Broome

---

Coming out of the Kimberley into Broome is a bit like emerging from an all night shift down a Yorkshire coalmine to found you’ve somehow taken a wrong turn and emerged from a manhole cover squinting into the bright lights of a swanky Parisian boutique on the Champs Elysee. The two are clearly completely unsuited as close neighbours. It’s as if someone has suddenly pulled a stunt straight out of Mr Ben: as if by magic, a five star tourist paradise has appeared. As you wander past the swanky restaurants and expensive jewellers of the main street you’re eternally wary that the Shopkeeper might suddenly appear and whisk you back to a life of red dust and pit toilets. For those of an unsuitable age or nationality to remember Mr Ben, let’s just say that the two are like chalk and cheese, though it would have to be a sackful of particularly chalky chalk sprinkled liberally over a pound or so of the finest Brie de Meaux.

Broome owes its existence to two main attractions: an endless supply of pearls and one of the finest stretches of white sand you’ll find anywhere in Australia, or out of Australia for that matter, in the form of the renowned Cable Beach. These two combined are enough to attract a hefty chunk of the glitterati of Australian society out of their metropolitan comfort zones for a week or two each year. On its own this would be hopelessly inadequate to sustain a resort town in the middle of nowhere, but fortunately their presence in turn attracts a much larger horde of hopeless wannabes who actually provide the dosh to keep the whole edifice afloat, demonstrating their sheer class by recklessly spending spectacularly beyond their means for a taste of the high life.

Broome is the kind of place that you either love or hate. We’d heard remarkably mixed reports from a very diverse array of people, not always giving the opinion you’d expect of them, so were a bit unsure of how we’d take to the place. What went in its favour was that for once the white sand and azure seas lived up to the billing and were every bit as splendid as in the brochure, and that the jewel in the crown at Cable Beach Resort completely failed to stick their noses up at us when we arrived for a sunset drink, and in fact welcomed us like long-lost friends in a most egalitarian manner. This may be down in part to the whole place being staffed by temporary backpackers, after the Shopkeeper not long ago really did appear, and played Pied Piper by attracting all the young locals on a reverse trip down the elevator into the surrounding mines, there to discover their own pot of gold.

Still, we were happy to join the throng for sunset cocktails, making a nice change from warm cask wine, and relieved to note there were as many in singlets and thongs as Versace and Jimmy Choo. We weren’t so impressed when the backpackers showed their experience by completely failing to deliver the drinks until well after sundown, but at least we were in, and not completely out of place. Even so, it was the last time we’d bother with Cable Beach Resort.

By the second night we’d learnt that much better entertainment was available on Cable Beach itself. Every evening the entire town descends to watch the sun set over the sea. In Australia, virtually everyone lives on the east coast, and, unlike in Europe, the sun setting over the sea is seen as some sort of miraculous event. The fact that it occurs daily is just one more excuse to start on the beers early in this neck of the woods. This being a truly massive white sand beach there’s plenty of room for the whole town to set up camp for the entire evening, arriving by whatever means they prefer, on foot, bicycle, car or camel. Okay, not many of the locals have their own camel, but an enterprising few have twenty or so and earn themselves a mint by hiring them out to gullible visitors as the ideal beach transport.

This is Broome’s third secret attraction: Camel rides. It’s a bit like donkey rides at Blackpool, only on steroids. That either is a success is a complete mystery to me. I can vaguely see the appeal in galloping down an exquisite stretch of coastline atop a raging black stallion, though I fear the taste of the sand sandwich when I hit the floor would lessen my enjoyment. Quite why I should decide to climb onto the back of one of God’s more aesthetically challenged creatures, though, is a beyond my comprehension.

Camels do have a certain niche in the Australian psyche. They were brought over way back when by an astute group of hawkers who realised earlier than most that perhaps Afghanistan wasn’t going to turn out to be the Lucky Country after all. Unfortunately, after only a brief period of usefulness, some German genius invented the internal combustion engine, which was alot handier and considerably less smelly and the Afghans were sent packing until they could find something more useful to export, like heroin.

The camels themselves weren’t worth shipping off and were set loose on the landscape, where they quickly came to realise they’d found something of a home from home and bred like rabbits, literally humping their way across Australia’s interior. Funnily enough the rabbits were pulling off exactly the same trick from the opposite coast, and bred like camels, though one would imagine with considerably less noise. Unfortunately nobody ever had the time or energy to erect a Camel Proof Fence, with the result that Australia now has more wild camels than anywhere else in the world.

That Broome should embrace the camel as a tourist icon, though, is something of a surprise. Pearls and cocktails at sunset are something of an easy sell. Camels, by contrast, have always had something of an image problem.

As animals go, they’re a bit of an eyesore. They’re not cute and cuddly like roos, rabbits or koalas, and completely lack the panache of, say, a tiger or golden eagle. Their only claim to fame is their extaordinary ability to go for extended periods without the need for a drink. All down to their humps, apparently. They may be the ships of the desert, but it’s hardly cheetah or Great White Shark territory, now, is it?

It’s a brave marketeer indeed who ties the camel to his flagpole as the image of choice, but Broome has done just that, an obligatory image of the camels at sunset adorning every brochure. As far as I’m aware the camel brand has only been tried a couple of times before, once in the weird world of nicotine (one of the few things as unpleasant to smell, I suppose) and again, even more bafflingly in the early days of aviation, when some brilliant young marketing guru decided that the very thing to take on the Hawker Hurricane and de Havilland Spitfire would be a mechanical contraption known as the Sopwith Camel. A biplane, you know. The way of the future.

It just goes to show that the more mundane approach may pay off in the long run, tough, as there are still a handful of Sopwiths buzzing about Australian skies doing acrobatics for the tourists (bet you didn’t know a camel could loop the loop!), while the Hurricanes and Spitfires all went down in a hail of bullets years ago. Turns out a name isn’t everything. Something to think about next time you go out to buy a Corvette Stingray: an Austin Allegro has the exact same number of wheels.

Back down on Cable Beach as the sun neared the horizon the camel trains rolled on, transporting a bewildered series of tourists by now questioning how on earth they’d been persuaded onto this stinking contraption when they could have been in the bar, sipping cocktails. As they filed by our picnic spot they only added to the bizarre passing traffic of dogs, seagulls, cars, cyclists, and nudists, whose beach we’d all unwittingly invaded for the evening, and who look doubly comical round these parts as, even when nude, they’re still expected to wear their cowboy hats to keep the sun off. Slip, slop, slap, and all that.

As darkness fell it was something of a relief to be getting off home, wondering just what the hell they put in the champagne round these parts.

Such were the attractions of Cable Beach that it managed to keep us entertained for a good few days. We even spent a morning sunbathing, a first for us in our whole 11 years together. For the most part I have to report that it was dull, but I’m keeping an open mind and will be quite willing to try it again in another decade or so. We also went for our very first beach cycle, a surprisingly practical way to get around on a beach this size, and I was astonished to notice for the first time that Debbie’s bicycle goes by the splendid title of a Sycamore Mongoose, proof that the Sopwith guy’s spirit is still alive somewhere, even into these image obsessed days.

Eventually we’d exhausted the beach’s attractions, and decided to move on to another local institution, the brewery at Matso’s.

Matso’s is one of those swanky pub-restaurants which ups its status by brewing its own beer on the premises. As usual with these boutique brewers they’re not content to stick with your standard lager, and instead have to throw the whole gamut of beers at you, one of every type from which to choose. Matso’s have really pushed the boat out here, as apart from your normal wheat beers, stout and pale ales, they’ve started throwing in all sorts of goodies not normally associated with the amber nectar. Thus the menu includes such delicacies as Chilli Beer, and even Mango Beer.

I’m all one for a bit of experimentation, but in my experience these things rarely work out. In particular the whole sweet/savoury thing really fails to float my boat. Sweet’n’sour anything just sounds like a really good way to stuff up a perfectly good meal. I don’t want fruit in my curry, thank you very much, or sugar on my popcorn or chocolate on my peanuts. As for pineapple on pizza, jeez, why not just go the whole hog and shove on some ice-cream and chocolate topping?

I can only presume the Hawaiian was invented by some desperate early Italian adventurer who’d literally run out of anything else to eat in his efforts to cure his scurvy. Imagine the scene on his return, hauled before the king who’d funded the entire culinary disaster.

“Welcome home, my trio of bold explorers! Tell me now where your journeys have led you, and what treasures lay on those shores. We’ll begin with you, Valentino.”

“Sire, I sailed the breadth of the seven seas in search of glory until a wild storm finally flung us against the Horn of Africa. There I spent seven years quelling the natives and exploring the lands, until at last our vessel was rebuilt and we returned home. I have salvaged from these far off nations gold and diamonds beyond your imagining, and an assortment of the most exotic beasts your eyes can behold.”

“Excellent work, Valentino, my eternal servant. And moving on to you, Marco.”

“Sire, I have journeyed across vast deserts and mountain ranges to the Far Orient, a world of mystic cultures and ancient learning. I return with spices, pasta and ice-cream, and a magic powder with which to explode our enemies!”

“This is outstanding indeed, Marco. Once again you have performed beyond all expectations. These lands you men have travelled seem miracles beyond imagining. Umberto, by now I can hardly contain my excitement over hearing your tale.”

“Oh, yeah, well you wouldn’t believe it. We got blown way off course. Way off course! Ended up halfway to the end of the world! Finally got washed up on this bunch of exotic islands way out in the middle of nowhere. You’d have loved em - great beaches, girls in grass skirts, cocktails half price in happy hour!”

“Hmmm. And what treasures did you return with?”

“Oh, yeah, well, that’s the best bit. Great souvenirs! I got you this surfboard, a bright orange shirt with flowers on -very regal, I think you’ll agree - a hula hoop and, erm, oh yeah, you’re not gonna believe this, pizza with pineapple on! I know it sounds a bit odd, but you’ve really gotta try it! With this being cheap Tuesdays, I’ll throw in free delivery if you like?”

Unsurprisingly Umberto was executed at first light the next day, but somehow his pizza survived him.

Fortunately the Matso’s boys need have no such worries, as astonishingly Mango Beer turned out to be an absolute sensation. Somehow they’ve pulled off an unlikely Holy trinity by producing a beverage that at once tastes of beer and of mangoes but somehow manages to be even better than both. I was an instant convert.

As for Chilli Beer, it just about blows your head off, the only beer in history whose hangover symptoms include whiplash, and completely obviates the need to go for a curry after. I still can't decide if that’s a good thing or not.

The last attraction on Broome’s list was its weekend markets. We’d already stayed way longer than originally intended, but somehow, when you’re on holiday, markets seem to have this magnetic appeal. For some reason you always imagine that somewhere behind all the stalls selling sunglasses and ‘hilarious’ tourist shirts you’ll happen upon an old guy with an improbably long beard who has stumbled across the meaning of life, which he is prepared to pass on to you for a dollar if only you’ll buy one of his buffalo testicle pendants.

Unfortunately, in the western world, wizards seem to be about as rare as uncastrated buffalo, and the whole circus has been globalised into an endless string of tourist tat, fast-food and juice bars. Sprinkled among these are the odd stalls of creative drop-outs. The more entrepreneurial drop-out sells useful things like spices or... well, spices at any rate. As we pass backwards down the drop-out evolutionary tree, we pass stalls of wannabe photographers, wannabe jewellers, and finally down to the single-celled organisms of the primordial market soup and into the wonderful world of frog sculptures. Your average amphibian artiste looks like she might once have had a crush on Gandalf herself, before she got to know him and realised what an arrogant pig he was, not at all in tune with an earth-mother like herself. She is undoubtedly of the opinion that the world would be a much better place if everyone stopped fighting wars and making money and stayed at home doing frog sculptures, conveniently forgetting that should this come to pass she’d have lost her only meagre source of income and would be forced to go out and get a real job. I’m not sure how she’d cope down the abattoir castrating buffalo, but I’m sure Gandalf would see the funny side.

Strangely the globalisation of markets seems only to have affected the Western world. Over in Asia the local market economy is still booming, and stalls abound filled with the most extraordinary wonders, which mostly remain hidden as outsiders seldom delve to deep within the Bazaars due to the overwhelming stench of rotting flesh. The closest I personally have come to the meaning of life was when some oriental Paul Daniels offered me, in return for five measly dollars, eternal life in the form of 100 dried centipedes, tied up in a neat bundle. Unfortunately, what I was supposed to do with the centipedes to gain immortality was lost is translation, despite an elaborate attempt at charades by his Debbie McGee, who magically appeared to still believe she had a winning smile despite a complete lack of teeth.

Fortunately Broome proved remote enough to have been not yet completely homogenised, and an outer fringe of Magic Circle-ites remained in attendance hiding between the devil-stick twirlers and massage tables. One chap appeared to have pulled off the mother of all illusions by claiming to earn a living purely on the back of his extraordinary images of one particular species of tiny mollusc residing in the mangroves. If the meaning of life really is just a matter of being prepared to get up really early in the morning and get your boots muddy while snapping a few snails, I’m all for signing up. Check it out at www.gianttides.com.au

A more obvious local favourite for the creative types was the image of the Boab tree, which could be found adorning just about any item you could think of. The Boab is the floral equivalent of the camel, a tree capable of soaking up every morsel of water available to it, and in doing so attaining almost as comical an appearance as its humped animal counterpart, developing a girth so wide that a couple of local trees were used in the early days as makeshift prisons! The Boab is simply a super-size tree, the greedy-guts of the forest who ate all the pies, and then some. And despite its massive waistline it pulls off a trick of its own by being virtually immune to obesity-related health issues, achieving as close as any living thing will come on this earth to everlasting life, and doing so completely without the need to fork out for any petrified insects.

A boab seemed to fit the bill as the perfect souvenir for our stay. Realising a full-size one would be something of a squeeze in the confines of our mobile home, we eventually plumped for its image on a somewhat gaudy cushion-cover. Debbie was instantly sold, imagining in her innocence that somehow, despite our lack of jobs and the global financial crisis, we would some day be able to afford a house big enough to put it in. And for my part, despite not quite sharing her unwavering faith in our imminent elevation in residential status, I have to admit I kinda liked it.

Not a lot.

But I liked it.

A damn sight more than Hawaiian Pizza, at any rate.

---

Photos

What the...???
Did someone spike my Chum?

Sunset Champagne, Cable Beach
Something tells me we need new glasses!

Cape Leveque
View from our Beach Shack

Comments

[Steve]

A man after my own heart.
I have been very vocal for years about the horror that is the fruit-meat combination, truly the devils work. You do have my interest piqued with the mango beer though. Good work fella.