It is just over 1300km from Brisbane to Townsville, and much of that stretch has been described as 'famously uninteresting' in at least one guide book we have with us. So we were lucky that we travelled in a shit-heap of a van which made our journey far more remarkable!
The van had been 'affectionately' named Basil after the plant of the same name that lived in the van with us for a few months and also after Basil Fawlty, on account of the tendency for the thing to break down at the smallest sign of pressure. Breaking down was in fact the van's speciality, and we had spent many times the original cost of the rust bucket on repairs over the last few months. Knowing this, we had tried to limit the driving to a couple of hours a day in order to give him a bit of a break, but now we had a long distance to travel and not much time to do it in. The first day was fine, stopping at a caravan park overnight a few hundred kilometres from Brisbane overnight, but the fun began half way through the afternoon when Basil decided it was too bloody hot in Queensland, and that he'd had enough. So with many breaks and a decidedly sluggish pace, we made our way to the closest town of Gladstone to let him have a nice long break. But even with this rest and a fresh radiator of coolant, we hadn't even made it to the edge of town before he started protesting again, and we accepted that we were spending the night there.
Luckily for us, the nearby yacht club had excellent food in massive portions, so after having our dinner and taking away the leftovers (which lasted us each another 2 meals) we retired to the still smouldering van for an early night. On the way back we noticed a warning sign close to where we had parked. We had seen plenty before – warning about spiders or snakes – but this one told the tale of a terrible blight on the local community: vicious kamikaze magpies. Even the Aussie birds are out to get us!
The next day we continued driving through fields of ripe sugar cane and yellow grass, watching the landscape slowly change from the green of New South Wales to the dusty tones of much drier Queensland. Mountains sprung up, blue and hazy in the distance, and then seemed to approach as we continued on, turning greener as we neared and disappearing into the distance as we passed into new countryside. More signs warning of the proximity of the elusive koalas appeared at the sides of the road, and plenty for the cattle which dotted the fields that we were driving through and occasionally spilled onto the road. But rather than wildlife, it was the bloody van which dominated our attention again that day. Guzzling water, belching steam, and grumbling all the while. We made it a little under 400km before we had to stop to give it a 4 litre drink, and then plodded onwards again, ever wary of the temperamental temperature dial.
Finally, after consuming what must have been close to twenty litres of water, we pulled into Townsville, an industrial town nestled below a huge red rock escarpment. Now my only hope is that we can find an honest mechanic!
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
A Weekend in Brisbane
Our last morning in Byron Bay started slowly on account of the beers consumed the night before, but by midday we were on the road to Brisbane where we were meeting our friends Mike and Bex. We had originally met them in the Blue Mountains before Christmas, and seen them a few times since, but just a couple of weeks after we moved to Sydney they moved away to Brisbane (though they assured us there was no connection) and we were keen to have a weekend of drunkenness with some familiar faces.
Being on the road, or even when settling in a town for just a short while, most friends that you make are for one night only! Stories exchanged in the pub or round a fire at night are always entertaining – you always remember and retell your most exciting tales – but the start of the night tends to follows a tedious pattern of introductions and exchanging background stories and that level of familiarity that defines the relationship between good friends is rarely reached. So when you hit it off with fellow travelers, spend some time together and stay in touch, it's always worth the effort to ensure your paths cross again.
So it was with no lack of excitement that we made the uneventful journey 150km north to Brisbane and the state of Queensland to visit our friends that we hadn't seen for nearly six months. They had been living in a beautiful 'Queenslander' house; a roomy wooden structure on stilts with various levels and open spaces to encourage a cooling flow of air. But it was straight out to the garden we went to discuss our latest adventures and plans for the upcoming weeks. The weather was noticeably better than it had been in Sydney – staying warmer further into the evening and without a cloud in the sky all day.
That evening we went into the city to see a band that had been recommended to Mike – and to our surprise it was a band we knew! I had spent a while discussing slide-guitar with the main guitarist/singer in Byron Bay before his solo gig, but then missed most of his set that evening. So now was my chance to catch him again and this time with his band The Lapdogz. He didn't disappoint and neither did the opening act, Mark Easton Limousine, who played two equally impressive blues sets.
It was a little late when we finally stumbled out of the pub and into a cab that the more inebriated of us were very surprising to find waiting outside. And so it was with a slightly fuzzy head that we found ourselves walking to the market early the following morning. We'd missed most of the markets on the way up, so I was keen to dive headlong into the throng when we arrived. One of my favourite things about markets is the abundance of food stalls – and so I strolled through the crowds with a skewer of pork balls in one hand, a cup of freshly squeezed sugar cane juice in my other hand, and a lady finger banana in my pocket waiting for one of my hands to become free. The fruit and veg were amazingly fresh and cheap, but it was the temptation of the fried foods that mostly won out. As we left the market we saw a corner of a main street that looked like an allotment – and that was more-or-less what it was. An organic community garden where everything from broccoli to paw paw was being grown; with no fences or gate, and no vandalism either! It's a shame when a thought like that occurs, but when it did I felt it illustrated the difference between Australians and Brits perfectly – and markedly increased my resolve to stay amongst these people.
With a couple of brief stops on the way home for cakes, smoothies, and sausage rolls, we made it back shortly after midday. I was stuffed and ready for a kip; but managed to hold out until around midnight and spent the rest of the day strolling through parks and sitting in the garden with jugs of freshly made sangria and great friends.
Being on the road, or even when settling in a town for just a short while, most friends that you make are for one night only! Stories exchanged in the pub or round a fire at night are always entertaining – you always remember and retell your most exciting tales – but the start of the night tends to follows a tedious pattern of introductions and exchanging background stories and that level of familiarity that defines the relationship between good friends is rarely reached. So when you hit it off with fellow travelers, spend some time together and stay in touch, it's always worth the effort to ensure your paths cross again.
So it was with no lack of excitement that we made the uneventful journey 150km north to Brisbane and the state of Queensland to visit our friends that we hadn't seen for nearly six months. They had been living in a beautiful 'Queenslander' house; a roomy wooden structure on stilts with various levels and open spaces to encourage a cooling flow of air. But it was straight out to the garden we went to discuss our latest adventures and plans for the upcoming weeks. The weather was noticeably better than it had been in Sydney – staying warmer further into the evening and without a cloud in the sky all day.
That evening we went into the city to see a band that had been recommended to Mike – and to our surprise it was a band we knew! I had spent a while discussing slide-guitar with the main guitarist/singer in Byron Bay before his solo gig, but then missed most of his set that evening. So now was my chance to catch him again and this time with his band The Lapdogz. He didn't disappoint and neither did the opening act, Mark Easton Limousine, who played two equally impressive blues sets.
It was a little late when we finally stumbled out of the pub and into a cab that the more inebriated of us were very surprising to find waiting outside. And so it was with a slightly fuzzy head that we found ourselves walking to the market early the following morning. We'd missed most of the markets on the way up, so I was keen to dive headlong into the throng when we arrived. One of my favourite things about markets is the abundance of food stalls – and so I strolled through the crowds with a skewer of pork balls in one hand, a cup of freshly squeezed sugar cane juice in my other hand, and a lady finger banana in my pocket waiting for one of my hands to become free. The fruit and veg were amazingly fresh and cheap, but it was the temptation of the fried foods that mostly won out. As we left the market we saw a corner of a main street that looked like an allotment – and that was more-or-less what it was. An organic community garden where everything from broccoli to paw paw was being grown; with no fences or gate, and no vandalism either! It's a shame when a thought like that occurs, but when it did I felt it illustrated the difference between Australians and Brits perfectly – and markedly increased my resolve to stay amongst these people.
With a couple of brief stops on the way home for cakes, smoothies, and sausage rolls, we made it back shortly after midday. I was stuffed and ready for a kip; but managed to hold out until around midnight and spent the rest of the day strolling through parks and sitting in the garden with jugs of freshly made sangria and great friends.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
A Day and a Night in Nimbin
When the tourists came in droves to Byron Bay, the hippies had to find a new place to hang out which still had the charm and character of a tiny peaceful community. And that was how Nimbin had been sold to us. Even before we arrived though, I began to wonder how charming and tranquil a place could be when I had seen at least four different companies running day trips from Byron to Nimbin bringing in bus-loads of tourists each and every day. So what we found there was unfortunately not too much of a surprise.
The place now subsists almost entirely on tourism, and their unique selling point is their willingness to sell and promote dope smoking in every way they can find. As we entered the high street we were instantly bombarded with people trying to sell weed, cookies, and chocolates to the stream of tourists flowing past in the street. The Hemp Embassy was filled with relatively little information on hemp, but plenty of extortionately priced natural products and Nimbin memorabilia. It lead through to the Hemp Bar where people drank tea in a suitably dimly lit room and sold their dodgy wares to the tourists. Across the street was the Museum – which documented the history of Nimbin; from the indigenous owners of the land, through the arrival of the hippies and now the reliance on tourists. Most of the 'exhibits' were nothing more than photocopied newspaper articles stuck randomly on the walls of this small converted house, but a few surprise finds amongst the mountains of tat raised a smile, like the original placard for Dr Poppy's Wonder Elixir (with cannabis extract) which was sold as a cure-all not long ago. A few other places were interesting to look around – the apothecary was a small shop with very strong odours coming from the doorway, and a good collection of natural oils and crystals inside if you had money to burn, and there were lots of clothes shops selling the latest trends for the alternative scene at hugely inflated prices. But again, looking hard enough, a few bargains were found. Even another item for me to wear on days where black doesn't feel necessary... however rare those days might be!
But other than the rampant commercialism of the place, there were other things that quickly put me off. The town was superficial. Existing solely because you could go there to buy and smoke drugs on the street. Not that I think there is anything wrong with having a place like that, but I expected – and needed – more to make the place worth visiting. Where were the hippies? The fires? The drum circles? The community? I saw three fights, one of which ended in a local being taken away by three policemen for threatening a shop owner and her customers whilst dozens of other locals shouted abuse from across the street. People were friendly when they thought I would buy their products, but didn't want any more from us than our money. I suspect that the hippies had long ago abandoned the town and now tried to avoid it whenever possible, choosing instead to live in communities out of town.
Unwilling to accept that this highly talked about place is a complete sham, we will try and find one of those communities to stay in when we come back down the coast, but our night in Nimbin was still ahead of us and we hoped something would happen after dusk that would renew some of the implied appeal of the place. We went to the solitary pub on the main street, below one of the hostels, and waited. Dinner time came around, and the feast we had placed before us was excellent! But still the pub was nearly empty. When talking to the locals, it seemed that nothing ever happened at night. They were out during the day harassing tourists, but just sat at home in the evenings waiting for tomorrow to come. So we decided not to sleep in our van down the road and instead to go looking for something that might be happening a little way out of town.
We headed for the two main hostels in Nimbin down a very dark road. In fact, when the moon disappeared behind the clouds it was pitch black and with only the sounds of the animals in the bush at the edge of the road to help us determine our direction, we tentatively walked on. It seemed like a long way. In fact, after 10 minutes of stumbling on in darkness, across bridges and round sweeping bends which we hoped were part of the road and not someone's driveway, we decided to return to the van and get a torch (and people wonder why it's called 'dope'!) We could have walked right past the hostels and never known. When we returned from the van we found out that was exactly what we had done. It looked like we had only gone twenty meters further than the entrance to the hostel, but we had definitely strolled past without noticing it at all.
But it was a fantastic hostel! Called the Rainbow Village, it was similarly set up to the Arts Factory but with far less coordination. There were old VW camper vans converted into dorms, old gypsy wagons, tree-houses, and teepees. We sat around a fire in a teepee and played cards whilst listening to the bats flying around outside; and when morning came and we could get a good look at the place, it really did have a feel of a commune about it. Beautiful surroundings, with higgledy piggledy structures dotted amongst the trees and a couple of bearded backpackers sat around a camp fire discussing the world's problems. But until we found the real communes – we were going to leave Nimbin and head back to Byron for another night. Even with the commercialisation of the town, Byron still had a far superior air of relaxed acceptance and laid back people. And plenty of choices of pubs to go to and people to talk with!
The place now subsists almost entirely on tourism, and their unique selling point is their willingness to sell and promote dope smoking in every way they can find. As we entered the high street we were instantly bombarded with people trying to sell weed, cookies, and chocolates to the stream of tourists flowing past in the street. The Hemp Embassy was filled with relatively little information on hemp, but plenty of extortionately priced natural products and Nimbin memorabilia. It lead through to the Hemp Bar where people drank tea in a suitably dimly lit room and sold their dodgy wares to the tourists. Across the street was the Museum – which documented the history of Nimbin; from the indigenous owners of the land, through the arrival of the hippies and now the reliance on tourists. Most of the 'exhibits' were nothing more than photocopied newspaper articles stuck randomly on the walls of this small converted house, but a few surprise finds amongst the mountains of tat raised a smile, like the original placard for Dr Poppy's Wonder Elixir (with cannabis extract) which was sold as a cure-all not long ago. A few other places were interesting to look around – the apothecary was a small shop with very strong odours coming from the doorway, and a good collection of natural oils and crystals inside if you had money to burn, and there were lots of clothes shops selling the latest trends for the alternative scene at hugely inflated prices. But again, looking hard enough, a few bargains were found. Even another item for me to wear on days where black doesn't feel necessary... however rare those days might be!
But other than the rampant commercialism of the place, there were other things that quickly put me off. The town was superficial. Existing solely because you could go there to buy and smoke drugs on the street. Not that I think there is anything wrong with having a place like that, but I expected – and needed – more to make the place worth visiting. Where were the hippies? The fires? The drum circles? The community? I saw three fights, one of which ended in a local being taken away by three policemen for threatening a shop owner and her customers whilst dozens of other locals shouted abuse from across the street. People were friendly when they thought I would buy their products, but didn't want any more from us than our money. I suspect that the hippies had long ago abandoned the town and now tried to avoid it whenever possible, choosing instead to live in communities out of town.
Unwilling to accept that this highly talked about place is a complete sham, we will try and find one of those communities to stay in when we come back down the coast, but our night in Nimbin was still ahead of us and we hoped something would happen after dusk that would renew some of the implied appeal of the place. We went to the solitary pub on the main street, below one of the hostels, and waited. Dinner time came around, and the feast we had placed before us was excellent! But still the pub was nearly empty. When talking to the locals, it seemed that nothing ever happened at night. They were out during the day harassing tourists, but just sat at home in the evenings waiting for tomorrow to come. So we decided not to sleep in our van down the road and instead to go looking for something that might be happening a little way out of town.
We headed for the two main hostels in Nimbin down a very dark road. In fact, when the moon disappeared behind the clouds it was pitch black and with only the sounds of the animals in the bush at the edge of the road to help us determine our direction, we tentatively walked on. It seemed like a long way. In fact, after 10 minutes of stumbling on in darkness, across bridges and round sweeping bends which we hoped were part of the road and not someone's driveway, we decided to return to the van and get a torch (and people wonder why it's called 'dope'!) We could have walked right past the hostels and never known. When we returned from the van we found out that was exactly what we had done. It looked like we had only gone twenty meters further than the entrance to the hostel, but we had definitely strolled past without noticing it at all.
But it was a fantastic hostel! Called the Rainbow Village, it was similarly set up to the Arts Factory but with far less coordination. There were old VW camper vans converted into dorms, old gypsy wagons, tree-houses, and teepees. We sat around a fire in a teepee and played cards whilst listening to the bats flying around outside; and when morning came and we could get a good look at the place, it really did have a feel of a commune about it. Beautiful surroundings, with higgledy piggledy structures dotted amongst the trees and a couple of bearded backpackers sat around a camp fire discussing the world's problems. But until we found the real communes – we were going to leave Nimbin and head back to Byron for another night. Even with the commercialisation of the town, Byron still had a far superior air of relaxed acceptance and laid back people. And plenty of choices of pubs to go to and people to talk with!
From Billengen to Byron
Eager to get on up the coast, we left Billengen after a slow morning in one of the town's cafés and a bit of browsing around the few shops in the high street. It was Monday morning and the town was a completely different place after the weekend of parties and crowds. But keen to keep going on our trip through some of the most alternative and laid back parts of the country, we headed for the quiet town of Mullumbimby. The countryside we drove through was stunning; across marshland and lakes, and alongside beaches and forests. Stopping in one small town and asking whether there was a bakery nearby resulted in a very perplexed look from the barman. Of course not! The town will probably have a second pub before they do something crazy like build a bakery. But if we wanted, we could drive 3km down the road and take a ferry across to a nearby island which sold bread!Madness!
After several hours of driving through similarly small hamlets that we came to the contrastingly larger township of Mullum – with pub, golf club, AND a rugby club.
Despite all this choice, we headed straight for the rugby club (which offered camping at the rear) where we parked the van alongside a river behind the clubhouse, and headed in for a drink. No sooner had we sat down, the power went out. In the bar, over at the camp site, and to the disappointment of the players outside: on the pitch. So in the darkness of the bar, we drank our beers and listened to stories about shark and crocodile attacks that the barman seemed to delight in telling us.
So it was with the torch on full-beam that we returned to the van, now uncomfortably close to the riverbank. And with half an eye on the surface of the water looking out for anything with more than fifty teeth, we made a quick but excellent curry which we ate whilst watching the myriad stars twinkle above this almost unpopulated corner of the world. Just like everywhere else we had been to, the people we spoke to were so friendly and genuinely interested in our stories that we felt right at home. Whether it was talking with the old guy in the caravan next to ours who had sat with his rod, dog, and reefer by the river for the last five and a half months, or being with the group of regulars in the club that we chatted to long after the lights had gone out. The small Australian towns seemed to have been populated by wonderful people that brought contagious positive energy with them that has consistently left me feeling energised and uncharacteristically cheerful. I've even started wearing bright colours!
After a night in Mullumbimby we headed straight for Byron Bay. The famously alternative end of Australia, popularised decades ago by hippy travellers, and continuing to be one of the must-see locations on the East Coast. First impressions were mixed. There were brightly coloured paintings on the walls and the roads and cool looking people walking through the streets, but just as many cosmopolitan cafés filled with solitary people on their laptops, and shops selling over-priced and unremarkable tat to tourists, as you would expect from a city which has been a popular focal point of travellers for the last thirty years.
But as we explored, the place quickly warmed to us. Many of the boutiques turned out to have plenty of bargains on offer and the food and drink seemed to range across all possible budgets, and all of it was excellent value. And when my stomach is happy, so is the rest of me!
As we arrived we received a text message from our friend Lachlan who we had last seen in Katoomba on Christmas Eve, asking where we were and what we were doing. When we told Lachlan that we were in Byron for the day, we were very surprised to find out that he was here, too – just for the day! And being an Aussie from the Gold Coast, a few hours North of Byron, we were keen to employ his services as a tour guide and point us in the direction of the best action in town. He took us to a couple of excellent pubs for beers and a massive dinner, and helped us find the best hostel in town – a place called The Arts Factory Village which is renowned throughout the travelling scene of the country.
The village was originally formed by arts students and hippies that wanted somewhere of their own in town where they could get together, and a mess of teepees, huts, and shacks built up over the years to form the 4-acre Arts Factory Village – now populated by permanent residents, travellers, 2-foot long monitor lizards, and big colourful brush turkeys. We stayed in a canvass hut known as an Island Retreat out on the creekside with verandas leading to the board-walk to the main buildings at the front and hanging precariously over the tee-tree stained water out the back. The sounds of the wildlife from this secluded place at night and at dawn made it very easily to believe that you were really hundreds of kilometres from the rest of society. The hostel boasted every form of entertainment you could imagine from pool tables, ping-pong, pinball, arcade machines (even classic table-top pac-man!), beach volley ball, plenty of hammocks and sofas to relax in and daily activities to enjoy like making a digeridoo or learning how to massage. But this time through we were on a schedule and were keen to have a look at the surrounding villages. So we stayed for a night and set off the next day for the equally hyped alternative-town of Nimbin.
After several hours of driving through similarly small hamlets that we came to the contrastingly larger township of Mullum – with pub, golf club, AND a rugby club.
Despite all this choice, we headed straight for the rugby club (which offered camping at the rear) where we parked the van alongside a river behind the clubhouse, and headed in for a drink. No sooner had we sat down, the power went out. In the bar, over at the camp site, and to the disappointment of the players outside: on the pitch. So in the darkness of the bar, we drank our beers and listened to stories about shark and crocodile attacks that the barman seemed to delight in telling us.
So it was with the torch on full-beam that we returned to the van, now uncomfortably close to the riverbank. And with half an eye on the surface of the water looking out for anything with more than fifty teeth, we made a quick but excellent curry which we ate whilst watching the myriad stars twinkle above this almost unpopulated corner of the world. Just like everywhere else we had been to, the people we spoke to were so friendly and genuinely interested in our stories that we felt right at home. Whether it was talking with the old guy in the caravan next to ours who had sat with his rod, dog, and reefer by the river for the last five and a half months, or being with the group of regulars in the club that we chatted to long after the lights had gone out. The small Australian towns seemed to have been populated by wonderful people that brought contagious positive energy with them that has consistently left me feeling energised and uncharacteristically cheerful. I've even started wearing bright colours!
After a night in Mullumbimby we headed straight for Byron Bay. The famously alternative end of Australia, popularised decades ago by hippy travellers, and continuing to be one of the must-see locations on the East Coast. First impressions were mixed. There were brightly coloured paintings on the walls and the roads and cool looking people walking through the streets, but just as many cosmopolitan cafés filled with solitary people on their laptops, and shops selling over-priced and unremarkable tat to tourists, as you would expect from a city which has been a popular focal point of travellers for the last thirty years.
But as we explored, the place quickly warmed to us. Many of the boutiques turned out to have plenty of bargains on offer and the food and drink seemed to range across all possible budgets, and all of it was excellent value. And when my stomach is happy, so is the rest of me!
As we arrived we received a text message from our friend Lachlan who we had last seen in Katoomba on Christmas Eve, asking where we were and what we were doing. When we told Lachlan that we were in Byron for the day, we were very surprised to find out that he was here, too – just for the day! And being an Aussie from the Gold Coast, a few hours North of Byron, we were keen to employ his services as a tour guide and point us in the direction of the best action in town. He took us to a couple of excellent pubs for beers and a massive dinner, and helped us find the best hostel in town – a place called The Arts Factory Village which is renowned throughout the travelling scene of the country.
The village was originally formed by arts students and hippies that wanted somewhere of their own in town where they could get together, and a mess of teepees, huts, and shacks built up over the years to form the 4-acre Arts Factory Village – now populated by permanent residents, travellers, 2-foot long monitor lizards, and big colourful brush turkeys. We stayed in a canvass hut known as an Island Retreat out on the creekside with verandas leading to the board-walk to the main buildings at the front and hanging precariously over the tee-tree stained water out the back. The sounds of the wildlife from this secluded place at night and at dawn made it very easily to believe that you were really hundreds of kilometres from the rest of society. The hostel boasted every form of entertainment you could imagine from pool tables, ping-pong, pinball, arcade machines (even classic table-top pac-man!), beach volley ball, plenty of hammocks and sofas to relax in and daily activities to enjoy like making a digeridoo or learning how to massage. But this time through we were on a schedule and were keen to have a look at the surrounding villages. So we stayed for a night and set off the next day for the equally hyped alternative-town of Nimbin.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
An Unexpected Festival in Billengen
The journey northwards from Dungog took us through more beautiful mountainous country and then past stunning coves and beaches as we started heading up the coast. We stayed in a caravan park at Nambucca Heads where we took full advantage of the bouncy-castle and urgently required washing facilities, and took in some amazing sites of pristine beaches and bright blue and white surf.
The next significant stop on our route was the sleepy hippie town of Billengen, a little way inland and a few hours south of Byron Bay. The place had been recommended to us by one of the first Australians we had spoken to – a trucker we met on our first day in Sydney – and was reputedly an unspoilt, tranquil little township that had sprung up to serve the community of hippies that had bought land in the surrounding area in the 60s and 70s to escape from pressures of society and city life. It sounded like an idyllic lifestyle, living a free and heedless life subsisting from the land that was bought at a bargain price, but in reality most of these people now worked hard to provide for their families. Until the weekend came around!
As we neared the village, we found out that there was a festival occurring in Billengen, and that for a couple of days the sleepy hamlet would become an entertainment hub for all the nearby communities. People had come from two and three hours away, and everyone seemed to be out for as long as the party would last! Not quite the relaxing break we expected – but never being one to turn down a party, we soldiered on.
Walking down the high street the sounds of music poured from every doorway, street corner and patch of empty grass in the village square. Saxophonists, guitarists, singers, digeridooers (?) and many more were out and having a good time in the sun. The first outstanding act was a pair of singers, one of whom was a keyboardist, who called themselves The Wizard and Oz. 'The Wizard' was the keyboardist – a real virtuoso with a huge white beard and an ability to play incredibly complex jazz melodies with his eyes closed and his head back, lost in his own world of musical ecstasy. They played under a huge fig tree off the high street and they had every onlooker's undivided attention!
The town has one bar, but luckily it's a good one! With several rooms, food served in huge portions, lots of outside space and a big enough stage for some more impressive acts to play on. And so after thoroughly investigating the pub, we left to merrily wander the town looking for a musical end to the evening. We heard a band warming up in a café on the main street – Noam and the Lounge Lovers (a 'lounge' being an Australian term for a sofa) who were an interesting lounge-jazz act playing in a very comfortable and cosy looking café. The only trouble was that the evening's entertainment included dinner. So we grudgingly (ha ha) decided to have a second evening meal and settled in for some great tucker and tunes.
The food was great, spicy Lebanese style cooking, and the bring-your-own booze policy suited us too, as a tasty drop to drink is something we never allow ourselves to run low on! Towards the end of the meal though, after enjoying the music and food to the best we could manage, a group came in who changed the atmosphere completely. Very obviously well into their evening of entertainment, half a dozen women with big smiles and brightly coloured ponchos took over our end of the restaurant, and were quick to strike up conversations with us and assimilate us into their group. It wasn't until we were all hurtling down the cobbled streets to who-knows-where on a horse and cart that we found out their names and discovered that they were hippies from all over the surrounding area who had got together to party over the weekend, exchange cookie recipes, and escape their husbands and children. They had mostly moved to the countryside in the '70s and bought up cheap land to quietly subsist on where they had made lives for themselves in the most beautiful of settings. One even remarked on one of her grown-up sons returning to their idyllic retreat in the mountains where he had grown up, and fitting their home with four much needed walls – though the family had quite happily lived with just a roof suspended in the trees for the last seventeen years!
They all had wonderful stories, lived in places that sounded fantastically picturesque, and had such beautiful personalities. As the night progressed the dancing continued and became more and more amusing to watch. The little sleepy town had become alive with choruses of 'far out' from the hippies, scat and bebop coming from the stages and perplexed remarks from anyone who saw the dancing cross-dresser and were a little unsure exactly what kind of restaurant they had walked in to. It was a brilliant night!
And the next day was just as good. Jazz by the river. Blankets, hippies, and hampers. Jeff Lang particularly stood out amongst the musicians – a slide and rock 'n' roll guitarist who had written songs with people like Chris Whitely – so we decided on seeing him perform again in the evening. In the meantime, there were balloon models to be learnt (Cookie The Clown taught me how to make an great crocodile in return for my kangaroo), plenty of food to be enjoyed, and lots of home-made Anzac biscuits from our new friends to fill up any holes and keep us smiling.
We left with so many new friends that have insisted we visit them in the next few weeks I don't think we're going to be able to get round them all – but I've got a feeling they'll find a way of arranging it so there will be a bit of a get-together when we come back down the coast, and I certainly don't want to miss another opportunity to hang out with these beautiful people.
The next significant stop on our route was the sleepy hippie town of Billengen, a little way inland and a few hours south of Byron Bay. The place had been recommended to us by one of the first Australians we had spoken to – a trucker we met on our first day in Sydney – and was reputedly an unspoilt, tranquil little township that had sprung up to serve the community of hippies that had bought land in the surrounding area in the 60s and 70s to escape from pressures of society and city life. It sounded like an idyllic lifestyle, living a free and heedless life subsisting from the land that was bought at a bargain price, but in reality most of these people now worked hard to provide for their families. Until the weekend came around!
As we neared the village, we found out that there was a festival occurring in Billengen, and that for a couple of days the sleepy hamlet would become an entertainment hub for all the nearby communities. People had come from two and three hours away, and everyone seemed to be out for as long as the party would last! Not quite the relaxing break we expected – but never being one to turn down a party, we soldiered on.
Walking down the high street the sounds of music poured from every doorway, street corner and patch of empty grass in the village square. Saxophonists, guitarists, singers, digeridooers (?) and many more were out and having a good time in the sun. The first outstanding act was a pair of singers, one of whom was a keyboardist, who called themselves The Wizard and Oz. 'The Wizard' was the keyboardist – a real virtuoso with a huge white beard and an ability to play incredibly complex jazz melodies with his eyes closed and his head back, lost in his own world of musical ecstasy. They played under a huge fig tree off the high street and they had every onlooker's undivided attention!
The town has one bar, but luckily it's a good one! With several rooms, food served in huge portions, lots of outside space and a big enough stage for some more impressive acts to play on. And so after thoroughly investigating the pub, we left to merrily wander the town looking for a musical end to the evening. We heard a band warming up in a café on the main street – Noam and the Lounge Lovers (a 'lounge' being an Australian term for a sofa) who were an interesting lounge-jazz act playing in a very comfortable and cosy looking café. The only trouble was that the evening's entertainment included dinner. So we grudgingly (ha ha) decided to have a second evening meal and settled in for some great tucker and tunes.
The food was great, spicy Lebanese style cooking, and the bring-your-own booze policy suited us too, as a tasty drop to drink is something we never allow ourselves to run low on! Towards the end of the meal though, after enjoying the music and food to the best we could manage, a group came in who changed the atmosphere completely. Very obviously well into their evening of entertainment, half a dozen women with big smiles and brightly coloured ponchos took over our end of the restaurant, and were quick to strike up conversations with us and assimilate us into their group. It wasn't until we were all hurtling down the cobbled streets to who-knows-where on a horse and cart that we found out their names and discovered that they were hippies from all over the surrounding area who had got together to party over the weekend, exchange cookie recipes, and escape their husbands and children. They had mostly moved to the countryside in the '70s and bought up cheap land to quietly subsist on where they had made lives for themselves in the most beautiful of settings. One even remarked on one of her grown-up sons returning to their idyllic retreat in the mountains where he had grown up, and fitting their home with four much needed walls – though the family had quite happily lived with just a roof suspended in the trees for the last seventeen years!
They all had wonderful stories, lived in places that sounded fantastically picturesque, and had such beautiful personalities. As the night progressed the dancing continued and became more and more amusing to watch. The little sleepy town had become alive with choruses of 'far out' from the hippies, scat and bebop coming from the stages and perplexed remarks from anyone who saw the dancing cross-dresser and were a little unsure exactly what kind of restaurant they had walked in to. It was a brilliant night!
And the next day was just as good. Jazz by the river. Blankets, hippies, and hampers. Jeff Lang particularly stood out amongst the musicians – a slide and rock 'n' roll guitarist who had written songs with people like Chris Whitely – so we decided on seeing him perform again in the evening. In the meantime, there were balloon models to be learnt (Cookie The Clown taught me how to make an great crocodile in return for my kangaroo), plenty of food to be enjoyed, and lots of home-made Anzac biscuits from our new friends to fill up any holes and keep us smiling.
We left with so many new friends that have insisted we visit them in the next few weeks I don't think we're going to be able to get round them all – but I've got a feeling they'll find a way of arranging it so there will be a bit of a get-together when we come back down the coast, and I certainly don't want to miss another opportunity to hang out with these beautiful people.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Heading North
Our plans upon leaving Katoomba were simply to go North. Find some sun, and get back on the road. Our first day of driving brought us to a town a couple of hours north of Sydney called Newcastle, where we spent the night with Rai, a friend we met in Freo on the opposite side of the country. The next day we set off early, and on the recommendation of one of the guys living in the house we had stayed in, we went heading for the Barington Tops and a little town called Dungog.
The drive to Dungog was along small roads girded by dense woodland and meandering river tributaries, and the town itself seemed to be almost entirely situated along one very wide road with a huge pub at each end, and just beyond the town's edge lay the outlying slopes of the Barington Tops – a 25km long plateau of forest which were a pleasure to walk through.
As we were leaving the town after lunch, wondering where we would camp for the night, we saw a hitcher at the side of the road and of course picked him up. His name was Toby and he was going a few kilometers up the hill to the house he and his brother lived in, and it was really something to behold. His family were architects and builders, and this was one of their current personal projects. It was nestled into the hillside amongst a forest of native trees and shrubs. There were patios, porches, perches and decking attached to every side of the house – and from every direction the views were astounding. It was a little spot of pure tranquility.
We drank tea with Toby and walked around his amazing house. Every feature was unique and full of character, from the layout and shape of the network of rooms, to the details of carved possums running up the redwood beams in the living room and around the eves of the house. Tea turned to beer, and looking around the house became looking around the grounds. They had built a pool in a separate building a little way up the slope, and outside that had ponds and fountains, but it was to the boules sandpit that we went, to talk more and lob metal balls until our arms were tired. And as the sun went down we made plans to go to the local pub where we played pool in a huge and nearly empty back room and listened to deafening rock anthems blasted from the jukebox. Toby's brother John joined us when he finished work, and they insisted that we stayed with them for the night. Coming from such a small and remote town they were both always keen to meet new people, so we spent the evening sitting on their patio, or round the fire inside, listening to music at a volume that would have disturbed the neighbors – if there had been any – and telling each other stories about life in Australia.
We set off the next morning and talked about the beautiful people we had met, and how lucky we were to have their hospitality. And as we drove round the sweeping vistas we talked about how lucky they were to have this landscape on their doorstep. And we talked about how we would love to have stayed longer. And how kind it was of them to stay we could have stayed longer. And with those thoughts uttered, we had turned around and were heading back to the 'Hole In The Wall' – named after an Irish pub by Toby's dad, Martin.
Toby seemed glad to see us heading back up the steep driveway, so after another cup of tea we all headed back into Dungog for more beer and pool. When we got back to the house that evening we cooked for Toby and John, and their parents Martin and Heather, and sat on the patio telling more stories and drinking more wine. When their parents headed home we continued to gorge on cheeses and more drinks, and when we were able, headed outside. We went into the woods to look at the huge possums running around, and the views from one of the outer buildings John stayed in, which was like being in a tree-house. And when we could handle nothing more, we watched a classic Aussie comedy called the Castle.
The next day we really did head off. But not before walking around some of the myriad paths that extended in every direction away from the house. Several kangaroos bounded off as we approached the nests they had built for the night, all of whom had been quite happily resting just meters from the house. But if we had to be up this early in the morning, so did they. And so we headed on up the road.
Monday, August 11, 2008
A Surprise in Katoomba
The Sunday before we were due to leave Sydney it occurred to me that I was living my last Sunday in the city and from the moment of that realization I knew that my week would be filled with mixed emotions. There wasn't the faintest element of sadness when I had to walk in to work on the last Monday morning, but strangely there was when I left the office for the last time on Friday. People and places would be missed, but the expectation of things to come made it easier to say goodbye. So with a final meal at the top of Sydney Tower, we said that 'goodbye' and headed on to the next one in Katoomba.
As the little town in the Blue Mountains had always been one of my favourite places, we had plenty of friends there to see before we set off. Clay, who we met in the first week we arrived in the country, had promised to take us to a lookout we hadn't been to before where the rock comes out at on a spur and you can stand with a valley on each side of you and the beautiful mountains stretching away in every direction. But we hadn't counted on one thing restricting the normally distant horizons. A downpour of snow.
It's not uncommon for the temperature to be about 10 degrees cooler in the mountains compared to Sydney, but snow is still a rare sight. And to see it blowing up the side of one valley and being sucked back down the other must have been an ever rarer one. And it was so much colder than we expected, but luckily three-quarters of the van was currently packed with blankets – so we hoped it wouldn't be too bad when we had to start sleeping in it.
But for the moment that wasn't going to happen. A fire in the chill-out hut at the Flying Fox kept out the cold for a while, as did chopping the snow-covered logs, but it wasn't long before the draw of a cozy fireside seat inside drew us in. We had a feast of bread and wine, traditional backpacker fare, and soon forgot all about the covering of white outside.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Off again soon
I have one more day on my contract in Sydney and then I'm off again. 7 weeks meandering up the East coast. I'm hoping to make it as far north as Cairnes (though if I get that far I probably won't chose to spend my time in the city and will push on a bit further) but there seems to be a lot on the way that could prove to be very distracting!
Living in Sydney for the last six months has been great - it's a wonderful city to live in, beautiful to look at by night, and as vibrant as you would hope during the days. I wish I had spent more time out and about town and less time in the office, but I expect now I'll be able to spend the rest of my time in Australia living off fresh fruit, veg, and kangaroo rather than rice, noodles, and more rice; and visiting some of the more revered spots like the beautiful Whitsundays. I might try and get out on a yaught for a few days and see some of the reefs... try bungee jumping or sky-diving... and all those other things I vaguely planned to do when I left the UK 10 months ago.
So the months following my time in Sydney should be a little more action-packed than the months immediately before my arrival. I only hope I don't come across too many good restaurants too soon... always my biggest weakness!
Despite the fondness I have developed for Sydney I can't wait to get back on the road and away from civilisation. First stop is Katoomba to say goodbye to friends there and then I hope to be in Newcastle early in the week to pick up a friend from Freo and we'll all travel together up towards Byron. Beyond that, we've no plans at all. It took a while, but I've learnt that's the only way to travel in a place as vast and constantly surprising as this one!
There are a couple of outdoor raves happening near Byron Bay and I expect I'll make it to at least one, and I hope to meet up with Matt in Townsville, and persuade him to spend a week travelling around the Whitsundays, Fraser Island, Magnetic Island, etc. Then we'll see if I have any money left for anything else!
So take care whatever you're up to, and watch this space for the latest news!
I'll speak to you all soon,
Rick
Living in Sydney for the last six months has been great - it's a wonderful city to live in, beautiful to look at by night, and as vibrant as you would hope during the days. I wish I had spent more time out and about town and less time in the office, but I expect now I'll be able to spend the rest of my time in Australia living off fresh fruit, veg, and kangaroo rather than rice, noodles, and more rice; and visiting some of the more revered spots like the beautiful Whitsundays. I might try and get out on a yaught for a few days and see some of the reefs... try bungee jumping or sky-diving... and all those other things I vaguely planned to do when I left the UK 10 months ago.
So the months following my time in Sydney should be a little more action-packed than the months immediately before my arrival. I only hope I don't come across too many good restaurants too soon... always my biggest weakness!
Despite the fondness I have developed for Sydney I can't wait to get back on the road and away from civilisation. First stop is Katoomba to say goodbye to friends there and then I hope to be in Newcastle early in the week to pick up a friend from Freo and we'll all travel together up towards Byron. Beyond that, we've no plans at all. It took a while, but I've learnt that's the only way to travel in a place as vast and constantly surprising as this one!
There are a couple of outdoor raves happening near Byron Bay and I expect I'll make it to at least one, and I hope to meet up with Matt in Townsville, and persuade him to spend a week travelling around the Whitsundays, Fraser Island, Magnetic Island, etc. Then we'll see if I have any money left for anything else!
So take care whatever you're up to, and watch this space for the latest news!
I'll speak to you all soon,
Rick
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