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I heard muttered in a thick Australian Accent immediately upon walking up the stairs of the dirtiest and cheapest hostel in Kings Cross, Sydney. I had been in a constant state of motion for the past 36 hours, from Van Vieng Laos to Sydney Australia via several buses and two planes, and was anxious to lie down in a real bed. But when my friendly host introduced me to Slavco, my Yugoslav roomate, I knew that sleep was out of the question. There was clearly an illness plaguing this man. I try to make a diagnosis but am torn between severe vampirism and rabies. I lie awake on the top bunk, staring at the ceiling, and listening to the heavy breathing of my blood thirsty roomate from below. I think tomorrow I will purchase a turtle neck.
I opened my eyes early the next morning. To my surprise I had survived the night. I checked my neck for teeth marks, and breathed a sigh of relief. Suddenly the door of my room opened and sitting in a chair in the door way is Tony, another oddity who calls the Poll Points Hostel home. He wore prescription sun glasses, which was
enough to send shivers down my spine. He was yelling Slavco's name repeatedly. When Tony spotted me, lying awake, horror stricken, he slammed the door. Shudder.
Despite the chaos of my accomodation, I did manage to Pack it in; Circular Quay, The Botanical Gardens, The Opera House, Harbour Bridge, Darling Harbour, The Australian Museum, The Rocks, Paddy's Markets, etc. Sydney is a beautiful city where everything works. Like a cleaner, less crowded Toronto. A place that's nice to visit, but big cities and me don't get along, so North I must go...
Riding in a Big Rig truck somewhere between Sydney and New Castle with a man whose neck tattoos indicate one of the many reasons he is called "Beetle", I begin to have second thoughts about the idea of hitch hiking up Australia's East Coast. I was motivated to do this by the current state of my finances as well as by my determination to make some good stories.
I was able to make it to the rest stop 10 km outside of Port Maquerie just as darkness fell. The winding road through the woods into town is a dark one, and has no shoulder from
which to stick out my small and barely visible thumb to flag down a ride. I put on my head lamp and set off on the dangerous route. Before long a car behind me came to a screetching halt. The two half drunk men in the rusted El Camino offered me a beer and a lift into town. Once caution is thrown recklessly to the wind life is good.
Port Maquerie Welcomed me so kindly into its loving arms, that I became a temporary local, and accepted a job working on an oyster farm. 8 days chucking Oysters and talking Politics with Terry the passionate Oyster farmer and active member of Green Peace. Life was beginning to slow to a leasurely pace and so it was time to move on lest I grow to inherit Terry's farm. I stuck my tiny thumb out once more and a helicopter pilot, two dirty hippies, and a professional surfer later and I arrived in Byron Bay, where I have spent the last three days learning how to surf, making Sangria, shaking my ass at the local dance club and falling in love with the Ocean. This might be one of the hardest
a nice tree
in Sydney's Botanical gardens
places to leave.
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kenneth
non-member comment
shit man
this is exactly what i want to do man. youve got it covered.