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Published: October 23rd 2016
Sydney opera house
Web stock photographSaturday 2nd June, 1990.
After three days holed out at
The Rucksack Rest, the cheapest guesthouse Sydney’s Kings Cross red light district could offer us, some sightseeing, eating budget burgers (no more cholesterol please) and mulling over our transport options we finally made a decision: we’d go for the car; he has to fly on the third - tomorrow - and will be desperate.
We ambled down Victoria Street that is lined with backpackers selling their vehicles: cars, wagons, camper vans and even the odd motorbike. An old VW camper would be great, but they hold their prices really well and even an ancient one is beyond us at 3000 bucks. Spotting those who are desperate to sell is easy. They’ll inevitably be pacing, eager to catch your eye and will flash you a strained smile, or else they’ll be feverishly polishing their treasure. These poor tortured souls are probably flying on to Bangkok, Hong Kong or the States in days or even hours and time is not on their side.
Yes, it was still there. The 1976 Ford Falcon Panel Wagon that was initially priced at $2000 (before we’d come on the scene) was
now slashed to $1400. We’d seen him two days ago with it at $1800, a figure that had now been crossed-out and replaced three further times. We asked for a test drive and you could see the relief flood his face. OK, so it handles like a cruise liner and the doors don’t lock: you remove the starter cap to disable the beast. But it came with all sorts of backpacker heart-warmers like mossie nets, a spare petrol can (we had the Nullabor to cross after all), cookers, bottles of gas, and - fuck it - it looked great: a two-seater car that is just so long, possessing the most monstrously elongated bonnet complete with huge roo-bars and a back with blacked-out windows that is easily big enough to fit a double mattress and all our kit. It was a bargain. We offered $1000 and, looking seriously hurt, he declined. “But its yellow” I argued, “and that’s really all we can afford”. We shrugged and hovered. His eyes filled-up and he sold. She is now renamed the “Yeti Wagon” and god-bless all those who sail in her – without tax or insurance, apparently he hadn’t had either. Our only evidence
of ownership is a handwritten piece of lined paper stating “This receipt is to certify that I, Jergen Georg, have sold the Ford Panel Van XRJ 399 to …… on 02.06.1990”.
Sunday 3rd – Tuesday 5th June, 1990. Batemans Bay, Australia.
Two days of tidying the car, buying some additional camping gear, a few phone calls made and we were headed off down the coast our destination Batemans Bay and Donna and Doug, an older couple who we’d met on Leleuvia, Fiji. This would be our first – ever - drop-in.
We arrived a little nervously five hours later, the Yeti Wagon having performed like a dream, and were met on the doorstep by D&D who really did seem pleased to see us.
Batemans Bay is a small sleepy coastal town, very “Home and Away”. We had some tinnies, dinner (with tinnies) and then went to a local bar, Ennios Bistro, where we consumed even more booze. Doug, the epitome of a strapping Aussie, can certainly sink them. The bar owners, Jennine and Greg, are their friends and were exceptionally welcoming. Ice-cold beers (VB Bitter) are served in little
Batemans bay
Web stock photograph glasses that last no time at all. Consequently they were constantly being re-filled leaving you with little idea of how many you’ve downed. Ali was sick, fortunately in the toilet.
Back at D&Ds and in getting ready for bed, i.e. taking my trousers off, I tripped and fell heavily side-wards. Doug had previously worked as, or been, a greengrocer and, for some reason, had a large stock of huge mirrors stashed in our room. The seven foot high, six foot wide, half inch thick mirror exploded leaving my panic-stricken expression emanating from several hundred different angles. There was a terrible silence, but no swelling pool of blood, in fact not so much as a scratch on me. Ali shouted upstairs “He’s fine; I’m so sorry”. I stood warily, somewhat sobered, and brushed the cubes of mirror from my person; gave Ali a puzzled look and enquired: “I’m fine; you’re sorry?” On seeing my unscathed body Doug roared with laughter. I, mumbling apologies, was mortified; easy going these Aussies.
Sunday 17th June, 1990.
Having spent almost two weeks in rural Australia observing kangaroo courtship (weird-shaped tapering penises), catching fish on the Murry River
Confused kangaroo
Web stock photograph (flatheads are delicious, the eels not so), witnessing Ali fleece the locals at poker (“Oh, so three-of-a-kind beats two pairs? How lucky am I?”), and having a generally wonderful time with our fantastically hospitable hosts, we finally set off to navigate our way to Melbourne and pick up a roof rack for the car – an old one of Doug’s stored at a friend’s house.
On arrival in Melbourne we approached a very large roundabout, gave way to on-coming traffic from the right and then joined the melee. A few seconds later and we were isolated. Everyone else had stopped – why? I glanced to my left and saw a green and yellow tram approaching at speed. Ali continued on, looking for our exit. “Ali…” I ventured; “Ali!” There was a screech as the tram jammed on its brakes and the behemoth actually accelerated towards us, sliding steel on steel. Ali’s head snapped round, but it was too late. A crunch jolted us to the right, then a metallic moan as the car was forced free of the tram’s buffers, spun around and came to a juddering, bunny-hopping, halt. We sat staring open-mouthed at each other. “You didn’t see
that coming did you?” said I stating the blatantly obvious. “You could have warned me” retorted Als. “It, errr.., just didn’t want to come out” I conceded. Fortunately, whist hitting us broadside, it had caught us on the bonnet rather than on my passenger door. Not so fortuitously the bonnet was now a chewed mass and the roo-bars patently weren’t designed for such prey.
We climbed out unsteadily, me literally from the open window as my door was now welded shut, just as the tram driver and conductor rushed over. “Struth, sorry about that guys, you OK?” asked the driver. Why he was apologising was beyond me as it now became apparent that we must have run a red light, not that we saw one. And, regardless, who expects a roundabout to be bisected by a tram line? We nodded. “Yeah, we’re fine”. “Guess you’re from out of town, huh?” reasoned the conductor. Probably as most people who loiter – to their regret - in his path are. He shrugged, “We do this all the time, they’re a bugger to stop these trams.” We exchanged contact details, pushed the car off onto a side road and luckily avoided
Melbourne market
Web stock photograph the police becoming involved. However, it looked like it was curtains for the Yeti wagon. The guys kindly said that they’d come round to the hostel tomorrow and tell us how to sue the tram company. Sue the tram company? Apparently it was no skin off their noses and they’d give us pointers on how to fill out the forms… Meanwhile the words no tax or insurance were flashing before my eyes. Shaken and bemused we got back in the car and coaxed her back to the hostel where we sat in silence, suddenly feeling too poor to even drown our sorrows. We definitely needed to earn some money and quick.
Monday 18th June, 1990.
Cashed a travellers’ cheque and found someone to have a look at the car. Our worst fears were realised: it was a write-off.
The two tram drivers did indeed turn up at the hostel and explained how we could get “The Met” (the tram company) to pay for the car. I was mildly skeptical to say the least. Nevertheless we applied for a claim form, but… really… it didn’t look too rosy.
Finished our supplies of
Turf Club Hotel logo
Web stock photograph eggs and sausages (third day on the trot) and ventured out to buy some wine. After consuming a 3 liter wine box we both felt hungry and decided to splurge on some Greek fare. The souvalaki place was closed and somewhat peeved we went to a bar. Here we managed to get thoroughly drunk and Ali did a tour of all the punters looking for work. Result: she was offered an unpaid trial at the pub (Turf Club Hotel); a fully paid return trip to Thailand… as a drug courier (this was later retracted – not that we’d ever considered it - with the guy saying that although Ali was totally plausible she was too nice to get involved); a job as a first-aider in Adelaide; and, distastefully, personal services to some old geezer for the night; myself, a possible job as a cement-turner. A land of opportunities is Oz.
On the way home we bought three pies and stuffed our faces in a vain attempt to dry-out.
Tuesday 19th June, 1990.
We finally got up at 4 p.m., both starving and hung-over. However, after braving a head-pounding walk we finally got to
have our souvalakis which were truly delicious. Played crib and retired at 8.30; we’d been up for almost five hours.
Wednesday 20th June, 1990.
Re-energised we were up early, bought “The Age” and scanned it for jobs. The next hour was spent ringing and being fobbed off. The claim form hadn’t arrived so we took what crumbs were available and set off to post leaflets advertising
Cheap as Chips cleaning services who state that they’ll “Make your seats and carpets look like new again. Steam cleaned and deodorised – perspiration and stains removed like magic”… Four hours and many miles later we had delivered 2,000 leaflets and earned $40 between us. Tomorrow we plan to deliver 3,000 leaflets ($60) and retire to the Bahamas.
Thursday 21st June, 1990.
Bloody typical: no leaflets today as they need to check our work which will take until Saturday. Filled-in our claim form for the car, sent it off and wait expectantly if somewhat pessimistically. Debated (briefly) going for an interview regarding door-to-door selling for Muscular Dystrophy. Instead we got waylaid at the excellent Melbourne market and I made a chicken stir-fry. Later –
too late – we remembered that Ali was supposed to have a trial at the pub…
Friday 22nd – Sunday 24th June, 1990.
Melbourne drags on. I neglected to get up at 5 a.m. to tackle the belligerent TV and missed an England win over the mighty Egypt (1:0). Amazingly two draws and a victory places us at the top of the group and through to the second round.
Getting nowhere fast in finding a job – I was rejected for a dishwashing gig due to my lack of experience: “but I always wash up at my in-laws” - and there are still no leaflet deliveries available. Consequently we’ve decided to head over to Emerald in the Dandenong region on Monday where, apparently, there is nursery work. Received payment for our leaflets and invested in another classy wine box: 4 litres for $5.99.
Monday 25th June, 1990.
Set off towards Emerald and its Youth Hostel full of positive thoughts. A train and bus journey later we arrived in the middle of nowhere. The hostel sits at the end of a dirt path, just outside of the tiny town,
surrounded by woods and fields and, though we were never to find it, apparently near a lake. Resembling a large, single-story, wooden chalet it had two single-sex dorms, three private rooms, and a sprawling open-plan communal area of kitchen and comfy living room. The latter complete with wood burning stove, pool table, the all-important SBS television (yes England were hanging in there) and even a laundry. There are no on-site staff, the old couple running the place merely dropping by once a day to check on the place and register new arrivals. Smoking is allowed, but there is also a strict no drinking on the premises rule. A private room with the very real rarity of a proper double bed works out at $102 per week between us. We just needed to find a couple of jobs and we’d be raking it in.
Unpacked some stuff which was in dire need of an airing, grabbed a quick cuppa and started ringing round the local nurseries, to no avail. Many phones were going unanswered so we reasoned that maybe we simply needed to ring earlier in the day. Decided to go for a wander although the weather was drizzly,
grey and chilly: all really rather reminiscent of home.
Emerald’s claim to fame is the Puffing Billy railway line: a small steam engine that runs scenic rides and whose distant, unseen yet audible, puffing we were soon to become familiar with. There are also koalas in them there woods, but they also remained unseen and our wildlife experiences extended no further than a kookaburra - nice song though.
Tuesday 26th June, 1990.
We were up with the lark - or maybe that should be kookaburra - and immediately began ringing around; twenty nurseries later and still no offers. Predictably it seems that it is the wrong time of year. Nevertheless, all ten of the lads staying at the hostel had work, so we - presumably - just needed to persevere.
Wednesday 27th June, 1990.
We rose at 5 a.m. along with all the other English for the football. Stuck some logs on the fire as Victoria, damp and dreary thus far, was demonstrating just why it is so green. The England performance was poor once again, but, right at the end of extra time, Platt nailed a volley
Secretive koala
Web stock photograph to snatch a 1:0 victory over Belgium.
More phone calls were made throughout the day as the incessant rain depressed.
Thursday 28th June, 1990.
Up and out trekking all over Monbulk, the center of the nursery trade; visited about twelve and still no work. Managed to hitch a couple of lifts and returned dejected. Our feet were in tatters and we retired early for a cuddly night.
Friday 29th June, 1990.
We decided on another hike to see if the potato-packers who never answer their phones may respond to a personal visit. They didn’t.
We heard about a job at the local country club - would you believe it, washing dishes. Oh well… Not to be caught out this time I thought of various examples of my vast experience in the field and rang. The job had gone. Seems I am destined never to wash dishes professionally.
Saturday 30th June, 1990.
Suckers for punishment we were up early again and got the bus to Gembrook to try their potato-packers. As usual nothing doing save several run-ins with farm dogs. It was
much harder to hitch a lift than previously and we didn’t arrive back until after dark. Filthy and tired we made straight for the pub, then bought some wine and trudged our weary way home.
Energized by several bowls of wine (there’s a shortage of glasses at the hostel), and feeling in need of a lift, Ali made various phone calls home: her parents were happily babysitting their first grandchild; her brother joyfully confided that his wife was expecting again; my parents said the dog had died.
Als crashed, leaving me to polish off the wine and watch the Ireland game (they also qualified for the next round). She woke at 4 a.m. to find me comatose in front of the fire.
Sunday 1st July, 1990.
In our hung-over state we came to a decision: we would stay one more day in an attempt to find work. If unsuccessful we’d head back to Melbourne, forget the claim on the car, sell it to the wreckers and somehow get to Perth. We would then try and change our flight to exit Australia from Perth (rather than our entry point, Sydney) and make
our way to cheaper climes. Were both much happier for having a plan.
Monday 2nd July, 1990.
England did it again, coming back from 1:2 down to beat Cameroon in extra time; we are in the bloody semis.
The three English lads who wear silly headbands gave up their jobs at a tree nursery today as the work was too hard. We persuaded them not to inform their boss and we plan to turn up tomorrow in their place – how hard can it be? Ali and I are, without doubt, tougher than a bunch of Alice band wearers.
Tuesday 3rd July, 1990.
We eventually made it to the nursery at 9 a.m., somewhat delayed due to some duff directions. Saying that, we would have been even later on the back of said directions if it wasn’t for a couple of passing Kiwis who gave us a lift for the last mile or so. Coincidentally the New Zealanders, Bret and Blair, are the same ones who’d checked into the hostel last night. They’d found work easily (having experience) and were on their way to their jobs pruning
aboriginal art
Web stock photograph vines.
Met the boss of
Corella Nurseries and explained the situation: those boys were soft; we are fit, tough, conscientious and eager to work. He, Darren, doubting our ability to substitute for three guys, grudgingly said we could start tomorrow on a trial basis.
We had jobs: $300 per week, each. However, there was a small but… He paid by cheque and hence we had to give our real names on various tax forms as, no doubt, the bank would want proof of identity for cashing said cheques. Fearing that at any moment he was going to ask to see our passports we confidently added our fictitious working visa numbers (we didn’t have working visas - nevertheless, in those days, their numbers merely rolled: meet a Brit who'd arrived before you and simply add fifty or so to their number) to the various forms. Now we were relying on the bank not checking those.
Made our way home with our heads held high. Resisted celebratory alcohol and fortified ourselves for tomorrow with a greasy fry-up.
Wednesday 4th July, 1990.
The alarm went off at seven; we grabbed a quick
more art
Web stock photograph coffee, cadged a lift with the Kiwi’s and were at
Corella for eight. It has to be said that this was not easy work. The day was filled with pain: backache, blisters and blood.
I was given a pair of wellies, some quick instruction, and then Darren put me to work pulling up 2,000 walnut trees. Obviously these were only babies, with a mere foot of woody stem sticking out from the mud. However, the bastards had huge tuberous roots the same length again, and they weren’t keen on being lifted. The rain continued unabated; the would-be trunks were nobbly, but tapering and cruelly slick from the incessant downpour. There were no tools involved in the lifting process: just grab, brace and pull. Consequently my gloveless hands were ripped to shreds. There was a local lad, Darren’s full-time employee, doing the same work as me and his experience showed as he had his hands taped beneath leather gloves. Meanwhile Ali had landed her-self an easier number: collecting and then sorting the trees we pulled, grading them according to size and bundling them; plus she was mainly in the dry haven of the potting shed.
Never have
art
Web stock photograph I been so grateful for a lunch break. Seeing my hands Darren actually found me an old pair of gloves for the afternoon, and then it was more of the same. Five p.m. eventually arrived, we knocked off and made our stiff-jointed way along the country roads, waiting for the Kiwis to come past. Somehow we missed them. The few passing utes (utility vehicles) that did come by ignored our thumbs (not surprisingly given our filthy, sodden states) and we were forced to crawl the twelve kilometers back.
Once again it was dark as we entered town. A quick detour to the bottle shop to pick-up some beers for tonight's game and then we made our triumphant workers entrance at the hostel. The fire was roaring and it was toasty. I displayed my wounds to the long since returned Kiwis who guiltily admitted that they’d simply forgotten about us. Ali removed my clothes and showered me, saving my ragged hands. And then we stood with the hot water cascading over us, unwilling to leave its soothing torrent.
We had but a couple of beers with dinner realising that it wouldn’t look too good to drink a
shed-load during the game and go straight to work stinking of booze, then caught several hours sleep before facing the Germans.
Thursday 5th July, 1990.
Up expectantly at 3.30 a.m. Fuck and bollocks; the pain of it all, give me walnut trees any day. A freak German goal resulted when the ball was deflected up in a huge looping arc over the advanced Shilton. Gazza was booked and out of the final should we make it. But then, amazingly, an 80th minute cross-shot equalizer from Linneker took us into extra time. Now we were dominant – Waddle even hit the crossbar. However, it remained locked at 1:1 and thus was the torture that is penalties: with predictable results... Who in their right mind would let Psycho take one; who’d believe Waddle could take one so ineptly. The mood in the hostel was somber. Thank god there were no Germans staying.
Made work on time and sober, in more ways than one. A rain-less day and I was prepared and taped-up before we started. Darren is a moody sod as well as a slave driver, but he surprised us at the end of the
Gazza'gets booked
Web stock photoraph day by announcing that he was taking us to the pub. Could he actually be satisfied with our efforts? Had we passed our trial period? Maybe he's a closet England fan?
Friday 6th July, 1990.
The more pleasant boss of yesterday had vanished to be replaced, once again, with the asshole; same old story of toil and blisters. After work we were met as usual now by Bret and Blair and it being Friday and us being workers we treated ourselves to two slabs of beer. An evening spent unwinding, listening to music and England restoring some sporting pride with the Poms remaining undefeated on the pool table. Bret and Blair’s prowess seems to lie in other directions, namely in the whoring department and they proudly regaled us with the tale of how they’d saved a few bucks by sharing a prostitute back in Sydney, with Bret apparently drawing the short straw and getting “sloppy seconds”.
Saturday 7th – Sunday 8th July, 1990.
Two wonderful work-free lazy days. One moment of note occurred when playing some irresponsible indoor football. I dived onto a sofa for a header and a vertical
metal strut emerged from within the upholstery to impale itself in my neck. Obviously I lived to tell the tale.
Monday 9th – Thursday 12th July, 1990.
I found myself dreaming of trees, and not in a pleasant way. Then to make matters worse we managed to drag ourselves from our slumber to the waking nightmare that was trees. Constantly knackered, but happy in the knowledge that we were earning.
Friday 13th July, 1990.
Pay day. Were given a lift to the bank and tentatively handed our cheques over to the cashier. With what we hoped was an ambivalent air we waited to be asked for some proof of identity, to show our passports, to be asked to step to one side whilst the police or immigration arrived: nothing, just $960 in crisp bills. Did however miss our lift with the lads and had to do the two hour walk back to the hostel.
An evening curled up together in front of the fire, just thankful that there was no work tomorrow.
Saturday 14th – Sunday 15th July, 1990.
Boozy Saturday and typical Leeds
Sunday of up for breakfast and then back to bed. Finally rose around 6 p.m. and began the sad contemplation of tomorrow’s work.
Monday 16th – Wednesday 18th July, 1990.
It seems that all the other guys working in nurseries are called inside for a break when the worst of these torrential downpours hit, but not us. On Wednesday
Captain Happiness had us pulling tiny shoots from a quagmire as the rain and hail hit us side-on. It was pointless work really as we were constantly slipping and falling and consequently trampling as many shoots as we gathered.
Thursday 19th July, 1990.
We waited for over an hour today for the boss to show. He eventually drove up only to tell us that he didn’t require us today. Apparently he had phoned last night to inform us of this - not that we were told. The season for casual labour is almost over and tomorrow will be our final day. Can’t say that we are too disappointed; at least we will have saved around $950 which is better than nothing and has almost covered the car... We are both itching
harbour bridge
Web stock photograph to be moving on and I am looking forward to having functioning hands once again.
Friday 20th July, 1990.
Our last day of work at
Corella saw an early finish, too early for a lift from the kiwis so, after cashing our cheques, we started on the long walk back to the hostel. Two trucks did pass us but par for the course our thumbing went unheeded.
Regardless of our exertions we decided to be conservative and limited ourselves to a 4-litre wine box for the weekend. Showered, ate our usual unhealthy fare and started on the wine. With us, sprawled over the settees and floor in front of the wood burner, were the three English lads for whom
Corella had proved too taxing, the little Thai girl Tim (strange name, but true), Stiff Roger, and the quiet Dutch lad. Around seven Ali and I were half way through the wine when there was an almighty crash, the wooden hostel actually shook, and in staggered Bret and Blair – pissed and stoned as farts. Bret had driven their car up and over the side of the giant wood stack, slipped off this narrowly missing a caravan, only to plunge the front wheels into a ditch and ram the side of the hostel.
Blair announced that today was actually his 21st birthday and suddenly all thoughts of restraint were forgotten. He said that anyone who changed the tyre on the car - it blew on hitting the trough - would receive vast amounts of alcohol. There was a huge bundle to the car, it was jacked up, the tyre changed, and… Bret drove off without removing the jack. The wheel was now permanently stuck at a 45 degree angle and the car restricted to performing sad, grinding circles. There was, however, another car. This car was, so rumour had it, abandoned some months before. The rusting wreck sat proudly bearing a fluorescent sticker covering the entire windscreen: “Victoria Police Notice: Unfit to be driven”. Who’d drive? It seemed Ali was the soberest qualified driver and was duly designated. Bret reckoned he could hot-wire… and indeed he could. Was there no end to this Kiwi’s practical skills, apart from parking a car? Not only did the car have zero visibility, it also became rapidly apparent why it was unroadworthy: there were no brakes, not even a hint of a handbrake. Fortunately we knew of a drive-through bottle shop. As it approached, also fortuitously, at the end of a slow rise, Ali kept the car at a constant crawl now navigating solo with her head stretched as far as possible out of the window. Bret, Blair and I jumped out and sprinted ahead. Two slabs of beer, a bottle of scotch and another 4-litre wine box rapidly purchased we dived in the open car doors as it nonchalantly trundled past.
We had, of course, all been flaunting the hostel’s “no consumption of alcohol on the premises” rule, but equally we had been discrete, placing all empties in sealed bags in the big waste bins out back and generally keeping the place in order. Tonight was to be different. Of the next seven or eight hours I remember segments that maybe summate to one. Blair’s fancy stereo, his watch and camera were all to die in unexplained circumstances. Mark (one of the headband-wearing nursery lightweights) was to puke from his top bunk and, really rather impressively, manage to project it onto the one below. Sadly this was rather unfortunate for Stiff-Ralph who had retired early, was asleep somehow amidst the chaos and didn’t know to take avoiding action. Mark recovered better than Roger and was later to tap with Thai Tim. Indeed Roger’s open rucksack fared no better than Roger himself and was discovered the following morning to have caught additional fallout. Roger was hence forth no longer to be known as Roger-the-stiff, but Roger-the-luckless. Ali disappeared at some point as did cocky headband with foppish hair. She swears – from what she can remember – that they weren’t even together, but this coincided with our door being locked (as it usually was following the disappearance of our alarm clock) and I guess – when faced with the evidence the next day – that I must have decided to open it by force. This doesn’t explain why though, according to various witnesses, I was naked at the time. I do have my suspicions that the over exposed vandalism probably happened sometime after Bret had challenged me to pint-in-one wine races...
It was certainly another non-proud day for the Brits.
...Our only defense is that we did pay for the lock...
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