The Cape

Now, you know you’re something really pretty special when folks start referring to you by just the one name. Thus we have such luminaries as Madonna and Kylie, The Queen, Britney and Elvis, doubly special as he’s also simply The King. No-one ever interrupts mid-sentence to ask “I’m sorry, Jesus Who?” And then there’s the Big Man himself. As far as I’m aware, God doesn’t even have a second name, making his initials simply “Gee”, particularly apt if you happen to be from the Bible belt.

Such was the case with the first destination on our intrepid travels, known in these parts simply as The Cape. For those not in the know its full name is Cape York, the triangular pointy bit on Australia’s top right corner. It’s a pretty big place, but as nobody really lives there you’ve probably never heard of it. Not yet truly internationally famous as a travel destination, you can be fairly sure you won’t bump into Madonna and Britney in a stage-managed tryst up here. Kylie seldom visits, as it’s quite a hike from Ramsay Street, and it remains one outpost of her empire the Queen has yet to tour, afraid, presumably, that the crocs might eat the corgis. Indeed, nobody is really sure if even God has ever been to The Cape.

And yet here we were, planning to head off on our first adventure Up the Cape. If all went well, we would be coming back Down the Cape as well, but with The Cape, you never can be too sure. It’s that kind of place.

The first thing that keeps the numbers down round these parts is the need for a fully-functional four wheel drive, not the kind of thing they’ll let you take on as hand-luggage at Heathrow, even in a clear plastic bottle. In fact even that’s not good enough, as you have to pack it with all manner of recovery gear you’d never previously heard of, for when four driving wheels simply aren’t enough. Even five wheels won’t do: up here you have to have six, carrying two spare wheels as well as extra fan belts, radiator hoses and tool boxes to fix them all together with. Not even the RAC, it seems, go up The Cape. Try fitting that lot into the boot of your Hyundai Getz rentacar.

Luckily our choice of vehicle was an 11-seater (yes, you read that right), and what with there being only 2 of us there was a fair bit of spare room. Just as well, as every Tom, Dick and Harriet who’d ever even thought of taking the trip had advice on yet more essentials needing to be carried to avoid certain death. Big thanks to Grant for sorting out what was what and helping with an eagle eye to spot a couple of last minute repairs.

We eventually left Cairns in a vehicle creaking and groaning at the sheer weight of bow-shackles, invertors, hand-winches, ratchet straps and thingummyjigs crammed in its gunnels and strapped upon its roof. We only just had enough room for the bucket and spade, though even these were considerably heftier than those traditionally packed for a weekend in Bognor. Clearly there would be scope for some truly palatial sandcastles.

To get us into the swing of things our first night of camping was to be in familiar territory at Cape Tribulation, a place God plainly has visited on many occasions. I think he might have used it as a blueprint for The Garden of Eden. One thing immediately became clear though: The Big Man wasn’t happy with us. Presumably he considered taking off on an open-ended holiday when you already live in one of the finest places on his Earth as taking the Mick. Or maybe he was just getting his own back for all that last-minute Sunday shopping. Whatever the case, he suddenly decided that for the first time in recorded history northern Queensland would get a taste of what it is like to summer in Scotland, minus the castles and tartan-clad yanks. If you’ve ever been camping in Scotland, you’ll know what fun this can be. Midday in the Wet Tropics was spent huddled with a cup of tea, clad in fleeces and woolly hats. Curiously, one thing Harriet hadn’t mentioned to pack was thermal underwear. I half expected a confused polar bear to wander out of the mists in a baseball cap and ask if we knew the way to Edinburrow. Luckily the cold snap didn’t last too long, giving way as it did to a fortnight of balmy 15 degree days and persistent drizzle. Thanks Big Guy!

Still, on the odd occasion the rays found their way through the clouds The Cape marked itself out as a pretty special place. At times it was African savannah, minus the giraffes and warthogs, at others wetlands teeming with storks and pelicans, and every so often there’d be a stand of magnificent rainforest, often completed by an idyllic waterfall.

What really stuck in the mind, though, were the river crossings.

There are plenty of places in the world with spectacular river crossings. The Golden Gate Bridge over West Point, marvelling at Cologne cathedral as you cross the Rhine, or admiring the Opera house from Sydney Harbour Bridge immediately spring to mind. Elsewhere there might just be a little old car ferry trundling back and forth, or even further afield some home-made rickety bridge over piranha infested waters. In The Cape, though, there are none of these things. The road simply meanders down to the water’s edge and disappears, re-emerging at some point on the far bank, often in nothing like a straight line, and at times up a near-vertical slippery mud bank. What goes on in-between is anyone’s guess.

Perversely, for those venturing up The Cape, these river crossings are a big part of the attraction.

There are an endless list of hints and tips to improve your chances of successful navigation, and almost as many nightmare stories of folks who didn’t make it.

You just know the whole thing’s going to be a total blast when top of the list of safety instructions is to take OFF your seatbelt: when the car fills up with water, you’ll want to be getting out fast! The next tip is even more surprising: OPEN the windows! Nuts! That’s what you’ll be climbing out of when (they never say if!) the car fills with water, as the water pressure will more than likely stop the doors opening. This all sounds like more fun than The Dukes of Hazzard! The third key is preparation. Standard Aussie Practice for river crossings is to stop at the edge, survey your entry and exit points, and if possible walk across first to assess the best route, bottom composition and water depth. If the water comes past your waist or you’re swept away, it’s not safe to cross. Quite how you got back to your car when the water came past your waist and you were swept away they never explain.

Up here in Far North Queensland this basic safety tip comes with a problem attached, one with four legs, a tail and a mouthful of pointy teeth, answering to the name of Estuarine Crocodile. We also have the smaller, altogether more charming freshwater crocodile, who wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Trouble is, once in the water they’re pretty hard to tell apart, and if they’re submerged, you won’t see either in the first place. The locals are only half-joking in their safety-solution to this conundrum: get your passenger to walk the crossing instead! Some of them even seem to fall for it. Unfortunately Debbie didn’t see the funny side, so it was always down to me.

From the fact that I’m sat here safe and sound writing all this, you can deduce that all went well for us, and God clearly wasn’t that pissed after-all, as I’m still in possession of all my limbs.

Even if all should go totally tits-up and your car turn into a bath-tub, salvation is yours for the taking should you have remembered your charmingly named Snatch Strap. This is basically a car-sized bungy cord which you throw to an obliging passer-by on the bank, the better to tow you out with, particularly handy when there’s no-one else around. I can happily report that, though I did get my strap out of its packet in preparation, luckily it never had to be used in anger (or at least that’s my story). It wasn’t a total waste of time, as a snatch strap is something every self-respecting bloke should be able to claim to own, and I’m sure it’ll come in handy for something someday.

Happily after 3500kms of bone-shaking corrugated dirt roads we made it back to Cairns in one piece, even the car emerging relatively unscathed, though some bits were now held together with sticky-backed plastic (knew all those years of watching Blue Peter would pay off one day)! Surprisingly, though, it wasn’t just the car that suffered some wear and tear. On reaching Australia’s northernmost point and celebrating with a much needed shower to remove accumulated dust and grime, I was mildly perturbed when one of my toenails spontaneously parted company with the rest of my body and sat looking pleased with itself on the tiled floor. The fact that this was accompanied by not the slightest hint of pain or loss of bodily fluids made it all the more remarkable. It was as if the nail had decided to spontaneously bud-off from the rest of my body in a new attempt at asexual reproduction (three weeks camping in the back of a car had made more conventional forms of breeding a rarity), ready to grow a whole new Andy from the toe-up. Knowing this kind of thing was likely to be a nightmare with the tax-office, I wisely decided to flush it down the toilet before it had a chance to germinate. Let’s hope for all our sakes it hasn’t learnt to swim.

I’m pleased to report for my part that a brand new nail has regrown with remarkable rapidity to replace its fallen brother, and has so far remained firmly attached. This is probably down in part to Debbie’s demands to cut down on the camping and call into a motel for a night or two every so often. Rest assured, I’ll let you know if any other vital bits fall off in due course.

---

---