The Platypus

There's always been a special place in my heart for the platypus, the most unlikely and awkward of animals. It's as if the construction team, after assembling all the creatures on earth, had a few left over parts and after a few Friday beers decided to have a little fun. Bits of duck and rat and beaver were all thrown together to form the ultimate evolutionary underdog: a semi-aquatic, burrowing, egg-laying almost-mammal with poisonous spurs.

The first European explorers sent back a sample of the platypus to England and legend has it that those Poms thought some tomfoolery was afoot. As learned men, schooled in the New Sciences, they refused to believe such a misconception could exist and tried to remove the platypus' bill using pliers, certain as they were that it was a duck's beak stuck on a water rat. Australians love to take the piss, especially with the Motherland and its assumed superiority. In this case the joke was all the sweeter for being one made by the country itself.

Eungella is 80km out of my way but with the best chance of sighting platypuses in the wild in Australia, it's a detour I gladly make. After a long drive through seemingly endless fields of sugar cane I reach the start of the Eungella national park. The steep climb has the Jackaroo straining but with my gentle words of encouragement (e.g. "come on, you rusty hunk of shit") we make it to the top to be rewarded by glorious views of the valleys below.

I leave the car and follow the small path into the cool shade of the rainforest. Here a small wooden viewing platform has been built on the riverbank. The platypus is extremely shy and skittish and I've always thought that to see one in the wild would be a near impossible event. As I stand quietly on the river's edge however I'm treated to the sight of three of these elusive little creatures, swimming and fishing only a few meters in front of me.

They look like little wind-up toys, with podgy bodies, slick, plastic bills and rubbery webbed feet. They're comical little feet paddle rapidly and out of time with each other to give a duck-like waddle to their swimming.

They pay no notice to my voyeuristic attention and studiously dive for small shrimp, closing their eyes and digging through the murky bottom with their sensitive bills. Wherever they work, great clouds of silt billow into the water and I lose sight of them until they surface a few moments later, sucking in air through their little nostrils.

The busy industry of the platypuses provides a silent reprimand to the dozens of lazy fresh-water turtles that share this secluded bend in the river. These lazy, moss-covered reptiles paddle casually around, drifting on the surface with their heads just out of the water for air. All seem contentedly oblivious to the fussing of the nearby platypuses.

The Discovery Coast

Subtlety and nuance are rarely given much note by your average Aussie. No where is this more evident than in the way we name things: the bridge that spans the harbour, that's the "Harbour Bridge"; the mountains with the blue tinge, they're the "Blue Mountains"; the mountains with snow, that'd be the "Snowy Mountains"; "The Great Barrier Reef"; "The Great Dividing Range", "Western Australia"; "South Australia"; "The Northern Territory". The list is endless.

It was undoubtedly with this typical Australian bluntness that the "Town of 1770" was named. This secluded spot, on the Queensland coastline, is so named because in 1770 Cook and his crew landed here and discovered Queensland (which must have been a great relief to the local Aboriginals, who until then had been living in undiscovered land for some 60,000 years or so).

This area was only recently renamed to "Town of 1770". Its original name was apparently "Round Hill" because (you guessed it!) the headland forms a round hill. The town is in fact a caravan park, a mariner and a couple of well-secluded houses. Unlike the coast further south the place has a wild and untamed feel to it. The bush, tangled and unkempt, borders an endless stretch of coarse beach where a thick, salty sea-spray obscures the raging waves.

I spend the night surrounded by towering, grey gums. I fall asleep to the sound of the ocean crashing and the grunts of the bats jostling for fruit in the trees overhead. Possums wake me in the dead of the night, vicisiouly fighting or viciously mating (it's hard to tell with possums). I sleep with the windows down, enjoying the sharp breeze and the primitive, terrible wildness surrounding me. A million stars, white sparks in a vast pool of black, cause shadows to dance around me, in rhythm to the rustling leaves.

Grudge

When I was at Uni, Bundy (the rum company) threw a ‘Bundy Undie’ party down at my local pub. I convinced about six of my friends to go and we all went in our jocks (the guys in boxers and wife-beaters, the girls in boxers and slips). Bundy had also brought in Killing Heidi (popular at the time) to play and the pub was packed with about a thousand people.

Unfortunately Bundy had made the ‘undie’ part optional and, of the thousand, only my small group of friends (and one or two other brave heroes) had come ‘dressed’ in theme. From memory the girls immediately turned tail and changed outfits. Though less than happy with this turn of events, Glover (the usual accomplice in such antics) and I decided to push through with the original plan.

Needless to say we compensated for our lack of attire by heavily abusing the promotional rum drinks. We were well and truly plastered before the night was even half through. Somehow I found myself in the separate members’ part of the bar (around the same time Glover was passed out in the train station next door) and was ‘asked’ to leave for being unsuitably dressed (and pissed).

When I eloquently protested this harsh and unfair treatment, enlightening the bouncer to the fact that this was an ‘undie’ party, he wasted no time in throwing my arse out into the street. I’ve never forgiven Bundy for this slight and to this day I’ve refused to touch Bundy rum (though in truth this is largely due to the involuntary reflux I get now from having drunk too much of it).

Being in the home of Bundy rum however, I decide it’s time to bury the hatchet and lay some ghosts to rest. I head out to the Bundy brewery (one of the ugliest buildings on the face of the planet) with the intention of showing Bundy I ‘m not one to hold a grudge (for more than seven years anyway); I’d extend the hand of friendship, go on the tour and sample their wares once again.

On arrival I’m informed that I’ve just missed the last tour of the day by five minutes. It seems those bastards at Bundy are still out to get me. Well screw them. I’m not drinking their crappy rum then.

The Cup

I’ve stayed in my fair share of hostels in my day. It’s amazing the variety of unique and often terrible ways that people across the globe have found to satisfy the common requirement of providing a place to sleep for a night. One thing that all have in common however is that they work on ‘backpacker time’.

At any time, day or night, you can knock on a hostel door and have some poor, underpaid unfortunate lead you to a mouldy mattress in a stark cell packed tight with fifteen other poorly-washed vagabonds. Occasionally some hostel manager, in a stoic attempt at decency, will limit opening hours to perhaps eleven at night but rarely without some night watchman to secure those few extra bucks from late night arrivals.

In Bundaberg however I discover an international oddity. Arriving just before 6pm and eager to secure a place with a TV (in order to watch Australia in the World Cup match on at five the following morning) I find myself up against a locked and barred front door. I turn to the second hostel in town to find the same story. Both of these close at 5:30pm. I stand stunned as my brain tries to process this bizarre fact; it’s as if gravity has momentarily stopped working.

I check myself into the local caravan park, thankfully still open. For ten bucks I secure a sight for my car and access to the dunnies, but no TV. I scour the town, ludicrously hoping to find some bar, pub or cafe that will be open and showing the football but to no avail.

Despite having already paid for accommodation once that night, I eventually resort to a motel on the outskirts of town. I find the cheapest one I can, a real dodgy little shit-hole. So dodgy in fact they’ve thrown extra beds into a couple of rooms to make pseudo-dorm rooms. For twenty bucks I get a bed in one of these.

I’d assumed the TV was in a common room but arriving at the room I find that the TV is in fact mounted on the wall. I explain to the little Korean girl, who’d taken my money, that I want to watch the football at 5am and I doubted the others in the room will be impressed. She insists that I wake her up and watch the game in her room with her. Given that she has no idea who’s playing I’m suspicious she may have ulterior motives.

So now I’ve paid twenty bucks for a bed I have no intention of using (the car looks far more appealing) and the prospect of being raped by a slightly scary Korean girl but I’ve got a TV to watch the game on.

When I arrive at the motel at five in the morning, I find a small army of Japanese backpackers on their way out for a day of hard, minimum-wage labor picking tomatoes. As a result my room’s empty and I get to watch the game without prostituting myself to the manager. I just want it noted that I was willing to go that far in support of my country if required.

The Sunshineless Coast

There’s not much to do in Noosa when it’s raining. After a steady, overnight downpour (requiring some patchwork to stop the leaks in the car), the morning shows slight promise of a better day. As a few hopeful slivers of sunlight filter through the lingering clouds, an old man in a folding chair fishes patiently at the water’s edge. Occasionally he battles an opportunistic pelican for whatever catch he reels ashore.

I’m in a caravan park overlooking the mouth of the Noosa River. It’s a mobile retirement village; grey haired holiday makers sit in front of large, well equipped caravans, drinking tea and playing cards. My dented Jackeroo, with its bull-bar and rusty undercoat, stands defiantly unperturbed between the clean-cut campervans in their unscathed coats of white.

The sun fails to deliver on its morning promise and by lunch the rain has returned with a vengeance. Even in fair weather Noosa would have little to hold my interest so I quit the sea-side holiday town and move further north in search of better weather and a less domesticated coast line.

I had thought to cut across to Fraser and put the four-wheel-drive capabilities of the beast (and myself) to the test but the predictions say the weather’s here for a few more days. All the signs tell me to move north to the untamed tropics, and I take little convincing.

Crikey

I had to do it. Steve Irwin's 'Australia Zoo' was literally on my way north, how could I pass it by without dropping in for a look?

It was everything you'd ever imagine it to be and more. The place oozed tackiness and cheese: from the $46 entry fee, through to the crocodile feeding show and finally the Steve dolls in the three separate gift shops. No stone has been left unturned in the pursuit of the ultimate tacky experience.

Though Steve wasn't there in person, he was definitely there in spirit (and also in life-size, paper cut outs). Every sign, every photo, every display oozed Steveness. Barely a sign could be found without some reference to 'crikey' or 'have a go at this one'! It was enough to make any man want to eat four-n-twenty pies (available from the 'tucker' shop) until he exploded.

In fairness though, it was an impressive complex. The animals had an abundance of space and seemed well looked after. The funds that man has made from his entertaining idiocy have at least been put back into the zoo and its facilities for both occupants and visitors.

Caravan Culture

Last night was my first in the back of the car. It was the best sleep I've had in a long time. I've always preferred smaller spaces for sleeping in; there's something comforting about sleeping in your own personal, little cave. With the curtains (old jeans with Velcro on them) tacked across the windows and with my new doona wrapped up tight around me I was in heaven.

I wake in a grassy caravan park to the sight of the Glasshouse mountains looming over me. An odd array of caravans and campers surround me. Although all are mobile by design, more than a few are now firmly rooted in this quiet little camp.

A couple of old buses line one corner. Missing wheels and pot plants on the window sills remove any doubt that these once free wheeling families are going anywhere. They bear little practical difference to traditional suburban homes. Perhaps it's the idea, rather than the reality, of being free and unfettered that keeps these folk bound to their motorised homes.

At only 364m Mount Tibrogargan is barely a hill by any standards but it juts out from the ground like a spear head, giving it a dominating presence over the surrounding landscape. Many years ago I climbed this hill with my mate Glover and an American guy working with us at the time. For nostalgia's sake I climb it once more. The climb is as enjoyably challenging as I remember. The views from the top however, now contain more rows of monotonous pine plantations than memory had alloted.

Birthday Bash

I buy the Jackaroo in Brisbane. This is familiar territory for me since I studied here too many years ago at Queensland Uni. My younger brother Dave still lives here. Unlike me, he seemed to enjoy his schooling years (he went to the school that produced John Eals, I went to the one that produced the leading drug dealer on the Northern Beaches) and when the family left Brisbane he stayed behind.

My arrival just happens to coincide with Dom's (Dave's girlfriend) 24th birthday. Dom's the kind of girl you'd have to work hard to not like and her party is unsurprisingly packed with a wide variety of people from all walks of life.

Dave and Dom still live the student life (i.e. they're broke) and Dom's place is the ultimate student house. People pack the huge back yard, and lounge on the beat up old couches on the cement slab designating the back porch. A wooden, outdoor dunny-shed requires someone to hold the wooden slats shut while in use. It reminds me of my old student house, where my 21st birthday turned into mud wrestling in the back yard.

Although the back seat has been removed from my car, the guy who sold it to me insisted I take the free seat for the added re-sale potential (I couldn't really see the value-add but I didn't want to insult him). I mention that I'm trying to get rid of it to Dave and Dom and they get very excited. Needless to say they now have a new living room 'couch' to join the rest.

Home Coming

I slide the key into the ignition and turn; the engine thunders into life. The motor rumbles in idle, a beast trying to break free of its cage. The whole frame shudders with the force of it; the windows rattle in their bindings. A touch on the accelerator and the beast is released, surging onto the open road and carrying me with it.

This is my new home. A hostel on wheels, as my mate Pete described it after seeing the photos. A 1989 four-wheel-drive, beast of a Holden Jackaroo. The back seat has been ripped out and replaced with a wooden bed frame. It's the kind of car only a backpacker could love and there's no doubt it's seen its fair share of backpacker lovin' in its day.

It's time I discover my own country and this vehicle is (hopefully) going to let me do just that. As usual I have no real plans and my trip is being driven by nothing more concrete than the weather. South is cold, north is warm: north it is. I'll head up the East coast to start with and then head inland from there, making it up as I go. I've no conservation work lined up, but I hope to find some on the way.

The previous owners of the car, an English backpacker couple, nicknamed it 'able'. I never found out why but I think 'willing' might be a better name for it at this stage of its life. I think the guy who did the safety inspection put it best, "take oil, take lots of oil."