Jason Wells

Weather did not permit. It began to rain early in the morning, so Kathy and I canceled our plans. At this point I was beginning to lost my patience with Brisbane. The city is banal, the weather sucks, and I spent 17 hours on a bus to get here! So I went back to the transit center to see how I would get to Airlie Beach, my next destination. On the ride over I got to talking with a guy named Simon, who was coincidentally staying in the same dorm at the hostel as I was. We decided explore the city together for the day. I’d already seen some parts but not everything. Simon’s pretty cool. He’s from Birmingham, England. He builds scaffolding at construction sites for a living. He was in New Zealand for 4 months and is wrapping up his 6 months of travel with a 2 month stint in Australia. He told me about NZ: glacier walking, rainforests, skydiving over a volcanic lake, etc. He much preferred it there to Australia. I have to admit I had a tinge of envy when he described what it’s like there. I kept thinking about this dull city. He had a lot of curiosity about the US, having been only to Florida. (Florida is the most popular destination for Europeans in America, I’ve discovered.) He really likes beer and when I told him about Portland microbrews he was practically ready to fly over! He doesn’t use computers, but he was really interested when I told him about Quake. He’s a good guy, though he does have an unfortunate automatic distrust of natives (Aborigines here, Maoris in NZ) as well as Indian and Pakistani immigrants to England. Several times he made comments reflecting this attitude. This mild form of racism is easy to find out here. I don’t recall hearing as much of this sort of junk back home, but that may be more about political correctness in the US (which doesn’t exist here) than anything else. Everyone needs someone to hate, don’t they?

We walked and talked our way over the entire city over the course of the day. In the late afternoon we made it back to the hostel. I estimate we walked about 15 miles. Boy, was I happy when I remembered the hot tub they have here! Soon I was soaking in the hot water with a cold bottle of VB in my hand. Four hours and eight beers later, it was dark so we got out. The Victoria Bitter was much more agreeable this time — I had twice as many as that night in Sydney, yet I was pleasantly buzzing rather than ready to hurl. So what was wrong the first time? An unsolved mystery. I managed to get slightly sunburned while I was in the hot tub, even though it was overcast.

After the beers I went back up to the dorm. I decided to skip dinner. We found an Australian TV show that plays cult classic movies. This time they played “Dark Star,” a really low budget sci-fi flick directed by John Carpenter. I had never seen it before, and I loved it! It was like “2001: A Space Odyssey” but with a crew of insane hippies instead of astronauts. One of the best lines I’ve heard in a movie: “Use phenomenology.” It was brilliant. Highly recommended for anyone who has a taste for campy sci-fi. Then there was a show called “eatCarpet” that shows film shorts that film students created, and some of them were absolutely fantastic. I wish these two shows were available in the US. It was the perfect way to end the day. I guess you can find a relatively good time even in this dull city.

The next day (today) the weather’s been gorgeous. About time. I’m checking out shortly after the laundry finishes. Then I have six hours until the bus to Airlie Beach departs. I have no idea what to do — I’ve done just about everything you can in this town. Poor Simon, he has two more weeks here. I hope he doesn’t go insane. I know I would.

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.