Take The Safer Option

My next stop was Forster, a delightful little town, situated in the Great Lakes region of New South Wales. It was an unspoilt oasis with miles of empty beaches that I was more then happy to wile away a couple of days on, even though the Australia winter was well under way. I arrived in town in the early evening and found the Dolphin Lodge YHA easily enough, the small hostel virtually empty due to the time of year. I shared a dormitory with one other man, a young American of slight stature called Steve. He was travelling with a guitar, using the quieter moments of his travels to learn to play the instrument and he exchanged a meal of spaghetti for a lesson from me on how to play bar chords. One of the friendly guys that helped to run the Dolphin Lodge tempted me with a swimming with dolphins cruise as he ran through the things to do in town. One of those must do things in life, I headed out early in the morning to the cruise centre, a large wooden shack on the waterfront, only to find little sign of life. The man running the adjacent whale watching cruises came over as I hung around waiting for someone from the Dolphin cruises operation to turn up.
“Looking to do a Dolphin cruise are you?” he asked.
“Yes, do you know when they open? I was told that I needed to come early?”
“Well, I haven’t seen the bloke that runs it for about three weeks now. Word is that he’s had some trouble in court after one of his customers was injured.”
“Really? Is it not safe?”
“Well, it’s a bit of a joke really. He takes you out on the boat and you get into the water and you hold onto a rope attached to the boat. He then drags you along. You’d actually have to be really lucky to see a Dolphin. Would you be interested in a whale watch instead?”
“Um, no thanks, I’m not really interested in that. Thanks for your help,” I said, doing the very British thing of giving thanks where none was really needed.
“No worries mate,” he said as I went to spend the day exploring the lakefront with a great sense of disappointment.

I was starting to see the real Australia with many of the locals happy to converse with me. Later in the evening, I went to a bar come restaurant and a guy and his friend heard my English accent at a nearby table. He introduced himself as Steve-o, (I assumed that he was doing the Aussie thing of adding an 'o' to the end of everything and that he wasn't giving me the initial of his surname). He told me proudly about the best places to visit along the east coast and his love of surfing. Whilst sitting at the beachfront I had got talking to an older guy who came along to enjoy some sunshine. In such a sports crazed country, he delighted in telling me all about Brian Clough after I said I'd come from Nottingham. After several minutes of him telling me stuff I already knew, I decided that I would go back to telling people that I was from my hometown of Milton Keynes rather then the last place I lived. Just a short time after his departure a woman and her daughter came along. With two Australian women it was little wonder that I struggled to get a word in. They did give me an interesting perspective on the Aborigine people. They told me that most Australians are ashamed of the past atrocities to the indigenous people and compared their treatment to that of the native Americans and the persecution of the Jews. In an attempt to make some kind of amends, the Australian welfare state could be counted among the best in the world but this in turn causes more racial tension as Aborigine people are seen to get generous handouts at the expense of the tax payer. They told me of a visit they made to Alice Springs where they saw the treatment of Aborigine children, the parents seeming to neglect their young and doing nothing for those that were sick. Adult Aborigine would loiter on the streets, more often drunken then not. Even though it was so obviously wrong they told me how they could see some kind of justification for the separation of children from their parents which took place in the past.
I guess that things are never as black and white as the history books say. Theses women were very friendly, inviting me to their house for tea and yet I couldn’t help but feel that the attitude they had to the Aborigine people was one of superiority and that their thoughts toward them were skewed because of a difference in culture and skin colour.
Later still, having declined their offer, I stayed on at the beachfront to watch the sun set in the couple of hours before my next bus. As I lazed, I noticed a small hourglass shaped spider with disproportional large pincers moving slowly along the thigh of my right leg. Hour glassed or funnel? Could it really have been a funnel web spider? I tried to remember the advice I had read; 1) don't panic. 2) erm... don't get bitten. I stood and held out the material of my trouser leg, shaking the fabric. The spider fell but managed to spin some webbing and dangled. It looked a bit pissed off now as it made its way back to my leg. There was nothing else for it, I took aim and flicked at it as hard as I could with my middle finger, it’s small form disappearing in one direction as I did likewise in the other.
I moved on to the town of Port Maquarie and was now confident turning up in places with nowhere to stay. Australia really was an easy place to travel, especially along the backpacker friendly east coast. Usually there were hostel representatives at the coach terminals ready to whisk you away before you’ve even had the chance to stretch your legs and even when this wasn’t the case, a pick-up was only a phone call away. The coach arrived at about eight o’clock in the evening and whilst looking over the hostel boards, I was joined by an English couple, Hannah and Peter. It was fairly obvious that Hannah was the more dominant in their relationship having jumped straight onto the pay phone and rang several hostels to get the best rate and arrange a lift. Peter seemed an entirely more laid back character and after getting talking to the two of them I decided to tag along, in no small part because of the amusing name of the hostel that Hannah had decided on – The Ozzie Pozzie Backpackers.
When we got out of the van on arrival at the hostel, Hannah and our driver both let out girlie screams as they both saw the massive spider on the side of the van. It really was big, dwarfing even the monster that I’d seen in the Hunter Valley. It may have left dents in the bodywork as it scampered across the bodywork of the van at break-neck speed. Peter and I both took an extra step backward, us both probably thinking the same thing - I’m not touching it! We decided it was for the best if we went to check in and return for our bags later. Ian the British guy who was on reception went off to take care of incey-wincey, and I felt a little guilty that I didn’t advise him to take a shovel with him with which to hit it. He came back alive and well to everybody’s relief. Ian told us that the spider was a Huntsman, as big and scary as it looked they could give a painful nip but were actually harmless to humans despite their menacing appearance.
After Ian had shown around the hostel, Hannah and Peter disappeared to find the supermarket whilst I made myself at home. I was sorting out my kit when something in my peripheral vision pricked at my subconscious. I glanced around the room with my healthy paranoia firing on all cylinders. And then I saw it. Yet another monster spider, up in the corner of the dormitory, big and hairy, though more lanky then the Huntsman we’d seen earlier. There was nobody else around. I could go for help but decided my machismo with Ian was already tarnished. I’d take it on myself.
It stood high on the wall with a confidence in its pose that told the world it was king in these parts, lounging around up there, maybe digesting a horse that it could have eaten. I wanted to get it down to a more manageable level and away from the bunk beds it had taken residence over. Looking around, my eyes fell upon the maps of the town that Ian had given to each of us. I screwed mine up and threw it at the spider. Why? I don’t know. Maybe I was trying to gauge its reflexes. Maybe I was hoping that this merest action would be enough to scare it away. What it did achieve however, was for me to get its full attention as it spun around. It gave me a look such as the hero in a Hollywood action film might give to the bad guy after he delivers a pitiful punch. I waited just a moment to see if the spider would deliver a one-liner. I grabbed Hannah’s and Peter’s maps and climbing up onto the bunk beds, deciding it was time to be bold and tackle it head on.
I used the flimsy photocopies of the maps in an elaborate pincer movement, hoping that I could get the spider onto one of the sheets of paper so that I could carry it to the door. Hopefully the paper would be able to take the weight. Stretching and bending at angles that my body had never been required to do in my old office job, I managed to start pushing the spider around. Rather then scurry away like the British house spiders I was used to dealing with, this one stood its ground, occasionally flinching only slightly as I poked at it with the maps. I admired its tenacity. I finally managed to manoeuvre it onto one of the sheets. I slowly began my descent from the upper bunk bed, holding the map out at arm’s length.
But then it dropped. Maybe it was taking some kind of suicide leap rather then face what I had in store for it. Or maybe it was just bored and decided to go off and terrorise somebody else but I’d now lost control of it. Luckily it landed on the floor rather then the bunk. It then made its fatal mistake. It began running for the door rather then take the safer option of running under the bed and out of reach.
I jumped down from the bed rolling up one the maps into a makeshift club. I brought the weapon down hard onto the spider. It stopped in its tracks spinning around. Now it was really mad. I hit it again. And again. And again, raining down repeated blows until I needed to catch my breath with my face, breaking out into a sweat. The spider was no longer moving. I scooped up the body with the now dishevelled maps, carried it out into the courtyard and flicked into the garden.
When Hannah and Peter returned, I couldn’t help but tell the tale of my struggle against the eight-legged beast.
“There was another spider in our dorm,” I said coolly. “Don’t worry though, I took care of it.”
“You didn’t kill it did you?” asked Hannah.
“Yeah,” I replied, stopping short of adding ‘And all by myself,’ and awaiting the adulation that was sure to come.
“You know that when you kill a spider, it attracts other spiders?” She said with a growl.
I don’t think any of us slept well that night.
The hostel provided free bicycles so I thought I’d spend the next day riding along the magnificent coastline. Hannah and Peter had the same idea and set off just before me, their planned early start delayed as they couldn’t find their town maps. The area was quite hilly and so remembering that Port Maquarie was said to have the highest urban population of koala bears, I had the chance to try and spot a few in the trees as I pushed the bike up the slopes. I didn’t see any koalas and got the micky taken out of me by a passing elderly Aussie bloke for not cycling up the hills. But the bike proved to be great fun with the speeds that I achieved on the downward gradients as I zoomed along. I must have looked pretty stupid in the helmet that was provided though, it looked like it was made out of paper-mache by a six-year-old. I would have felt safer if I had wrapped my head in cling film.
It was the day of my dad's birthday, the first occasion for celebration that I was away from home for. And I’d been a bad son, I had sent a card but I had my doubts whether it would have made it to the UK as you're supposed to declare what's inside on the envelope, presumably to catch out the terrorists who write 'Anthrax' on theirs. So my dad’s card may have been destroyed in a controlled explosion somewhere. I also kept forgetting to pick up a phone card, the only change that I had of $1.50 was swallowed up by the payphone after allowing me only enough time for my mum to tell me what time it was in the UK. Sadly, I didn’t get the chance to have a word with my old man before the pips went and the line went dead.
Back at the hostel in the evening, some new guests had arrived. The place was quite small with the dormitory rooms surrounding a central open courtyard. The seating and hammocks created an atmosphere that was good for meeting people and socialising. Two girls were playing cards. Tera who was from Saskatchewan in Canada was being taught the international traveller’s card game of shithead by Wendy. From Las Vegas, Wendy was heading southward and was near to the end of her trip and as such made for a useful source for information. A very happy-go-lucky girl she didn’t do many favours for the reputation of the people of her homeland, coming out with a theory that an American attempt to take control of the Canadian state of Quebec was going to happen. The Goon she and Tera were drinking must have been hitting home, I got a taste of the dirt cheap boxed wine thanks to the generosity of a Geordie called Claire. As well as an introduction into the rules of shithead and my first taste of Goon, I experienced my first Tim-Tam, a biscuit much like a Penguin that is almost an institution in Australia. It was courtesy of Katherin, a young German girl taking the chance to travel before starting her studies to become a doctor. With Pete and Hannah back from their cycling and Ian on duty, we enjoyed each others company into the night, drinking and playing cards. As nice as it was that the group was mainly female, I did have to endure sitting through four separate conversations about Johnny Depp.
We were later joined by an Australian man that Tera had met on her train journey into town. He staggered into the courtyard from out of the night, carrying what remained of his own Goon - the inside bag with a few remaining mouthfuls. It was obvious that he had taken a shine to Tera’s curly blonde locks and shining blue eyes and had tracked her down to try his luck. His advanced years and dishevelled clothing didn’t give him a good start and so he got straight down to the business of trying to impress her with his list of achievements that included the winning of an Olympic gold medal for swimming and the millions of dollars he’d accumulated. Quite why he was reduced to drinking Goon, travelling by train and wanting to stay in backpacker accommodation wasn’t explained. After the joke had run thin, Ian politely asked him to leave on account of the hostel being full and the grounds being for guests only, both of which were blatant lies but a less confrontational option then the truth of his being there pissing everybody off. Before leaving, he tried one last time with Tera.
“I’ve been told I have to leave,” he slurred, “But can I have your number?”
“I’m travelling, I don’t have a number,” she replied, double checking the mobile she was carrying wasn’t visible.
“What about your home number?”
“I won’t be back home until Christmas,”
“I’ll call you when you get back then.” He wasn’t giving up.
Tera scribbled down some figures and he looked as pleased as if the numbers were the winners for that week’s lottery.
“So goodbye, “ he said to her, the rest of us invisible.
“Bye,” said Tera the irritation in her voice obvious to all but him.
“I’ll call you at Christmas then.” He struggled to stand to leave, but a sudden thought came to him. “What day is that?”

* * *

"Have you ever ridden a camel?" was my opening line to the two Scottish girls that had arrived. We had decided to go for a camel ride along the beach. When I rang up to book it, I was told in no uncertain terms by the uptight woman on the other end of the line that there couldn’t be any cancellations as they would be ordering an extra camel for the size of our group. Where you order a camel from, I don't know. When we did a head count in the morning we were two people short and so any arrivals to the hostel got the sales pitch for the camel ride in great detail from Ian and the rest of us pestering them afterward. Luckily we managed to persuade an Irish couple to join us. The ride was good fun in no small part due to the handler who - in stark contrast to his wife who I’d talked to on the phone - showed enthusiasm, told never ending jokes and was the most 'Aussie' person I'd met.
It was sad to see the little gang we formed at the Ozzie Pozzie breaking up as everyone continued on with their own journeys. There was time enough for another couple of hours lounging in the hammocks before I got a lift to the coach station with Katherin and Claire for the bus that would take us to Coff’s Harbour.
Sitting alongside the hills of the Great Dividing Range surrounded by hundreds of banana plantations, Coff’s Harbour is a popular stop on the backpacker trail and has a reputation as one of the most adrenaline filled sports capitals in New South Wales. With a similar feel to Port Maquarie, I made the stop in the hope of doing some white water rafting but disappointingly, the drought in New South Wales meant that the river rapids would not be rapid enough for it to go ahead.
The three of us were staying at the YHA for no better reason then the charismatic hostel bus driver was the first to grab our attention when we arrived. He treated us to a little tour around town and took us to a look out point to take in the beachfront and mountains on the way to the hostel. I felt in full holiday mode.
I was put into a dormitory with Rob who was working at the hostel and one of the strangest people I’d ever met and quite possibly the least Aussie person I would meet. When I saw him for the first time, he was sitting on his bunk and playing with his newly purchased mobile phone. He showed off his Britney Spears ring tone with no sense of shame and bombarded me with the most awful jokes that were of the type of those from Christmas crackers in the style of an attention seeking child. The other Australian guys working at the hostel apologised more then once for his ways during the evening we spent drinking Goon at the hostel’s poolside. But despite the irritation of Rob we had a good night that went on and on, with Claire and I the last to call it a night at 6am.
With the rapids off, we headed to The Big Banana after a meagre few hours of sleep. Rob was giddy, it was as if he had been checking the smell from the petrol tank of the hostel van he volunteered to drive us there in. I guess it wasn’t often people agreed to a day trip with him but in our sleepy state we probably would have agreed to anything. As for the Big Banana itself, well, I suppose it was quite big and, well, looked like a banana. That was it really. There were a few touristy things including the usual souvenir shops with banana theme crap, and some nice lookouts over the town but I think I would have preferred a lie-in.
Still with Britney Spears ringing in my ears I took a walk to the beachfront for the afternoon on our return. Just off of the coastline were a string of islands, one of which - mutton bird island that was named after the wedge tailed birds that nest there - could be accessed via a breakwater boardwalk. The island is also sacred to the Aborigines, adolescent males would swim over to it as a symbol of passage into manhood. As well as the bird life, a walk over to the other side of the small island makes for a good place to spot whales. I was there at a good time of year as it was the time of their migration up the coast. Though not clear, I saw something whale like splashing around in the distance. Now that was as cool as a banana.

The next day I thought I'd take a walk around the town centre. The long walk was a waste of time as there wasn’t much to it, and being a Sunday, most things were closed. As I was there, I thought I'd check where the bus left from for my onward journey the following day, when a stocky guy of what appeared to be Maori origin began following me on his pushbike. He had the build of a rugby forward but gave away several inches in height to me
"Oi bro, where you from?" he queried.
"The UK," I answered politely. Something in his demeanour didn't seem right. He kept at my pace, slightly behind and on the outside of the path I was walking along that was raised on a grass embankment from the road.
"You just get here?" he grunted. He could have got a job at Porky’s in Sydney. There was no denying I was a tourist, I was foolishly carrying my travel guide in full view.
"Yes, just having a look around," I said, subtly securing my daypack to my back and looking around for 'exits'. I really hoped that he hadn’t seen me withdrawing the week’s budget from an ATM a few moments before. After I walked on with him following, he suddenly pulled up beside me and jumped off his bike.
"Right bro, give me all your money or I'll stab you," he said just as casually as if he were asking the time. He was reaching down for a bulge in his pocket in the front of his jeans. If he had a knife, it wouldn’t have been much bigger then a Stanley knife. Crocodile Dundee he was not. Or maybe he was just adjusting his penis and he was going to hit me with that. There was no way I was just going to hand over that much money. With or without a knife, I didn't fancy my chances in a scrap though. I bolted. Down the grass verge and across the road, I didn’t even turn as I heard my assailant emitting a guttural roar. There were no natural turns to give him more options should he be pursuing me so it was a straight sprint up the road toward the town centre. After a few seconds I glanced behind me and I saw that he wasn't giving chase. I supposed he was worried someone might have nicked his bike.It would have been naive to think things like this wouldn't happen during my trip. It just surprised me that an attempt was made in broad daylight and near a shopping centre with busy streets. On the bright side, hopefully this would be my run-in for the trip over and done with and it could have ended up much worse. But I know I’d been sloppy in appearing like a tourist, the lesson was learnt.