AUGUST 7-9 PREVIOUS | NEXT | HOME | CONTENTS | ABOUT | SEND EMAIL Minigolf Mortification, Seaside Serenity Friday, August 7; Magnetic Island I woke to find myself in a sweltering canvas hothouse. The morning sun was gleefully heating our tent, doing its utmost to foster my slight headache into a fully-fledged hangover. I countered by tying back our tent's front flaps and went back to sleep with the cooling sea breeze dancing around the tepee. When we finally did get up we did a quick examination of the options for breakfast. Our edible supplies consisted of a sweaty half-loaf of bread and an unopened jar of spaghetti sauce. Somehow neither seemed suitable. After brief deliberation, the bread was condemned to the rubbish bin, but the spaghetti sauce was retained in the vague hope of someday uniting it with spaghetti and (if our most fervent prayers were answered) ground beef. We ate out. Walking back from breakfast, we came across a mini-golf course. Actually the course was only one attraction in a facility advertising all sorts of invigorating activities. The cracked and peeling blue paint of the dilapidated façade should have prepared us for the quality of the sporting facilities inside, but a mini-golf challenge had been proposed and agreed to, and honour prevented either of us from pulling out. The ramshackle building contained a pool table, an air-hockey table and a chipped and faded table-tennis table. This adrenalin-inducing megaplex opened out onto a large back yard. In addition to the mini-golf course, the yard also enclosed an overgrown beach volleyball court, and a weedy and worrying attempt at an outdoor ten-pin bowling lane. The indoor hall was devoid of customers. An elderly couple sat in one corner and we deduced from their stares that they were the owners. We wandered over. "Hi. We'd like to play mini-golf please." "Yes, of course," answered the old lady, "Would you like to go for the combo games package?" I felt like I had stumbled into an unmarked McDonalds - "What does that include?" "Unlimited mini-golf, ten-pin bowling, volleyball, and table tennis", she replied confidently. I took another look around the yard. From the overgrown look of the place, I suspected that nobody had taken her up on the combo games package in several years. Even the lady's wrinkled husband seemed to be holding back a smirk at the thought of someone actually paying money to trample down his weeds. "Just the mini-golf, thanks." Denise lines up another frustratingly solid shot. We took up our putters and balls. The stakes were set - a bottle of beer was up for grabs. I assessed the course. Thinning and faded green carpet laced with beach sand and fallen leaves provided a deceptive surface on which to play, and the subsiding concrete underneath the carpet would have left the most talented professionals stumped for a good line to follow, but I felt reasonably confident. I was sadly mistaken. I started on the first hole without distinction, losing the challenge to Denise's slightly less mediocre play, but followed up with the highlight of my round, a hole-in-one on the second. Denise and I traded holes up to the ninth, but things took a turn for the worse on the back nine. I had found that the thick concrete kerbstones running along the sides of the holes and could be exploited for their rebounding qualities, but on the eleventh I realised to my dismay and ultimate demise that they were far more eager to masquerade as gullies and gobble up my ball. Once trapped in a gully, it was virtually impossible to get a clear shot out. I effectively lost the match on that hole, with a remarkable score of 17. Denise scored a two on the same hole and reveled in my angst. There could be no recovery from such a blow. Crushed in spirit, I managed to finish the game, but there was no contest. A shattered confidence tore at my attempted concentration and the little white ball stubbornly refused to go into the holes. I trudged mindlessly from tee to green, tee to green, tee to green. I felt only numb relief when my ball finally disappeared into the underground plumbing at the end of the eighteenth. Back when I still had a chance: Dave and Denise playing the front nine. We returned the putters to the old lady and her husband. They hadn't moved, but their harmless demeanour had evaporated. The man was still holding back a smirk, but there was a manipulative glint in his good eye. His wife looked distinctly smug and evil. Perhaps I had been cursed for refusing to buy the combo package. My mini-golf had been tainted forever. They were fairground devils, both of them! The lopsided mini-golf course was laid across stolen gravestones, and the bowling lane was a sacrificial altar. The unlimited combo package was a ticket to spend eternity in Hell's games room. Too late, I realised that I needed to plunge our silver putters through their hearts and hang their steaming corpses from the volleyball net. But they were on to me. They knew that I knew. She parted her cracked lips in a horrible smile. He lunged for me. I ran. I dashed for the exit and tumbled onto the dusty street. Denise was already there. I picked myself up and looked back at the swinging blue door. Nobody followed. Backing away, I incoherently babbled the truth to Denise. About the devils inside, the playground of Beelzebub, the church of darkness, and about how my mini-golf had been cursed from the start, leaving me at a diabolical disadvantage. I must have rattled on for a good twenty minutes. It didn't work though. I still had to buy her the beer. Back at Coconuts in the afternoon, I borrowed a snorkel, a mask, and a pair of cracked fins and explored the sandy bottom of Nelly Bay. (After Nelly had put her swimsuit back on, I ...). I swam along the coastline and came across upon a couple of small clumps of coral, but being close to the shore, they were dead and grey from the overeager fumbling of other swimmers. There were a couple of small fish about, but they wouldn't play with me so I continued on to Rocky Bay. I happily chased half-a dozen nimble silver and black fish around in the shallows until I spotted Denise on the near-deserted beach. She had taken the overland route to Rocky Bay and was setting out her towel high up on the sand. I got out of the water and had her join forces with me in terrorizing some tiny crabs. We played God for a while, blocking the narrow shafts the crabs had dug into the sand and watching them frantically scuttling around looking for an alternate way down. In keeping with the God theme, we shortly became aware that the handful of other people on the beach weren't confining themselves to the mortal constraints of clothing. One guy was sporting a hat (just a hat!), but a couple of others weren't wearing anything but sunscreen. Out of curiosity, we took a nonchalant amble along the surf to their side of the beach, but quickly retreated when we discovered that they were elderly people, and wrinkly too. I don't think that we would have lingered even if they hadn't been elderly and wrinkly - I could hardly imagine us walking up and starting a conversation. Anyway, there was quite enough natural beauty to contemplate by looking out over the clear blue ocean. No privates required. Manic Motoring, Forsaken Forts, Saving Sanctuary Saturday, August 8; Magnetic Island - Townsville Feeling the need for speed, Denise, Hannah, and I rented a Moke for the day. A cross between a golf cart and a Mini, our sporty red Moke sported a canvas roof and open sides and kept up a blistering pace as we zipped around the island. Hmmm. A dream fulfilled - Dave drives chicks around in a bright red lawnmower. OK, so it wasn't quite a "blistering" pace, but the wind was whipping at our hair and clothes and the motor was screaming like a runaway hairdryer, so it felt pretty fast. I do believe the needle even reached and passed the 60km/hr speed limit when going down a couple of the steeper hills. Later in the day I went for a spin with just Briano and Eoin, and I could have sworn we topped seventy through collective willpower. While I am confessing to my embellishments, I should mention that we didn't "zip around" the island either. Rather, we zipped up and down the 12km of main road from Picnic Bay to Horseshoe Bay, because the handful of other "main" roads on the island were off limits due to rental insurance constraints. Not to worry though, as there were plenty of bends and views and dips and humps on that one stretch of asphalt to keep the ride interesting. Our first stop was at The Forts, which oddly enough, is made up of a series of old forts. The Australians manned a 120-man military base on Magnetic Island during the Second World War, keeping a lookout for Japanese invaders advancing from the northern Pacific. As it happened, the Japanese never got any farther south than New Guinea and the island base never saw any more action than a couple of air-raids. The heavy concrete remains of the fortifications have since been turned over to the National Parks and Wildlife Service, along with the surrounding forest. The sun was beating down strongly as we hiked up along a dusty trail which ascended gently towards the forts. Many of the trees around us were eucalyptus, and we were on the lookout for reported koala bears who feed mainly on the eucalyptus leaves. The three of us stared intently into the forest as we walked, trying to discern the familiar form of a koala against the collage of branches and leaves. We walked and searched for over half an hour, cricking our necks, stumbling over roots and rocks, and trying to distinguish eucalyptus groves from gum-tree groves, but our efforts were turning up nothing. Just as the draining heat began to break our enthusiasm and we were starting to lose hope, we came across a couple of other hikers who were gazing up from the trail into a nearby tree. They pointed out two koala bears to us, each one lodged high up in a tree on either side of the trail. It was difficult to see any more than a couple of gray furry lumps wedged into the fork between a bough and the tree trunk. Their heads were buried in their paws and they were motionless, probably sleeping. We stared at them for a few minutes, waiting for some evidence to show that the furry bundles weren't just toys planted in the trees to satisfy gullible tourists. At length, one of the koalas raised his head, paused, and laid it down again. That was all we needed. Elated, we continued on up the trail. We explored gun emplacements and a radio tower, lookout points and a supply dump. We climbed to the top of the command post and marvelled at the views of the island and the sparkling blue ocean. We rested in the merciful shade provided by the concrete tower. The touch of cool stone against my skin tickled my arms and legs and goose bumps sprang up to delight my nerve endings. I wondered how many long afternoons of duty had been spent by servicemen in the tower, preparing for and anticipating an enemy that would never come. I wondered how many cigarettes had been smoked, how many jokes had been told, how many nervous nights had been passed and how many false alarms had been raised. The initials and dates scraped into the stone did little to answer my questions, so I let my imagination run free all the way back to the Moke. Hot and thirsty, we gorged ourselves on cold drinks, ice-cream, pies and sausage rolls in Horseshoe Bay (don't knock the sausage roll/ice-cream combo until you have tried it). I tried swimming, but the calm water was murky and slimy, so I didn't get in any deeper than my knees. Nobody else was swimming, although there were plenty of sunbathers on the beach. I probably should have taken the tip. We trundled down an unpaved road to visit a wildlife sanctuary that our guide book recommended. Our trusty Moke handled the potholes magnificently and we made it to the sanctuary with all four wheels still attached. The small establishment was empty of visitors apart from us, and very enjoyable. We saw koalas up close - the friendly keeper allowed us into the koala enclosure as he delivered fresh eucalyptus branches, and we petted and made faces at Well-fed resident of the Magnetic Island wildlife sanctuary. them as they munched. I was amused to see that real koalas looked and felt much more like stuffed teddy bears than I had expected. That may sound ridiculous, but I had been expecting a difference between portrayal and reality similar to the kangaroo souvenir industry. Kangaroos toys are brown and soft and adorable, with pink ears, happy, dancing eyes and cute little joeys in their pouches. Real kangaroos are grey, awkward-looking, suspicious and dangerously strong. Koala toys are sleepy, soft, harmless and lovable. Real koalas are also sleepy, soft, harmless and lovable. If it wasn't for the sharp claws of the koala I was feeding, I could have put a straw hat with dangling corks on his head, stuck a plastic Australian flag in his paw, and sold him to an American tourist as a pyjama case. The sanctuary also contained emus, a wombat, kangaroos, ducks, geese, and many cockatoos. The cockatoos liked having their heads stroked and attracted my attention by calling out "Hello darling!", "Come here!" or some other cheerful salutation when my back was turned. Once I approached their cages however, the birds just shuffled guiltily about on their perches and said nothing. Most of the caged cockatoos were white, with brightly coloured crests and strong, sharp beaks. A few birds stuck their heads out of their cages wanting to be stroked, and one bird repeatedly stuck out his claw to shake hands. I politely accepted his proffered claw, and shook it amiably until I thought his sharp beak looked a little bit over-interested in my finger. The emus looked as evil and scheming as ever, the kangaroos looked wise, and the chubby wombat was so busy tucking into his vegetable dinner that he didn't even notice us. The white rooster had a sore foot and hopped about the enclosure trying to avoid the clumsy duck who tripped spectacularly over the kangaroo's tail en route to the dinner bowl. I felt like Doctor Dolittle. Back at Coconuts the staff were preparing lights and music for the evening's Full Moon (any excuse!) Party. Backpackers were climbing sleepily out of hammocks and warming up with a few casual beers in anticipation of a heavy night's drinking. Denise and I were to miss the festivities since we had to return to the mainland to catch an early bus the next morning, but we were confident in the knowledge that Eoin and BrianO, if not Hannah, would drink more than enough to make up for our absence. We caught the last ferry back to Townsville and checked into the hostel above the bus station. The long blue windowless corridors leading to our third floor room seemed more suited to a clinic than a hostel, and the place radiated a similar depth of character. However, it was clean and modern and a lot better than I had been expecting for transit centre accommodation. I suppose I still mentally identified spending a night in a transit centre with waiting for a bus in Tennant Creek, but I was happy to be wrong. We went in search of dinner and discovered a jazz band setting up at the end of our street. Apparently Townsville was hosting a jazz festival all weekend, and Saturday night's street music was billed as a major highlight. We passed more bands playing outside pubs as we continued into the centre of town. We ate a huge dinner at an outdoor restaurant overlooking Ross Creek. The smart pubs and outdoor terraces filled with happy, bustling crowds gave a far better impression of Townsville than the characterless mall we had seen a couple of days beforehand. It just goes to show that impressions gathered by whirlwind tourists are of little value when offered as advice to other prospective visitors - they have only caught a tiny glimpse of the whole, and their recommendations are to be valued as such. Coconuts was not as bad a hostel as we had been warned. Townsville had life and culture. Perhaps Tennant Creek is a beautiful town. Don't believe everything you read. Including this. Catamaran Contention, Dodgy Documentary Sunday, August 9; Townsville - Airlie Beach Greg the driver captained the early McCafferty's bus to Airlie Beach clad in light headphones, mouthing some unknown lyrics and tapping a beat on the broad steering wheel with his thumbs. He clearly wanted to be left alone. He did us the same courtesy. Fortunately there were no incontinent halfwits on the bus who caused the toilet to explode due to lack of proper instruction. The bus' radio played classic hits of the 60's and 70's as we cruised south through sugar cane country on another beautiful sunny morning. I was relaxed and happy, contemplating my lack of responsibility, my freedom from worries, my wonderful experiences to date and the sailing trip in the Whitsunday Islands that Denise and I were scheduled to join at Airlie Beach. I decided that I never wanted to work again. I would travel the world for the rest of my life. A new destination for every new day. All of the continents, and all of the oceans as well. Only one problem - how would I finance my never-ending holiday? Well, I had thought about that too. Apart from accepting the hospitality of generous locals in whatever area I visited, and mending my own socks, I decided that I would have to rob a bank, like the villains in the movie "Point Break" who carried out an annual series of armed robberies to fund their year-round, worldwide surfing pilgrimage. I don't usually side with the baddies in movies, but I couldn't fault these guys. They were polite and firm during their heists, but never greedy. They were well organised, had a sense of humour, and only took what they needed to see them through a winter surfing season in Hawaii, Australia, South Africa or wherever. Responsible, professional, community-minded, fun-loving criminals. If it hadn't been for Keanu Reeves and the FBI showing up sticking their investigating noses into everything, the robberies would have continued on smoothly, the villains would have caught their waves, and nobody would have been hurt. Instead things degenerated into a violent circus. In a regretful way, the movie was educational. I learned from their mistakes. I knew what I needed to do. All I required was a posse and a few fake shotguns. I called across the aisle to where Denise was dozing across her two seats. "Denise, will you be in my posse?" "Hm?" She lifts her head and looks at me. "Will you be in my posse?" I asked again, "I'm putting together a bank-raiding posse so that I'll never need to stop travelling." She looks through me, groggy and puzzled for a moment, then screws up her face into a scowl, signs heavily and mutters "I was almost asleep y'know." She turns sulkily back to the window and lays down again. Damn. So much for that idea. Patrick Swayze obviously never had to deal with my girlfriend. Light-footed. In Airlie Beach we checked into our hostel and I took a dip in the pool. We strolled up the main street to the charter office to check our reservations for following day's sailing trip. It wasn't difficult to find; Airlie Beach is a small town that principally consists of one main street. I don't know why the place was named after a beach either - the sea meets the town at a narrow and gravelly stretch of sand that barely deserves the designation. The town mainly serves as a gateway to the Whitsundays, a cluster of several islands of various sizes located approximately 10 - 30 kilometres off the coast. The Whitsunday Islands are invariably heavily forested, with rough coastlines. The waters surrounding the islands form the most popular sailing destination in Australia. Several islands host private resorts, some of which are very expensive, but the majority of the islands, which are maintained by the National Parks and Wildlife Service, contain little development besides a rough campsite and a few walking trails. Most tourists go to the Whitsundays to cruise and sail around the islands rather than to explore their interiors. They prefer to spend their time eating gourmet meals, swimming in the magical water, sunbathing on deck, or otherwise relaxing on their self-contained floating universe. Denise and I were very much looking forward to vegetating in this manner. We were booked onto a 3-day, 2-night trip on Iluka, a large and luxury cruising yacht which would accommodate us and a dozen other backpackers. A skipper and two cooks/deckhands would attend to our every whim and desire, provided that our whims and desires consisted of cruising around the islands and eating 3 meals and two snacks a day. Iluka was the cruising flagship of Prosail, the charter company with which we had booked. Included with the package on Iluka was a follow-up day trip on a large high-speed catamaran called On The Edge. We had allocated an extra day in Airlie Beach to take advantage of the catamaran trip, so when the girl at Prosail told us that the following Thursday's day trip was almost certainly booked up already, we were extremely disappointed - both Denise and I had mistakenly assumed that we would be accommodated on the catamaran on the basis of our Iluka booking. Trudging back towards our hostel, our disappointment and our annoyance at Prosail sparked a sharp argument between us. Denise and I both wanted to blame Prosail for our mistaken assumption about dates and booking confirmations, but we couldn't, since they had never made any assurances on the issue. Instead we tried to blame each other. I became extremely defensive when I thought Denise was trying to pin the mistaken assumption on me, which resulted in me walking away angrily in separate direction to her. She ploughed haughtily down the street - I don't know if she was even aware that I wasn't following, and at that moment I didn't care. I was quite pissed off. I had done most of the planning and scheduling for our trip and didn't feel like taking any undeserved abuse. At the time, it seemed like a big deal. After I had been sitting on the grass overlooking the beach for about fifteen minutes, it didn't seem like such a big deal anymore. By the time thirty minutes had passed, Denise and I had made up. Kissed and made up. Aw shucks. The stupid red catamaran wasn't mentioned again for the rest of the day. Dressed for the weather. We browsed through the few interesting shops that were open on Sunday, and wandered around the local sailing club. Although the town was pretty and the weather was great, there really wasn't much to do. Passing a backpacker pub, we read a billboard advertising the free screening of a movie that neither of us had seen. It was just about to start so we went in, bought a pitcher of beer, sat down and waited for the barman to start the film. Fifteen minutes later the big screen was still showing music videos. There was nobody else waiting for the show to start, so I approached the barman and queried him about the movie. "Ahhh no mate, we aren't playing that one. We got a wildlife program showing in about an hour, how about that?" I didn't believe him. Pubs don't show wildlife documentaries. Especially not backpacker pubs with beer specials, music videos and beach parties. I assumed he had been trying to take the piss, especially since he subsequently disappeared into the depths behind the bar to switch on (I was sure) the video. I sat down and we waited. Five more minutes passed, and Janet Jackson was still singing merrily and wiggling her hips on screen. The barman hadn't returned. Maybe he had fallen into the VCR. Denise went up to the bar and was given the same wildlife story by a different barman. He was serious. They had merely forgotten to rewrite the billboards outside the pub. They really did plan to re-run a wildlife programme. Thankfully, our beer didn't last that long - I don't think I could have handled such an educational and environmentally responsible documentary in a pub - too frivolous a venue for such a serious topic - I didn't want to be around for the inevitable space-time rift that would result. The evening passed without any space-time rifts that we noticed. We did manage to use our well-travelled jar of spaghetti sauce, but I don't suppose that counts for much on a cosmic scale. I was asleep long before an hour that any partying backpacker would consider respectable. PREVIOUS | NEXT | HOME | CONTENTS | ABOUT | SEND EMAIL