Kamikaze Kangaroos!

by Tony James Slater

  “Again… not highly practical.”

  “But… just look at all this stuff!”

  The girls looked, and I could tell their imaginations were also running wild. But not that wild. Sometimes, I felt, the girls lacked vision.

  “Let’s stick with the tree-house,” Gill said, “for now.”

  “And then?”

  “Then we’ll see.”

  “Plus,” Roo added, “Shelly was fine with us building a tree-house, and she’s happy to let us leave the recliner with her. I’m not sure she’d be as keen about us leaving a submarine.”

  So, with plans for robotic domination of the known universe on temporary hold, we chose the most suitable tree for the tree-house, which turned out to be the one shading Roo’s and my tent. Convenient!

  We picked through the wood pile and selected a number of thick planks, and spent a happy hour knocking nails out of them. Then we tried to carry them over to the construction site, and could hardly lift them.

  “What the hell? They’re like… solid iron…” I gasped.

  “Solid Jarrah is more like it,” Roo said. “It’s the best Australian hardwood. It’s really dense and really, really heavy. And almost impossible to split with an axe. It burns forever, though. And it costs a fortune.”

  “Wow, this is gonna be the strongest tree-house on the planet!”

  Two at a time, we hauled the planks over to the base of the tree. We’d picked this one because just above head-height, the main trunk split into four roughly equal boughs, all of which were chunky and strong. A metre higher they spread out enough to nest a nice little platform in-between them, which would be shaded by the tree’s canopy from all directions. Perfect! I was starting to have all kinds of ideas for activities that could take place up there…

  It took two full days to haul the planks up the tree, and to tie them and brace them into position. No nails could be driven into the iron-hard jarrah planks by we puny mortals, so we made doubly-sure that everything was tied securely. A framework of fencing poles added support from underneath, wedged into various crooks and forks – it was an effort to be proud of, and we christened the platform by sitting up there and watching a movie on the laptop, with glasses of wine and a big bag of crisps. We all agreed that our accomplishment had gone beyond the bounds of mere practicality, and into the realm of art.

  “We could do this shit for a living,” I told the others, as we climbed back to earth.

  I dozed off that night fantasising about some kind of pulley system, because carrying food and drink up and down the tree meant a succession of tricky, one-handed climbs.

  A ferocious storm had been building all evening, so there was a strong likelihood of work being rained off, leaving us free to lavish time on the tree-house. I slept well, as did Roo, though I have hazy recollections of waking up every time lightening struck with a deafening CRACK! It sounded as though the most violent part of the storm was right above us.

  In the morning, we found out why.

  The four trunks of the tree moved independently in high wind, creating a kind of scissor-like motion. This had loosened the ropes, and edged the planks over the log frame, until one by one they tipped and fell – over three metres to the ground, which they’d struck end-on with a sound like thunder.

  Less than a stride from our tent.

  The wood was strewn around the tree on all sides, attesting to the ferocity of the storm – but the largest, heaviest planks, had missed Roo’s sleeping head by the length of our guy-ropes. My head, too, as it happened, but that hardly seemed important. All work on the tree-house was suspended indefinitely, on the grounds that a) we clearly didn’t have a clue what was involved in tree-house construction, b) we felt we’d used up all our good karma on this one, and c) Shelley’s insurance didn’t cover death by arboreal building collapse.

  “I run a campsite,” she explained apologetically, “and it never came up.”

  It didn’t look good for the submarine.

  But there’s a light at the end of every tunnel, as they say – even in Australia, where that light is the sun, and it’s so damn hot you’d rather stay in the tunnel and take your chances with the trains.

  Our glorious, glowing orb of hope was the rapidly encroaching end to all our labours; as in, our three months of agricultural work were nearly finished!

  This feeling was indeed like warm sun on the face, only without the accompanying threat of surgical intervention to remove skin cancer.

  In our last week, we were sent to Xanadu – no, not some mythical lost land, but in fact one of the most expensive wine-producers of an expensive wine-producing region. Xanadu had strict policies of who they would employ, and we were selected to work there because after all this time in the field – don’t laugh – we now qualified as experts.

  Okay, okay. You can laugh.

  Anyway, we did a few days of rather laid-back grape picking. It was hard to motivate ourselves, as we had our visa paperwork ready to sign, and a rare sum of money in the bank. We’d been discussing how to spend it, and had decided that a nice little holiday was in order – to Bali, as believe it or not it’s actually closer to Perth than Sydney or Melbourne.

  And Bali sounded kind of cool.

  So we slogged on through the grape vines, picking at our leisure, when one of the Xanadu supervisors came out with a question.

  “We need a couple of volunteers,” he said. “Who would like to work in the warehouse for the rest of the day?”

  We got picked, of course – probably because we were all jumping up and down like we’d just won the lottery, shouting, “Pick me, pick me!”

  He showed us into the warehouse, and explained that their forklift had just broken down.

  “We really need these cases crated up and wrapped for delivery by tonight. Can you guys handle that?”

  Of course we could. So we told him as much.

  The warehouse was cool and dark, which were the ideal conditions for a nap – but we were determined to go out with a bang, and show Xanadu that we really were the kind of workers they should be proud of.

  So we set to with a passion, lifting huge cardboard boxes full of wine bottles off their trolleys, and stacking them in the approved pattern on a wooden pallet.

  It was hot, heavy work; each box bore a label marking its contents, and every one of them contained twelve bottles of wine, for a combined weight of sixteen kilos per box.

  The girls worked up quite a sweat, as did I – but there were no slackers amongst us that day. We shrink-wrapped each pallet when it was filled, and moved on to another – and another – and another.

  By the end of the day, we’d shifted the lot – and by Gill’s ready reckoning, the three of us had moved over twelve metric tonnes of wine by hand.

  When the supervisor came to congratulate us, we showed him a case of wine that we’d found in the middle of the pile. The box was crushed so it wouldn’t stack with the others, and we’d been forced to leave it out.

  “I think you should each take a bottle from that box,” he said, “as my way of saying thank-you for a job well done.”

  “Wow! Thanks!”

  So we each came forward and slid a slender bottle from the case.

  “Erm, what should we do with the other nine bottles?” I asked.

  “Ah, just stick ‘em in the back of my ute.”

  Wow.

  It seemed that we weren’t the only ones to be getting a present.

  On our last night in Margaret River, we toasted each other with our bottles of Xanadu’s finest. We’d let it chill in the fridge for a few days, and we sipped it now to savour its complexity.

  Or whatever it is those wine-types do.

  We were trying hard to appreciate the stuff, because we’d looked it up on a trip to the bottle-o – only to find it was kept under lock and key.

  Eighty-three dollars a bottle, it cost.

  That was more than we earned in a day.

  All three of us put together, some time
s.

  But you know what?

  It wasn’t nearly as nice as goon.

  Kuta Beach

  After months spent working in the blazing heat of Margaret River’s vineyards, you’d think we were mad for wanting to spend our holiday on the beach. But the deal we’d been offered on a package holiday to Bali was too good to turn down.

  And to me, Bali had such an exotic ring to it – I was thinking, grass skirts and coconuts full of rum, warm turquoise waters and endless white sandy beaches.

  All of which was true.

  Well, kind of.

  I didn’t know it at the time, but Bali is to Australians what Ibiza is to twelve blokes from Blackpool on a stag do – one long, rowdy, epically-cheap piss-up.

  Not that there’s anything wrong with that!

  I mean, booze was so expensive in Australia, it was easy to imagine people losing control at Balinese prices.

  We planned to do a bit of partying ourselves, and a lot of relaxing/recovering on the beach.

  Because that’s what paradise is all about, right?

  Our first surprise came on arrival to Jakarta International Airport, when the passport-stamping woman insisted that we had to pay for our visas. At the time, Indonesia was offering two-week visas for free – but a careful check proved we’d miscalculated. Due to a slight schedule change to our departing flight, we would be staying in Indonesia for two weeks and three hours – therefore, we needed to pay $20 each for the 30-day visa.

  And no, they wouldn’t take credit cards.

  This left us in a bit of a pickle; we’d planned on taking cash from the ATM in the airport, rather than risk getting ripped off by one of the dubious exchange booths in Perth. Now though, we needed that cash right away – before they would let us clear immigration – and the only ATM’s in the airport were on the other side, in the terminal…

  After much rolling of eyes and throwing up of hands, one of the Indonesian customs officials called up a security guard, and allowed him to escort me through miles of winding corridors to an ATM in the departures building.

  He kept his assault rifle at the ready the entire time – presumably in case I decided to make a run for it, risking death by machine gun rather than pay the twenty-dollar entrance fee.

  Which had apparently just gone up to $25, something the customs officials had neglected to tell me.

  Meaning I was $15 short.

  So, back to the ATM, then.

  We sprinted through the airport for our connecting flight to Bali, arriving just as it closed. A bit of fast talking and waving of passports persuaded them to let us board, in a scenario so farcical it would have been funny, were we not seconds away from tearing the heads off every uniformed Indonesian in sight and going bowling with them.

  It was perhaps not the most auspicious start to a holiday.

  But I figured what the hell? We were going to the beach! What could possibly go wrong?

  And to be fair, on the flight, nothing did. Denpasar airport was microscopic, and so close to the sea that one wing of the plane was still over water when we landed. By way of baggage claim, the pilot slung me the keys and told me to poke around and see what I could find…

  Okay, not quite – but it was a tiny, rural airport, with thatched beach huts in place of terminal buildings, and a runway in dire need of weeding.

  Picturesque, is the polite word for it; I half expected dancing girls to come out and throw flowers at our feet, or the customs officers to drum us into their offices on bongos.

  ‘Twee’ is probably a more accurate description – this was every tourist’s first impression of Bali, and someone had gone to great pains to ensure it matched up to the image of a rustic paradise.

  We took a trio of motorbike-taxis into town and were delighted to find that our hotel in Kuta Beach, if somewhat dilapidated, was indeed in the middle of things. Almost too much – the road from the airport was crowded with bars, already doing a brisk trade in the late morning sun. Stretching away from the hotel towards the beach, the road was lined with stalls selling every kind of tourist paraphernalia imaginable. We wouldn’t have to go far to buy souvenirs!

  Not far at all.

  And we didn’t have to wait long, either.

  We’d barely stepped out of the door, on our first excursion to the beach, when it began.

  The first stall on our route was festooned with clothing – much like the stall just beyond it. And the one beyond that. And every stall opposite.

  The guy running the stall wasted no time. He bounded up to us, took me by the arm, and tried to steer me towards his merchandise.

  “You want buy t-shirts?”

  “No, thank-you.” I shook him loose.

  “T-shirts! You want? Come, come!”

  “No, thank-you very much.” I was past him now, and walking away – but he was following me.

  “Hey! T-shirts! HEY! T-SHIRTS!”

  “NO! No t-shirts,” I shouted back at him.

  “Ok. You want trousers?”

  The stallholders were so persistent that only serious distance would dissuade them. Well, possibly a baseball bat to the kisser would suffice, but I never got around to trying that. Oh man, did I ever want to!

  The stalls lined both sides of the street, so it was impossible to avoid one row by moving further away – in practice it was doubly impossible, as no matter which side of the road we walked down – or even down the middle – the vendors on both sides targeted us with equal dedication.

  To make matters worse, every stall was between two and three metres wide. The owners knew this gave them a very limited window to secure our attention, so to combat this they started early – say, when we were three or four stalls away. So by the time we’d gone halfway down the street, we were being bawled at simultaneously by not just the stall next to us and the stall opposite – but also the next two stalls we were approaching, and the last two we’d passed by.

  On both sides of the road.

  It was deafening. Not to mention, maddening. Shouts and screeches of “Please sir!’ and “Hello ladies!” and “Come in, come in!” “You buy now!” “Like trouser?” “Want watch?” “Here-come-buy-take-look-want-ONE DOLLAR!”

  And just when I thought it was all too much, and my head, under assault from all sides, may well explode – there would come the deafening cry of

  “MAAAsssssSAAAAAAAAAAGE?”

  It was laugh-or-cry territory, but we couldn’t hear ourselves think for long enough to decide.

  “Don’t worry,” I told the others, “it’ll stop once we get to the beach.”

  This, to me, seemed logical.

  I don’t know why.

  We strolled out onto the sand, dodging around tarpaulins spread with handicrafts and (inexplicably) battery-powered plastic crawling army-men. Seriously! No trip to the beach is complete without one.

  We ducked through a line of hammocks, ignoring the occupants as they shouted “Taxi? TAXI!” at us – and at last, we gazed at the ocean, and the vast expanse of golden beach fringed by slightly-swaying palm trees.

  “Coconut?” A shrivelled old woman thrust one in my face so violently she nearly knocked me out with it.

  “Ah, no, but thanks.”

  So she swivelled on the spot and thrust the thing at Roo, hardly missing a beat. “Coconut?”

  Oh crap, I thought. There are three of us. We’re going to have to refuse every single thing we’re offered three frigging times!

  But surely, that wouldn’t be the case? Would it?

  Why, yes. Yes, it would.

  As we spread out our towels, it was possible to look down the beach and see the queue of vendors stretched out for miles along the sand. I could literally count the order in which they would come at us – sunglasses man, massage lady, more sunglasses, coconuts, beads/hair-braiding, sunglasses…

  And no-one, but no-one, was buying anything.

  Because, let’s face it, if you’re on the beach you probably have sunglasses already. You’re p
robably wearing them. You’re sticky with that unique combination of sun-tan lotion, sand, sweat and sea-salt, and in full view of everyone, so it’s unlikely you want to be massaged by a ninety-year-old woman. Who used to be a man. There are only so many coconuts you can drink, and we were being forced to refuse them at a rate of about one every three minutes; likewise beaded bracelets, whilst they hold a particular esteem in beach-culture, have a limit to their appeal; if we’d bought one from every vendor who offered, we’d be able to wear nothing but the damn things without compromising our modesty in the slightest.

  Of course, we wouldn’t have to go to such extremes. In between the bracelets and the sunglasses, we were inundated with demands to buy trousers, t-shirts, flip-flops, drinks, every kind of fruit imaginable, sea shells, carved wooden statues, pirated DVDs, cigarettes, drugs, lumps of coral, fresh lobsters, knives, baseball caps and sarongs, in a never-ending procession of high-volume sales pitches. It was the least relaxing beach experience of my life. In fact it was less relaxing than having root canal surgery performed with a flaming chainsaw by an untrained monkey riding a motorbike.

  “You know what?” Gill said. “This beach is fucking awful! I can’t stand it. Let’s go.”

  In the time it took us to gather our things, we rebuffed two offers of henna tattoos, one of corn-on-the-cob, a huge bundle of bananas and a carved wooden crossbow.

  Although…

  “Stop looking at that crossbow!” Roo hissed. “He’ll see you and come back!”

  I’ve been to quite a few beaches in my time, but it’s not often I get offered a crossbow on one.

  With our belongings finally packed away, we set off across the main road, past McDonalds, and turned into our street…

  And it began all over again.

  In my desire to stay where the action was, I’d inadvertently booked us a hotel at the very end of the main souvenir street. The beach was at the other end. And there was no other way between the two locations.

  “Hey Mister! Hey, Ladeez! You want t-shirt?”

  By the afternoon of my first day in Bali, I was desperate to leave.

  Unfortunately, we’d already paid for our rooms.