Australia

Much to the surprise of all of our friends, we’d always planned to arrive the day after Sydney’s famed gala event, the Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras. The frenzied party is just too much for us as we advance in age. We landed, put our bikes together and found our way to town. Bicycle assembly took just a little longer than it should have. For some odd reason the brake cables had been detached from their anchors on the brakes in front, forcing me to adjust them before we could leave. Making me appreciate the job our mechanic, Wade Dollar of Sun Cycles in Phoenix, had done on our retreat all the more.

Oddly enough Sydney’s normally neurotic drivers were calm, so the ride to town was almost calming. We got lost along the way and we just asked a group of Mardi Gras revelers on the street how to find Jonathan’s house. The leather-panted sequin-bloused disco bunny on the remnants of a speed and ecstasy trip didn’t know Jonathan by name but he did know the street. Our gracious host didn’t even flinch when we rolled our beasts into his apartment, but he was a little shocked by our burden. His boyfriend du jour, Michel, was most enchanting and we both fell head over heels for him.

Mardi Gras’ shock waves were still to be felt that evening. Several of the bars hosted “recovery” parties, which seemed just another excuse to have too much to drink or whatever and dance. We witnessed one errant discoer slip into a seizure at one bar in the middle of the dance floor. Most seemed to care little about his near brush with death and kept dancing while his friends tried to revive him before carrying him downstairs to get medical attention.

The bedlam continued chez Jonathan; the comings and goings were non-stop during our visit. Even with all the craziness, he cooked us a marvelous blueberry pancake breakfast our first day and took the best care possible of us. The second night we hosted a “Mini-Party” at Jonathan’s where we all watched the Mardi Gras Parade on television. Participant after participant streamed by, each with more and more sequins as the queeny host and bitchy drag commentators dis’ed every passerby—all on national network television. Imagine the San Francisco or New York Gay Pride Parades getting coverage like that!

Though I like Sydney and all the distraction of a big city, I was ready to leave our third morning. Good fortune was with us on our departure. Our dear friends from Copenhagen Niels and Tomas were in town for the festivities and were ready to take a road trip with us. They’d even hinted that they wanted to ride a bit. I owe a special debt of gratitude towards Niels, who acted as my guardian angel last summer when I dislocated my shoulder. He gave me a great place to stay while I recovered.

After Niels and I had experienced the Sydney Mardi Gras, it was time to meet Fred and Andrew and to go north with them. Niels and I rented a car and went to Jonathan’s to pick up the luggage of the two Bikebrats. Then we were to drive to Newcastle and Fred and Andrew were to take the train. Of course Niels and I took a wrong turn and almost had to go all the way back to Sydney, after we had driven about 60 km. We made it to Newcastle only half an hour later than the train-travelers.

It was soon decided that Fred and I were riding. We started from the station in Newcastle where an elderly “sweetheart” gave us directions to the boat to the other side of the water. When we got off the boat the riding began and it was very fast discovered that you couldn’t ride two next to each other, as a bus nearly ran us down. I was quite glad when Niels and Andrew passed us and stopped, because I was riding in my swimsuit and could now change to cycling shorts. After riding a while we met Niels and Andrew again—this time for cold drinks and a snack in a tiny village called Bob’s Farm. How nice to have a service team scouting in advance and securing basic needs.

The day went well and the 55 kilometers did not scare any of us away. We passed the first koala road sign, although this one probably was erected by a real estate broker trying to improve the image of a new neighborhood.

After the ride, we still had enough energy to climb the 190-meter Tomaree Head. Estimated time was 1 hour but this young and healthy team did the expedition in only half an hour; due to sunset and hunger we speeded up.

The evening was spent in Shoal Bay next to Nelson Bay. Both bays had seen better days when they served as the Monte Carlo of Sydney. Today they represent a living museum of how nice things used to be. We truly enjoyed this retro atmosphere and were quite fond of Shoal Bay until we received a parking ticket the next day for violating the one-hour parking in this empty town.

Fred and I had to creep out of our apartment this morning in order to make our 8:30 boat without waking our Danish friends. We arrived at the port early and had breakfast at a friendly little café there. Both the owners and other patrons proffered abundant advice as to our route, and told us about the “mountain” we’d have to climb at Buladelah. Scanning the flat horizon, I shrugged this off as yet more Australian hyperbole.

Save an elderly Australian couple, we were the only passengers aboard the tiny ferry to Tea Gardens, across a huge inlet known as Port Stephens. Our captain was a friendly young guy called Tim who said he’d stop if he spotted any dolphins, and that the chances for a sighting stood at around 95%. As we reached our destination, I was beginning to think that our cruise belonged to that other 5%, but felt I had received sufficient entertainment value for my dollar from our co-passenger. When I told him we were traveling on to Indonesia, he said he’d spent some time there, “stuck in the bush and starving on Timor.” He had been stationed at an airbase there during the war. When the Japanese attacked without warning, his unit was instructed to destroy as much as they could and hide in the jungle. His unit was “expendable,” he said, so they were elated to make radio contact with an American submarine after two months of chewing on bark in the forest. When the sub arrived, it sent out a launch, which couldn’t get beyond the breakwater, and since the Australians were too weakened to swim, they had to be hauled by a rope through water teeming with sharks. “There was thirty-four of us and forty Yanks, so we were pretty cramped in that little sub. The worst part, though, was when the engine room caught fire. Still, I made it back in one piece and I’ve been grateful to Americans ever since. They didn’t have to save us, you know.” Later, with his wife patiently surveying the waters for swimming mammals and me up in the bridge with captain Tim, he told Fred the same tale. Then, just as we were pulling into port, two gray objects jumped out of the water—a dolphin and her calf.

Back on shore, my first impression of Australian roads was their miserable state of repair. It was as if an unstirred stew of rocks and tar had been haphazardly strewn upon the soil. We bumped and jostled our way across a bridge known as the “Singing Bridge” for the sound it makes when the wind blows across it (not today, thankfully) and into the vast and deserted Myall Lakes National Park. The road here was gloriously free of traffic, protected from the wind by dunes on one side and thick “bush” (Australian for forest) on the other. Apart from the sound of our wheels whirring on the sorry excuse for pavement, all we could hear were the exotic squawkings and buzzings of unfamiliar birds and insects. I kept scouring the treetops for koalas, with no success.

A sunset walk along the seaside provided the day’s only major drama when I stepped on a stringy, electric blue jellyfish. It stung horribly, and made me feel like I might have an allergic reaction. Holding the shot of epinephrine I’ve carried with me since a bad reaction to fire ants in Texas ten years ago, I let Niels drive me to the nearby hospital. It was a tiny place, full of people apologizing that it’s a private hospital and I might actually have to pay. Nearly employing the overused Australianism “No worries,” I told them that, as an American, I’m used to paying for health care. Thanks to an effective triage process, I got out of there without spending a dime. They put me on the phone to a poison hotline, where an authoritative woman’s voice told me that the only problem caused by “blue-bottle jellyfish” was the intense pain from their stings. Armed with this information (and immensely relieved), I happily popped a Vicadin back at our motel and joined the others in the nightly search for dinner.

“It will be a simple ride,” said Andrew and continued, “You will have a tail wind and no serious hills.” With this in mind, Tomas and I left Forster after a relaxed breakfast in this off-peak holiday twin town. We had agreed to swap means of transportation, implying that we would get Fred and Andrew’s well-tuned bikes and they would get our air-conditioned rental car. It would soon turn out that bike riding around the world with two pair of underwear is more hard work than an easy holiday.

Shortly after our start, an old lady took a left turn right in front of me, forcing me to an immediate and complete stop. This was an early warning of the inconsiderate Australian driver. Along the suicidal main road along the ocean, Tomas and I were both scared of the speed and proximity of the drivers. We were looking forward to the promised land on the quiet roads. Soon our hopes were fulfilled and we turned away from the main road and onto a nice quiet route that Andrew and Fred had found for us.

For some odd reason Andrew suggested an alternative route than the one indicated in their Cycling Australia bible. Referring to Andrew this new route was shorter and more decorative. Reality was that after a few romantic kilometers this route turned into HELL. Gravel roads with huge holes combined with steep hills and an ever increasingly burning sun. Fred and Andrew themselves got lost in the maze of dirt roads with our rental car surviving bridges breaking under it.

After some hours in Lucifer’s back garden, we finally met the BikeBrats. Tomas was exchanged with Andrew, and Andrew and I finished the day in Wingham after an exhausting finale on the hilly roads of New South Wales.

As if this wasn’t enough we decided to drive by car to the Ellenborough waterfall 45 km away from Wingham, partly on dirt road of course. Having enjoyed the falls for a few minutes, we rushed back to Wingham to see the tens of thousands of bats living in a planted piece of rain forest near the center of town. The big event, however, was to see the bats leave their residence at sunset and while waiting for this to take place some very friendly Winghammers offered us pre-dinner cocktails on the sidewalk that we occupied. Many thanks go to Ian, Ariana, Kaly and Tayla of Wingham for this generous act.

The evening ended in the most fancy (and only) Italian BYO restaurant in Wingham. Andrew brought Moët & Chandon champagne to celebrate our last evening together this time. Thank you for a fantastic mini-week and thank you for not forcing me to bike around the world.

Our walk through the natural reserve at Wingham was much anticipated. We’d been reading about the huge community of flying foxes for days and couldn’t wait to have a look. On the way to the reserve there was a little preview of things to come. Strolling through the disproportionately vast public square that was too enormous to be surrounded completely by public edifices we noticed a bat hanging from the power lines. We were excited for the opportunity to see one so close and not obstructed by branches and leaves of trees. Closer inspection revealed that the poor creature had accidentally decided to light there and was electrocuted yet remained suspended from the wires.

It was already getting towards dusk as we arrived at the park. We hiked the trail through the park underneath the canopy with our eyes searching the upper branches for bats. We’d walked nearly the whole park without seeing a single one. Later we’d all mused about seeing all of these unusual fruits hanging in the trees but none actually had noticed a bat. While looking up at the upper reaches of a great tree whose trunk was textured with the folds of its roots one of the “fruits” flapped its wings. It was at that moment that we realized that there were thousands and thousands of really big bats above us. Some sported wingspans over one meter and looked more like dogs with wings than bats.

As it began to grow dark we started home through residential Wingham, where you could hear a pin drop it was so quiet and calm. Parkside, a few elderly neighbors were chatting about their busy days when we happened by. It struck me at that moment that the bats were likely to leave the park en masse at any moment, and verified this with the gossips. They confirmed, so we sat down on the lawn of the house next door and awaited the show. As we sat watching for the bats and feeding the hummingbird-sized mosquitoes with our warm blood the “woman-of-the-house” arrived seemingly surprised by our presence in her yard.

A few moments later they released their vicious attack dog out the front door following it outside to mop up our remains. The twelve-ounce beast barked ferociously as it advanced on me, turning over on its back for a good tummy rubbing as soon as I reached out to pet it. I joked with Ian saying that it “looked like a barking hamster not a dog.” Ian laughed and asked us what was up. I explained the situation, adding that we’d been told “that this was the best spot to view the bats because they served free drinks during bat viewing times.” Ian laughed and went inside for beers and snacks. His whole family joined us on the sidewalk where we shot the breeze and watched the enormous winged creatures flap off to eat peaches in the warm summer night.

Who’d have thought our day would end up this way? Relaxing on the porch of our house, playing backgammon, drinking a few cold ones and watching the sky perform its nightly lightshow. The day certainly had a different beginning.

First, it had been decided, Niels and Tomas were not going to accompany us for the rest of our voyage acting as scouts and carrying our bags for the rest of the year as we had expected. They had more of Australia to see than our measly 100 kilometers-a-day. Disappointing as it was, we had expected this day to come. We’d both become accustomed to riding our bikes without baggage to burden us. So much so we began to comb through our gear this morning for things to lose. We managed to find nearly seven kilograms between us to ditch at the post office for a slow return trip to the good ol’ U.S.

Whatever weight we managed to shed the bikes still felt far heavier than the days leading up to this one. It was easy to forget the effort required to pedal as we marveled at the lush green beauty of the rolling hills around Wingham. As lovely as it was nothing could make us forget what was in store for us. It came as no great surprise: we’d been warned that this would be the most difficult day of our trip in Australia. What I found was somehow ruder than I expected.

At km 15 the road unceremoniously dissolved into a rock and gravel path that climbed unrelentingly for kilometers and kilometers. We topped out at 765 meters, having started below a hundred and ascending over 1000 meters total for the day. The bulk of work was on a soft and crunchy track, though our guidebook had told us it was to be on a dirt road “as good as bitumen.”

When we finally made the top we didn’t even get the full pleasure of descending for the first part of the trip, having to negotiate the same winding dirt road down as up. Finally we reached pavement and our rattled bones jumped for joy as our eyes were treated to the most beautiful pastureland I’ve ever seen. We stopped for what we thought would be a late lunch at the Udder Cow Café, a cute Holstein-influenced watering hole. There we met Sean and Kris, an extraordinary couple who worked in a coal mine near Newcastle before moving to Comboyne and creating a tourist infrastructure in this beautiful place. Sean—an inveterate entrepreneur—made us an offer we couldn’t refuse: a free night in a nearby house he owned if we’d write a little pitch for him on our page. “Yes!” was all we could manage when we thought about it for two seconds. The place turned out to be wonderful and charming. At the back of our house a hardwood deck looked out on the pastures. There we whiled away the hours before sunset before treating Andrew to his first RSL Club experience. After that perhaps he’ll understand what real rural Australia is all about.

The RSL club (Returning Services League) was truly an experience, though not quite as raucous as I had expected for a Friday night out at the only bar in town. We found Sean sitting with his friend Lenore, a lifelong Comboynian who works at the local cheese factory. Her kids were there too, kept in the larger hall area in back of us by an invisible fence. All the pubs we’ve seen in this country are loosely divided into a series of rooms or areas. Some areas are more family-oriented than others, and kids are always forbidden access to the room holding the inevitable row of slot machines. RSL clubs impose yet another rule requiring any non-member to be sponsored by a member. Sean signed us in the big book at the entrance, just to make it official.

The nightly dinner special was only five aussie dollars, served up by a pair of friendly women in the kid room. As we waited for our food, the night’s big event began: the weekly meat raffle, in which two men (presumably officers in the club hierarchy) drew numbers and announced winners over a P.A. system with great ceremony. Prizes included a pound of ground chuck, lamb chops, steaks and pigs feet—all wrapped up in cellophane just like in the supermarket.

This morning served up more country fun. It’s the annual Comboyne “show”—a country fair and exposition. Sean said he’d be there in a cow suit promoting his café, but we were disappointed to learn he had run into town (Port Macquarie) on an errand. Kristine predicted that old Noel at the gate would let us in for free, and she was right; we were waved through without hesitation.

Not far out of town the road dropped precipitously. It wasn’t a very satisfying descent, hurting my hands from squeezing the brakes so hard. At the bottom, after meeting Sean on his way back to Comboyne, we stopped for a second breakfast at a funky café and art gallery amid a little cluster of houses known as Byabarra. Our hosts—Alan and Frith—were distinctly hippyesque in appearance, and a tad less capitalistic in their approach than their Comboynian counterpart. Both the food and the art were surprisingly good. In a flowing dress and wild hair, fifty-ish Frith described for us her lifelong dream and ambition to drive a herd of sheep on horseback across Australia to Perth. “Isn’t it kinda dry and boring in the middle?” I asked incredulously. “Oh we’d just ride around that part,” came the blithe response.

The next fifty kilometers undulated wildly through forests and fields, never giving us a chance to catch our breath with a flat stretch. We arrived in dinky Gladstone exhausted and famished. Fred changed a flat tire (his first since leaving the States) while I checked out the beds at the local pub—Gladstone’s only accommodation. While the $10 price tag was certainly attractive, the thought of sleeping in a hammock-shaped bag of springs was not. Wearily, we remounted our bikes to head for the nearest real beds, in South West Rocks over 20km away. Thankfully, it was mostly downwind and pancake flat, following the course of the wide river through fields of startled-looking cows.

After hearing several people wax rhapsodically on the place, South West Rocks came as a bit of a disappointment. The place reeks of downmarket holiday paradise, a prefab little town with little to offer beyond a beachside setting. We found a sleazy overpriced room in a hotel whose most interesting feature was that reception doubled as a liquor store (“bottle shop” in local lingo). At least it had decent beds…

I’d thought I’d never hear the words from Andrew, “Let’s just take the main highway.” But I did this day. We awoke in SWR to the sound of gulls. In fact I’d woken up in the middle of the night to the sound of drunks returning home from a rough night in the pub. They knocked on each door of the hotel looking for their friends and then had a row about the amount of noise they were making. Reminds me of college days and nights. In fact the whole of Australia seems as though it is governed by Frat Boy values.

When we finally got ourselves on the road we had to backtrack 11 kilometers to make it back to the turnoff towards the main highway. All the way we fought the sturdy wind that had blown us home the night before. As we turned onto Highway 1 and the wind blew us down the road, Andy suggested taking the most direct route, on the highway to Coffs Harbour.

At first the road was quiet with a big shoulder, leaving us to appreciate the grassy meadows and hilly gum forests against a big blue cloudless sky. Slowly the wind died and left us pushing ourselves along up and down the hilly terrain. Complicating matters further the road periodically narrowed, leaving us in the lanes of the increasingly busy highway.

Thankfully Macksville came along, where we’d planned a lunch stop. There we sat on the veranda overlooking the river, drinking beer, munching calamari and hanging with the locals. A young couple gave us advice on a route, suggesting we avoid the much-heralded town called Nimbin in favor of the trendy beach station of Byron Bay. Andy really wanted to see the Marijuana museum, but they convinced us otherwise, telling us that the only real attraction was “feral hippies”—and we’d certainly had enough experience with those back in Santa Cruz.

After achieving a mild beer-buzz we decided to get off the big road and head for the hills. We wound around up and down trying to spot a koala or two in the trees. Our blissful rest from the highway soon came to an end and we were back on bad ol’ one again. A long new stretch of highway was just about to be opened and we managed to sneak onto it. Two lanes in each direction were reserved only for BikeBrats usage this day. After only 5 or so kilometers we were back on the evil road again. Both of us were literally run off the road by trucks more than once on this segment. Finally we found our turnoff to Coffs Harbour and meandered through the suburbs before finally reaching our destination.

We found a great dinner at the local pub. A pair of Thais had rented out the “bistro” (every pub has one) and were serving simple meals composed of very fresh ingredients. Hopefully this would be a preview of our times to come in Asia. We washed it down with a beer, of course, and treated ourselves to a free game of pool.

Yesterday’s break from riding was essential and went very quickly. As far as we were able to discover, there’s not much to Coffs Harbour beyond a great climate, a couple of decent beaches, and a forlorn pedestrian mall peopled principally by derelicts. The town’s premier tourist attraction is the “Big Banana,” a giant fiberglass replica of the region’s chief crop. Neither of us had the energy to do anything beyond laundry, phone calls and a short visit to the beach (where we yoga’d while watching three kookaburras compete over a still-writhing snake).

Today was another story. We woke up early, delighted to see that the southerly wind had lasted through the night. Hitting the road at the unusually early hour of 9am, we cycled out of town over a steep ridge. The climb caused our energy and enthusiasm to flag only temporarily, for today’s route was easily the most cycle-friendly road we’ve seen thus far in Australia: a good surface, rolling hills, pretty countryside, and—most importantly—a dearth of motorized traffic. The only disappointment was the lack of kangaroos and other marsupials live or flattened. A woman who runs a gas station in the middle of nowhere (literally) told us you usually see them early in the morning or at dusk, and that the big ones can get quite aggressive.

Stopping only a few times along the way for cold drinks, we made it to our destination in time for a late lunch at a funky old pub/hotel on the banks of the surprisingly wide Clarence River. Tonight’s action-packed agenda includes a walk around this supposedly historic town (“oldest city on the Northern Coast” proclaims the sign coming into town) and another sunset bat vigil. The local tourist literature hyperbolically describes the flying fox colony here as “largest in the southern hemisphere,” thus explaining why all the fruit orchards we passed today were entirely enclosed in netting.

I awoke early to the sound of the tradesmen starting their trucks. Miraculously I was able to rouse Andy early and we had our breakfast before seven and were on the road before eight. Leaving Grafton was somewhat harder than finding it. In trying to find a more quiet road out of town we got lost and had to backtrack to the main drag out of town. At first I was a bit worried about the amount of traffic though it died down to but a few cars within a few kilometers of the highway.

Today’s trip was to be a very quiet one. There was one town of consequence between Grafton and Casino. Otherwise there were just farms and forest. I’d hoped to see a couple of big kangaroos but the noisy squeaking of Andy’s loose front rack scared all the animals away. In spite of the racket I heard the sing-song chirping of the birds and not much else for the first half of the day. Blue skies dotted with occasional clouds overhead, we sped across the vacant countryside.

As we arrived in the only civilization between our starting point and destination—a three house “town” called Whiporie—the sun was just getting hot and it seemed time to take a break. We purchased some water and snacks from the least social store operator we’d met in Australia. Normally clerks in general stores are likely as not to tell you their whole life story just after you say hello to them. This clerk grimaced, showing his rotting teeth and was not really very welcoming.

Before I managed to dwell on that thought for too long we’d made it into Casino. Casino was actually named for one of the founding fathers of the town whose name was actually Cassino. Casino is the capital of beef farming in the west we were later told by Kim the helpful tourist information officer. Kim is actually not a worker in the tourist office, however she is a Noxious Weeds Inspector. We weren’t sure exactly what that meant, but assumed she’d be better located in Nimbin amongst the “feral hippies” with a job title like that. The Noxious Weeds Authority shares their offices and function with the tourist office. They are charged with ensuring that farmers control the spread of foreign introduced flora and making sure foreign fauna can find the sights in Casino. Kim and her coworker agreed that Casino is probably the most boring place in Australia in one sentence and somehow convinced themselves that it has a bit of everything in the next.

Kim’s hospitality was unparalleled. She invited us to spend the night out at her place in the country within a few moments of meeting her. The only problem was that her place was about 30k beyond Casino and we were about to expire from heat exhaustion. We found the best option to be crashing at the “Beef Capital Motel” across the street from the public pool, taking a dip and having a nap.

We had the misfortune of missing the big event of the year in Casino. “Beef Week” features such exciting events as the Beef Ball, Fashion Parades, Beerfest and the famed “Hoof and Hook” contest. The latter is a contest among young people who lovingly raise cattle for a show where the cow is judged for its looks. Kim the noxious weed inspector told us that the cow virtually becomes a member of the family and is cared for as a sibling. Unfortunately for the cow and the family the last part of the judgement of the event is how good the beast tastes.

In the cow country to the northeast of town, we ran across Kim on her way to work. Smiling broadly, she bounded out of her truck and quizzed us on our plans. She even gave us a bit of her life story, how she moved up from The Entrance near Sydney, and came up north in search of an agricultural job. Being a noxious weeds inspector can’t be beat, she explained: “I can wake up and go to work when I like, and drive around in my government-paid truck wherever I please. I get to hassle anyone I want to about clearing weeds off their land, and when I don’t feel like seeing anyone I can go way into the national parks and write up the rangers. I love it.” When we told her we’d most likely head for trendy Byron Bay over extra-crunchy Nimbin, she maintained we’d still get to see plenty of hippies. “Lots of ferals in Byron Bay, too. Just keep an eye on your bicycles.”

Fred and I could have spent hours by the side of the road with this wonderfully enthusiastic creature, but at 8:30am, the sun was already baking down on us. Puffing up the three nasty hills that lie between Casino and Lismore, I felt like a stick of butter in a hot skillet.

Lismore struck both of us as surprisingly vibrant and bustling, yet we didn’t stop to tarry in this agricultural and educational center, anxious to get our butts on the beach in Byron Bay. To reach our destination, we followed an amazingly quiet series of narrow country lanes, with nary a car in sight for nearly fifty kilometers. As we approached the sea, the terrain became progressively hillier, but the steep climbs were shaded for the most part, and the views from the top over the rolling fields, orchards and woods were spectacular. Butterflies danced under a perfect partly cloudy sky; birds of every color flew and squawked everywhere, and the breeze blew deliciously through the leaves of exotic trees. In cycling nirvana, I kept hearing the first strains of Beethoven’s sixth symphony swell inside my head.

Eventually our path led us back to civilization, which materialized in the form of a crossroads general store. We stopped for our first-ever taste of jaffles, an Australian snack food consisting of stuffed toast pockets. The narrow strip of bitumen went straight up to the top of a hill, then plunged 150 meters to a broad, flat marsh, only to climb steeply into the forest again. After repeating this process several times, we found ourselves panting on the outskirts of Byron Bay. We stopped at a B&B sporting a queer flag and checked out the premises. An obviously stoned young lad called Paul explained he was running the place while the owner was out of town. Tempting as the swimming pool in the yard looked to us, the rest of the place smelled like a broken in bong, and had a lugubrious air to it. We wisely decided to investigate our options in town and were soon checked into the first glamorous digs we’ve indulged in since arriving in the Antipodes almost a month ago.

After a couple of hours of indulging in our hotel’s amenities, Fred and I felt fresh enough for a walk around this extra-groovy little beachside resort. Kim was right: the “ferals” are out in full force. Smells of patchouli, incense and dope waft through the main street, whereupon an endless stream of barefoot, dreadlocked, surfboard-toting, tattooed, body-pierced humanity parades back and forth along its two-block length. Filth-encrusted didgery-do players compete with acid house music blaring out of Sri Lankan noodle houses, taco stands and cappuccino houses; and all the dogs here sport bandanas. Though perhaps a bit too poser-y for my tastes, I find it all to be tremendously refreshing after ten days in the totalitarian ethos of the Australian hinterland, which tends to feel like a giant frat party.

Waking before the alarm I spent the first moments of the day on the balcony staring out at the steel blue and pink sea reflecting the morning sky. As amusing and comfortable as it was, I was ready to leave Byron Bay this morning. Andy was just a little bit harder to rouse for we’d both slept fitfully in the oppressive humidity and stillness complicated by slight sunburns and the noisy revelry of the bongo banging wanderers on the beach.

We ate while reading the increasingly alarming reports over the political and economic situation at our next country of destination. Suharto and his regime are coming under increasing criticism for their governance, alleged corruption and handling of the recent and perilous fall of the rupiah in Indonesia. The Australian press detailed the plans for their ex-pats to escape if the need became real and we began to question the logic of our itinerary. At the same time I find myself longing to shrug the comfort of traveling in the former colonies of the British and have a real adventure.

Today, our trip to Brisbane has nothing to do with adventure or intrigue. The bus ride is unremarkable save for the huge tracks of tall apartment blocks in Surfers Paradise and the perilously narrow un-shouldered highway we avoided riding by and on. The suburbs of Brisbane begin far from the city and it is obvious that we are entering a city of consequence.

Fatigue and heat both troubled us today as we rode into town. Our path took us through a street bazaar where Irish folk singers crooned in celebration of St. Patties’ day. We stopped for sushi in honor of the event, neither being fans of the holiday or its revelers. Soon we arrived at our digs in Brisbane in a quiet little neighborhood called New Farm. At the Edward Lodge Gary, our host Gary treated us to a most comprehensive orientation to the city and pointed us in the direction of where Andrew could finally see a koala bear. To our grave disappointment our trek to the old Brisbane World Expo Grounds was fruitless. Though the bears were still present at the mini-zoo, the place was closed indefinitely due to unprofitability. The animal keeper outside didn’t respond well to either of my suggestions—selling us a koala or sneaking us in to see them.

Instead we walked the massive Victoria Street Mall, fighting the US Navy for tacky souvenirs. A massive aircraft carrier had docked and the boys (and I suppose girls, although they are not as obvious) were out in force. It had been a long time since we’d had a “night out on the town,” so we made our way back to the guesthouse for a disco-nap in preparation.

All in all Brisbane is far more to my taste than Sydney. The folks here are as charming and approachable as in the countryside and there is none of the pretense I find so boring in Sydney.

We’ve become accustomed to Australian hyperbole. I am almost to the point of not noticing that every town, restaurant, street, house, tree, dog, cat or anything else always has an adjective with “est” attached to it. Tonight we went to the Wickham Hotel (Hotel = drinking bar) the, of course, oldest gay drinking hotel in Brisbane. The crowd spilled into the street and the music could be heard blocks away. Later we met several Brisbanians who all approached us for some reason or another. Walking home I found myself, for the first time in days, not moist with sweat. The evening air cooled me as I walked the empty streets leaving me to wonder about our days ahead in Asia.