The East Coast Road Trip

by Steve Deeks

  Baring All Down Under

  The East Coast Road Trip

  Steve Deeks

  Copyright © 2016 Steve Deeks

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

  or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

  Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

  any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

  publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

  the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries

  concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events

  and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination

  or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Matador®

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  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

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  ISBN 9781785896613

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Acknowledgments

  Sarah Deeks and Diana Groves. Pat, Darren, Rob, Mark, Sam, Simon, Ben, Fraser, Joe, Tobias, Steve and Andy.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1 – The road trip begins

  Chapter 2 – The boat trip

  Chapter 3 – Behind the wheel

  Chapter 4 – Hervey Bay

  Chapter 5 – Fraser Island

  Chapter 6 – Deep in Fraser Island

  Chapter 7 – Debauchery on Fraser

  Chapter 8 – Noosa Heads

  Chapter 9 – Brisbane

  Chapter 10 – Surfers Paradise

  Chapter 11 – Nimbin and marijuana

  Chapter 12 – Byron Bay

  Chapter 13 – The Arts Factory

  Chapter 14 - The Christmas rave

  Chapter 15 – Sydney reunion

  Chapter 16 – The final hurrah

  Chapter 17 – Going home

  Chapter 1 – The road trip begins

  As I waited outside Cairns airport in the sweltering humidity of the North Queensland state with my backpack strangling my neck, I was left questioning whether I was doing the right thing by not heading back to Sydney to depart the country for England, as was originally planned. While you could argue that there really is no contest between heading back to a cold over populated island in comparison to partying your way down Australia’s east coast while taking in various adventure tours, it still came as a surprise to me that I was extending my voyage. I had grown irritated at hearing so many gushing stories from other backpackers about how great “doing the east coast” was and felt it my duty to see what all the fuss was about and no doubt put the record straight.

  My doubts intensified when I heard a car horn relentlessly beeping, as if an excitable child was driving it, which as it turned out was not far from the truth. I saw a hand with a solitary finger raised out of the window of the four-wheel drive vehicle, which had a large picture of the devil emblazoned across the bonnet with “Stevo” written in large letters underneath it. I strode towards the wagon – so weighed down by the volume of items stuffed onto the roof rack that the engine was almost touching the ground – knowing without a second take that it was my good friend Mark. “Alright toss-pot, you found it then?” he shouted out the window.

  “Sure did pube face.”

  Once Mark had pulled over and slapped me hard on the cheek by way of a hello, three weary people suddenly emerged from the car: a chubby Scottish woman with red rosy cheeks called Julie, who had a particularly strong accent, and two younger early 20s blond haired Swedish lads, Sam and Simon, who were far easier to understand. They had all met at a hostel on-route down the east coast and would be joining us on our trip south. “We’ve got these three tagging along, hope you don’t mind?” Mark announced brashly. “It’s cheaper that way. And they’re not too bad.” As it was, I didn’t mind, although I did think it might have occurred to him to mention it to me before, especially as it essentially meant I would be spending every waking moment with three total strangers cramped up in a knackered four-by-four.

  After forcing my backpack into the boot with great difficulty, I was given the red carpet treatment when allowed to sit in the passenger seat for the first stretch of the journey, as a goodwill gesture for being the new arrival. But, thereafter, before entering the vehicle it would be a case of whoever called first got the seat, which had infinitely more space than the area in the back, which resembled a cattle market. Once in position, feet were desperately sprawled out to both sides of me - with one rested on the side of my chair, dangerously close to my ear - as those in the back searched for any of the elusive space that was available.

  Feeling as comfortable as a sardine in a tin, we hit the road with the music blaring and began our voyage into the unknown. It wasn’t long before we were on an empty, long stretch of road with nothing more interesting than some dull fields to look at, prompting us to play the dazzling game of who can predict when we will see another car. We would seemingly go for miles and miles without seeing a fellow human, so naturally when we did the game evolved a further aspect that saw Mark tooting the horn and both of us waving our hands out of the window, normally with the Swedes sticking a hand out the sun roof for good measure too.

  The idea being that they would wave back, or even better, if they were in a lorry, sound the horn in recognition of our efforts. I couldn’t exactly recall the last time I had played such a game but was almost certain it had been back at Primary School – about two decades earlier. There was a sinister side to the fun, too, where if the driver coming towards us ignored our request – which quite a few, unfortunately, for them, did. Having blatantly been blanked, and with our egos affronted, we would then subject the drivers to the kind of torrent of abuse that no parent would be proud to hear coming from their child’s mouth, along with a variety of frantic hand gesticulations showing our disapproval; all of which had to be administered precisely as they bypassed us, much to the opposing vehicle’s disgust. If nothing else, at least it helped liven up the journey slightly.

  As the light began to fade we pulled up at the nearest campsite to settle down for the night. In the interests of saving as much of our money as possible (we had all paid $100 each toward petrol, food and drink supplies) we decided the best policy was for the Swedes and Julie to get out the car into the pouring rain as we approached the site. This would, therefore, give the impression they were not with Mark and myself, so we would cunningly only have to pay for two people rather than five. Smugly getting back into the car having saved ourselves the huge collective sum of $8, we made our way round to our allotted space before being joined by the rest, who cautiously appeared from behind a shelter after checking the coast was clear.

  With it now dark and the rain pelting it down we had to hurry. The Swedes and Julie set about putting up their own tent while I helped Mark as much as was possible with ours; though, I hav
e to confess such a task did not play in to my strengths. Although I marvelled at the advancement of modern technology tents, compared with the awkward confusing ones from yesteryear, it was still a painful exercise, with my plight exacerbated by the lack of light.

  My limited talent for such tasks was helpfully pointed out to me while doing labouring work in Sydney some months earlier, where I was instructed to fulfil the perceived rudimentary task of rolling up an electricity cable. After several failed attempts and with the cable in a considerably worse condition than before, the perplexed and mildly irritated foreman realising he could be waiting a long time, finally ran out of patience and stopped what he was doing to roll it up effortlessly himself in a few seconds. “Fuck me, the agency said you were a labourer not a monkey,” the beleaguered man, on a tight deadline, observed.

  I was getting similarly astounded and untrusting looks from Mark after he garbled instructions at me in our frantic quest to erect the tent before we got totally drenched. I was keen to do my bit but couldn’t help but think I was making more work for him. “Hang on a minute, let me do that,” he would suddenly announce while peering at my handiwork suspiciously with his phone torch, thus preventing me doing any more damage to our cosy sanctuary for the night. In the end, I was assigned the task of blowing up our double spread air mattress. Fortunately, this could be done automatically by holding one end that pumped air into our bed, while ensuring the other remained firmly attached to the energy-generating device in the car. I saw my role as particularly crucial, as without the inflatable airbed we would have to make do with spending the night on the hard ground with nothing more than a sleeping bag and a flat pillow to comfort us - like the poor Swedes and Julie were preparing to do so.

  After finally getting the tents up and stable enough so they couldn’t be blown over we went to the sheltered communal eating area to make some food, which gave me the chance to get to know the Swedes and Julie better. Sam and Simon were typical Swedes: blond haired and blue eyed with perfect English who liked a joke but had a serious, thoughtful side. Julie seemed nice enough, though I couldn’t be entirely sure as understanding her proved about as easy as comprehending a Chinaman with a vacuum cleaner in your ear. She also had a strange body, which reminded me of a duck: top heavy above the waistline, but stalk thin legs.

  We cooked sausages and burgers on the electric barbeques before scoffing the food down like we were starving; relieved our labours for the day were behind us. As with everything it was a team effort and after washing up and putting our plastic plates and cutlery back in our highly organised container we retired to bed. Lying on the same mattress as Mark I felt his hairy leg brush against mine. “Please don’t get any ideas chimp boy,” I whispered, sparking the inevitable jokes that exist when two heterosexual men are forced to sleep in close proximity to one another.

  “I better not wake up with a sore ass,” he responded sharply. Although we weren’t awash with space at least we had a good deal more than the others. And with that comforting thought I drifted off to sleep.

  I awoke the next morning with everything as it should be: my boxer shorts still on and with no obvious signs of foul play. The tent was like being in a fan-assisted oven and, clasping for air, I reached over and unzipped the door and sleepily made my way to the shower. The water trickled out but at least it was warm and allowed me to cleanse myself following a night spent in close quarters with Mark. While brushing my teeth in the communal washing area I caught a glimpse of a man in the mirror who was contently shaving his stubble with nothing more than a towel over his shoulder and some flip-flops on. It was not the sight I needed first thing in the morning and I could only assume he was German, as I knew from my experiences they had a propensity for casually strutting around in public, as if to proudly showcase their crown jewels.

  In some doubt over the sexuality of this strange man lurking behind me, whilst feeling slightly self-conscious about my own assets, I briskly walked outside and felt a huge weight off my shoulders when finally safe from any danger. I had breakfast and then helped to pack away the tent. We still had a morning of driving in front of us before we reached our destination at Airlie Beach, so left punctually just before 10am.

  Taking full advantage of the Swedes and Julie’s sloth like meandering I called the passenger seat first and smugly ushered them into the back before comfortably positioning myself in the relative luxury of the front. It wasn’t all plain sailing riding in the front, though, as there were certain responsibilities that fell on the shoulders of that fortunate individual. These included being in charge of the music - not necessarily a bad thing but a bit of an imposition when you wanted to sleep or look out the window without any duress. With discretion over the music came the need to be able to work an i-pod was required – an area of expertise I had no great experience in and something that required almost constant monitoring due to the requirement of selecting new songs roughly every four minutes, thanks to album lengths of rarely no more than two songs on Julie’s playlist. Such devices were fiddly at the best of times, while I couldn’t help but think there was something more interesting I could be doing other than manoeuvring my finger in circular motion to select a cheesy song I hated as we bounced along the bumpy road.

  There was also – in theory at least – the most vital of responsibilities: reading the map. For some people this comes naturally but for me, someone who romped home to an F grade in Geography at GCSE level – and deeply proud of it, I must say – this was not an area of my skill set, though I did know my left and rights. I also understood the concept behind north, south, east and west. My problems came with knowing exactly where I was on the map, therefore being able to identify the correct route to take at key moments.

  Fortunately it wasn’t long before I was getting the same curiously exasperated looks from Mark I had received when trying to put up the tent. “Do we take the A331 at the next junction?” he would ask, more in hope than expectation, as we made our way down the Bruce Highway, or at least this was the road I thought we were travelling on.

  “Umm well judging from this,” I began, offering a falsely confident voice followed by a lengthy pause while I ran my finger down the map hoping I could find the road he was talking about. “Yes, it appears that may be the case,” I would then add. But in truth you could have blindfolded me and told me to stab a pin on the map and we would have had more chance of getting our precise location.

  Wise to my ways and keen not to take a major detour costing hundreds of dollars extra in petrol and hours of our time, Mark would often intervene. “Let’s have a look at that,” he would say, grabbing the map off me to intermittently study it while attempting to keep abreast of the road ahead. On other occasions if the road required his full attention he would refer to either Sam or Julie, with Simon normally fast asleep, for guidance on which route to take. Even when I had a moment of clarity and asserted which road to go down I felt a wall of silence greet my navigational expertise before the ritual, “Let’s have a look at that”. Through my own lack of map reading talent I had unwittingly absolved myself of all responsibility when it came to directing us, which was not a bad thing, as it only left me with the task of working the i-pod.

  We rolled into Airlie Beach around midday after a hassle free journey. Although there had not been much to look at in the way of glorious views on route to our destination, as we wound our way down toward the harbour and main parade it was clear why this Queensland destination was considered a tropical paradise, with its sparklingly clear waters and conglomerate of small islands stretching out as far as the eye could see. The place itself was small but lively with a fair selection of bars scattered along the road, many of which were surprisingly busy considering the time of day, with people enjoying a drink in the hot sun watching the world go by.

  We conspicuously made our way down Shute Harbour Road, with people casting quizzical looks in the direction of our absurd piece of machinery we were travell
ing in, before pulling over on the side of the street. For some reason the passenger door was no longer working so I climbed out of the window and jumped down onto the pavement where we held a discussion about our plan of action for the afternoon.

  A couple of backpackers passing by seemed intrigued by our arrival with one coming over to us. “That’s Stevo from Cairns’ car ain’t it?” came the voice from the vest wearing, bearded man.

  “Yeah that’s right, you know him?” Mark, turning round, replied.

  “Everyone knows him, well the car at least. It’s done the east coast more times than a hooker’s given head.” The individual was clearly well informed of the mythical Stevo figure, who had travelled far and wide in this beast before its unreliability became a hindrance, at which point he decided to rent it out to backpackers before finally deciding to cash in and sell it on to some gullible, unsuspecting individual - Mark. “She’s got a lot of character,” the man observed, “I wouldn’t like to get the forensics out to inspect the seats, if you know what I mean though,” he winked, before helpfully adding, “You’ve got about as much chance of that thing getting you to Sydney as finding a Pommie without a burnt face.”

  “Or finding a hard working Australian,” I hit back, before the by-passer walked off.

  “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Mark, with a hint of irritation in his voice, said dismissively. I suppose I would have said the same too if I had forked out over $6,500 for that piece of crap. I looked round and saw the Swedes smiling. “Oh dear Mark I think you might have paid too much,” Simon said dryly.

  Sam sniggered, “Yeah too much by about $6,000.”

  “We’ll see, we’ll see,” Mark, defending his corner, struck back. We all knew, though, that his confidence was badly misplaced.

  We made our way to the travel shop where we had booked our three day boat tour on the Great Barrier Reef, signed a disclaimer, similar to the one I did on the crocodile tour, letting us know that were anything unfortunate to happen, like being killed, then under no circumstances was it the responsibility of the company.