The East Coast Road Trip

by Steve Deeks

  Feeling indignant having come under mounting and wholly unfair criticism, I was forced into defending my good reputation. “If your car wasn’t such an old pile of crap that had driven round Australia thousands of times then we wouldn’t have had this problem,” I hit back.

  Eventually, as things became even more tetchy, we found a campsite, much to everyone’s delight. None of us had any idea where we were but who cared? We were no longer destitute and could rest. After performing the usual trick of just two of us approaching reception we were informed there was a cabin we could stay in for $20, which seemed a lot of money for a shit-hole. We made our way in the pouring rain across the murky grass, past scattered cabins and rusting portable homes before finding our sanctuary for the night.

  With soaking wet feet from the giant holes in my trainers I was a relieved man to finally get out of the tropical storm after Mark had finally got the key to work. After climbing up the steps and into the shelter it was immediately apparent there was only one bed. A chair and a shelf were the other notable features of this dump. No television, no kettle, no power points. Nothing. But yet despite the minimalist accommodation I felt deeply content. Perhaps, though, this owed more to being out of the car and soaking up the luxury of having some space to rest while the rain smashed against the roof like pump action machine gun bullets.

  Unfortunately we still had to blow up the airbed. Feeling tired after my exertions, though, I left this task to Mark and Sam and quickly claimed a spot on the vacant bed, which I felt myself nestle comfortably into before drifting off into a deep warm slumber as those around me rushed about to get ready for bed.

  As I opened my eyes the next morning I glanced over my shoulder and noticed I had occupied a substantial portion of the double bed that I had been sharing with Simon and Mark – who were squeezed into less than half of the area. Still, I had slept well, which in these circumstances is all you can hope for, though I’m not sure the others slept quite as well. Feeling pleased with myself I made the walk across the grass to the washing area with the sincerest of intentions to shower but after seeing the filthy cobweb ridden state of the facilities - and fearing a deadly Black Widow spider or something similar was lurking - I decided I would forgo this particular luxury and simply opted to put in my contact lenses and brush my teeth quickly before getting out. I also managed a much needed change of underwear, which gave me a spring in my step.

  We boiled some water before knocking back a few coffees with toast and then shoved our stuff into Stevo and left the dreary cabin. We drove off from the desolate site with the conditions cloudy and drizzly but much improved from the previous night’s storm battering. It had been decided we would be stopping off at a place a few hours away called Emerald to dig for gold and silver.

  We pulled up at some sparse place with a collection of huts and an adjoining building later that afternoon and paid $10 each for the privilege of sifting through mountains of wet mud in the vague hope of finding pearls. Simon, as a jeweller back in Sweden, was taking particular interest in the activity and with great concentration started the process of getting a load of dirt on his sieve before dunking it into a water basin and then shaking it about vigorously hoping to unearth a gem. Everyone was soon at it – even me. After studiously watching the process I then boldly decided to join suit and begin my futile quest for treasure.

  In amongst the copious amounts of wet sludge I came across some sparkly colourful bits, which I was informed could be used in jewellery. I, along with everyone else, amassed several of these shiny pieces but after about half an hour of getting wet and muddy with no prospect of hitting the jackpot, I decided to call it a day and made my way to the bar area to order a well deserved hot chocolate and scone.

  Tucking in to my cream and jam treat I barely noticed as it started pelting it down with rain once more. It was only when it felt like the outdoor shelter to the bar area was about to collapse that I really took notice having been in a world of silent pleasure filling my face. Water started flooding the courtyard so I decided to take the opportunity of forcing down another scone knowing that we were not going anywhere for a while. “There’s gonna be havoc with the rain this summer, you mark my words,” the lady owner mystically asserted as she looked up at the heavens. None of us knew how devastatingly accurate she would be.

  Once the rain had eased off we took the opportunity to set off and head for the nearest campsite – finding one quicker than expected in just over an hour. Having hastily pitched up our tents in the light rain we decided to get an early night so we could be on the road early the next day.

  I awoke sharply the next day with my backside and top completely wet from where I had been sleeping in a puddle. In bed with Mark, though, I had naturally assumed he had either wet himself or played a practical joke on me. In any event, I felt like you do when you’re a child after wetting yourself during the night, before waking up with that unmistakably damp and uncomfortable feeling in your pants the next day, somewhat regretful of the previous night’s lazy indulgence when you opt to let the warm pee flow out rather than go to the toilet. “Gutted…you forgot to put your nappy on again last night didn’t you?” Mark sniggered, as he rolled over, happily spotting my wet patches. Desperately wrestling to get my soaking wet t-shirt off I then made my way to the showers, only to be met with a trickle of warm water as I attempted to cleanse myself after another filthy night spent roughing it. I never thought it possible, but I was beginning to long for the luxury of a hostel.

  I tried to lift my spirits by reminding myself that later in the day we would be arriving at our intended destination, Hervey Bay, in preparation for our Fraser Island adventure tour. After our tight rations of bread and black coffee with no sugar for breakfast, we set off with Julie at the wheel after she had enthusiastically offered to drive.

  It was a bitter pill for me to swallow, though. It was official: I had been usurped as the car’s reserve driver. And by a slightly annoying Scottish girl shaped like a duck, who no one could understand. This was like a dagger through the heart for me and I could tell from the smug look on Mark’s face that he knew as much, especially as it was a kind of vindication in his warped view that the fault for Stevo breaking down lay with me rather than his knackered vehicle.

  As we set off I lent forward from my vantage point in the middle back seat and demonstrated tunnel vision focus to the driving skills of Julie. “Umm I think you wanted to indicate there didn’t you?” I gladly pointed out.

  We continued through a small derelict looking ghost town. I maintained a studious eye on Julie’s every move, like an imperious driving inspector in a bad mood who is determined to fail their subject. “Ok you’re in the wrong lane, you need to get into the outside lane right now,” I insisted, as we made our way down a dual carriageway.

  “Yes ok thanks Steve.” At least that’s what I think she said.

  I glanced at the Swedes and shook my head, “Female drivers.”

  Sam and Simon didn’t need a second invitation. “You know what you’re doing Julie?” Sam gently mocked.

  Simon looked up, “Please just look at the road Julie we don’t want to die.”

  I admired the blatant fickleness of the Swedes and knew that you could always rely on them to support you in targeting someone, as they weren’t the type to pass up an opportunity of inflicting abuse and ridiculing an individual when they were down. And now I wasn’t driving I was no longer the hunted, allowing us to join forces in the back and continue our three-pronged attack on those in the front. “Good to see the children are awake in the back,” Mark said chirpily and pumped up the volume of the music to drown us out.

  “You can never trust Mark,” Simon hit back, shaking his head.

  “I just feel sorry for the ladies he goes for,” Sam said. “You should have seen one he pulled in Cairns. He was putting his life at risk getting into bed with her. We don’t get women like that in our country – she
was like a freak of nature.”

  All the while poor Mark was pretending to ignore us but we knew he could hear us - and that was the important thing. “He had a bit of a reputation in the hostel in Sydney too,” I enthusiastically continued. “It was like he had a fetish for farmyard animals.” I sensed a reaction, but to our surprise one never materialised. Nonetheless, we continued our ravaging of his reputation, which kept us occupied for a good few hours before we stopped for lunch at a picnic spot somewhere in the middle of nowhere.

  Unfortunately for Mark the interrogation into his love life kept on coming. “So, with all these monsters do you go down on them or are they too smelly?” Sam asked curiously, kicking off the discussion around the picnic table. Again, nothing but the silent treatment, with Mark clearly attempting the boring mature trick of “rising above it”. The Swedes, however, continued the slating. “He’s so grateful he’ll do anything they want but I doubt he feels anything when he puts it in them with his little weener and their giant bucket,” Sam laughed.

  “He was put on this earth to help please these women,” Simon continued, before concluding, “God would be so proud to see him doing such a good job.”

  Finally Mark’s patience snapped. “Fuck off you lot, you’re all just jealous,” he said viciously. We felt a deep warm glow of satisfaction, the type that comes with finally getting a rise out of someone who, in all fairness, had proved a tough nut to crack. “Oh yes we’re so jealous of those beauties you get with. Next time maybe you can pass some on to me – I know there’s plenty to go round,” Simon said.

  “We can put her on a spit roast like they do with those pigs and carve her up. We would never have to go hungry again,” Sam thoughtfully suggested.

  “It makes him feel so good about himself to get these lovely ladies – the type he truly deserves. Mark might be a retard but if it makes him happy then we are happy for him too,” Simon added.

  “Yeah well I bet I’ve shagged more than the lot of you out here,” Mark, now in full defensive mode, blurted defensively.

  Simon shook his head gloomily, “Yes and we all bet you have too. Plus you’re probably counting three for each time you do one of yours.

  “You can’t count all the men you’ve been with either,” I chipped in. Mark rolled his eyes.

  After our enjoyable lunchtime natter I made my way to the toilet while the rest washed and put away the food apparatus in the car. “You going looking for some old man to fiddle?” Mark, who was frantically washing up all the cups and plates with the demeanour of an old woman, joked. As I returned from the conveniences I carried a plastic container to the car, which I then handed to Mark with a smile before climbing into my newly designated spot in the back of the car. I could see why the Swedes liked it there so much, with its complete lack of responsibility. No longer did I have to constantly manage the music selection or advise on which road to take having painstakingly studied the map. I could now just kick back and relax. Within minutes I was asleep and by the time I woke up we had arrived at Hervey Bay.

  Chapter 4 – Hervey Bay

  We pulled up at the resort and wearily climbed out Stevo like the bunch of nomads that we were. Making our way to reception to check in we were handed a plastic cup, bowl and plates, before being ushered in the direction of our eight bed dorm, as if prisoners settling into a term of incarceration. Mark and myself were split up from the Swedes having booked the tour separately, while Julie was fittingly on her own.

  Walking along the path between the giant palm trees I spotted an appealing swimming pool that was centrally located between all the rooms, with a few scantily clad people lapping up the sun. “I’d give her a bit of my tool,” Mark said predictably.

  “I doubt she’d feel anything though?” I replied.

  “She wouldn’t be able to handle the whole lot.” A strangely perverted look had begun to appear across his face.

  “Yes I’m sure any girl would struggle to receive the whole two inches of your skinny dick.”

  On entering our room I was impressed by its quality and size; there was a small kitchen area as well as a classy looking shower cubicle, which after living like a third world peasant for much of my time in Australia felt luxurious. “Bit better than that scummy hostel we were in Sydney,” Mark pointed out.

  There was a young woman on one of the top bunks minding her own business while studiously reading a book before Mark, as was his way, steamed in and interrupted her without a second thought. “Alright, where are you from then?” he started abruptly, somewhat lacking in the James Bond charm department. “Bet she’s never heard that line before,” I said under my breath, as my friend continued to embarrass himself, banging out the old classic lines. “So where’ve you been? Where you going next? You like Sydney? You hate living in hostels? Yeah they’re crap aren’t they? You fancy coming out for a drink later? Can I shag you if I’m not too drunk at the end of the night?” That was the rough translation anyway.

  As was the unwritten rule with travelling, you were obliged to make small talk with people you would never normally lay eyes on or want to associate with. It’s the sense of, “We’re all in this shit together,” kind of attitude that bonded people and provided ample opportunity for predators, like Mark, to try their luck on. Slightly startled, the girl appeared from behind her book to shyly acknowledge Mark. The woman, Sarah, a German, was sophisticated and well spoken with better English than most English people I had met on my trip, while Mark was wearing a Liverpool football shirt and had a cap on. She was everything that he was not. But here they were talking. No sorry, make that Mark was talking. Not for the first time on my travels I felt like David Attenborough as I watched with great interest at the interactions of polar opposite species mixing.

  After the niceties we went out to the car to get some food from the cool box. As I squeezed the driver’s door handle, as is the traditional way of getting into a vehicle, I was surprised to look down and realise I was still clutching the device after it had come away from the car. “What the fuck have you done now you retard,” came the less than impressed voice of Mark, once again choosing to blame me rather than the vehicle.

  “Don’t blame me, it’s your crap car that’s the problem,” I said indignantly.

  “Things always go wrong when Special Steve’s about.” The blame game was heating up, prompting a quick fire response back from me. “I’ve seen better things down a pub toilet than this thing you like to call a car.”

  It occurred to me that a healthy chunk of Mark’s frustration was the realisation that it would be he - and he alone - that would be left to resolve the loose door problem. I duly fulfilled this self fulfilling prophecy and wandered off, helpfully allowing my friend to mend the door by himself. I did return a while later and smiled to myself when I saw a look of anguish on his face as he tried to get the door to stay on its hinges. “You know what you look like?” I said cheerily, attempting to brighten the mood. There was no response, though I detected a slightly miffed look on his face, which I couldn’t understand as such things were surely to be expected with such a monstrosity. “You look like you are breaking into the car, especially with your Liverpool shirt and cap on,” I teased. Large groups of people were now congregating in the bar area ready for the introductory talk of our island trip. “Hurry up,” I added hastily and walked off.

  The room was bursting with people and before long a pale faced middle-aged Aussie, who thought he was Bob Marley with dreadlocks down to his backside, marched into the room like a Sergeant Major and began his super quick no nonsense talk. Frightened of offending him, everyone listened intently as the marauding figure was at pains to point out that this trip was no longer what it used to be, due to the likes of us. “Thanks to your kind and the council clamping down on us we now have to baby sit you,” he began, frothing at the mouth like a werewolf, seemingly ready to throttle someone as it became abundantly clear he did not feel the need to
try and impress us, the customers. “You don’t like it…we definitely don’t like it...but they are the rules now. We’d rather just let you lot get on with it but thanks to some smart arses that’s not possible anymore.” The menace in his face was real as he continued to spit venomously.

  Personally affronted by the changes and the imposition of now having to work for their money, he continued his sinister speech. “In the past you guys would have your own four-by-four trucks but now we have to sit in with you and do most of the driving. Why is this you may wonder? Well, I’ll tell you why,” he continued, anger levels visibly rising as he scowled at his petrified audience. “It’s because some smart arses thought it would be a good idea to break the rules. One guy got behind the wheel when he was pissed out of his head with a gang of others and went for a spin. Unfortunately they went to an out of bounds section and he rolled the truck killing three people including himself. Not smart. Not smart at all,” he added chillingly.

  As if that story wasn’t bad enough he continued to make his point and referred to another incident from just the previous week. “We had a guy go out into the ocean after a few drinks who ended up drowning. He would have been caught in the rip tide. His parents in America got a phone call telling them their son was coming home in a coffin. All because he didn’t follow rules and stay out of the sea.” It was horrific stuff and brought home the reality of how this adventure tour in paradise could easily turn into a nightmare.

  Following the depressing speech we were put in random groups of around seven. These were the people we would be living with for the next few days, so I prayed those in my group wouldn’t have an aversion to soap and water. We did, though, have two female Scousers, Kate and Becky. In typical Liverpudlian fashion they were friendly and playful, though were not exactly the sharpest knives in the box. It took me a surprisingly longer than normal period to recognise where they were from. I put this down to being in a state of accent confusion due to the reality of hearing so many different forms of English; from Australian, American, to Canadian to name but a few, to the vast numbers of (mainly) European and South Americans all speaking the language in their own particular dialect. Then, of course, you have so many different accents in Britain itself, many of which, as I have already made clear, I would have had more chance of understanding a thick Arabic regional accent than them.