Adventures Down Under

When I was 21, I went to Australia to live for a while.

I look at my 20 year old brother now and snort at the thought of him being mature enough to travel that far away for that long on his own.  I was probably a wee bit more mature than him at that age, but still a young thing.  Even so, I’m glad I ignored my parents when they stammered objections.  I sometimes wonder if I’d ever have grown up without the shock (and freedom) (and self-reliance) of that experience.  I think now, deep down, my parents just might agree that I was right to go.

I lived in several different places while I was there.  In the middle of my trip I stayed in a hostel in Cairns for a couple of weeks.  It was a coed dorm, though I was the only girl.  Conor was a sax-playing Irishman with the classic Irish ability to tell a mesmerizing story; he would have us spellbound for hours talking about a 3 legged dog he knew, or about the night he broke up with his long-time girlfriend, or some other topic that would, in less skilled hands, be crushingly boring.  Greg, from Bournemouth in England, played the didgeridoo and was generally stoned, and thereby usually vacantly pleasant – I recall him once staring slack-jawed at a Destiny’s Child video and declaring “I just can’t stop looking at these birds.  I just can’t stop.”  Gary was another Englishman (I met more English in Australia than Australians), and he played the guitar.  My boyfriend, Ben, could play a few chords on the guitar, as could I, and I could sing.  We used to have impromptu concerts, and the boys would all bring up girls from the downstairs bar to be our audience.  (I would often drift off in my single bunkbed to the sounds of drunken strangers shagging just a few beds over.  Eh, you get used to the debauchery, it’s all part of the occasionally disgusting experience, kind of like having to shower with your shoes on, or daring to use the community kitchen.)

Most of the guys were in their 30s and were career travelers.  They’d work at a garage or as a housepainter or a shopkeeper for a year or so back home, and then take off on another year long trip abroad.  I admired them all very much, and occasionally longed for a spirit so free.  As you can see, though, it wasn’t the life for me, and despite my mother’s fear that meeting people like them would lead me astray – well, it didn’t!  At least not long term . . .

One particularly wild night, we consumed an obscene number of pitchers of rum and coke, and then decided to head out to the city center in order to busk.  I was holding my liquor just fine – until we got there.  Conor was playing his beautiful saxophone music, and suddenly I went from singing along sweetly to wailing wordless vocal accompaniment, barely able to sit up.  I clearly remember some disapproving looks by passersby.  At one point, a young unknown gentleman took me by the hand and started to lead me gently away, lord knows what for.  The boys noticed and collected me, and for the rest of the night I was hysterical, insistent that I had been RAPED, I WAS RAPED BY A STRANGE MAN, AAAUUGGGHH.  (I most certainly was not.  Believe me, I do remember.  Not clearly, but well enough.) 

After we’d finished we walked back to the hostel, Conor counting the proceeds and me still crying hysterically about my horrific experience of having my hand unwillingly held by a stranger.  Conor made quite a bit of money, and tried to give half to me for my drunken contribution, which I shamefacedly gave back the next morning.  Somehow, we all ended up in the pool, and when I woke the next day I was in my (still wet) drawers and somebody’s t-shirt, bundled into my own bed.  My shirt had been carefully hung to dry on the balcony, but I never did find my pants.  Some of the boys’ dates for the night had helped me out, apparently, and I thanked them profusely the next day, in between trips to the loo to be sick.

What was that I was saying about growing up?  J

Two days later, when we took a sailboat trip out to the Great Barrier Reef to snorkel and I was still hungover, I grew up a little.  What a waste, I thought to myself.  Wouldn’t it have been better to see this wonder of the world without feeling like poo?  Not to mention, having to puke over the side of the boat was extremely embarrassing.  I blamed it on seasickness, but I’m sure the veteran boat crew knew better.

I left the hostel shortly after the Great Barrier Reef, and struck out for the center of the burning hot country.  Foolishly, without extra water, or extra food, or extra gas, or even much money, my boyfriend and I started the long 5-day drive along the one lane red-dirt highway to Alice Springs, and Uluru.  We only made it alive by the grace of God, and that is not an exaggeration.  But that is a story for another day.