Return of the Native

Melbourne street art yesterday

Just over a week ago I was living in a caravan in the middle of nowhere, planning visits to the shops days in advance like it was some sort of military campaign and constantly fretting about the very real possibility of a goat invasion.  By way of contrast in the past seven days I have visited museums, the cinema, parks, restaurants and markets, I have wandered around, both by myself and with company, for nothing but the sheer joy of exploration and I only have a rough idea what I will be doing next week due to the surplus of options.

Melbourne is a fantastic city.  Granted, Wigan would probably come across as the epitome of urban cool after a spell up in the Atherton tablelands, but I'm fairly sure my judgement isn't entirely subjective.  There is a distinct bohemian vibe here in comparison to Sydney.  There are countless hidden streets and cul de sacs to explore, every other wall has a painting or mural on it - most of them amazing - and you could spend the rest of your life checking out the various independent stores and back alley bars.  It is also a very good looking city, handsome as opposed to beautiful, every street consisting of a jumble of architectural styles and only very rarely lapsing into the concrete functionality that Sydney was occasionally prone to.

We are staying in a hostel called Habitat HQ in the suburb of St Kilda.  The hostel is nice enough, with all the amenities you'd expect, though at times a tad impersonal.  That said we did meet two lovely young ladies, Katy and Jen who we hit it off with.  I went out for a coffee and a wander with Katy on Wednesday.
Before either of my sisters or Bob's mam gets too excited, this date was pretty much doomed from the start due to her receiving an email from her ex boyfriend that threw her for an emotional loop, an occurrence which I can only describe as a trans-hemispheric cock block.  Granted, there may have been other factors in play (such as that maybe, just maybe, she wasn't that into me) but I'll go with the explanation I was given as this way I don't have to do any painful self analysis and get to use the phrase "trans-hemispheric cock block".

We were invited to an eighties themed fancy dress the other night.  This was to celebrate the birthday of Vanessa, an old friend of Bobs.  Like many of her countrymen/women, she and her boyfriend Ryan served a year in London while doing the travelling that I'm pretty sure is mandatory under Australian law and they were nice enough to invite Bob down one New Years, with me being his plus one.  I'm not really a fancy dress person, primarily because I don't care enough to put in the effort to make a really exceptional costume, but at the same time too self conscious to rock up wearing a costume that I threw together in a matter of minutes.  In the end, after about four hours of tramping the streets of Melbourne, I managed to source a khaki set of coveralls and fashion a passable ghostbuster outfit, while Bob went as Marty McFly. Considering I only knew a handful of the people there and my relationship to the birthday girl was slightly tangential I felt very welcome and had a really good time.

I'm going to the cinema with a girl I met there on Tuesday.  I make that two dates in just over a week, which I'm pretty sure is a sign of the end times.

Love and Fishes

Dave Denton

So Long and Thanks For All the 'Nanas

I am done.  No more waking up at five o' clock in the bastard morning.  No more sticky banana fingers and smelling of sweat and diesel.  No more waking up and realising that the absolute highlight of my day is watching Top Gear and Man Versus Wild repeats and then retreating to a corrufgated iron shed for a private weep at the patheticness of it all.  I am now in Cairns.  They have indoor plumbing and air conditioning and tumble dryers and I'm feeling slightly overwhelmed.  I also have access to the internet, after ours crapped itself a few weeks back so - after discovering a shouty message from Bob's mam about my lack of activity - I am back to rambling about stuff wot I have done.

My last couple of weeks were made more bearable by the arrival of Old Man and Fat Lass - that is, me da and wor Rosie - who have been travelling through Australia in a camper van, trying to solve the mystery of the Empress Ruby.  They took time out from their sleuthing to visit their very handsomest family member and give Bob some drugs (motherflipper always be juicing).

I was, suffice to say, very happy to see them.  I do love and miss me family, but it's easy to put that to the back of your mind when your on the other side of the globe.  It was reassuring to have it confirmed that everybody is okay, that our Alice hasn't gotten a face tattoo, our Josh hasn't been arrested for selling cake to minors or our Jake hasn't been crippled chasing after the ice cream man. Access to transport also meant that we could actually go places and do stuff so me and Bob hopped into their battle bus and went off to see some of this country that we're meant to be exploring.  We drove up to cape tribulation, a stretch of unspoiled  beach north of Cairns and one of the first stopping places of Jim Cook (good Boro lad, y'know) when he first popped over here.  The beach was lovely and the sea was lovely and warm.  Unfortunately we were unable to swim in it due to the prevalence of box jellyfish at this time of year and my aversion to dying.  The drive back was absolutely spectacular, taking in some of most beautiful coastal road I have ever seen.  The next day we left Bob in Cairns to do something about his hair and went on a tour of some the local waterfalls around Millaa Millaa.  Lovely stuff and I have pictures, but they're on my crappy, crappy phone, so they're not getting uploaded any time soon.

There was a bit of an odd incident where I nearly got my head kicked in by a random American. We were staying in a hotel in Cairns and due to availability issues we had to change rooms.  I spent the day with the family and then left for the room I was sharing with Bob, who had the key.  Unfortunately I had the wrong room number in my head and ended up knocking on the wrong door.  It was opened up by a rather heavy set gentleman (by which I mean a big, fat fucker) with a heavy Noo Yoik accent, who informed me in no uncertain terms that this was not my room.  He slammed the door in my face only to open it  again ten seconds later as I was ringing Bob to get the correct number, yelling and threatening me.  I'm not very good at confrontation, which coupled with the ludicrous level of over-reaction, meant my response was basically to stand there blinking stupidly, desperately trying to work out if this was some sort of American humour that Limeys don't get, which probably enraged him further.  Eventually he stomped back into his room and I found out where I was meant to be. Even then, for the next hour, I could hear him going into the hall at ten minute intervals and bellowing death threats into the empty air.  A very odd chap.  Maybe he'd had a bad day.

Returning to the banana farm for the final two weeks was not fun.  The two Italian lads I mentioned previously have left due to rheumatism.  They were replaced by another Italian and an Irish lad, called Ivan and Ian respectively - though now we've left they've been promoted to Dave and Bob.  Our remaining time dragged like a motherflipper, but all things must pass and our last day eventually rolled rounded.  Greg, our boss for the last three months, let us go without so much as a thank you and then informed us that he was unable to sign us off for our visa there and then as all paperwork has to be processed at his office in Tully (it's worth noting here that this is a problem only at this particular farm.  Every other place in the region is more than happy to simply sign the form, pat you on the arse and wish you the best of luck).  We've therefore left the forms with him and he'll complete the thirty second job as and when he can be boshed, scan them and send them out to us.

Bugger it, I don't care.  I'm no longer working on a banana farm and that's all that matters.  So it's a couple of days here and then on the plane down to Melbourne.  Peace out and fuck bananas.

Love and Fishes

Dave Denton