The Great Ocean Road and My Startling Discovery in Melbourne

On the long road back to Adelaide, which was admittedly much less interesting than the road up, mostly owing to the fact that I couldn't hear the music (no speakers in the front) and reading and sleeping were front seat faux pas. On the last day Julia and Veronika invited me to join them on the Great Ocean Road, after a serious and sytematic hinting campaign on my part. It was an effective campaign and I have many people to thank, but most of all I have to thank Jesus. He makes all things possible. Praise Jesus. Fortunately for me it was mid-week so he didn't have to juggle many U.S. college football (which they call grid-iron here) games. That's got to be tough work, and how does he choose who wins and loses. Is he fickle or does he have favorites, does he roll dice or dawn a helmet. I mean it would be unfair to have Jesus on your side, it'd be kind of like having Chuck Norris on your side.

So thanks to Jesus, and no thanks to that lousy Chuck Norris, I was offered a ride by my lovely new German friends. Enough about Jesus though, that guy's always hogging the stage, on to what happened:

Renting a car was easy, driving it a little more complicated. It's just that when everything is on the wrong side you have a different view of the road than you're used to having, and so drive fully on the shoulder, turn on the wipers when you want to turn left or right, turn into oncoming traffic and so forth. But after a while I got used to it to drive the hangover bus to the Grampians, a small set of mountains in a national park in Victoria. The curvacious road made for some interesting scares. My driving and Veronika's nerves were at odds. Not that my driving was bad, only a little too fast for her liking.

We arrived in one piece and eventually found accommodation in the YHA, which I was not looking forward to. YHA's, in my experience are exceptionally bad value for money. They're clean, okay sterile as an old folks home, but the upside is that there is an air of death inside. This one however, while still fairly expensive, was really nice, well decked out, and had some interesting wildlife snuggled up next to it. I quite enjoyed it there. That's the place you ought to stay in if you go there.

We intended to get up early the next morning, but didn't exactly manage it. We took our time all day long, and after hiking to the falls - the shortest 3 km hike in the history of human kind (I thought those things were standard measures) - we took in the culture center and devoured some bush tucker - Ie. meats you don't find back home. A day of sightseeing ensued and we settled into the quiet hostel in Port Campbell. I made no contribution to the driving this day, as I was mostly consumed by reading Bill Cosby's Time Flies, which I began and finished en route - terribly anti-social, I know, but it's what I am at times.

The hostel was even more expensive than the YHA, but I was thrilled to know I could pitch my tent at a cut rate. I was very excited to be sleeping the night in my tent, and spending little money to do it. It was a foreshadowing of my deepest desires that I was not yet to realize. I had my mat, sleeping bag, and even a generously donated pillow from Veronika to make my rest just a little more comfortable. I had to plan carefully though, as we were going to be out of there before sun rise to view the so-called "12" Apostles. They were pretty cool, perhaps not as cool at the flowerpots of Canada's east coast, but then again, I was 7 then and they seemed much more perilous to me at the time. We didn't get the sunrise, but we had a clear enough day to get us through viewing a great deal more, walking through rainforest and viewing the wildlife.

We were lucky enough to see a koala just given'er down the middle of the road, running right down the line. Julia got out and began to chase it like a veteran paparazzi, camera in hand, but those little buggers are surprisingly fast for an animal that spends it's life sleeping and eating. It's a little like dad: he never exercises, and yet is (or was) in surprisingly good shape. But as dad has taught all of us, it catches up to even the best of us. Perhaps Mr. Koala took dad's lesson to heart. I however have continued killing my brain with intoxicants and my body with sloth. I walk a lot, but I severely miss hockey an the aerobic exercise that I get as an incidental by-product of having fun.

Unable to book a room in advance, I finally decided to convince my friends to join me at the greatest and best, albeit probably dirtiest and smelliest, hostel in Melbourne: All Nations. It was rather a homecoming for me, and I was temporarily excited to be there. I got to see Mel again, Garrett was still there, Ryno was looking less depressed, as well as others I was happy to see. I also made friends with two new faces, one Ludz and one Patrice. Ludz, a well dressed easygoing German and Patrice, the intense and cynical destroyer of Canada - er - Quebec nationalist, who kept refering to Canada as my cultureless country. He has a point, but it's OUR country with a cultural-identity crisis.

I arrived to find that Mel and Ryno had begun to date, and to my shame found that I was a little jealous. I've always found jealousy beneath me, and have rarely felt it, which added to my stew of emotions. But as it turned out it is beneath me and was able to let it go before dinner the next day.

I began looking for work again, but the market for I'm-only-going-to-be-here-for-a-couple-of-weeks jobs is decidedly slim. But I managed to score a work-for-accommodation job at the hostel, which was the easiest in the world. Thus saving me some much needed dinero. Still happy to be back with my friends, the city was starting to wear on me. The older I get, the more I am at odds with the city, and the more I am at odds with the city, the harder it gets to be there.

A couple of months ago I found a lump behind my ear, which frightened me. So I did exactly what any hypochondriac who's realized he is a hypochondriac would do. I decided it was probably cancer and then ignored my concern because I am crazy. But after a couple months of nagging concern and the fact that it wasn't going away, I decided to placate my lesser-self and go to the doctors. Doctor's fee: $50. Coffee while waiting to be admitted: $4. Finding out that you don't have cancer, and that you are indeed a hypochondriac: Priceless. In other health related news. Under the care and direction of my sister outlaw, I decided to cut out wheat and chocolate - to possible culprits in my on going saga of acid reflux. What have I found - eating a burger without a bun is considerably worse for the environment than with one, my favorite food - mom's chocolate chip cookies, are esstially gastric depth charges for me, and that my acid reflux seems (if an early prognosis isn't too optimistic) to have gone the way of the dodo, or is at least on its way, like the snow leopard.

Melbourne is a great city, but it is one constant party, and in truth, I am partied out. I am toast, burnt toast. I've been living a life that has been intensely fun, but incredibly hard on my system for months and months, and yearn for something more wholesome. I want, to quote Merle Haggard (I can't believe I'm doing this) to be living right, and being free. It should be said that my version has less to do with religion and intense intolerance of anything that makes one uncomfortable, and more to do with living a healthy sustainable life that's good for me and the world, not bound to the urban consumerism that drags me down. Okay, so Merle would more likely put me in the category with the hippies down in San Francisco, but I don't really fit there either. Either way, I'm quickly discovering that any life I live will have to be one settled amid nature rather than the hustle and bustle of city life.

Friday was great, as with Ludz's help and generosity, I was able to go see Tenacious D, who, by the way, ROCK! For those that don't know, it's Jack Black's Band. He and Kyle Gass, who is a surprisingly amazing guitar player, put on a wicked show. Later I joined Ludz, Patrice, Garrett and a couple of good looking German girls at Ryno's Pirate's Uprising Reggae Party, a good time. I can dance to Reggae, which is says something rather miraculous about the music.

It was a sweet reprieve from my general mood slide; by late Saturday I felt intensely unhappy there - was it the city, my dwindling money, my inability to find fulfilling work, my giving up wheat and chocolate - it was hard to say. But I decided I would move on as soon as my free accommodation was up. I needed to get out of Melbourne and into the mountains, or at least an organic farm of some sort. With that inspiring thought I went to buy my wwoof membership and plotted my escape.

Along the way I made a startling discovery. I was walking back from the camera shop, where I had just purchased my new camera, and had to fart, so of course I did - it's not healthy to hold back really. Then a thought occured to me. Uh oh, that was a little juicey. Worriedly I continued to walk, but looked out for an open restauraunt, pub, whatever. A garbage can and some toilet paper would do. Anything. One has a hard time being choosey in these situations. Perhaps appropriately, an Indian restaurant relieved me of my situation. Perhaps it was the look in my eyes, they must see it often enough. I made it to the bathroom with the thought of, what am I going to do to my underwear, when lo and behold, it was completely untouched. I hadn't escaped free of my nightmare. No, I did shit myself. But, the underwear had been spared, and so had I. It's a touch uncomfortable to explain to a restaurant owner why you're carrying underwear out of the bathroom, and "what exactly is that dripping from, oh my God." Yes, it could have been much more unfortunate. What did I discover you are wondering. Well it turns out that my hairy butt does indeed have an evolutionary function. It acts as a sewage catchment system in case of an emergency. When others of my species would have long expired, dying of embarassment, my line continued. There's a purpose for everything it seems.

With only two nights left in Melbourne, my friends decided it was important that I go hard or go home. I considered the alternatives: I can't go until I've at least made it to New Zealand. I've got some unfinished exploring to do, so I would go hard for just two more days. Sunday involved the most boring drinking game I have ever played. It's only salvaged itself minutely when my rule backfired to an astounding degree and I had to skull three glasses of wine in two minutes. I would have been upset, but it was free - which is my favorite price after all. I entertained myself though with thoughts of the Japanese drinking game I observed the night before. I didn't understand it, but I was enourmously entertained by it. I now understand the thrill and utter ignorance of early anthropologists.

The game involved following some sort of musical pattern where the players had to alternatively clap and knee slap while singing something like "Gunga, gunga. Bunny, bunny, bunny, bunny. Gunga, gunga.....etc." Then, apparently randomly, someone would have to raise their fists and slide them as if there were an invisible bar, then waggle their fingers at someone like a scene from Fantasia, which may or may not have had any finger waggling. At some point, somehow, someone would screw up, and then they would have to drink. But the most incomprehensible part for me was that someone (I have know idea how they determined who this would be) would get to hit them. Oh man, those Japanese and their physical humour. Check out MXC, Most Extreme Elimination Challenge, or Takeshi's Castle as it's originally known; it is a show which for liability reasons could never be made in Europe, Canada, the U.S. or most other countries in the world.

Mel and I went down to play pool, then left when it closed as the champions of the pool table. We exited to find Calem and Nick (can you guess which is Scottish?) Calem, a freshfaced young man from Scotland is entirely incomprehensible to me. I know we are both speaking English, but I can understand a mere iota of what he says. An iota might even be too generous. But he smiles a lot, so it seems like he's a good guy. I like it better when there are no question marks at the end of his sentences though. You always give it away when you answer an open-ended question with a yes or no answer. Nick on the other hand looks like the biker version of Dilbert - nice guy. Offered Mel and I his pipe, we accepted.

Mel went to bed, and I stayed up and participated in the building of food pyramids on top Garrett's head, who had foolishly fallen asleep among a croud of drunk and otherwise intoxicated people. The Corn Pyramid was my favorite. I wish i had a picture, but I was too, um, indisposed to figure it out at that particular moment....I should have had some forethought.

Waking up a little fuzzy, okay, a lot fuzzy the next morning I got prepared for making dinner for my friends for our last night out, well mine. After dinner we got set to go to a movie, but couldn't find David's number who was going to be our ride, so instead we followed up an invitation an English girl had given me to join them in St.Kilda for a free concert. It was a great night. The music was fantastic, a large jam session with a range of skilled musicians, and an alcohol free night for me, with my friends. After returning home to the hostel, we ate and headed down for some pool. I looked at my cell phone and received a message for a job, and Ryno told me that some tall, hot, German girl had been looking for me. But she didn't leave a message and he hadn't seen her before. I had no idea who he was talking about, but was pleased and pissed all at the same time. Just my luck. Decide to go, buy and expensive bus ticket out, and then there's jobs aplenty and hot german chics looking for me.

Well, better to leave them wanting I guess. Even with such strong temptations I was resolved to my need to get some nature into my system. That's how powerfully worn out of the city life I am at the moment. With some tears by a certain someone who will remain nameless, and promises to catch up with the gang in Perth come March, or in Mel's case April, I headed to dreamland with only three hours to go before I woke to the worst ring-tone in the world: Every Breath You Take, by Sting and the Police, at which time I would be off to visit my buddy Ian for a couple of days in Canberra before heading off either to work for a few days on an organic farm, or camp in the Blue Mountains.

The choice, in the choose-my-own-adventure book of my life has yet to be made.

Until then.

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