I’ve always wanted to be one of those people who says, ‘We’ve been to Byron.’
Or Bahhhron. Like they’re actually talking about the poet. ‘Bahhhron was amazing. I adore Bahhhron. Bahhhron . . . changed me. I visit Bahhhron about twice a year. Just to sit. Listen. Be . . . Fuck, I love Bahhhron.’
My husband, Hamish, and I hadn’t had a holiday in several years. We were tired, grumpy and Sydneyed out. So we decided to scrape together our funds and go back to ‘nature’, wherever the hell that was. We decided on Byron and started the online hunt for a suitable abode where we could relax. All the Airbnb places seemed to have a waft of patchouli about them. There were dreamcatchers on the bedheads. Wall hangings that said Nama-stay for a while. All the hotels had ‘poolside creches’ and multi-coloured bedspreads with pictures of shells on them. I didn’t want that. After three years without a day off, I wanted a sarong with my name embossed on it. I wanted martinis by a gum tree. I wanted koala bears waving at me in my private spa.
And then I found it. Opening soon. Breath of Byron. Where everything you need is merely an eyebrow raise away. It was going to totally break the bank and we were going to have to work twice as hard when we got back to pay for it, but bugger it. It’s Bahhhron. I booked. This. Was going. To be. Perfect.
Hamish and I drove the nine hours to Byron Bay and pulled up to the wave-shaped architectural wonder that is Breath of Byron. We tumbled out of the car and inhaled deeply.
‘Wow, it feels different, doesn’t it? You know. In your lungs,’ I said to my husband.
‘Yes,’ he replied.
And in we headed.
The first thing you notice about Breath of Byron is the staff. They are fucking beautiful. They look like God, Charles Atlas and the Kardashians were commissioned to come up with the perfect human. A bunch of stunning, diverse, taut, glowing, perky aliens. Teeth like pearls. Skin flecked with salt. Hair a little damp at the ends. Like they’re really merpersons who have crawled out of the ocean, grown some perfectly tanned feet, played a quick game of beach volleyball and then decided to open an eco-resort.
And their names . . . It’s my firm belief that these perfect people reached into a bag of Scrabble tiles, threw them in the air and whatever landed, that’s what they called themselves. Ziruveon. Aooeoo-ee-oo. Quince. Xiv.
‘Hey, welcome to Breath of Bahhhron,’ said our personal concierge on our arrival. He was dressed in crisp white jeans rolled above the ankles and a striped shirt, and he had a tattoo of a seahorse on his calf.
‘Thank you . . . Areoli . . .’ we chorused back at him, reading the name badge on his magnificent broad chest.
‘Here for a holiday?’ he asked.
‘Hell yes!’ we replied, scarily loud.
‘Well you’ve come to the right place!’ he said in his soft, humble, calming voice.
‘Hahahahahahahaha,’ we agreed heartily.
‘Let’s take the pool path,’ he said.
There’s that moment in Willy Wonka where Gene Wilder shows the kids and their parents into the World of Pure Imagination Room. The closest I’ve ever been to that in real life was when Areoli opened the doors to the pool path at Breath of Byron, except instead of a chocolate river there was an enormous infinity pool and instead of lollipop flowers there were elaborate cocktails made of Australian botanicals getting sipped by tourists who lazed on daybeds like smug, slightly inebriated seals. I wanted to be one of them so much.
When we arrived at our lagoon villa, which was indeed a villa by a lagoon, Areoli chuckled. His Adam’s apple bobbed beautifully on cue. ‘Looks like you’ve got a friend,’ he said, and gestured to a frog sitting on our front doorstep.
‘Ribbit,’ said the frog, and we gasped, teary.
‘Look, baby,’ I whispered. ‘Nature.’
‘Yes,’ said Hamish.
Inside the villa, Areoli showed us around. ‘There’s your plunge bath. Your rain shower. Complimentary soil scrub. 5000-thread- count cotton on your cloud bed. The beach is a two-minute walk thataway, but the flat-screen TV comes with a beach-cam channel, in case you’d rather just watch the waves roll in from the couch. The mini bar is all ethical, except the Cokes.’
Then Areoli gave us a hessian bag of gifts. Inside were two sarongs. Some locally sourced spring water. And a bag of trail mix, in case we wanted to hike through the custom-built rainforest and needed some sustenance. And then, Areoli was gone, leaving nothing but a whiff of Manuka honey in the air.
‘We don’t need trail mix,’ said Hamish. ‘We’ve got this.’ He produced a Tupperware container of muesli from his bag.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘It’s muesli,’ he replied. ‘Lucas gave it to me.’ Lucas is my husband’s friend from Los Angeles. He’d recently visited Australia and had left us the muesli as a gift.
‘We don’t eat muesli,’ I said. ‘When have we EVER eaten muesli?’
‘This is . . . herbal muesli,’ replied Hamish.
‘Ohhhhh,’ I said. We both stared at the Tupperware container like two very white people in their late thirties.
I should point out, it’s not that I don’t do drugs. I CAN’T do drugs. Childhood cancer left me with several missing organs, so I tend to be the one at parties nodding awkwardly, clutching a light beer, saying, ‘Oh . . . I love you too, Marion.’
Hamish and I put the Tupperware container aside. We had things to not do.
The next week was a brilliant, sunny haze of Bahhhron bliss. Eucalyptus cocktails by the pool with the seals, chatting to blissed-out travellers by the firepit at dusk. It was twenty-seven degrees at night. We didn’t need a firepit. But dammit we were going to sit by that blazing hole anyway because we’d bloody well paid for it. We were woken each morning by a family of chuckling kookaburras and we went to sleep at night to the chirruping of cicadas. Every night our little frog friend – who Hamish had named Kenny Frogers – paid us a visit before plopping away to the lagoon. And on our final day, we indulged in a massage from the resident masseuses Osprey and Hawk.
Afterwards, we managed a visit to town. We visited an antique store and I bought a teacup and a vintage nightgown. One of those long, white, Picnic at Hanging Rock ones that make you feel like dancing to panpipes in the outback before you vanish under disturbing circumstances.
That final night, back in our lagoon villa, Hamish and I packed our suitcases for the nine-hour drive back to Sydney. And it was around this time that the Tupperware container made its appearance again. I picked it up and looked at my husband.
‘Herbal should be fine if you have a few missing organs, shouldn’t it? I mean . . . it’s not like it’s ibuprofen.’ Hamish shrugged. ‘I guess.’
I removed the lid. The muesli smelled . . . delicious. Like toasted oats and maple syrup. We picked up a small piece each – about the size of a sultana. ‘When in Bahhhron . . .’
And we popped our muesli.
‘Lucas said it takes about two hours to kick in,’ said Hamish. ‘Why don’t we watch a film while we wait?’
‘OK,’ I said.
I put on my new vintage nightgown and we sat down to watch The Lobster. For those who don’t know this film, it’s set in a dystopian near future, where single people, according to the laws of The City, are taken to The Hotel, where they are obliged to find a romantic partner in forty-five days or are transformed into beasts and sent off into The Woods.
This was literally the worst movie we could have watched while under the influence of herbal muesli in a lagoon villa in Byron.
Not that it mattered because two hours and ten minutes later, we conferred.
‘I don’t feel anything, do you?’
‘I don’t.’
‘I mean, I feel a little anxious, but I think that’s just Colin Farrell. I’ve always found him overrated.’
‘Mmm. Probably.’
‘Should we take some more? We could take some more. Should we take some more?’
‘Can’t hurt. It’s muesli.’
> We took two more sultana-sized pieces. As Colin Farrell got sent to The Woods with that sexy French chick from Blue is the Warmest Colour, I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I drifted off.
While I was asleep, the world shifted.
When I awoke, the first thing I noticed was the silence. The cicadas had stopped chirruping. The television was off. The lights were out. The lagoon outside our villa was still, glassy black. The only glow came from . . . me. My nightgown was luminescent in the dark room. I stood up quickly and stared down at the column of light that was beneath me.
‘My feet,’ I whispered. ‘I can’t see my feet. I must be floating. Which means I must be a ghost. Which means . . . I’m DEAD. I’m FUCKING DEAD!’ I called out for Hamish but he was nowhere to be seen. Because he was probably still alive, the bastard! He’s got all his organs! He survived the herbal muesli and I didn’t because now I’m obviously fucking DEAD. Holy shit, I’m destined to haunt the lagoon villa in Byron for the rest of my afterlife. I’m gonna have to watch couples like us do their annoying couple things in here for all eternity. And couples like us do stupid things like swan around in oversized hotel robes and wash each other awkwardly in the rain shower and trust Californians bearing fucking breakfast cereal.
Fuck, why did I choose such a cliched outfit to be a ghost in? I’m gonna be the laughing stock of all the other Bahhhron ghosts in their sexy afterlife bikinis and denim cut-offs. And what if Hamish, like, remarries and brings his new wife back to this villa as a kind of cathartic farewell to me and they, like, have amazing sex on the cloud bed and I’m here in my nightgown going, ‘HEY! BITCH! That’s my husband!’ while all the other ghosts laugh at me?
I heard a ribbit from outside and ran to the villa door. Through the glass screen was Kenny Frogers. And he had . . . a friend. And it was at this moment I was gripped by the most severe panic I have ever encountered. Hamish had given Kenny Frogers a name but not his friend! This was awful.
I floated backwards across the villa away from the frogs and found myself in the bathroom. Hamish was covered in soil scrub and sitting in a plunge bath of freezing water. He still had his hotel slippers on.
‘Can you see me?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ he replied.
‘CAN YOU SEE MY FEET? NO YOU CAN’T, HAMISH, BECAUSE I’M A FUCKING FLOATING GHOST AND I’M STUCK HERE FOR ALL ETERNITY AND LUCAS IS A BAD CALIFORNIAN AND WE’RE GONNA HAVE TO GET DIVORCED BECAUSE YOU CAN’T BE MARRIED TO A GHOST – IT DIDN’T WORK IN THE MOVIE SO IT WON’T WORK IN BAHHHRON – AND KENNY FROGERS HAS A FRIEND AND WE HAVEN’T NAMED HIM SO FOR THE REST OF ETERNITY HE’S JUST GOING TO BE “OTHER FROG” AND IT’S JUST GONNA GET AWKWARD.’
‘Hammerstein,’ said Hamish dreamily.
‘What?’
‘He shall be named Hammerstein.’
‘Frogers and Hammerstein?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ said Hamish.
I hurriedly floated back to the frogs and told them the good news. They seemed genuinely relieved.
The rest of the night is a blur. There was a lot of crying. That was me. Hamish had a wonderful time. He went for a dance around the firepit. He made friends with a skink. He watched The Lobster again.
The next morning, we were not awoken by our kookaburra friends but by Areoli knocking on our door. We lifted our bleary heads and blinked as he stepped into the villa, silhouetted by streams of sunlight like some kind of Pilates-toned demi-god.
‘Hey, guys. We’ve been trying to call you. You were supposed to check out two hours ago. We’re pretty relaxed here, but . . . this is just unacceptable.’
Being chastened by a man named Areoli is shameful enough, but it got worse. Hamish and I couldn’t actually move, let alone check out and drive a car for nine hours.
‘Areoli, please.’ My mouth was like sawdust. ‘Can we . . . please stay . . . for one more day? Areoli? We just . . . we really love . . . Bahhhron.’
‘Today is the start of peak season,’ said Areoli, the evil sonofabitch. His blue eyes glinted like shards of ice. ‘The nightly rate has tripled. Blues Fest. You know.’
I cast a glance at my husband. His face was still covered in soil scrub and he was drooling.
‘Deal,’ I said. And Areoli smiled his stupid smug smile and left as the kookaburras began to laugh from their perches.
When control of our faculties finally returned, Hamish and I tried to get lunch at the hotel bar but the disapproving stares of the other guests drove us back to our room. God knows what we did to them. We spent the rest of the day watching beach-cam on the couch. At checkout the next morning we were hit with a room service bill for food we didn’t even recall ordering. Three bowls of kumara wedges, one oyster and a wattle sundae. We’d eaten and drunk every single thing in the minibar and apparently put them all back filled with lagoon water. With a shake of his perfect head, Areoli closed the doors on the Willy Wonka pool path and handed us our car keys. ‘Bye, guys,’ he said. ‘Be cool, huh?’
Nine silent hours later, we arrived home. More exhausted than when we left. Our bank accounts drained. And really, really humiliated. I put the nightgown in the bin and flushed the muesli down the toilet. We were home. We were safe. Now we just had to begin the process of recovery. We would one day be strong again – Frogers and Hammerstein said so.
But for now, we were two pale, quivering, broke thirtysomethings who would never, ever again be going back to Bahhhron.
ALLAN CLARKE
Allan is a Muruwari and Gomeroi man and an award-winning investigative journalist, producer and presenter. He has worked for the ABC, BuzzFeed, SBS and NITV. Allan is from the small town of Bourke, in far western New South Wales. Growing up, he struggled to come to terms with his sexuality, believing that being gay was at odds with his Aboriginality. Today, Allan uses his public platform to advocate for vulnerable Aboriginal LGBTQI youth and encourage Indigenous communities to fight homophobia.
‘Pants Off, Red Dirt’ copyright © Allan Clarke 2018
Pants Off, Red Dirt
by ALLAN CLARKE
This story was originally performed at the event I Come from a Land Down Under
I come from a family that has always fought: fought to survive, fought for acceptance, fought for others and fought for ourselves.
Swinging punches and landing uppercuts, both physical and mental. Sometimes we get a KO, other times we just scrape through, but the fight to survive is always there in my family. This is not your average coming-of-age story. This is a tale of one black boy’s cage match between his sexuality and his Aboriginality, and a poor victim caught in the crossfire.
I’m a Muruwari man from a little place called Bourke, you might have heard of it referred to as the ‘back of Bourke’, ‘beyond the black stump’, ‘where the crows fly backward’ or, if you’re an avid reader of the Daily Telegraph, ‘the most dangerous place on earth’.
I come from a huge Aboriginal family – when I say huge, I mean huge. Just to give you a taste of how extended our mob gets, it’s common practice to ask an older relative if you are related to someone before you dated them. No one wants to be a kissing cousin or even worse pinned a ‘’lation lover’, even if your object of affection is a cousin seven times removed via an aunty’s uncle’s grandchild’s wife.
It might have thwarted many romances as a teenager, but today I love that we, as a people, still have a part of this ancient complex kinship system that my ancestors created millennia ago – even more special when I think about how much cultural practice has been taken from us.
Throw two Kooris together in a room, grab the popcorn and watch as they get all Russell Crowe in A Beautiful Mind on each other. Calculating and conjuring family trees, locations, dates and eventually coming to a conclusion – whether you’re related or you’re not. It truly is a black superpower.
Something that’s not part of our ancient culture, but which remains embedded in our community, is homophobia.
You can thank the missionaries for that. Those lovely men and women
of god who wrapped their arms around my elders when they were children, after they were snatched from their families to have their culture abused out of them.
Their Aboriginality became tainted with judgment that organised Western religion readily preaches. Men and women on missions and girls and boys in children’s homes were taught that men should not lie with men.
I grew up in a small town. I was a very uncoordinated, lanky, skinny brown boy, who played Alanis Morrissette’s Jagged Little Pill so many times that I broke the CD.
This wasn’t how brown boys in Bourke were supposed to act. I was quiet, painfully shy, often hiding in the library reading books to escape my reality. I had an army of cousins who all played football and were macho, cocky and loved girls, and I would secretly pray I could be like them.
When I hit puberty and started to find boys attractive, it was hell. I would pray hard that god would make me straight, to make me like girls.
Black boys were meant to be good at sport and be good fighters, they weren’t meant to be ‘cats’. In my town, Aboriginal people called gay people ‘cats’. That word, when used in that way, terrified me. It sent chills down my spine because it was loaded with such hate and disgust.
But one summer holiday, when I was sixteen years old, I found someone who was in the same boat as me. We plotted, covertly, to find a way to experiment. We hatched the perfect plan, to escape the town and get some privacy.
Bourke is in the outback, it is full of animals that will kill you, and if they don’t the heat will. So our smart plan was to go out into the outback where things kill you and find a private spot in the bush.
I left my house, furtively glancing around to make sure there were no Dorises – town gossips – around. I walked a kilometre up the highway and then turned onto the levee bank. Now is probably the right time to say I hate snakes. I am terrified of them, and here I was walking through a king brown and red-bellied black snakes’ wonderland wearing thongs and shorts. Finally, I meet up with my nervous friend and we venture forth into the rough scrub, prickly branches scratching our legs and arms – hormones: am I right?!
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