I'm not at work). Until then, I hope you catch some crabs!

Pincushion Coneflower (Isopogon dubius)

The training begins!

2008-09-27T13:30:00.001+08:00

Well this is my first attempt at a schedualed post, so lets see if I can get this old girl working for me.

The training begins..

You know whats the worst part about planning a big hiking trip? It's the training... Take this weekend for example, while my friends have arranged a terribly enjoyable night at the Casino on Saturday I'll be, probably lost somewhere in the bush sleeping on a plastic ground mat.

Then again I wouldn't do it if I didn't love it! And probably the best bit about training is the fact you get to do other hikes in the meantime. Last weekend for example was a short 40km hike down the Murray River (WEST OZ).. Yes that is the one I'm supposed to paddle, always next week :)

Enjoy the weekend guys and girls

Nothing as good as a camp fire!

ps. The new home arrived today just in time for some testing. I'll keep you updated if it was a wise investment.. Can't be to curious in this crashing economic!

Labels, Part 2

2008-09-26T13:07:00.003+08:00

We label people to help us understand certain behaviour, the same way we would label a food group. It simply makes it easy for us to understand something. Take honey for example, we know what it is but we may not know what this particular wattle gum flavour tastes like. Back to that is a second. My last post hinted on things we may understand and expect from a hippy. But clearly this stereotyping has little use when characterising someone’s attitudes, opinions and behaviour. I don’t think this really matters though because as long as we label someone we can then either choose to befriend or avoid. Fair enough..

I don’t like honey, so why would I like that particular wattle gum flavour?

It’s this way of life beneath the label which intrigues me the most and how it applies to our own life. We’re all taught to believe in certain ideals, maybe not from our parents or peers but over time we form our own opinions and thus we hopefully bind our own persona. I think it would be nice to believe we then live accordingly making our idealistic reasoning a realistic virtue. But is this what usually happens?

I’m speaking as a 20 something that is relatively fresh from school, first career etc. Did I know what I wanted to do, did I know what I believed in and enjoyed. Well yeah, but that’s hardly the point is it.. Being brought up as a right-wing christen capitalist, yes how that works is rather bizarre but let’s not get too bogged down in it. Earning money for a rich, successful and comfortable life was of the upmost important factors. So I trudged off not into the bush but into an office. Earning what I consider reasonable money making something of a delusional career.

Have you ever looked back and thought about what you would have done if you didn’t do this? Did you lose that special something you had so much passion for when you were younger.. A couple of years ago I caught up with a friend who I used to ride BMX with when I was about 14. He was about 17 years old now and we got talking about what he was planning to do now that school was out. “Ride my bike”.. I remember being a little taken back by this comment at the time. I think I even laughed and asked him again this time focusing the question on work. “Ride my bike”. Hell I would have loved to kept body boarding/surfing, but seriously I had to get real didn’t I. Anyway as it turned out about another couple of years later I was told even his teachers had given him stick about his BMX riding, saying stuff like “You won’t get anywhere riding your bike”. Pretty uninspiring stuff really, but I don’t think it ever stopped him..

Check the interview from the bike company he now rides for in the Pro Team.

When I got back home I divulged my plans with some friends to travel around Tasmania with a tent and hopefully not work. It was received with some very mixed feelings and fair enough though, it’s not exactly for everyone is it, living with only the essentials in a very remote wilderness. But something I did learn while I was away is that everyone has a different comfort zone or tolerance. Clearly the Northern Territory was a much harsher environment with its sweltering heat and nasty as hell inhabitants who for the record hate you! (This is the animals and insects I’m referring to!) But the people who live there generally thrive in it, fishing with the crocs and sand flies every chance they get.

So what is that makes someone want to live here, or do that. The movie/book Into The Wild, featuring the life of the intrepid adventurist Chris McCandless is distinct in my mind when I think of inspiring people. Not the unfortunate ending of his life or the emotional baggage he had to deal with but rather his abundant fullness of life without being caught in the whirlwind of normalcy. Honestly that is what I think it is, that line between being YOU without getting caught up in all the distractions. We enjoy the simple things that make us, as a person happy not what is expected of us from others.

“I’m not superman, I’m super tramp and your super apple!”

Labels, where do you fit?

2008-09-24T21:10:00.004+08:00

So I guess there has been some confusion with my returning back to Mandurah land in recent times. You see when I left at the beginning of the year, some would have described me as a “typical southern metro”, but when I returned I had changed my appearance… I didn’t have the same short back and sides which I have sported my entire life, I had a sensational bloom of facial hair and my clothes were weaved with exotic natural fibres.

Now this seemed to be a bigger problem for other’s as it was for me, because somehow I now looked, well different. The typical manner to deal with something different though is to label it, because once labelled it can be readily identified and categorized and thus the risk of the unknown extinguished.

Sure I’m extremely guilty of the above myself, especially when these new young gun types started coming out dressed in black, canvassed with slogans I still don’t understand, Band names I’ve never heard of.. It was different, so I labelled them Emo. The same as the rest of the population not listening to “The Used” or spending hours doing whatever an Emo does.

Ok I’m getting off track here, so back to me now finding myself in the epicentre of a branding phenomenon. The first and probably the most obvious was Jesus, son of, well God I guess.. But a quick re-evaluation of this term revealed very little real connection. In fact only two things: A beard and the popular phase from the movie, The Life of Brian; “He’s not the Messiah, He’s a very naughty boy!”

So the second category and honestly a much loved idiom by most is the humble Hippy. WTF is a Hippy? Really one moment I’m supposed to be gassed off my nut on some psychedelic Pepsi cola concoction, stumbling around hopelessly through time not giving a s*^t about my body. But in the same breath I’m an earth loving, mong bean eating, tofu fluffing, sex panther… I’m confused and to be honest, I don’t do drugs.. Which seemingly is a crucial part of the hippy way of life.. So again the re-evaluation program is stimulated.. Enter one B_O_B_D_Y_L_A_N. While the garments have a outwardly likeness to the late Dylan era, and I’m learning (hopelessly) the harmonic.. Well there’s not much else, and despite my willingness we could probably rule out “sex panther” from the inventory of hippy similarities while we’re at it.

My favourite is the Greenie. This is a bit like the Hippy but without all the wild experimentation with psychedelic narcotics and spiritual self discovery. And well the free love and all the other good stuff the Hippies were into. I guess I could fit in here somewhere, but more like that crazy cat man conversationalist from South Australia. I don’t have a problem with eradication type programs.. Hmmm I’ll leave that one there I think.

So what else do we have, Moses (Refer Jesus). Mongolian Sherpa, closer maybe. Actually I’d probably agree with this one apart from some small inherent problems:
1) I have enough trouble carrying my own gear.
2) I’m not a Mongolian.

So what is it, I can’t not be labelled! If I wasn’t labelled I’d be “A threat to other’s way of life” – Fear and politics by Carmen Lawrence. (A book worth reading) So one must label another, in fear of what this person may or may not represent. Sleep easy little one :S

Anyway that’s another tangent, overall in a roundabout way I guess there is one label I’ll wear if I must wear one.

Now signing over, your freak

….Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you….

So yeah, share away.. Where do you think you fit?

Juice, the home owner!

2008-09-23T15:16:00.003+08:00

Everyone keeps telling me it’s a great time to buy a house. “The markets crashed and you can pick up some real bargains”. So after yet another weekend sleeping in a wet sleeping bag I decided it might be time I take up this advice and “get responsible”

So after much deliberation I present to you the new home.

I know you’re probably thinking it’s a bit small, but I was never good at cleaning so I wanted an area I could handle. Originally I was actually thinking something a little smaller but decided this would suit me better seeing as I never know when I might get lucky!

The pro’s of course are pretty extensive but I think the views are probably the best. Everything from beach front to mountain ranges and whatever else I can be bothered with in between.

Just can’t wait to entertain my guests, the Possum's, Koala’s, Kangaroo's and even the occasional Asylum Seeker. Well time for another well deserved drink.. Here’s to maturing and becoming a home owner..

Ps. my much loved swag is probably going to feel some reject. But in my defence I can’t carry it over distance..

Love and sex, it's all the same!

2008-09-18T12:08:00.002+08:00

Love letters, so can you remember these little guys from your school yard days. The hours spent hiding the letter as the teacher would brush past, thinking you were some kind of magician performing some sort of disappearing act. Artfully passing them across the room, feeling flush and rosy cheeked knowing at any moment the teacher may intercept. The unthinkable, she would accuse knowingly,

“What is it that you have to say without saying it to the class”.

The elaborate paper folds offering little security for your top notch secrets. It would lie open in her hands, as she would scan the awkward text with those beady little eyes purposefully stalling to gather the students attention. You can feel the lump in your throat building up to chocking point, and your face burns with humiliation.

Of course she’s going to share it with the class. A whirl wind of prepubescent emotion is dropped down like a bomb, and you’re in the centre. Is there any other punishment as impetuous and useful as this?

But have you ever wondered what happened with those little top secret missiles of destiny or ever wished for one last peek at who you were when you were fifteen and life seemed so easy? Well last night something quiet strange happened. I was drinking some wine with an old school friend after helping her move into a new unit, when she reveals that she has carefully stored every letter from school. And too my amazement she produced an old short bread tin from her bedside.

Opening a box like this may not seem like much of a deal, but in actual fact it is. Here within lies the truth of a young man, desperate to learn about life and its intricate details.. Sex, love and alcohol… And all he has is one weekend to learn it all. This was definitely heavy stuff for one to grasp, a terrible insight to what was once forgotten. I was only disappointed really, to read the ramblings of a young insecure gent, fumbling along looking for acceptance all the while pretending to boast a rich superiority over his peers. (Read: A transparent cover up). But worst of all, here was the entire entourage of characteristics I can observe in my own Mother. The very person I judge so harshly. Ouch!

I guess it’s not all bad. Actually it was quiet enjoyable to be honest. It was like I was reading the secret life of my best mate who let’s face it; I had a mega huge crush on at the time. All the little notes from the other guys in the class, and there unforgettable personalities.. Including a good friend who has sense passed. It felt a good as digging up a time capsule, though I’ve never actually dug up a time capsule but I’ll assume. Because by default it really had become one, and for that moment I felt like I was just a kid again.. Horny as hell, and the most important topic on the mind was getting laid then drunk.. In that order!

I can’t help but feeling like it’s a shame we have the convenience of emails, texting and social networking site’s. All the creative personal touches and individuality.. From the forming of letters to the style of writing..

I miss love letters.

A beacon in the dark..

2008-09-16T16:10:00.003+08:00

Dear Sir,

I would like to take this opportunity to express my interest as well with my girlfriend, in the Maatsuyker Island volunteer position recently advertised on your Parks site.

I am a 25 year old male, currently working as a Building Surveyor in Western Australia for Local Government. A position I’ve held on and off over the past 6 years. I have recently returned from a six month working holiday in the Northern Territory as a Building Technical Officer for the Department of Planning & Infrastructure. As for my girlfriend, she is currently operating in Vietnam as an English teacher through a GAP volunteer program, due back in late January.

After visiting Tasmania on a short stay in 2004, I was convinced I would be returning to explore the more remote areas of the wilderness in the future. And as such, will be travelling to Tasmania in early November to take part in a few self guided walks through the south west on established walking trails etc.

I have no official plans of returning to Western Australia and am open for this position should you find me a desirable applicant. I understand you will have processes and would be grateful if you could forward any further information regarding this position, as I believe this would be a great opportunity and experience.

Kind regards

Juice..

The advertisment..

The Parks and Wildlife Service is seeking self-sufficient volunteers able to withstand the buffeting Roaring Forties for a four or six month stint at Australia's southernmost lighthouse on Maatsuyker Island.

Parks and Wildlife Service general manager Peter Mooney said Maatsuyker, which is part of the Southwest National Park, was famous for its rugged setting 10 kilometres off the coast of Tasmania.

"Volunteers have been assisting the Parks and Wildlife Service in its management of the natural and cultural values of the island for a number of years and we are again seeking expressions of interest from people willing to undertake these duties during a four or six month placement on the island.

"The volunteers help to maintain the buildings and machinery on the remote island.

"Volunteers also work with the Bureau of Meteorology under a separate contract to carry out daily weather observations."

Mr Mooney said the volunteer caretaker program enabled people to contribute to the ongoing preservation of lighthouses and the islands on which they are located.

"Volunteer caretakers on Deal and Maatsuyker islands are very important in preserving the cultural heritage of the islands."

Mr Mooney said that people interested in the position should be aware that the weather on Maatsuyker was frequently cold, wet and windy, that the island had limited facilities and access was by helicopter only.

---------------------------------------------

Five Fun Facts, as stolen from wikipedia..

1. Maatsuyker Island is the southernmost island of the group and of the Australian continental shelf.

2. Maatsuyker Island, is approximately 2.6 kilometres long north/south at its longest on a bearing of 196°, by 1.2 kilometres wide east/west at its widest on a bearing of 105°

3. Reportedly, the first keepers of the light took chickens with them to Maatsuyker but the fowls blew away into the ocean.

4. Vegetables get blown flat by the wind, but surprisingly, can be grown successfully (Helpful if you are supposed to live on it!)

5. To add to the wind, there are an average of 249 rain days a year..

:)

The Nerve

2008-09-10T20:12:00.004+08:00

Well it's alway's nice to be the subject of a Blog post. Hmm on second thought, I'm not sure I should be to proud of this rendition. Anyway, I can't descibe how good The Nerve is, so I urge everyone to have a geez.

Matt

Monkey Boy and the Big Blue endorsed.

2008-09-09T12:27:00.003+08:00

We were hurtling down the road, the mighty blue’s speedometer clawed angrily at the 140 mark as it roared down the tarmac. Unsuspecting 28’s* chewed at the grill, exploding into a puff of feathers out the back. We were going on an “Editor” hunt, which for all intended purposes is much like trying to trap a Yeti. Their elusive cunningness makes for a serious challenge.. Well for the modest that is, but Monkey boy and I aren’t modest.. Hell no we’re more like two eager rock gazelles, second generation Rambo’s loaded with a full metal van.

The ornate hunting tools littering the van bed rolled carelessly as we swept through the tight bends. We had packed light with the knowledge we may have to take up some foot thunder in pursuit of the prey, should he try to escape our elaborate ambush that is. This was no time to be held down by the weight of overzealous preparation..

My first personal encounter with an editor was some time ago now, she would sweep through the gym 5:30pm every afternoon, cleverly using a wrist watch I’d assumed. Her lustrous bloom was like the feathers of a peacock, metaphorically of course, she didn’t have actual feathers. Anyway as she passed I would stumble over a word maybe two, smart and witty at the forefront of my mind, “Hi.. me.. (Slurp)”, she would hint a polite smile and then, as quick as I could blink, she was gone. Crafty creatures they are.

Until one day, with a shard of luck I caught her in a journalistic trance**. I felt like some Budda Monk learning the secret of silence. No not because the conversation was bleak, incoherent maybe but not drab. Anyway enough with this dribble, at this point I learnt something very valuable, something I could use on this trip…. All editor’s and journalists are proud alcoholic’s!

My preparation would be perfect;

Worn in set of Volley’s (Sports model preferred)…. Check
Suitable protective clothing like flanno’s etc… Check
Spare stubby holder…. Check
Cold beer…. Check
Half a container of left over Chinese... Check

It would appear we were ready.

Monkey boy and I could see the sun was setting as we rolled into town, the tired big blue gave a last puff as we pulled up on York Street.
“It’s getting dark, well have to do something quick” I mumbled through my Cascade Green,
“Isn’t that him” Monkey boy pointed to a pedestrian crossing the road a few metre’s in front of the car. “No” I insisted, “This is an Editor hunt, it’s supposed to be hard and full of perilous adventure”. I took another heavy slug of beer.
“No, I’m sure that was him” Monkey boy gestures.
He was probably right, but how. It had been over a year and half since I had meet Mark Roy. In that time he had moved towns at least 1400km away from our origin. It wasn’t possible that the first person we saw was him? I’m sure many pedestrians mindlessly wondering down the street, cask in one hand and a flower in the other…

Monkey boy and I exploded into action, “That was him” Monkey Boy confirms. But it’s too late, Art Director had slipped into some mysterious dark shadows and was one. I gulped some more beer thoughtfully, reloaded and stuffed another into my pocket. “Grab your boot’s mate, we’ll have to walk the streets from here” I ordered. We looked around; the street was wide and ran up a hill. Old two story buildings converged with the verge. A couple of dark looking streets ran off to the side. “Mark Roy reckons this place is loathing with right-wing Christens doesn’t surprise me really, look how dead this place is”. Apart from some commotion up the hill, not much else was happening. We decided we might try finding out what this commotion was, given it didn’t look like we would find the Editor any time soon.

As we approached, we could make out a small crowd banded around the front of a large building entrance. At the top of some stairs a school band were performing an old hymn, a pretty small affair by any standards. Suddenly I had a thought, and rushed closer to get a better look, while being careful not to be noticed. This isn’t the time for a crowd panic.. One glimpse of this beard could send these right-wing townsmen into hysteria. I’d be lucky to get out of here without a pitch fork to my neck. I creped in closer, examining the crowd.. I know you’ll be in here somewhere, I thought. It was the obvious tell tale signs I was looking for and there it was, a pronounced hip camera illuminating a sense of importance.

I’d have to get in closer for a chat, but the risk was large. I waited until she took a few steps back away from the crowd, who were now busily focusing on the band marching into a solid chorus. I tapped her on the shoulder, she turned and our eye’s meet. She was gorgeous, but this was no time for games..
“Do you know Mark”, I questioned
“Mark.. Mark Roy you mean” her voice was pleasant and familiar.. Her skin supple and soft..
“Yes that’s what I mean, you don’t know where I could find him?” There was no time for idle pleasantries I thought, best off I get out of here before it turns sour.

A quick few words and I was now on my way, still no phone number but I had some rough directions.. “Above the hairdressers” she said.. I wasn’t listening though, too busy following her lips move around the words.. Soft and gentle, her sweet face could melt a man.. I turned, slurped a good amount of oat soda and set off again. This was a hunt and I would have to be skilled.. No distractions!

It took some time but Monkey Boy and I finally located the apparent lair, in which Art Director was thought to be couped up. We knocked hesitantly, not knowing what trap we may be walking into. For all we knew some old grandma might live here… The site of us wrapping at her front door would certainly do us in. I could picture the Cops swooping in from afar “Cuff these ones fella’s, they look like a wild bunch”, ” And book’em for disorderly conduct when you get’em back to the meat pen” the Sergeant hisses to his men.

Knock, Knock, Knock.. No answer.. The hairdresser who was originally working feverishly now periodically glares though the shopfront window. Fumbling with his phone, and conveniently setting it down close to his work station.. “We’ll have to leave a note” I suggest, “Not much point loitering around here it’s like a ticking time bomb”. We made our way back to the big blue, our shelter and haven as it would seem. By this stage I was in much need of a top up anyway so it seemed a good idea.

It wasn’t long after we got back when I received a message… It read with a sense of urgency, the way a message from an editor/jurno always sounds. Not only are they always boong drunk (Pardon the derogatory comment, I’m happy to take it back) but they are always in a rush!

We found him at the front of the hair dressers stepping into a Taxi when we called out… A look of surprise spread across his face. Maybe I should have told him I was coming down to say good aye, or at least got his number before I left..

“We’re heading off for a shed jam with a local group, you guys wanna come?”
“Too right!”.

As usual, the unplanned always turns out to be the best. And this didn’t seem to disappoint! After a hum ding set the party died down so we decided to move on. By this stage we were feeling pretty intoxicated, Mark Roy was now successfully getting into the lower half of a second cask when he suggests.. “You guys want to go to the lost lake?”. Now I’m not sure but when you hear the word “Lake” you conjure up thoughts of a vast quantity of fresh water right? So after a massive drunken tramp through the bush we finally arrive at what has been described as a lake.. Which for the purpose of this blog I will confirm it looked much like a small drain. Though in Mark Roy’s defence, he was drunk the last time he had come here (Surprise) and it came with a pretty cool story about being dug by convicts in the 1800s so he was forgiven.

We trekked back to the big blue, cracked another beer and lit a decent fire. Settling in for another quite night on the road.

* 28's Are birds which sit on the side of the road..

** journalistic trance = DRUNK

This Natural Beauty

2008-09-08T16:37:00.001+08:00

It wasn’t the flower that drew me closer exactly, but rather a certain peacefulness which attracted my senses. Should I look up I would only be disappointed and frustrated with the Alcoa refinery just a few kilometre’s to the west.. But here, precariously perched upon the rock cliff the flower bloom’s its own wonderment. I clutch fearfully to the side of the rock appreciating it’s splendour, concentrating on my surroundings sure not to slip. The only sound is water fall in the background, falling onto bare granite below.

We were sitting around the small market table, another fine evening soaking up the pleasant temperature and ambiance of the scene. Lotus was sitting across from me with a cheerful but calculated expression on his face, when I abruptly ask:

“How do you feel about the destruction in Tasmania?”

He scanned the crowd mindfully sure not to miss another potential buyer, but also intending to grab a second to help formulate his answer. You see, he’s not the type that makes zealous uneducated claim’s to sound clever, nor would he agree with your opinion just to make you smile. Instead he takes his time to find the few words which express his own feelings. The answer is short, but his stories will be long for he knows his experience more meaningful then just a few lousy words.

I listen intently as he talks about the places he’s been, the things he’s seen and the feelings he’s felt.. He’s learnt, he informs me, to accept and LOVE what is, rather than live with lost hope and disappointment.

I keep this close in mind as I scurry across some more rock’s to examine another flower. I had noticed a sign on the drive in which read; “Under permission you may enter this land… Alcoa”. I look across the rugged untouched hills thinking to myself how lucky I am to see, feel and be part of this bush, this natural beauty.

Pictorial

2008-09-04T21:14:00.015+08:00

Well I thought I would share some pic's from the last week of misadventure, instead of ranting on about another booze soaked sleep deprived camping trip.. Lets just say it was a good week, and a little unexpected. Over a few days we travelled some 1000+KM in a attemped to catch an unsuspecting Editor/Blogger Mark Roy. Catch him over at "The Nerve", it's probably easier and definately worth the read.. Anyway more on that later.

Monkeyboy on the road to Albany, WA

A necessity of all road trips!

Hope you enjoyed.. I sure did!

Outside in the cold, Can you hear me?

2008-08-26T21:42:00.005+08:00

Like a scene from Rambo, a tramped my way through the thick shrub with confidence. A make do “Danger” tape head band kept the hair out of my eyes, fittingly it would seem as I was more likely a danger to myself then the weening sunlight and eminent cold at darkness. I masterfully (because you need skills) dragged some large logs from out of the depths of the bush. I wasn’t going to spend the night out here with only a little candle light I thought, no if I had my way I would probably have a bond fire bigger enough to support a Woodstock after party.. Survival mode had kicked in hard, like a hoof full of horse to the head.. I slugged at my beer intermittently as the fire grew, standing back momentarily in admiration before heading off further down the track for more wood.

Earlier in the day, well right back to the morning. I had woken to the sound of a boot kicking the side of my thick enclosed tomb (Swag). Maybe the happy chirps of a pretty wild bird would have been heard, but I guess they had got the news, “Monkey boy has a new gun” and warned off. It was a beautiful morning all the same and I was glad to be woken so violently. It was the first time that I felt happy to be in WA again out here in the bush away from all the open street planning and shopping arcades. The first week I landed I was doing some training for a job, which I started that Sunday night on night shift. So this weekend being the first I had free time we choose to go bush, relatively close mind you but far enough to be out of the way.

(note: Phone camera sorry :(.. Which went flat!!

The fire was now satisfactory enough thought as I had to take many steps back, and the camp site was surrounded with enough dry dead branches to power Japan. Anymore and I think it would have all gone up encasing me in some psychedelic world of hurt which although had a hippy tinge to it, didn’t actually excite. Anyway I didn’t really mind so much because I was in survival mode, warmth on my left and cold beer on my right. (Note: Beer must be protected from warmth!). I now sat back and waited for the rest of the party to arrive.

A quick visit to the pub for lunch (Come on, it’s a camping trip and a steak sanga at the closest publican is a must). Anyway, I was at the Ravenswood pub nestled on the Murray river sucking some Gage Road’s by the pint full, catching up with some crew when one offered to give me a lift back to camp. A camp which I’d like to mention as packed before leaving for lunch. I agreed to the lift though seeing as though my friend wanted too see the camping site and Monkey boy’s bed warmer was having a sad about a shower. Why not I thought, it wouldn’t be long for them to pop down the road get a shower then back up the hill to where I’d meet them.

It was now dark, around 7:00pm maybe two hours after light and the temperature had dropped quickly. The cool clear sky’s where filled with bright star’s and a full moon hung to my right, persistently reminding me of the time in which I had been sitting on the partially destroyed park bench (A tree had fallen on it, and me being in survival mode had removed maybe some of the timber.. (Obvious reasons). I was now starting to feel angry though, I was trusting them to arrive with my swag or even a jumper.. Where were they at this time of the night? I questioned to myself. Then out of the blue I would laugh, thinking it was possibly something I would do to Monkey Boy myself just to see what he would do… But then the anger would over whelm me again when I noticed my depleting stock of tasty beverages. Why didn’t I grab a dozen roadies instead of a halfer?, I detested.. Probably because I was already drunk.

Judging by the look of the moon, I assumed it was close to 8pm when I ran out of soda’s. It was now time to decide if I would settle in here and wait out the night beside the fire, maybe eat some fresh marron (Fresh water lobster) which I knew where in the trap, or leg it in the dark and cold to the closest house. (Which was a friends’ joint about 5km’s I assumed).. Screw the bush I decided I’m too drunk for all this survival proverbial, I’ll take the foot falcon for a thrash.

As you could imagine I felt like I had just stumbled 500 miles for love, when I caught the lights in the distance. The car met me at the other end of the car park from the camping site was, probably a good twenty or so meter’s. They were roaring with laughter as I proceeded to slur some profanity of how I felt about them. The car which was picking me up wasn’t even Monkey boy’s to say the least, it was another friend and monkey boy was crammed in the passenger seat with my headache (His bed warmer). Apparently they had decided to change camp site, and instead of stopping on the way which to most would be lodgical, to pick me up they wisely decided to head to the NEW location first. Tidy the camp up, set up tent, blow up air mattress, collect wood and light fire, set up cooker probably eat some food and what ever else they wanted before.. Hang on where’s Juice!

Thanks mate!

All that starts well end’s well hey. And I must admit I wasn’t too annoyed when they handed me about the eighth freshly cooked snagga in a roll.. I probably sneered and grabbed at it, but it was all well. I tucked tightly in my swag away from the cold and looking down over the coastal plains below. Even I better site then the last and the morning would not disappoint as the shadow of the sun rose up over the hill and the receded over the land.

Where the hell did I leave my camera!

So anyway, as you could piece together some paddling didn’t occur the way I had hoped. Instead I went straight into a job earning some sweet cash. Two weeks later, which brings me to now I quit in favour for a life. No sooner then the morning after quitting though, I was mentally preparing myself to move to Tasmania when I received a phone call: “I heard you were in town, blah blah blah.. Four to eight weeks…”.

I'm back, but not for long!

2008-08-20T13:10:00.001+08:00

I casually strolled around the markets dimly lit paths. I felt strong and free, cheery and comfortable. It had now been six months since I first scoured the street’s lost with my own thoughts, and few to share them with. My phone constantly attached to my hand anticipating some minor interaction with someone, anyone. Had they forgotten me back home I thought as I explored the new and foreign City? But tonight, Market night was different, six months later I now had all the friends I needed. No not the usual same old faces who are there for me in the end, instead new friends who were enjoying the journey with me.

Leaving Darwin wasn’t going to be so easy..

Miss H, well I won’t say much here that she doesn’t already know. But she was a delightful find just over top of a mid morning beer froth. I was sitting out the front of a bar with some guys, it was still early in the day but we hadn’t figured there was not much else to do. So in true sailor fashion drinking some oat soda was priority. Anyway this attractive sort was walking past, when with all grandeur met, I proceeded to call out some drunken coo of desperation and depravity. Can you say Bogan? But in short, and short the interlude was it would be the start of a great friendship.

Lotus, a guess was another rare gem that you don’t expect to find, but more just stumble upon and wonder why you didn’t know each other earlier. Okay we’ll get one thing straight, the guy can juggle better then a batman crossed with a clown. You see I think he figured that juggling with hands was for people who didn’t have much time for anything else. But not this man, pure genius had him juggling on his foot! Rather a cool person to meet, and after speaking with him and sharing some of his insight’s on life, a great person to befriend. Remember, this mountain of man: much more then a foot bag extraordinaire. Actually a lot more as I would learn and enjoy over a few quiet ale’s and some home made absinth. Check out his photography!

Then there is a handful of other’s like Nancy’s and Rachel the friendly back packers who remind you what it is to be free, and friendly. You know being friendly doesn’t cost much, but it’s a hell of a way to live isn’t it. The thing I first noticed when I stepped off the plane (And yes straight into a pub before going home), is how people in Perth don’t really seem to interact with each other. Rather they form little circles in the pub and exclude by passers. Let me paint a picture of Darwin..

It was around 10pm on a Sunday night when Miss H and I were leaving the Mindel Beach Market’s. Tonight opting to slack the couple kilometre walk back home and catch a share taxi. Anyway the way these share taxi’s work is you jump in and they wait until it’s full before departing, nothing to hard to comprehend. Well on this particular perfect weather night though, we were waiting a while as the crowd had already thinned out. So as you do in Darwin, we all get talking about the where ya from’s, and what’s your name.. And by the time the Taxi driver called out “Where too”, we had all decided to head to the bar for some beer. Not sure that could ever happen in any other place, and that’s what makes Darwin what it is.

Anyway, so I’m back for now but not promising to be here long….. What’s the word for it, “Bitten by the bug”.

2008-08-19T12:53:00.002+08:00

"I sat there a long time, and thought about a lot of things. Foremost among them was the suspicion that my strange and ungovernable instincts might do me in before I had a chance to get rich. No matter how much I wanted all those things that I needed money to buy, there was some devilish current pushing me off in another direction - toward anarchy and poverty and craziness. That maddening delusion that a man can lead a decent life without hiring himself out as a Judas Goat" - The Rum Diary, Hunter S Thompson.

Finally got some internet, but I now just have to find the time to post!

Blog soon :)

Sorry it's been so long..

2008-07-21T14:58:00.001+08:00

Well guys it’s been some time since I last posted, and I guess it’s because I haven’t been doing anything all that exciting. Just gritting my teeth hoping this thing called reality burns up into the atmosphere and I blast off into juice land, were everything’s soft and cushy, new and exciting and brilliant with spender. See here I go again wondering about a universe which apparently doesn’t exist, a world where frozen Coke flows endlessly on domestic taps.. Not quite, and I guess this is where I‘m at. As my fellow reader’s you would recall the post about the Ably Mangles Gun Safari, which was to take place soon and would promise to be an adventure to end all adventures. Well.. Reluctantly I will have to share with my readers that not all is as it seems.

After my last post I had the idea that I should invite Monkey Boy, the travel companion up to Darwin for awhile until he started his new job. My reasoning would be that this way it would allow us to partake in some mini-adventures sooner rather then later. This was all good and within a couple of day’s we found ourselves siting on the wharf fishing, enjoying the unique surroundings on offer.

The days pasted and it was pretty enjoyable, but still something became rather apparent. Something not new to me but more noticeable and acute as the days wore on. The realisation that I may have been romancing the stone, on a meaningless tangent from reality, caught in my own imagination.. And for those who know me, know I can be strangely random at times, and my imagination isn’t far off. But I guess not is all lost, yes my reader’s may not get what was exactly expected, but I’m sure with this new awareness brings new idea’s with potential execution.

I’m sure many have already discovered this but to me it’s new, something that comes with six months living in a different City I suppose. Finding, living and discovering new places not only externally but also internally. Realising I’m not so incompetent, or reliant on company to achieve the things I want. But rather the opposite and the more I’m let loose on the world the more I want to learn it for myself. Take my own time to smell the roses, or ponder the meaning of life. And here lies our difference’s, I’m infected, I’m driven and goal orientated.. I want something, and I’ll do what I have to too take it. I think this learning has put me in a different place where I know exist with my own thoughts and focuses and individuality.

This does not mean I’m not going to share some epic adventure’s though, so don’t fear. In actual fact for those who don’t know I recently quit my comfortable cushy job in Darwin and have now booked another one way ticket. This time it’s back to my root’s in WA, and first on the agenda is a quick 130+ km paddle down the now flooding banks of the Murray River.. Coincidently with the intention of spending a few day’s without contact, camping in the dense Jarrah Forest with my old man. I’m due to take off on the 7th so I’ll be sure to keep you posted.

Sorry this is one of those me,me,me,me type posts but I guess I just had some stuff to say. Until then I hope to hear from you all and I’ll be sure to comment on other’s work.

Aye white fella, you got some change Part_2

2008-06-25T11:56:00.001+08:00

The photo revealed a group of young men, dressing in nothing more then a modest loin cloth. I don’t think they were much concerned with clothing back then as the materialistic world is today. But what is most noticeable about this photo was the men’s build; a wiry type fitted out with a stiff set of abdominal muscles which would put some of our modern day athlete’s to shame. Now I’m no scientist but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t from the gym they were attending, or the protein whey extracts they were drinking. No, something tells me it may have been something to do with the lifestyle.

And as Ian explains on the Thursday night; the men and women of these tribes spent much of there time hunting and gathering seasonal fruit’s, nut’s, roots and an assortment of fish, turtles, birds, snakes, lizards, crocodiles and kangaroo’s. A diet which is proved to be extremely healthy and for those who can remember, a food group which would fit nicely in to the two lower half’s of the Healthy Diet Pyramid. . This was the contributing factor, to the life style which would ensure the men and women stayed lean and fit an aspect of life which in latter years would be lost as the need for hunting dissipated and was replaced with fatty meats and other modern foods.

By late on Saturday afternoon we were busy scaling large granite rocks, in search of some rare flowers which had been reported by two elderly naturalists to be in the vicinity a few weeks before hand. This was only weeks after a wild fire had burst through the area clearing all the long grass. The perfect time I’m told for wild flowers to sprig and do there thing. I, of course had no idea what I was looking for but still trudged along happily, enjoying the feeling of the rough stones grating the bottom of my tender feet raw. A decision to loose my trusty (now covered in mud) Dunlop volley’s in a bid to feel nature between my toes so to speak. The young boy scattered up the hill finding his footing momentarily as he bounded for the next rock. With a grin on Ian’s face, he explains that young boy; Goyma was in search for the tallest rock to do his best Lion King impersonation. Sometime around here in my discussion with Ian we brushed on the subject of the remaining traditionalist’s, and what the future might hold. A grim look of desperation came across his face, a saddened look which I knew the meaning of all to well. “Unfortunately teenagers are teenagers, preferring the new Nike clothes and hanging out at the Casuarina mall”.

It’s no hidden secret to the rest of the new Australian people what an epidemic cultural influence is having on the Native Australian’s. It’s on the news regularly enough, especially in the northern reaches of this country where it can’t be hidden form the public eye. I guess some would argue it’s a matter of there own personal choice, but I gather being uneducated in a lower social economic environment hasn’t helped there social behaviours flourish. Totally misunderstanding the capitalist world they now find themselves living in. I guess this is where Ian find’s his niche, meanwhile when the government are frolicking about with ideas (look how long it took to say sorry to the stolen generation) on what they can do, Ian does. You see, he spends much of his time working with different groups promoting the understanding of Aboriginal culture an natural wonder to a wide variety of audiences though different mediums. Eco tour’s, teaching in Californian universities, ABC documentaries and published books just to name a few. He is certainly a man with an intense purpose of life, with an eye for natural beauty.

What would make the biggest profound impact on me this weekend was to learn much of what the aboriginal people did is what I want to be! Too be rich without money, and to be satisfied without material excess. Sounds like I’m turning into a dirty rotten hippy by now, but I assure you I don’t stink to bad..

Aye white fella, you got a Cigarette? Part_1

2008-06-23T12:24:00.004+08:00

He gingerly places his foot amongst the long grass, which towers well above his head. He feels patiently with his bare foot, sure to not step on anything too sharp, especially the dreaded Pandanus fronds. Ian hangs back as he lets the aboriginal boy feel his way though; he follows the trails of what is an unknown animal. Well to my uneducated eye’s it is anyway, to the boy it is a Wallaby. The two casually chatter amongst themselves, a language which I don’t understand but isn’t foreign, quite a contrast perhaps as in fact it is the local tongue of the indigenous folks throughout these parts. I’m the foreigner here, and I have much to learn.

Occasionally Ian clues us in to what they are saying, usually about the many animal tracks which he is encouraging the young fella to identify or “track”. This tradition of tracking was one the most praised skills of the local people in the early days of European settlement; they could follow animal activities for miles on end, day after day hunting for rewards, or too find stray cattle. Every print or broken twig would tell the tracker a story and a keen eye could probably tell you more about the animal then if you had seen it for yourself. Something Ian would later explain to me as a dying art form like many of the traditional practises of the Aboriginal people, as the need for hunting is invalidated with the take over with modern European society. The young kids now prefer to buy a stale piece of meat from the rack then to take something which used to be for free.

Well I better back up and explain how I ended up here, a dense jungle growing over an underground spring. What can I say I love to eat, and it’s better when it’s free! Well that’s what drew me to the small meeting on Thursday night, when I heard Ian Morris was presenting a talk about the plants used in the traditional Aboriginal life. At the time when I heard about this talk I was browsing though a book on the Kakadu National Park while waiting for Miss H to get ready. Her Aunty was strolling though the room I sat in when she noticed the book in my palms; “I’m going to a talk presented by the author of that book tonight”. I eagerly questioned for more information.

From here it escalated and that is how I found myself deep in the Black Jungle of Kakadu National Park. How I ended up here is rather bizarre, but more so how I ended up here with the Top End Plant Growers Society is stranger. A modest group of middle aged people who commit countless hours to the research of plants, they are at the forefront of documenting rare and even unknown species of plants which exist in the diverse ecosystems of the top end. Some are Botanist, while others naturalists and entomologists. Sounds kinder dull, maybe even geeky to most, but for me my interest leaned heavily towards the understanding of eatable plants more then anything else. But as I would soon learn, it was hard not to be drawn into the member’s excitement and passion for the wild life, especially Ian and his intermit knowledge of just about anything to do with the bush.

But what Ian also brought with him was the ability to enrich our walk with the history and knowledge of Aboriginal culture and how they coexisted with such a harsh environment. To them though this was the land of plenty, and in a biblical sense, you could be mistaken for this to be the Promised Land. At one point Ian told us of a story from when he was a younger lad. He and the tribe he was with at the time were informed of a Greek man attempting to cross Arnhem Land in a V-dub. The man had gone missing after being warned not to attempt such a crossing by local authority. Anyway as the story is told they followed the man’s tracks in circles until he eventually withered and died. And as Ian explained to us, the Elder’s of the tribe mourned for days on end, as they could not comprehend how someone could die in the land of plenty, to them is the equivalent of a supermarket to us.

“They’re a useless bunch, they didn’t even invent the wheel”.. It’s true that I once associated with this statement, shameful as it is to admit. Ignorance and the lack of education had me making such foolish accusations. I never realised what they had going was good, in actual fact probably a better way of life then what I have.

To be continued…

To wake up 25 years old..

2008-06-18T14:40:00.005+08:00

“You keep this up and you’ll never live to see 21”, her bark echoed across the yard. There was a time when I wondered why she never bothered applying for a public relation position with the government. Distilling fear and loathing in the minds of those gullible enough to listen..

I didn’t.

Aching bones and a body bloated with booze the sure sign of years gone by, viciously consumed in a raging drunken stupor. No regrets, it was all in good fun I refreshingly reminded myself as I wearily crawled out of bed. At least my soul’s intact.

Kakadu... The beer wrangler

2008-06-11T13:49:00.008+08:00

Well as it could be expected on a long weekend, I found myself busy packing the car and boat on a quest for another alcoholic raged fishing and camping spectacular. Two weeks ago I was approached by a lady from work, with the notion to take myself and another work affiliate out fishing in the world famous Kakadu National Park. I was keen as mustard with the invitation and accepted immediately. Kakadu if you’re wondering is exactly the same place where Crocodile Dundee was filmed. If you can remember the scene where he stands on a rock and proclaims “This is my backyard”, yeah that’s the joint!. On top of this, it was also the home of one of my favourite autobiographies, Hell west and crooked – written by Tom Cole. So to see this landscape in person, and even live in its harsh unforgiving environment for just a moment was like a dream come true.

I guess most people would be happier sipping fruity cocktails in a high end resort by the sea shore, while being waited on by a hot French south pacific islander, then battling it out with nature in this Jurassic park. So do I, but hey who doesn’t like getting feral either? Just picture billabongs full of prehistoric animals which hate you, wild horses and buffalo graze lazily over the grassy flood plains and a profusion of colourful birds shelter under the shrubs in the in the scorching heat of the day. I can’t even begin to explain what it feels like to be engulfed in these elements, an untouched ecosystem adapted over many years to form a natural equilibrium.

So the fishing trip was on, the boat was packed and we made the relatively short 3.5 hour drive out to Yellow waters. We set up camp, and quickly set about making our way onto to the water for the first fish for the weekend. I won’t bore you with fishing jargon and the minor details of the trip, but we did well and it was ascertained early that Barramundi and beer was on the menu. My new found friends, as I would quickly learn were avid drinkers. A great characteristic for camping trips! A final count after that first night was 17 beers on my tally, funnily enough a tempo which wouldn’t ease up until we had basically raped a pillaged all that remained in the two huge eskies. As you can guess it was a pretty good weekend had by all.

Although I was having a great time, I couldn’t help feeling a slight bit of disappointment. Not with the weekend itself, but more the fact my good friends who I usually road trip with weren’t here to enjoy it. For a while now I’ve been promising that I’ll be home soon. But reality is that I’m not really sure where home is anymore, and by the looks of my housing situation I could still be up here for close to two more months. So to those guys who read my blog… Sorry.

But what this got me thinking about more is the “Alby Mangles Gun Safari” Zac and I have been jabbering on about for some time. Most of the readers are probably not aware that I’m planning to travel around Australia with a good friend called Zac. This Monkey boy (who has been a large part of my previous adventure blogs), and myself have planned to setup a Van with a boat and drive up the west coast and eventually all the way back around to Tasmania starting around October this year. The idea being that we will live off the land as much as possible to save money by eating things like fish, goats, camels, ducks, snakes, lizards, Chinese etc. It probably sounds pretty sketchy, but that’s the challenge which has been set.

My first baby barrra... Note; 24 beer caps on the hat before my first fish!

Frisbee action

2008-06-05T11:43:00.008+08:00

So sunday I suggested that a few of us visit the beach for a little frisbee/rugby action. A few things to point out about Darwin beaches though.. Cocodiles, Box jelly fish, Sharks and an abundance of other creatures which don't like you, and in the words of Dylan Moran "Swimming knives". Yes, all of these plus more populate sneaky hidding spots scattered along the scenic coast line, just waiting for another ill-informed traveller to make a mistake. But being dry season the locals assure me , that I'm over zealous and a swim shouldn't see me dangling from the mouth of these deranged killing monsters any time soon.

So with the new found confidence the beach trip is a go..

Beer, wine and sun.. What else could we ask for? I'll admit that I would prefer the beaches at my home town, but given that it's the 1st of June... I think this is a pretty good substitute considering it would be pissing down at home and fairly miserable.

Proof that I went in! On the left is Nancy a dutch backpacker we met the other day. Later in the evening we moved around the bay to the next beach for the evening markets and played some more frisbee!! I swear frisby is the ultimate sport for those of us to unco to kite surf, or to cheap to wake board..

Disco dancing was involved!

2008-06-02T12:04:00.008+08:00

Well with the arrival of my house mate after two and half months sailing the south pacific ocean, the weekend was destined to be a alcoholic shakedown like no other.. For some reason I felt the need to warm up to the event, like some sort of athlete before the Olympic Games I found myself chugging copious amounts of delicious beverages in a feeble attempt to gain legendary piss fitness status. Drinking Monday, Wednesday, Thursday.. And as should be expected, the day Sailor boy and Co arrived home, Friday.

What followed was a serious session of hard drinking. It all started the second I arrived home form work. My house mate had fitted a few eskies out with beautiful golden oat soda’s on ice and was already half tanked. I had no objections in following suit and soon found myself staring into the bottom of a few empty glasses. A few phone calls later had a swag of delightful characters waltzing up the stairs (Don’t you hate it when the lift breaks down, your drunk and you live on the seventh floor!). At this point I’ll mention included a couple of female backpackers I had met the night before while on the town with Miss H. So maybe Miss H has reason to peruse my phone from time to time, but hell she was there when I asked for these girls numbers.. Anyway we get to drinking in a fashion met with great enthusiasm, and before long we are all slurring away with immense chatter of god knows what. Probably my man beard..

A few shot’s of Mescal Tequila feed the hungry faces as they depart from the entrance of our unit, high spirit’s flaming like the coals on a great Aussie barby, we prepare ourselves for the dangerous decent down seven flights of stairs. It’s hilarious as we trip over ourselves, taking periodic breaks at each landing (Appropriately named) to catch a sense of balance. It’s a unanimous decision that “The Vic” will be the local dive for this evening’s entertainment, Air guitar championships hot on the agenda, with a mix of bar dancing cow girls to take care of any boring interval.

It’s not unreasonable to assume at this stage we are all completely loaded, it’s clearly going to be one of those nights which our brains will find hard to comprehend in the morning.

As soon as we make it through the entrance we line the bar for our first Jacks and coke, then beeline to find a place on the table where we can dance, shout, hug, make out, look good.. you know, what ever really. Within what seems like seconds we are flinging ourselves over the surface, precariously dangling on the edge of the table as we master the beats with well recited dance jingle jangle. Who would have thought I look so good performing party favourites like the sprinkler, head bobbing, arms pumping… Styling like chocolate yogo on a toddlers face!

The night carries on in fabulous fashion, as we run around the complex taking pictures with just about every patron possible. I have never been to such a friendly venue, which is just so down to earth. It makes the word pretentious seem some what mystical, not common place. I look around the room as everyone intermittently gargles the last of there appetizingly tasty potion.

The air guitarists are nothing but completely abstract, well placed to fry the little remains of my sane mind. At one point, a KISS like creature snarled out across the stage, prancing faster then that devilish looking demon from the hellish depths of middle earth. I found myself in a state of hysteria as the alcohol played ferociously with my mind. I fumbled carelessly though my camera function’s in a state of panic.. as the pictures keep showing up with a fire like appearance… I proceeded to scrawl thought the camera function’s… NORMAL, the letters read across my screen, in a state of intensive fear I press enter button.. Then began to laugh, how ironic the word normal seemed at a time like this.… I need another drink!

Before long it seemed that everyone had realized there maximum capacity had been reached, if lot exceeded, and soon started to drift off in separate directions. Surely some would make it back home.. I myself, headed in the opposite direction though with the intentions of a midnight Hoover of disgusting over priced Chinese food! And that’s what I got!

The walk home seemed to take the best of five hours, my legs drooped under my weight as I considered the possibility of finding a quite spot under a tree for the night.. But lucky or unlucky I found some sense in making it home. On arrival I was only disheartened to find I was locked out of the complex…But I guessed all was not lost, and wearily climbed up behind some pot plants and fell to sleep…

I’m not sure how long I was out for, long enough for some flea’s to set in and bit the hell out of my legs though. I was shaken awake as my house mate stood over me. Not sure if he was out looking for me or not, but he found me all the same. Time for the trek up the stairs again!

The next day I awoke, with the feeling of razors grinding in my throat… Shit I was still alive! We gradually gathered the guys up from the night before and headed down to Bennies Bakery; a pie would surely settle this belly I thought. It was some hours later when I realized that it fell terribly short of the saving grace I had originally hoped for, as it toiled in the back of my mouth. I slowly gathered myself together, and decided to head out the to the national park.. The thought of crawling up behind a warm fresh water waterfall and dying sounded all too appealing.

I fell in love with this girl.. If only I knew more then that she's from North Ireland!

Looking through his phone!

2008-05-27T12:21:00.002+08:00

Well last night, after eating a tasty chicken sausage and salad dinner I settled comfortably into my soft leather couch, a new magazine and nothing to bother me all night. I figured an early night was on the cards after having a couple of late ones over the weekend.. Speaking of which, don’t ask me how I ended up meeting Wolfmother, Powderfinger and Gyroscope (Bands for the misinformed) during a fishing trip! That’s right, late on Saturday evening I was walking home, when I saw a bloke standing at the top end of my street. Under his arm a fishing rod and esky in hand. Waiting for a lift I figured. So I said good-ay as I passed, and thirty minutes later we’re standing on the wharf, line in the water, testing out his latest batch of homebrew Bourbon. If that’s not strange enough, after a few to many tantalising tasters we throw the gear on the ute (SUV for the American’s) and head home, unfortunately or fortunately, for reason’s the authorities tell us not to drink drive; We find ourselves walking into a quite looking pub at the far end of town. What we don’t realise until much later and much drunker, is that at the back of the pub is a large beer garden full of after party goes from the music festival which was on earlier in the day .. So with our fish stink on and all, we slipped in and begun to take full advantage of the Tab… Random!

But alas this isn’t so much about Saturday, as it is Monday night. How crazy can a Monday night really be? Around 9pm I receive a message from a guy I know from back home. He suggests we head out for a drink, as the torrents style room mate back packer is scaring the shit out of him and he needs to calm some nerves. I guess a couple should be in order, and I’ll message Miss Humanitarian later to catch up when she knocks off work. Excellent idea and perfect excuse to go home at a reasonable hour I figure.

With this plan in tact I head off, and before I know it I’m at The Vic, a hotel known for $3.50 meals and colourful games which generally attract large numbers of back packers. Who I might mention is ready to do anything for a free jug of delicious oak soda (Beer), and this generally means some sort of nudity. Tonight was no exception by any means and the place is packed full of rowdy foreigners; it was going to be an entertaining night. Triva, the game… would eventually lead to semi nudity and table top dancing as everyone in the pub swings to the tunes of Aqua – Barbie Girl. That’s the type of place this is, with 5 jugs up for grabs, the mood was high.

After sitting back and just taking in the atmosphere, I message Miss H to catch up. She replies saying that she has two guys with her (Customers) who wanna be shown the town. I’m obliged to say bring them along, I have no reason not to. “I’ll be there shortly” she replies, eventually I message back after some time asking if she’s still coming, and in a couple of minutes she shows up, two men in pursuit.

I didn’t question her much about what took so long, but for some reason she spills some crazy excuses. I accept them without much thought, but I won’t lie, I did sense myself feeling slightly insecure (Okay for better understanding, Miss H and I have been having a “thing” which is scheduled to end the day I fly out, and without taking things to serious I have no grounds to get jealous). Anyway I pass it off, especially when I look around the room and see what other potential is on sale tonight..

The plan was to head home, but it becomes obvious we’ll be staying a little longer entertaining our new guests.. Who sort of join the group periodically, but mainly standing to the side. I don’t mind so much, it’s a good night and the beer is starting to take hold of my love handles and shake them all about. I’m on the verge of dance mode for sure!!. Anyway, still getting to the point, at some stage I head off to the little boy’s, tinkle time. Strangely when I’m standing over the urinal I make a realisation, I’ve left my phone on the table. What an awful feeling, I know it’s safe, but I feel almost naked!

What’s worse though, is the discovery I make as I approach the table. I can see she’s fumbling though a phone and without doubt I know it’s mine. I silently make my way over being careful not to be noticed. I peer over her shoulder, to watch as she scrawling thought my outbox..

This doesn’t work for me at all, it’s not that I have something to hide.. well maybe just a little, but a text message has no context does it. Further to the point it’s just plain invasive. Usually I guess I would make a big deal about it. I’ve sworn before that if I catch a girl doing this sort of thing it’s an instant dismissal. In this case though, she’s young and obviously insecure, I’m supposed to be leaving, and this isn’t supposed to be serious.

So with as much grace as I can give I just explain it’s not cool to be snooping though someone else’s phone. I’ve done it before, and I’ve had it done to me. Most times it just leads to undue heart ache.. And if she’s doing it to me, it just means she doesn’t trust me.

I mention it to my mate who’s oblivious to what had just happened over the loud music and frantic crowd. He empathizes with me, and almost makes out like it could be worse then cheating. But hey, i'm irritated but this isn’t supposed to be serious. I dropped the subject figuring I might have a chat to her later.. Before I knew it, it was one o’clock and I was only just getting home..

I didn’t bring it up again, just doesn’t seem like it was worth it. Would love to hear how others feel about people going through someone else’s phone though. I expect if your in a serious relationship like married or something, it’s nice to be transparent.. But otherwise it's a no go zone.

Peace, in a bottle!

2008-05-21T10:00:00.003+08:00

Not sure if I have much to really write about today. For some reason everything seems to be going really slow. It’s now been about 5 -6 weeks since I went out drinking or even just plain drinking! Not exactly a style I exercise too often, and in part it’s boring as hell!!

Last Friday was a tough one, the day was winding down, and as I looked around the office all I could think about was breaking loose from this prison cell and getting coconut crazy on some delicious refreshing beverages. I decided a six pack would be required as a minimum to help eradicate this sense of tediousness. So with this in mind I rushed home, and set forth planning the evening’s entertainment. I figured since I don’t have any mates to drink with I might as well try my luck with some fishing.

Okay seeing as I plan on living off the land during my previously plotted escapades across the world, (yes world, the term country is so confining) it’s mighty important I can actually catch fish one would think. Unless of course I trip on some luck and find Jesus, who’ll miraculously turn water into wine and five loafs of bread and two fish into a feast. What a champ he would be on a road trip! Back on track though, so with a firm plan for the evening I got myself prepared with all my fishing instrumentation, even some new stuff. I pack my gear and head off to catch the evening low tide feeling pretty confident I’ll land a whooper!

On the way I slip into the bottle-o, some fancy beers tonight I think, as I peruse the selection. “Six James Squire Amber Ales, Thanks mate”. A strong definitive bitter flavour for fishing I expertly decide. So I pay the good fellow and head off down to my fishing spot. Seeing as I’m not local here; my fishing spots are just a guess at best, as is my technique! This could possibly be my down fall I later discover! First task, scale a few hundred meters of a slippery rock wall, while precariously balancing my precious six pack of gold. Once this is achieved, time to setup and enjoy the evening.

A strong aroma drifts out from underneath the bottle cap as I pry it open with the back of the fishing knife. The flavours linger around my mouth long after the cool refreshing liquid has been swallowed. A strong sense of pepper’s and cloves can be tasted. It’s simply divine, I conclude as I tongue the nozzle of the first empty bottle!

An hour or so passes, and I’m still only half way though my second bottle. It’s a mixture of pure delight savouring the flavour crossed with a certain fear that at any moment I’m likely to slip off the greasy surface of the rock on which I stand and drop hideously into murky waters below. Which I’ll briefly point out takes up much of my beer drinking concentration. With hardly a bite, ten thousand Sandfly welts and a general uneasiness from resting on this rock I hastily decide to move. It’s 11pm by this stage so I’m sufficiently ready to call it a night.

On the way home I feel a bit let down by my efforts, not only on a fishing front, but also with my plans for a beer drinking extravaganza. I’m starting to feel like an old man! So in a last minute decision I speed past my apartment, and make my way down to the fisherman’s wharf. Located down the hill from where I live, which is the local pen for trolling boats, wholesale fish markets and an industrial shipping yard. When I make it to the end, I can see some other desperate fellows still dangling good faith at the end of a nylon line. With a beer in hand I hop out of my rig to investigate if these fellow chumps have had as much luck as I have. As it would turn out the first bloke I approach is swaying more then a worm in a half empty bottle of tequila. I get chatting and before long I’ve traded one of my precious ales with my new friend. In exchange he helps me out with my set up and shares some of his live bait. Top guy I think..

The night really didn’t take much of a turn, fishing wise, despite not getting home until 7am the next day I was still empty handed! It didn’t seem to matter all that much though, because by my fourth and unfortunately last bottle I was already feeling the constraints of the daily grind lifting off my shoulders. And as the night grew on, Random drunk guy, his mate and I chatted on about all the expired adventures of the past. Then of the trips to come, comparing notes, life experiences and challenges which every bloke must face when chasing the ultimate dream…….

Man I can’t wait to go fishing again!

In My Little Window

2008-05-19T08:02:00.005+08:00

Generally speaking my musical tastes have in recent years been carefully wrapped up in tissue paper, packed in soft foam, gaffa taped into a little square ivory box and feed to a Leafy Sea Dragon for safe keeping. On this tiny little box written in bold letters are the names of these bands; Guttermouth, Pennywise, Millencolin, NOFX, Frenzal Rhomb, No Fun At All, Bad Religion, Blink 182, Lagwagon, Unwritten Law, Strung Out, AFI.. Just to name a few. Yes this is pretty much just a list of the skater punk bands which did the rounds on the late 1990's Punk scene, where life was all about being naked, drunk and pubic hair. Dealing with life’s little mishaps, and antidotes.. Generally structured around a scene, usually one of those sticky don’t look at me, embarrassing adolesce moments. It’s no wonder many of these songs featured on films such as American Pie and Road trip.

Traditionally speaking though, punk music was all about political outrage. Turning the term “politically correct” upside down, dumping it in a skip bin and then probably spitting on it. By no means did this stop during the late 90’s, but some bands did choose to deviate somewhat and this was the creation of the skater punk. I consider the early Blink 182 album’s the pinnacle of this sub-genre. Something I, and many mates couldn’t get enough of at the time.

Meanwhile in a bid to find that “New sound” bands started mixing different styles, and with all music, new electronic techniques where adopted. I think the first group to really understand and develop this was Korn back in 1992, in what is said to be the rebirth of Rock. Anyway, everything evolves and so did punk. When veteran band AFI released its new album December Underground; it was received with mixed feelings. The Skater Punk’s of old expected the same as years before and were shocked to hear and see this new style and Goth like appearance. While the younger crew ate it up like Vegemite on toast and begun growing the reverse mullet.

Clearly it was time to move on.. Those like me found this difficult to deal with, labelling it Emo and disregarded it as “Junk”. But it wasn’t long before more and more bands started popping up, growing with momentum as the new kids pushed to hear more. And the more they pushed the more they were given!!

This isn’t a bad thing it’s just different, like The Doors to Anti-Flag, it’s a constant evolution which needs to be recognized for its unique contrast and sounds. The bands at the forefront push there talents to the limits, finding a place where they will fit in this enormous music industry and I guess if it wasn’t for these guys we’d still be listening to Swing music! Remember the reception Elvis Presley got when he first appeared on the scene? Neither do I because I’m too young.. But he was almost an outlaw; breaking from the conservative restrains which strangled music direction. Remember The Clash, and The Sex Pistols, The Ramones, Dead Kennedy..

The big question, will we get old and stuck in our own little ivory box with our favourite music collection like our parents have?

Currently listening to:

Liberation...

2008-05-16T12:36:00.004+08:00

Today I received a message from Zac, in what I understand as a feeble attempt to make sense of it all. But clearly he recognizes the issues with quantifying life.

“I was thinking if we leave in October it will be going into summer, so we should go across the bottom end of Australia and ferry to Tasmania? Do summer in Tasmania because it'll be the wet season in the Northern Territory. Do the east coast in autumn and the top end in winter!But you know this is a plan, and we’re pretty random so we’ll probably end up in Thailand for 4 months from October working???”

So in summary, I guess you could call that the itinerary for our road trip… It’s almost too detailed to be honest.

A trip, I'd rather forget!

2008-05-15T11:02:00.006+08:00

It’s been awhile, five weeks and so much has happened that it already feels like it could have been a year ago. I was sitting at work when I received an extremely disappointing message from a friend. It felt shattered, and the thought of what the weekend would bare scared me.. Nothing like being secluded in a City with no close friends to be distracted by, just your own thoughts to drive you mad.

So without much thought I skipped through the Airfare pages on the internet. Nothing like a last minute get away to keep myself distracted for a weekend I thought! A mate of mine had been begging me for a few months to come help finish his 4wd and watch him compete in this year Tough Truck Challenge. But up until now I didn’t have much interest in it, nor money. But I figured why not.

I phoned the lads and warned them on my decent. Obviously the first question: When and where are you landing?

I didn’t know this either, so in a mad rush I eagerly surfed the net back and forth trying to get the best price. About five hours before take off it appeared that I had some flights booked, I didn’t have the confirmation, but I figured I could get them once I arrived in Newcastle. I had a Virgin Seat, from Darwin – Melbourne – Newcastle and on the way home Jetstar back to Melbourne and Tiger to Darwin. At this point I was pretty content with the plan.

So I messaged the guys, still unsure how I would get from the plane to their house or even to the comp ground which is two hours away by car. But honestly this was the least of my worries; I was supposed to be at work tomorrow and the day after that. I quickly slipped into the boss’s office; this wasn’t going to be easy! I could feel my face go flush and my heart beating as I lied about my where about. I hated lying, but I hated the thought of being stuck in Darwin with my thoughts even more. Eventually after much integration, the word was given, and I’d be in New South Wales tomorrow. I feeling of premature relief came over me. And with a smile I packed up my table and headed home.

I had a couple of hours to pack my gear. A couple of spare shirt’s, shorts and a singlet.. that should do I thought, surely it couldn’t be cold. And in any case I didn’t have any warm clothes up here with me in the tropics anyway. This would have to do. So I grabbed my bag and headed to the airport.

It was at this point as I was climbing onto the plane I finally received a reply from the boy’s. It seemed that they were going to be picking me up.. Sweet I thought. Another wave of relief and now all I had to do was get relaxed and enjoy the next 8 or so hours of flying!

I hate flying; I’ll just point this out right now! Sleeping is hardly an option for me. I even tried having a beer to help drift off into lumber land, but it wasn’t working. With a bloke beside me who required a seat belt extension I wasn’t exactly in a comfortable position either, hanging half way out into the laneway getting bumped every time another misfortunate fool made there way towards the toilet. This sucked!

Sometime in the early morning I arrived in Newcastle, and made my way to the entrance of the airport. It was at this point I started to realise I may have made some minor miscalculations.. Like temperatures, it would seem that NSW is not exactly the tropics. My loosely hung singlet, shorts and ever reliable pluggers were about as useful as cling wrap in a cool room. I rummaged through my bag and slipped on two more t-shirts in a lame bid to gain some warmth.

As they always say about a journey, it’s the trip not the location.. In most cases I would agree. But this time around, I was already feeling wiry, totally drained from the mad rush and sleepless night. This was going to be a nightmare! All I could hope for was a little sleep before the comp. Ha, like that would ever materialise, and I was right.

This is what the fuss was about..

By late Friday we had the car on the trailer, incomplete but we were already 4 hours late for scrutineering. So off we set… Hunter Valley, most commonly known for its fine wines and picturesque landscape would be the back drop to one of the biggest redneck events of the year. 5000+ blocks camping in the bush, doing what blokes do when the wife isn’t around! And I sure as hell didn’t feel like I should be any different. After drinking a few long necks on the road I was well and truly already feeling the mind numbing affects of the alcohol. So I quickly jumped onto the port and…… And I woke up the next morning, cold, shivering in the front seat of my mate’s car, covered in what looked like spew. Yes, aged 24 and I had no recollection of the night before; I could only see the remanence of disgrace sitting in my lap. The next morning was surly a walk of shame I’ll never forget. The boy’s taunted me with wild stories of the night before. As luck may or may not have it, these deranged activities never did come back to me. But I still sure felt like an idiot!

The fog lifting as the sun riases sunday morning.

The rest of the weekend seemed pretty dull in comparison, well apart from the sleepless night under a tarpaulin! As you could imagine I wasn’t feeling the best, my pride broken and my mate pretty pissed that not only had I spewed in his car, but his comp rig was still not running. $20 000 invested to make in here, countless hours, mates had worked on it for him… and nothing to show for it. Every time something seemed fixed another problem would arise. I just kept my head down and wondered around like a lost soul catching up with all the guys I had met on my previous trip a couple of years ago.

It wasn’t until the end of the event that things started to get messy again. We faced a fierce storm heading back into Newcastle and I started to panic. Only a few hours from now I was supposed to be boarding a plane and judging by the weather it would be a fluke if I was going anywhere. I had forty five minutes between interconnecting flights in Melbourne, I couldn’t afford a delay. The original plan was to get home early Monday morning in time for work on Monday. The thought of not making it home in time worried the shit out me. My job was already hanging on a line, not turning up for another day was sure to cause some waves.
As I had already by this stage guessed, my plane wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon.. HIT BY LIGHTNING they announced over the speaker phone! And that’s when it became apparent. I wouldn’t be getting home tonight, and if I was getting home at all it was going to cost.. I’ve already blogged about the long, long night sitting in the Melbourne airport silently waiting on the cold metal seats.. A hard way to finish a trip I guarantee you! All I could think about was getting home, guess I had that distraction I was looking for.

I guess I smiled a little.. Photo taken by two hot random chicks ;)

You know, I was never all that excited about the trip, and in hindsight I’d be thinking a little different if I was to do it again! But you live and you learn hey. At least I got to catch up with some of the friends I’ve made over the years and I guess that’s something.

Australia Day...

2008-05-14T08:52:00.002+08:00

Australia day, what did this mean.. to me, a half cast of sorts. A mixture of pom and wog immigrates who moved to Australia at a fairly young age. They settled with their parents and married young. Well by today’s standards anyway.. Similarly, the first settlement was founded in 1788 by a bunch of English prudes. Though I won’t hold it against them, because what they seemed to do right was bring a bunch of convicts with them. Now I’ve heard plenty of jokes about Australia being a bunch of no good, useless fools, but on reflection this may have been what helped contribute to the Australian culture which we now boast. An easy going crew who love nothing more than the simple pleasures Dorian Gray, the crook, not the aristocrat, sort to enjoy. . Should have Dorian Gray been of middle class he certainly would have been deported. This is the type of character to which Australia was built.. I mean look at our national icon of sorts. Ned Kelly, the son of an Irish Convict. He is now held at such esteem as characters like Robin Hood. Stealing for the poor… Truthfully he probably did it to buy a couple of beers for the gang.

Anyway whatever it was, is.. We can all agree that Australia day is now about hanging out with good friends, in good weather, drinking beer and eating the tradition sausage in bread with mato sauce. With this in mind, I went about making sure I had some plans, like most would it was, in my head decided that I would spend the day in Perth at a friend’s house getting gassed on the deliciously tasting golden ale commonly known as beer. With this plan I felt comfortable, and looked forward to the day… What happened on the other hand is hard to explain, and I still feel that I don’t know what it really meant. What happened was absolutely not like the plans.. at 4:50pm Friday afternoon, sitting at work I got a call from Zac who I had messaged earlier in the day. It was quickly established that we leave right away for a trip to Carnarvon.. in a car I had never seen. On description; I swapped it for my Suzuki Sierra.. it was unlicensed but I took it over the pits.. Sounds good enough to me! By 6:30 we were on the road.. All that we had packed was a change of clothes, a swag and an extensive collection of Cd’s… 1000km, the destination..
We were on the path to find the heart of Australia. What did it really mean to us, and how far were we willing to push ourselves in the traditional road trip manner to find it? Only time could tell!

Our intention to go to Carnarvon was of the noblest cause. At first it was to share a beer with a good mate on this momentous occasion. Colby the poor guy is what you describe as a workaholic. His two week on, one week off generally turned out to be three months on and one week off. Which he didn’t mind so much, but this meant he was always away from friends on festive holidays. Something we tried our hardest to make up for when he was home.. Somewhere during the drive though the stakes were lifted to “Stealing” this kid to join our drunken entourage and erratic escapades.

What a sight we were when we first arrived. The ten hour drive turned out to be thirteen and then some more. Both Zac and I had taken some time to kip before the last stretch. At this point in the morning we tallied up the drink count.. 6 cans of warm EB rolled around loosely in the back of the van, which left 24 empties, plus two empty longnecks of some disgusting cider which we had picked up with uneducated reasoning.. “Look man, it’s like 8%!” We were in a pretty bad state and the breakfast beers really unsettled us further. It was burning on the way down, and that was literally because they had been sitting above the motor for the whole trip.. Yummy!
It was no surprise that Colby was slightly disconcerted when we announced our fine plan to him.. The first of his worries was the uni work he needed to get done, not to mention WORK, which started at 6am the next day!

I distinctively remember saying, “Don’t worry mate, we’ll have you home before dawn”. He seemed reasonably contented with this, but shortly after departing realized that this was a complete hollow, mortifying lie on my behalf. Work would have to wait!

We grabbed an esky and shot off down the road, the dusty red dirt road exploded into the air behind us. “Think we will go to Exmouth” Zac and I decided. Little did we realize that was another 500km in the northern direction, some 1500km from where we started the evening before. “We might as well meet up with Dez then” Colby announced. I had met Dez, down in Albany in 2004.. Another road trip, similar to this one.. Too much beer and a lot of driving! All the same, it was a good idea, and I felt an extraordinary understanding of the term “Comradeship”. Here we were, on Aus day driving an unbelievable distance to drink a beer with the boy’s. No other agenda!

It was increasingly gallant of Colby to agree to such a trip. I mean the two of us were extremely drunk, neither of us knew the limits of the car and we didn’t have any tools to speak of, or water for that fact. No we had a half carton of beer and a carton of bundy.. And this was rapidly being consumed. So you could imagine the surprise and bewilderment when a water hose blew 70km from the closest town! It was hardly a panic situation given that we still had plenty of coldies though.. What was the problem was finding the motivation to not just sit around drinking. This was a trap as we found out a few hours later when we tried to fix it. What would have been a simple job turned out to be painstakingly hard. Zac and I fumbled around with the hose, dropping the tools we had borrowed though the engine bay. Van’s are defiantly the hardest cars to work on, and even harder when you had a skin full. The engine bay was scorching hot, and the outside temperature wasn’t much better. And as we found out later, the temperature was 42 degree’s Celsius! Three hours later, the bus rolled on! A merry cheer and we shoot off down the highway again with the wind blowing through our hair as the car reached some speed. It was some what refreshing, as was the celebratory drinks!

From accidentally peeing in a service station and subsequently being refused service, naked car surfing while overtaking some unsuspecting tourists, chasing sheep through the barren farm land barefoot, swimming naked in the swamp-like pond at the pub, to sleeping in the finest red earth that Exmouth had to offer, just a few of the reckless alcohol induced shenanigans that apparently took place.

Sunday morning felt more like hell than anything else I have ever felt. The temperature was already scorching at first light and our mouths felt like we had done our best to eat as much dirt as we could possibly digest. My whole body ached with pain, and my foot, which I will mention was in a cast still, felt like it had been re-broken in more then ten ways!

Had we found what we were looking for, did we met it with no expectations and consume it whole heartedly?….. YES. We felt proud to be Australian, like the early Europeans that ran cattle across the great central.. The likes of Tom Cole in the 1930’s.. We knew what it was to embrace the harsher climates and enjoy the friendships we had established years ago.

Zac and I arrived home early Monday morning, feeling pretty ordinary and to our amazement we never got arrested (Though the police did tell Zac too “Get off the roids’ mate”). The final tally was 3000km and $800 in fuel and booze.

The only question left, would we do it again? To which I smile, “without a doubt”.

A few weeks latter I was speaking to an old bloke about what we had done, he seemed proud of my rambling, then reminisced and told of his own stories road tripping in the remote area’s around 1965.. “A long neck in hand” he recalled..

Previously posted on Myspace - 18 feb 2008

Pedal powered kayak's

2008-05-13T14:44:00.004+08:00

Well today I bring no exciting news, other then I will be relieved of my parents presence this week when the hairy plane carries them far away, to a land so distance it’s unlikely that they could “Pop around for a cup of tea”. Yes they are heading back to WA, only to leave me in peace. Something I have really learnt to appreciate over the last few days I can assure you!

Anyway plans are in motion as Zac the monkey boy and myself set to work figuring out the finer details of our road trip. Quaintly labelled the Alby Mangels Gun Safari; due to kick off on the 26th of October. Like I said.. The finer details, include 50kg’s of rice which which have been accuired from Zac’s mother’s “end of the world” secret stash, a few guns and two Kayak’s. Did I say Kayak? Yes, it would seem at this stage that taking a small powered vessel like a dingy would be rather, well cliché. Why not just pedal to an offshore island like Dirt Hartog on two Kayak’s which are carefully bound together with high tensile twine and two light weight crossbeams? Yes that’s right pedal powered Kayak’s on the high seas!

From my comfy office chair this sounds like it's leading up to be a great adventure with little limits. But then again if our previous escapades are anything to go by, then I imagine limits are just a line made to be jumped at full speed, drunk and semi naked!

Dechchair Cinema, a delightful find!

2008-05-09T12:06:00.004+08:00

“All the drinking and stuff is good but I JUST WANNA GO back to WA” – This is the response I received from my house mate when I casually asked him over an email earlier this week whether he would be interesting in staying in darwin. For those that wouldn’t know, my house mate works in the Navy and has been posted in Darwin for approximately a year now. So understandably this place is getting pretty long in the tooth for him. What I find a shame is his perception of what Darwin has to offer. I mean when I arrived I though the drinking was fantastic, but not long after my house mate left (11 week trip to the South Pacific) I found myself without a drinking partner.

In a way, this left me with no other choice but to have a look around and see what else is out there. Something I feel he may not have done. Anyway last night, I ended up going for the usual stroll around Mindil Beach Markets, fantastic place with all sorts of tourist’s wondering around inspecting trinkets set out on an array of stalls. But it wasn’t the hot tourist’s that I was down there for, so I grabbed some food and a Prezzie for my Mum (Mothers Day) and headed off early before it insanely busy. Tonight I had plans. A few weeks ago I noticed a bulletin on the wall in my office. The Water Scout’s present; The Golden Compass @ the Deckchair Cinema’s. It had grabbed my attention, because I had walked past this place a couple of times wanted to check it out. Perfect opportunity. What I knew of the place, is that it’s set out in the opening like the old driving-in Cinema’s, but instead of having the discomfort of your car, they have some deck chairs set out in lines like a traditional cinema. The film itself didn’t seem all that interesting to be honest, but I figured I might as well support the Scout’s and earn some Boss points in the meantime given he, in actual fact was the one who posted the bulletin on the wall.

As luck would have it, Kym the Humanitarian was attending, so istead of having that really awkward I don’t know anyone feeling, I arranged to catch up with her there. This was a relief, I could just imagine what it would be like if I rocked up by myself!

The cinema is situated down near the harbours edge in a hollow just under parliament house. The complex is screened by a dense assortment of flora, which creates a cosy atmosphere once you’re inside, and the low level of lighting only adds to its composition. At the rear of the of the cinema is a small stall which serves a number of beverages including alcoholic refreshments (Handy!), and tonight the Scout’s have some stalls setup with heaps of home made delights including the good ol’ BBQ steak sanga. Kids are running around everywhere in an intense mode of excitement, as little kids do! It gives off some good vibes.

I find Kym and her family behind a stall serving dainty little cup cakes. “Would you like one” they politely offer. Rather not I gesture.. I’d been busy getting into the Lucky Cow down at the markets just earlier. For clarification, the lucky cow is little vegetarian stall that serves up some pretty good tucka. If you’re ever up here, there give it a go. Anyway back to the Cinema’s. I had arrived pretty much just as the movie was starting so we headed off to find our seats. Kym had thought ahead and had us a place in the third row and we sat down; a laid back reclining deck chair with a steal frame and cloth back. At first it felt a little uncomfortable as my eyes where pointing to the sky. Once again Kym came through with a pillow to soften things up, much to my delight.

As the film started, I began to feel at ease and sunk deep into the deckchair. Through the trees on my left I could see the dim lights of the port across the harbour. The orange tinge reflected off the still water in a non-invasive manner. At my feet I noticed a possum scurrying around looking for some food scraps, or maybe a cheeky swig at someone’s unsuspecting beer. And to my left high above the tree’s I could make out the lights of parliament house. Some sort of commotion could be softly heard over the cinema speakers. A few cheers, as presumably another bottle popped its cork.

You know, I’m not sure if in any other surrounding I would feel the same about this movie. Something about being in the bare open, with bugs and stuff flying around that made the film feel so surreal. You couldn’t help but actually feel like you were part of it, which made for a lot more excitement then I think a normal picture box could offer. I would have to conclude this was an absolutely extraordinary experience….

“all the drinking and stuff is good”.

Really?

Darwin Film Festival.. and ramblings

2008-05-08T09:30:00.003+08:00

"Alby Mangels - he had a dream to just pack up and go; to see the world. Though his path was uncharted, his inspirational journey became a remarkable narrative of the incredible people he met and fantastic places he saw along the way. The amazing trek that followed allowed the enigmatic Australian traveller to use the world as a stage on his non-stop quest for adventure. A true World Safari! Browse the links below to learn more about this self-proclaimed adventurer, film-maker and conservationist. Discover for yourself why long ago Alby Mangels said: "Travel hasn't satisfied an appetite. It has created one!" What an awesome life!" - http://www.albymangels.com/

Last night I found myself sitting in a quite outdoor alfresco, located in the Nightcliff Mall, Darwin. With me is a gorgeous friend, who I met in a rather bizarre manner. Okay, maybe not that bizarre by my standards but.. nothing wrong with dangling your head out of a pub half tanked, and enquire should a girl walking past like to join you for a beverage, is there? Anyway, Kym the trainee humanitarian sends me a message some time during the day suggesting we get some takeaway and tag along to the Fist Full of Film, short film festival. http://fistfuloffilm.com/

At first I’m rather puzzled, given the population of around 80 000 that make Darwin, I think it would be a rather tough gig pulling enough heads together to make a festival out of it all. But alas I’m not to concerned and figure it should be a nice way to enjoy some culture.

We ordered some Madras lamb form the local Indian Restaurant and carry it over to the Groove Café seating area where the screening is to take place. It’s hard not to notice that the crowd are mainly a bunch of aspiring film makers, who probably make the whole Darwin film industry.. It’s a warm, friendly atmosphere and this probably makes up for the limited resources these guys work with. The evening was one of those balmy, warm nights that make Darwin dry season so famous.

As we settle in, the first few films are screened. And apologies are made. The first couple of films have horrific sound quality, and shocking plot’s which make an overstatement of the feature. But it’s integral to tonight’s screening as we the audience are taken on a journey through Darwin’s relatively short affiliation with film. The curator’s intention is show the past and present in a bid to validate the film maker’s fruition leading up to this year’s entry. They start with the non-digital VHS films that were made in 1999 which gives us reason for the terrible sound. Each year we are shown the Judges choice, along with people’s choice and are happily surprised to see some culturally rich film’s giving an influential sentiment to Darwin life as the night goes on.

One film, which stood out to me follows a homeless bloke as he collects rubbish and places it against the side of the road for collection. For a few years now he has made himself self sufficient taking nothing from the government including the lucrative dole, living off scraps he finds in the bins. He’s an interesting lovable character, who at times seems sightly unstable. But, as the audience learns he is filled with contentment and love for life. Day after day he works those who do not understand him, reassured in the love he finds in God.

Some time during the night I couldn’t help as most people would, feel that I to could enter such a competition. As though I, may have something creative and quirky that other people may wish to see. Or maybe, its just these few hardcore enthusiasts sitting around me. You know that feeling you get when you see a famous painting and think, far out, I could have produced something three times better then that if I tied my hand behind my back, gargled on ginger beer and shoved a tooth bush up my nose! Well unfortunately it’s never quite that easy is it!

So as I watched these films my mind started to wonder, much like those times when mum would take me to church. Conjuring up all sorts of idea’s for films, obviously I as the centre of attention. Maybe I got carried away in my dream, or maybe I haven’t had a reason to wake up just yet. But the idea struck me, and hasn’t left me sense.

The Adventures of Juice (Me) and his Monkey (Being Zac).. Travel the coast, eating and killing while they investigate every nook and cranny of Australia. (Obviously I picture us asking lovely ladies that we meet (refer above method) to join us on our epic adventures, to add that “ka-pow” to the feature film.) Well I can’t really claim this to be a “new” idea though, because if anyone knows anything, they would know Mr Alby Mongels has successfully made this film quite some time ago. And yeah already captured the hearts of many adorable lady’s, oh and fans of course.

But I ask, is it time, that once again two gallant adventures take heed to the publics hunger, and in a damned attempt try to bring back what they wish to see? I guess that doesn’t really matter, because I lazy, unskilled like a ninja and impatience.. so this may just remain as another on one of those Sunday morning dreams.

My phone beeps, it’s a message from Zac; I set a date as to when we gonna leave and you better be ready. 23rd Oct. Yeah boi.

Hmmm.. Guess we’re going, does anyone want to film?

NOTE: While many film makers take the soft edge (Conversationalist) approach like Mr Mangels, or even more recently Steve Irwin and David Attenborough. I feel that this would hinder our film as two young rough necks. Gun’s will be involved, animals will die!!!

Mum's, who wants them?

2008-05-07T07:24:00.008+08:00

Okay last week I was talking about shifting around all the time, and what it means for me. What I see and do, maybe it’s not for everyone, but for me I’m happiest when I’m doing something other then the mundane. You know, I kind of wonder if I should have done it years before like most of my friends did. Because sometimes I feel I might be to old, and just maybe I should be settling down.. (as regular readers would now already know; “Marry a good Christen girl, build a house and have a family”). But then I keep having the same realization, if I put it off any longer I’ll miss what I can still enjoy.

This was made somewhat more apparent this weekend. Somehow my mother convinced me that she should visit for a few weeks, and that it was a good idea! Unaware of her intentions, I agreed, but what I was really doing was letting myself be trapped for two weeks. Needless to say I think every mum can be at some stage perceived from this ugly angle. Her good intentions make you feel more like a 12 year old wanting to go outside to play with his toys, rather then the independent 24 year old you might be!

So as you can imagine, I’m half way through the two weeks and already I’m looking for some comfortable hotel just around the corner I might be able to send them to. She’s definitely not helping by pushing her bias uneducated opinion’s on me. I mean my mum is the kind of person who believes every forward she receives on the internet. So when she decides that she could run my life, I find myself rather unconvinced.

Anyway in short, after a fun filled weekend I find it almost unbearable to listen to the continual whine, which sounds more like the dreadful screech of a 2 stroke on full gas then a human being! “I should have done this when I was younger” she suggests, like it’s a new-fangled idea! My head explodes with bewilderment. I mean I swear my old man suggested this for the best part of 20 odd years, and now he suffers in his own resentment! Poor fella!

It’s times like this out in the bush, when the world reveals itself to you through its beauty. The emotion’s come rushing into your heart, and that’s when you make this type of statement. A statement compelled by truth. Here she is, feeling weary from the tiring day’s walk; when she realizes that she can no longer appreciate the fullness of life.

But tomorrow things will be different, as the moment passes, her program will recent. I sit at the other end of the table having lunch in the galleria. She’s harping on again “Marry, house, kids..”. I find this conversation tiring, and I know it only has one type of ending. My step dad does his best to diffuse the situation, but like me, he knows it’s pointless and he tries to keep his comments to himself. Eventually I give up, glance at my phone “I have to get back to work” I say as I get up and leave. I feel her words pierce me as I walk away, and fill me with uncertainty. Of course I care about what she expects from me.. But it’s just not me.

So in this bubble filled with self doubt, I trudge along picking up the pieces the best I can. I keep relying on my own dad’s advice, and his regrets. They feel like my own mistakes and I promise to myself that I won’t make them again.

But on a lighter note, I find myself smiling. I dive into the cool depths of the water hole. It tastes fresh. I hold my breath as I slowly sink to the bottom, there’s nothing, no sound. What a place to be, I’ve never been any where like it. As I surface I see another group of people coming down the rapids. I had actually noticed them earlier, as they circled the car park looking for a spot. It was a group of young back packers, and now they played carelessly in the cool refreshing rapids in front of me. They support nothing other then a small swim suit and a heavenly tan. There bodies glow with health, a reflection of there lifestyle…

I’m spell bound by the thought that a group of random people just picked up and not taking a care in the world start travelling. As i was sitting in the water reflecting I found myslef picturing what it might be like to do something myself. Food for thought, and I’m not sure what it means. Maybe a road trip to end all road trips!

One thing I do know for sure, and that is that I’m leaving Darwin in June… Strangely I don’t want to leave, but the options are weighing heavily towards Perth, as my house mate has decided to leave.

Could be worse I’m thinking. I’m pretty partial to the thought of catching up with a few peeps at the Bakery!

And as for what happens next.. Well there is a rumour that Zac and I could be up for another round of road trip madness in the big blue!!

The road beyond today..

2008-04-30T13:09:00.006+08:00

It was sometime at the end of 2007, things had been pretty good. Steady money had been rolling in all year, actually better then ever before. The future looked bright.. That was until; I realized it was time to move on. Four months I’d been here, one month more then I had originally planned. My contract had lapsed and I was working day to day hoping there will be a seat for tomorrow. It’s the problem talking casual jobs like I had been. There’s that uncertainty about the future, sometimes you wonder if you will find another job, then other times it’s just the unknown that’s so unnerving. Where will I be tomorrow? As unsettling as it may be though, there’s another side to the story, the reason I keep going, the reason I’ll do it again tomorrow. Yes the adventure into the unfathomable unknown. Where could I end up, has my luck run out?

I’m walking around the office oblivious to the pressing amount of work sitting on my desk. I chat casually with the girls around the office.. Some of which I’ve now known for over five years. So much had changed, especially them. Most of them are married now, such an immense contrast to the earlier days pissing it up in the social club bar skinny dipping on the way home. I take a moment to contemplate if they think the same about me. Not really, I decide. As I do my social rounds I find myself talking to a lady about her holidays she just got back from. Darwin she tells me, to visit her Sister. As I listen to her talk about it I feel something inside my mind click. It’s like the old big clock arm, clicking into place. I’m going to Darwin…

You know it’s kind of hard to say I’m brave. There’s nothing brave about it, more just an acute sense of recklessness. I mean what is the worst that can happen? I find myself on a cold Melbourne night stranded hi and dry in the airport terminal? Nothing to wear other then some smelly t-shirts, shorts and my favourite pair of worn in pluggers? The temperature falls to around 10 degree’s somewhere around 3:00 in the morning.. It’s almost comfortable, compared to the night before I think to myself.

Scavenging through the surrounding camp sites, I find shelter under some tarpaulin; it’s reasonably heavy, well heavy enough to keep the dew off my body. I set my bag of possessions up as a pillow and I bury my hands into a jumper some Guy from WEST OZ lent me for the night. Yes, just the night before here I was, cowering under a tarpaulin west of the Hunter Valley in NSW. The fog had set in early and the chill controls the shake of my body, the tightness in my throat. I think about the morning, to see that sun again spread out over the grassland and feel its warmth penetrate my skin. All of a sudden I start laughing, breaking the dead stillness of the night. Why though. Because I know I’m not dead.. Not even close. And as far as I’m concerned, I’m contented. Wait till I tell the boy’s..

It’s not all like this. I arrived in Darwin to the comfort of a pretty lush apartment. A friend of mine had been living up here awhile. Originally the plan was for me to live with him as well when he moved up here. I wasn’t ready though, and found myself living back in WA just after a week. This time, money didn’t seem to be an issue, so I set about relaxing the best I could. It wasn’t hard, the air conditioning blasting, Enter Shikari playing, while I read books on the cushy leather couch. I might as well have stayed at home to be doing this I muse.

But something was different, something which grew stronger and clearer with every day that passed. I was, for the first time in a long time I was isolated from my distractions. Isolated from the people I loved and the people I loved to hate. Free to think about all the things I wanted to think about, and those I didn’t. It’s a weird feeling, and I wonder if it’s a good for my mind. It’s just different.

A job found me, yes it found me, but only because I wanted to be found. New people to meet, new people to please.. I was only there a week before the first few people left. And by the fisrt month a total of six had already moved on. Did I smell that bad, or is there something underlying that I haven’t noticed yet. It didn’t really matter all that much to me, I had set a date anyway.. In the interview it was for a few years, in my head three months. Drastic difference I know, but I couldn’t bear to contemplate a longer sentence. Three months seems to be that magical number, that magical figure that says; don’t worry. You’ll be out of here before you start. Strangely it’s the same figure an employer will use to grade your performance.

The adventure has begun, and as much as I am happy to sit around home doing nothing, I can’t help be compelled to think about life in this isolation, and what I’ll find..

“Happiness is only real when shared” – Jon Krakauer

Getting out and taking on adventures in this rugged landscape is unavoidable, it has to happen this way otherwise all is lost. But having someone to share it with is much harder. I mingle with those few I have met, I ask around, hoping they have something they can offer me. This isn’t about choice anymore, you go with the flow and just hope that what ever happens is not to unbearable. Something new and exciting might be around the next corner as long as I’m prepared to follow.

This may have been how I find myself 100km from the nearest town, 20km away from the nearest boat ramp, fishing out of an under equipped and under prepared 12’ dingy off the Adelaide River. I’m reassured all will be good by my under experienced host, but it’s hard not to wonder what might happen. These waters aren’t like back home. You can’t just swim to the shore should something happen. The shore line can’t even be seen under the densest of mangroves and It’s not that bothers me! It’s the Crocodiles that I can’t see in this murky filthy water, but I know they’re there just watching us. We fumble our way around on the limited deck, casting our lures in wayward directions hoping to hook up a monster Barra. Nothing happens, it should have been expected.

Not everything is as cut throat as it may sometimes seem. It was a quite barmy night, the type renowned in the dry season. I find myself walking around the beach front markets, basking in the ambiance that only a small market on a beach can bring to life. The rhythmic beat of the drums and the hollow bellow of the didgeridoo can be heard in the back ground, “its Jabaru” she confirms. The beat is face paced, and it evokes emotion’s which can not be explained, only be felt in this time and in this moment. Many small stalls are setup high in the grass under the shade of the trees. A friendly aroma drifts gently in the soft breeze of the afternoon. We order our meals and head down to the beach. The sand feels warm on our skin, so little to wear up here in this weather. We sit back to enjoy the delights of the local cuisine and what remains of the sun set over the water. The sky is an iridescent pink and it rebounds off the water bringing calmness to the air.

I start to feel strongly about something, anything.. about this place, it’s this moment. Whatever it is, it’s fun, exciting and different. Only thing that could make this any better would be if the other Bush Rat’s were here! But I’m sure this won’t be the last time.