|
 On The Front. |
We headed towards Hayman Island. The plan for the day was to cruise as far as Blue Pearl Bay, do some snorkelling/diving/sunbathing, have a barbecue lunch on the boat, and return to Airlie Beach. Most of the day would be spent travelling, but as Denise pointed out, sunbathing on the deck of a speeding catamaran isn't in quite the same class of travelling as cramping up in the seats of a McCafferty's coach. I had to agree.
As we approached the bay, I overheard a lady crewmember giving a lecture and demonstration on how to put on a snorkelling mask. I don't know how she managed it, but the demonstration took her a full fifteen minutes to do. Shouldn't something like that take about 30 seconds? How many steps are there in putting on a mask? One, adjust the strap, two, put the mask on your face, three, pull the strap over your head. Hey presto - done! Thank goodness she didn't try to explain how to use the snorkel itself, or how to use fins, or we would never have gotten off the boat.
 Fins and bubbles. |
 Sitting (if not living) On The Edge. |
In the evening we hauled our heavy gear and our salty selves over to the Airlie Beach bus station. The McCafferty's bus was a little late, and when it arrived, it was only half full. There were eight or ten people waiting to take the overnight trip from Airlie Beach to various points south. A short, greying, middle-aged driver unloaded the disembarking passengers' luggage and took out his clipboard to check in those intending to board. A backpacking couple of about our age were ahead of Denise and I. They gave their names to the driver. He scanned his list once, twice, three times, but their names weren't listed. The couple began to look concerned. The driver looked over his reading glasses at them and played with his pencil. Without a booking, he informed them solemnly, it looked like they wouldn't be able to travel. The guy cursed aloud, spewing some insults about the stupidity of his travel agent and mouthing off about the number of times his travel arrangements had been screwed up already. The bus driver, who had been momentarily distracted by another passenger, turned back and assumed that the irate guy was directing the insults at him. He put on his king-of-the-McCafferty's-bus voice: "Listen here, I don't have to put up with this - if you are going to be so abusive, you can take another bloody bus!"
The guy apologised. He even called the bus driver "Sir," but it was too late. His tirade had evidently been the final straw for the driver, who appeared to have had a difficult evening thus far. The driver launched into a rant about the shit he had to put up with, and the ungrateful people who delayed him, disrespected him, and constantly complained at him. He became quite agitated. He waved his hands. He waved his clipboard.
Now it was the hot-headed backpacker's turn to lose it. Indignant that his apology had been rebuked, he took personally everything that the driver was saying about rude and ungrateful passengers. He began to fume and mouth off some more. They exchanged several rounds of lively insults and accusations. Somewhere in there the driver bellowed that he had been about to tell the couple that he did actually have spare seats that they could take, but that there was no way they were getting on now. Momentarily taken aback, the backpacker retorted that he no longer wanted to travel on the stupid bus anyway. Things were getting out of hand for the backpacker's girlfriend, who obviously had no desire to stay in Airlie Beach. She stepped in between the pair, breaking off their row. She needed to work fast. First she focused on her boyfriend. She gave him a look that was partly "please-please-cool-down-dearie-I really-wanna-get-on-the-bus" but mostly "if-we-miss-this-bus-I-will-cut-your-penis-off-tonight-while-you-sleep." She said a couple of calming words to him too, to make sure he understood her veiled point, but they were unnecessary. He had recognised the look, and come to the conclusion that he would rather swallow his pride and get on the bus with his nemesis than face the wrath of his girlfriend. She led him away from the bus and returned to the driver. The hidden threat strategy was obviously no good here. She fell back on the "Oh Daddy, pleeeeaaase" approach, the manipulative mainstay of spoiled daughters everywhere, and threw in a bit of "I'm-stuck-with-the-tosser-so-please-let-us-on-your-bus." Her apologetic words and pleading expression were laced with the respect that the driver had been craving all evening. He grumbled a bit, but agreed to let them on. She produced their tickets, checked on their bags and, giving the driver a wide berth, quickly towed her boyfriend onto the bus. Crisis resolved. I wasn't sure whether to feel impressed or threatened. Had I witnessed diplomacy or manipulation? A guy would never have been able to salvage that situation. The fact that she worked it out, making it look easy in the process, was an indication of the unadvertised power of the opposite sex. Men be afraid. Men be very afraid.
We had a half-hour rest stop at a roadhouse outside Prosperine only twenty-five minutes into our journey. I spent most of the break browsing through motor oils in the petrol station. Exhilarating stuff. "Trucker's Monthly" was the most exciting magazine on the rack. I picked it up and flicked absently through it. To my surprise and amusement I found a special feature on haulage in Ireland. What irony! Here was a trucking magazine in Australia, the mecca of long-haul trucking, the land of powerful road-trains, uncompromising bull-bars, grimy roadhouses and endless dusty highways, and they had done a story on trucking in Ireland! The only interesting aspect of trucking in Ireland is the mystery surrounding the source of the infinite amount of runny cowshit that can stream from livestock trailers when you are stuck behind them on narrow country roads.
Sleepy Start, Grouping Gamble
Friday, August 14; Prosperine - Hervey Bay
The
overnight bus ferried us south through the darkened landscape.
We made a boring stop at Mackay Transit Centre, a bleary-eyed
stop in Rockhampton, and a grumpy early morning stop in Bundaberg.
All-night transit stations are without doubt, the most god-awful
sights on any traveller's itinerary. Washed-out staff, unwashed
plastic tables, dried-up sandwiches, soggy chips, costly ketchup,
and a location miles from anywhere better combine to make the
transit centres unpleasant places to visit. An air of pessimism
and despair seems to hang over the centres and exude from the
staff. I don't blame the staff for always being curt and bad-tempered
though - these are symptoms brought on by their working environment.
They are unceasingly confronted with people en route to exciting
destinations, while they stay put, going as stale as the food
they are serving. I know that if I worked in a transit centre
restaurant I would poison the food. If the envy didn't drive
me to it, the boredom would.
We arrived into Hervey Bay just after 9am. Actually we arrived into Pialba, a coastal suburb which, along with Scarness and Torquay, makes up the urban ribbon that hugs the seashore calling itself Hervey Bay. Tourists use the area as a launching point
 Hervey Bay Pier. |
Tumbling off the bus, I was grateful to see that our hostel had sent a minibus to collect us. We slept all morning and didn't venture out of the hostel until hunger crept up on us during the afternoon. We went in
 Pelicans on the beach in Hervey Bay. |
Early in the evening, there was an orientation meeting at our hostel for any backpackers intending to leave for Fraser Island the following morning. Denise and I went along and listened to one of the hostel employees talk about vicious dingos, the hazards of 4-wheel driving in soft sand and the dangers of travelling along the beach at high tide. Once he had the nasty warnings out of the way, he outlined an ambitious 3-day proposed itinerary and answered any questions we had. The plan was to split the intending backpackers into groups of nine. Each group would be given a veteran Toyota Land Cruiser, tickets for the ferry, a full tank of petrol, a map, camping permits, and all of the equipment necessary to camp on the island. Three day food packs and a suggested menu were available from the hostel to avoid the need to go supermarket shopping. The guy finished up by advising us to form groups for the morning's departure, or accept a random assignment to a group. As Denise and I had learned from our travels to date, the group with which you take a trip plays a huge part in determining how enjoyable the trip will be. For the Fraser Island excursion, this was doubly significant, for the nine strangers who formed a group would be cramped into a single Land Cruiser together for three days, and would need to work together without a guide while camping and navigating in an unfamiliar environment. To say that it was important to avoid getting lumped with a bunch of assholes is an understatement. I think everybody at the orientation felt the same way - I could sense that people were sizing each other up, trying to guess who they would and would not like to travel with. As the meeting broke up, Denise and I found ourselves talking with an Irish couple and an English girl. Before I knew what was happening, we had been roped into forming half a group. I was worried from the start. Colin and Fiona, a pair of holidaying accountants, were from Limerick. Alexandra (Alex), officially English, was the daughter of a diplomat or something, and had grown up all over the world. I had misgivings about the two girls. Their appearance and conversation gave me the impression that they over-appreciated hot showers, good restaurants, clean underwear and immaculate organisation far too much for the rough camping trip that I anticipated was ahead of us. Colin didn't come across as a mad party man either. I only hoped that we would get some enthusiastic beer-drinking bush rangers to complete our group and drown out the girlie chatter that I feared would besiege our jeep for the duration of the trip. By this time however, people had dispersed from the meeting, so my recruiting plans had to be abandoned. The balance of our group would be decided by chance. I didn't spend any time worrying about it though - there were more immediate concerns at hand, like where was I going to get dinner?
My firm resolution to never again go searching for a restaurant
when I was hungry lasted about 6 hours. Denise and I decided
to take advantage of a Friday five dollar all-you-can-eat pizza
special at Shenanigans, a lively-sounding bar located at the
other end of Pialba. A poster in the hostel reception advertised
the deal, and the hostel minibus provided a free ride to the
bar, so we hopped on. No other guests got on board, yet the guy
driving happily shuttled us across the town and dropped us around
the corner from Shenanigans. Expecting the loud and chaotic free-for-all
typical of a backpacker drinking and eating hole, Denise and
I were surprised to see that Shenanigans was dark and quiet.
We almost walked right past it. Seeing a cheap pizza meal slipping
through my fingers, I worriedly tried the door. My fears were
confirmed when it refused to open. I put my face to the window
and peered inside. There was a light on beyond the darkened dance
floor towards the rear, and I could make out a single figure
pottering about behind the bar. I knocked and he came forward
to the door. He was just opening up. He listened intently to
our query. Pizza special? All you can eat? Did you book or buy
tickets at the hostel? No? You're out of luck then mate! Sorry
about that - I can sell you a drink if you like? No? You're what?
Hungry? Ah right, I see! Alright then mate, sorry again, see
ya later!
I had rarely experienced such an upbeat rejection.
The hostel minibus was already long gone. The only other establishment open nearby was KFC, but we weren't that desperate yet. We started walking back towards the hostel, half-annoyed, half-amused at the trouble we were having trying to find food that day. Five minutes later, the guy in the hostel minibus barrels down the street towards us, throws a tight U-turn, and pulls in to pick us up, apologising and offering to take us wherever we want to go. Apparently the barman in Shenanigans felt sorry for us and called the hostel to explain what had happened. The hostel had the minibus driver turn right back around as soon as he got back. What a decent bunch. Olympus hostel, in case you are ever in the area.
Loose in a Landcruiser, Relentless Rain, Approximate Armful
Saturday, August 15; Hervey Bay - Indian Heads, Fraser Island
Although Fraser Island is formed entirely from sand, there is a lot more to see than just beaches and dunes. The World Heritage-listed island runs north-south parallel to the mainland, over 120 kilometres long but only about 20km across at its widest point. Dunes up to 240 meters in height separate over 200 lakes scattered across the island. A seemingly never-ending beach runs straight up the eastern side of the island, and functions as the main highway from which to break off and explore the forested interior. Driving along the beach is certainly faster than travelling inland - most of the narrow and winding forest tracks that traverse the island are either incredibly rugged or are thick rivers of deep shifting sand. Progress on the tracks is limited to little more than a crawl. The rewards for travelling inland are significant though - freshwater streams and tannin-stained lakes can be found hidden in the forest, and colourful canyons wait patiently to be explored. The National Parks and Wildlife Service (NPWS) maintains several basic campsites on the island, and there are a couple of simple resorts on Fraser where it is possible to find a telephone or buy supplies. Conservationists successfully fought against development on the island, first by loggers, and subsequently by sand miners, so that most visits to the island are now recreational. The resorts can be quite busy. Untidy convoys of 4-wheel drives cluster around them during the day while visitors stock up or get oriented. It is disconcerting to consider that the island may be overrun by tourists, but there is little to worry about. Once beyond the resorts and the island's principal attractions, it is easy to find peace and quiet. Pure solitude, however, is only attained by those who murder the eight backpackers with whom they are sharing a jeep. This would probably be a far more frequent occurrence if the organised excursions were any longer than three days.
We rose at 6:30am to prepare for our trip. Three groups were leaving for the island from the hostel that day. We were assigned to LandCruiser C, and gathered beside it to check and load the gear being doled out to each group. Our group was completed by four Europeans - a German girl called Gita, and three Swiss-German backpackers - a girl named Asterit and two guys, John and Ami. Initial impressions of John and Ami were rather worrying. In their late twenties, they looked like two chain-smoking desperado hippie gangsters. Ami's heavy stubble and John's thick moustache accentuated their rough dress and unkempt appearance. They stood apart from the rest of us, muttering in Swiss-German and eyeing our jeep and camping equipment suspiciously. Alex and Fiona were obviously none too pleased with the balance of our group. I think that they felt threatened by Ami and John, concerned that the guys' apparent laid back attitude would not fit into their own carefully sculpted plans.
I struck up a conversation with the guys, and found them to be good-natured and likeable. Asterit and Gita were fun and friendly too, although Gita's stumbling English and my non-existent German limited our mutual conversational skills. The German/English language barrier proved to be a bit of a problem restricting our group bonding during our trip, but it could have been far worse. I was excited about the mix in our group - many of our travel companions up to that point had been British (in the Whitsundays almost all of our boat had been British), so it was refreshing to talk to someone whose culture was a little less familiar.
After the tent pegs had been counted, the beer and wine stowed in the coolers, and the LandCruiser packed (no small achievement), we crowded into the vehicle. Nobody else in our group volunteered to drive, so I took the wheel and we set off towards the ferry in a convoy with the other two LandCruisers. John and Ami had squeezed into the front seat with me, while the six others sat on inward-facing seats in the back. We caught the ferry from River Heads and made the half-hour crossing to the island. We rolled off the ferry onto a sandy staging area and followed the only track leading inland. The other 4-wheel drives unloading from the ferry seemed to disperse quickly, and we were soon trundling through the forest on our own. The roots and rocks along the track made for a bumpy ride. The guys sitting at the rear of the LandCruiser felt the jolts far more severely than I did in front, so I tried to drive with them in mind. John and Ami were taking turns to sit by the door so that they could smoke their rolled tobacco out the window. John made an attempt to smoke while sitting in the centre during the early stages of our trip, but his atrocity was nipped in the bud by a smoke-loathing Alex with a firm tap on the shoulder and a little bit of index-finger waving.
 Loose in a Landcruiser. |
 High-speed stumbling into Lake Wabby. |
By the time we had all regrouped, we had a scheduling problem to contend with. The itinerary provided to us by the hostel was based around an early morning high tide. High tide today was at 2:39pm. Both National Park guidelines and our hostel had recommended that we not drive on the beach for two hours on either side of high tide, as the surf comes right up to the soft sand, making driving treacherous and some sections of the beach impassable. It was already 1pm. If we were going to postpone moving on until after 4:30, we would never make it to the Indian Heads campsite, our destination, before darkness fell, and insurance regulations prohibited us from driving after dark. The issue was debated quickly in the back of the Landcruiser and we resolved to continue along the beach and risk the incoming tide. We sped northwards in a race against the surf. I was forced to drive into soft sand at times to avoid the advancing fingers of surf, but at no time were we in danger of getting stuck or rolling over. There was a greater risk to the jeep from the many creeks running out from the forest, across the beach and into the ocean. Several of the creeks were narrow and shallow, but others were quite broad. They were by no means impassable - the deepest one we passed through was no more than two feet deep. The danger posed by the creeks was the fact that they were difficult to spot, especially if they were concealed behind a rise or hidden amongst tracks. It was easy not to notice a creek until you were almost upon it, by which time it was too late to slow down. Jumping suddenly onto the brakes wasn't a wise idea - abrupt deceleration on the yielding sand could lead to unpredictable and potentially hazardous results. The alternative, slamming into a creek at 30km/hr would be a bone-jarring experience, and could easily damage our Landcruiser. A past group travelling from our hostel had broken their rear axle that way, and had been liable for the repair bill. I did not want to repeat their experience, and fortunately I didn't have to, for we pulled up at Eli Creek shortly after 1:30pm.
Nine hungry backpackers began searching for lunch in the various boxes and bags in the rear of the Landcruiser. We had been provided with a suggested menu by the hostel, who had provided the food, but it wasn't even considered. It seemed like such a shame to empty the vehicle we had so carefully packed just a few hours earlier, so we ate what was closest (just like my mother always told me to do - she would have been proud). A general free-for-all ensued, although gourmet dining was avoided. Banana and peanut butter and jam sandwiches proved popular. Ami had heard that there were cold meat slices somewhere in the cooler, so he searched through several plastic bags to find one for his sandwich. He discovered them still partially frozen. He broke one away from the glacial mass and put it in his sandwich anyway.
As I was brushing sand from my second sandwich, dark clouds moved in quickly from the sea and it began to rain. Up to a few minutes before that, it had been a pleasant, sunny day, and our hostel guides had assured us that it was going to be a beautiful weekend. They told us that we didn't need to bring anything more than a toothbrush and a towel. Within a minute the light rain had turned into a downpour, and we all bundled back into the Landcruiser.
 How many backpackers can you fit into a Toyota Landcruiser? |
Watching fish swim on the spot while standing in the rain can only keep one entertained for so long, so after a few minutes we returned to the shelter of the Landcruiser. It wasn't any more exciting there. Actually, it was pretty miserable, considering the excellent time we were supposed to be having. Unable to advance further north or return south until the tide receded, we fidgeted, moaned about the rain (that would have been Fiona), and tried to find a radio station whose reception was intelligible. About an hour after high tide our patience reached its limits and we pulled out. Heading further along the beach with our headlights peering through the poor visibility, we passed an old shipwreck and many ocean fisherman angling from the beach.
 Shoals of fishermen enjoying the crappy weather on 75-Mile Beach. |
Well, if we weren't going to be dry, at least we were going to try and stay warm, so we went in search of firewood for the evening's campfire. Our hostel guides had provided us with a recommendation for this also. It was illegal to collect firewood from most of the island, but there was an NPWS campground at Dunduburra on the way to Indian Heads that had a huge clearing full of chopped firewood. Park rules stated that each camp should take no more than one armful of firewood per night. Our hostel had suggested that we either develop extremely long arms or interpret that rule with an open mind. I don't think that they realised quite how long our arms could get or how open our minds could become - by the time we left Dunduburra, several
 Fraser Island welcoming committee. |
Another of the groups from our hostel arrived at about the same time as us and we decided to make camp together, using the Landcruisers to provide shelter and support. We strung tarpaulins from their roofs and from a couple of nearby trees, but the makeshift shelter was inadequate for eighteen people to pitch tents under. A kind and well-equipped Aussie bloke named Paul who had been watching our desperate efforts to set up camp in the rain approached us an offered his spare tarp. We accepted his offer graciously and the extra coverage it provided improved things a little. Our group set up its three tents and set about making dinner. This was a drawn-out affair, taking up most of the evening. Darkness fell and the rain continued. We drank lots of beer to pass the time. John and Ami managed to get the fire going despite the damp wood, and we roughly cooked some steaks over a battered iron plate posing as a barbecue. We boiled a large pot of potatoes on a gas ring for over an hour before they were acceptably cooked. A couple of the girls prepared a side salad in the back of the Landcruiser. I loaded up a paper plateful of these components and devoured the meal hungrily, partially glad that I couldn't see what I was eating; the food preparation had been messy and careless and sand had gotten everywhere - I found my lettuce to be particularly crunchy.
At some stage while dinner was being prepared I noticed a flaw in our tarp layout that was causing all of the falling rainwater to collect in a pool at the centre of the tarp. The accumulated water was eventually either going to pull down the entire shelter due to its increasing weight, or it was going to run off the tarp at its lowest point. The lowest point of the tarp happened to be directly above the tent Denise and I had pitched for ourselves, so I had a vested interest in finding a solution to the problem. I went searching for some kind of support pole to raise the centre of the tarp, but there was nothing around - at least nothing that wasn't illegal to cut down. I went for the quick fix option and cut a small hole in the tarp underneath the potential water bomb. The water dribbled out onto the ground - our tent was saved!
 John, Asterit and Gita around the campfire. |
PREVIOUS | NEXT | HOME | CONTENTS | ABOUT | SEND EMAIL