Jason Wells

After I got back to the hostel I read a paper. This whole Timor thing is really huge here. I often wonder if anyone hears about it in America. Refugees from Timor are already arriving in Darwin. I hear it’s gotten very nasty there, with all the military and refugee tent camps in the sweltering humidity. I wonder what it will be like when I get there. Next I checked my email. It’s painfully expensive at this kiosk, A$10/hour. But Hotmail (and its equivalents) are incredibly useful to backpackers. Often it’s the best, or even only, way to get in touch with someone with no permanent address or phone number.

I ate some gross dinner here, or tried to, anyway. I saw “Bad Boys”, a movie I’m sorry I didn’t miss. Maybe I sound like a film snob, but most of the movies I’ve seen here are really bad American imports. I happened across the two Canadian girls again after dinner. We got to talking. They’re from British Columbia, not far out from Vancouver. They had been in Sydney and didn’t like the Sydney Opera House. They were looking for something to do tomorrow. I told them about a beach on North Stradbroke Island called Point Lookout that I was planning to spend the day at tomorrow. North Straddie isn’t very close to Brisbane, so if you go it’s a full day trip. It was supposed to be uncrowded and have nice beaches and good hiking. The alpha girl, Kathy, was interested but her docile companion (who made so little impression on me, I’ve already forgotten her name) was less enthusiastic. Nevertheless I persuaded them both to come with me so we’ll head out 9:30 tomorrow.

I met two American guys out here last night. Two guys from Florida. They are in Australia for only two weeks and were heading south from Cairns. The first guy was just here to party and get drunk, but the other guy actually wanted to see the whales and go diving on the reef and so on. They invited us (the 2 girls from BC and me) to go bar hopping with them, but we were all too whipped from the bus ride. We crashed early to make an early start for the trip to the beach weather permitting.

After Byron Bay we passed through some cheesy touristy developments along the Gold Coast, including Surfer’s Paradise, which is the most wretchedly tacky of them all. But I admit there is a certain odd attraction to its unabashedly kitschy nature. A really nutty lady on the bus got my attention when she began to rant about the Y2K “catastrophe,” nuclear weapons, cyclones, the terminal danger of Australians placing their faith in American military security guarantees, etc. Her bigoted attitude towards the Indonesians might be understandable in light of the general East Timor situation, but it wasn’t charming.

Around 12:30 the bus pulled into the Brisbane transit center, and from there the hostel courtesy shuttle picked me up. I met a Kiwi (which is, for those who don’t know, a citizen of New Zealand) and two Canadian girls, but I was in no mood to socialize; with no shower in 28 hours, I felt and looked like something washed up from a flooded graveyard. But after a shower I was a new man. This hostel is nicer, and cheaper, than they one I stayed at in Sydney. Each dorm has its own shower — luxury! The hostel also has its own hottub, and also a tennis court, albeit one so small I first thought it was a racquetball court.

I hiked a few kilometers to the Botanic Gardens in downtown Brisbane. It was pleasant if understated. In fact, Brisbane is modest compared to brash Sydney. In its own way, though, it’s much closer to the Australian core. Some Australians will admit to liking Brisbane, but for most, Sydney is “too congested” and “not a good place to live.”

An example of Brisbane art: a ceramic mosaic.

Afterwards I hopped on a CityCat, which is the catamaran ferry that was recommended to explore the city. Not long after I boarded it began to rain. I dreaded the rainy walk back to the hostel, but luck was with me; the rain broke minutes before I had to get off. The tour was unremarkable and slightly disappointing. I was expecting something more like the Sydney Harbor cruise I suppose. Some of the passengers were school children, wearing their uniforms. That British custom never really took in the US but is a common sight here.

So in the twilight I walked back to the hostel. I witnessed a parade competition between the New Zealanders and the Samoans. The Samoan half of it walk right by me, singing and beating drums and carrying a papier-mache bull. Kind of odd. Then, as I walked across a park as a shortcut, I saw an Aboriginal family hiding behind a park shelter. The head of the family approached me and asked for money. This, unfortunately, is my first exposure to Aborigines. I failed to give him anything, for truly, his people have been so completely demolished by the wrecking ball of history — by guns, germs, and steel. The issue was decided long before I was born. His people will have to somehow assimilate or die; spare change won’t help. (Happily, I discovered later that my pessimism was unwarranted. But I still believe spare change won’t help.)

We’ve been riding all night, and I’m still in New South Wales! I’m learning that states are big here. (Especially the enormous Western Australia, containing perhaps a quarter of the continent but only 1.8 million people.) But we’re close to the Queensland border, south of it still, and 200km from Brisbane. So a few more hours of bus travel. I slept poorly — the seats on the bus are somehow even worse than airplane seats. My kneecaps have been mashed for 14 hours.

We passed by Byron Bay. I wish I could have gotten out and taken a look. The beach had huge waves crashing on it — might have made for good surfing. The botany was intriguing — coniferous trees mixed with palms, an odd juxtaposition. It would have made for interesting exploring.

The bus route on the highways, it reminds me of Route 66. It meanders through every puny little town. As highways were in America before the advent of the interstate highway system. It makes travel slower but I believe you get to see more.

Today’s bus movies: “The Dream Machine” and “Volcano.” Believe me, these are two fucking terrible movies. It was painful to watch them, but in a bus, there’s no ignoring the movie. When did buses start showing movies anyway?

The bus to Brisbane has taken a dinner break. The only problem is that this is a gas station, not a restaurant, so the selection is limited to disgusting little plastic-wrapped sandwiches and rubbery, long overcooked hot dogs. Other than this little rest break, the ride has been without event. But a few interesting things happened before:

I tried to get to Manly Beach after I got my bus ticket and laundry, but I was delayed because the dryer had left my clothes wet. (This, I now know all too well, is the one common quality of all dryers in all backpacker hostels.) I had to let them dry in the sun for about an hour before I could pack them. I only mention this because of the delay it caused me. I planned to take the train to Wynyard, then the bus to Manly. This I have learned is the wrong way to get to Manly Beach. The bus takes over two hours to get from Wynyard to Manly, according to the bus driver. (I could probably walk the distance in less time.) The correct way to get to Manly is to take the train to Circular Quay, then take the ferry to Manly. But it was too late to correct the mistake. So I explored Wynyard for a bit. It’s not an exciting place, but I recognized a pattern here: in Australia, or at least Sydney, Thai restaurants are just about as ubiquitous as Mexican restaurants are in the States. And the Thai food is good here. Later I found a payphone and called Kelly. Calling home sucked a mountain of change, I had to feed the monster continuously while we talked. I can see why calling cards are popular here. Disappointed at missing Manly Beach, I went back to the hostel. I went back on the roof and napped in the sun. A guy from England named Alex had come up to do his laundry, and we struck up a conversation. Turns out he basically didn’t feel like going to work today, though he was supposed to. He believes he will be fired and doesn’t seem particularly upset at the prospect. (I found him again nearly a month later when I returned to Sydney, still living here.) Then Michelle came back. She had gotten off unexpectedly early, and it was kind of awkward because we’d already said goodbye. I packed my bags, said goodbye again, and headed for the Kings Cross train station.

The bus picked up at Sydney Central so I needed to take the train to get there. Which was no problem except that Central is a gigantic maze and no one mentioned where the inter-city buses are found. I had 20 minutes of frantic running around before I located it — only two minutes before it departed. But no sweat (ok, a little), I got on. (That is, after I urgently found a bathroom in the station — which glowed an eerie alien blue. Somehow I avoided being abducted.)

The bus isn’t really too bad. It was extremely cheap — A$48 for a trip typically valued at A$75. The kneespace is problematic but then it always is. The good part is that now, out in the middle of nowhere, I’ve gotten my first slight glimpse of the Australian bush. Nothing amazing to report, but I’ve been in a huge city since I arrived. Brisbane should be a nice change. Now that Sydney has become comfortable and familiar, I chafe. I’m ready to explore.

O fateful day! The first Y2K glitch — “9999″ — seems not to have seriously impacted Sydney’s function. Even email is working fine, as I discovered earlier this morning. Disappointing news for the survivalists. Breakfast had its comic element also; I saw a Japanese man taking a picture of a syrup packet. There’s something memorable. Oh yes, I saw a hooker in her 40s, smoking a cigarette and wearing hotpants. Lucky I’d eaten breakfast well beforehand.

I have checked out of this hostel, which I had to do before 10, or I’d have to pay for another day. But I’m not leaving for Brisbane until this evening — the bus departs late, and I plan to sleep on it. So I have plenty of time to kill. Not much exciting action to report; I’m sitting on the roof, basking in the sun while my clothes launder themselves. Later on I’ll head over to a nearby travel office to book the bus ticket. The ride is 16-17 hours, so I should be getting into Brisbane midmorning tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll go to a beach later?

I said goodbye to Michelle today. She has to work today, she’s found a job as a waitress at some secretive little club that has no name, for which members pay a large annual fee to join. She wants to rent a house on Bondi Beach, and she offered to let me crash at her future pad when I return to Sydney to catch my return flight home. We’ll see. She’s a little hard to read. I think she’s a lot more observant and cunning than she acts, and her decisions reflect a complex moral terrain. She’s this huge party animal, drinks like I’ll never be able to (or want to), and her flirting is, well, really beyond flirting; but she borrowed money from me late one night to call her mom, like a little girl far away from home. She’s simultaneously savage and tender.

Some random observations, in no particular order: Indonesians are burning Australian flags, due to the proposed Australian-led peacekeeping force in East Timor. Wonderful to see the Aussies learn a few Yank traditions… I hope the voters pass the referendum to convert Australia to a republic. I sense great potential here… but it probably won’t be realized while Australia’s on the British pap. American movies here are old. Why does it take so long? Certainly it’s intentional.

It’s a little tough to say goodbye to Sydney, I’ve had a lot of good times here, been to some nice places and met a few cool people. It’s a great city. But I’ll be back.