by Steve Deeks
I jumped in a taxi and made my way to a hostel in the city centre I had booked into where I was meeting a friend, Mark, from Sydney. It was an interesting journey to say the least as the driver took it upon himself to divulge the inner most details of his sordid life after the small talk was out the way. I wandered in disbelief why I was so often subjected to such people. I’m not saying I mind totally – and I probably do encourage them to keep going sometimes (“Really? What, you did? All afternoon with his wife?”) – I would just rather it didn’t happen to me as much.
Entertaining as the driver was, I couldn’t help but think he was straying a bit too far when he recalled his best friend’s recent wedding. “After a few cold ones I took his Sheila into the yard when no one was looking and gave it to her from behind like a flaming steam train,” he suddenly announced, without even flinching. “I gave her the full service - she was fair dinkum, no worries there mate,” he added proudly. “When my best mate saw us he had a right go, though.” He shook his head in disgust. I glanced in a slow disbelieving way in his direction just to make sure I was hearing correctly. “Things aren’t too good between us now. He needs to stop being such a cunt.”
I was staggered how this individual could be genuinely outraged that his best friend was angry with him having witnessed his wife being humped from behind on his wedding day. It wasn’t even as if the groom had given him some well deserved blows or completely frozen him out of his life. I now began to understand what Australians from Sydney were going on about when they said those up north were, “Bogans” – a condescending term relating to people with an alleged lack of breeding.
I arrived at my destination, the Dingo Moon lodge, abruptly wished the driver all the best with his complicated love life and made for reception. I was shown through the side gate where I came across a small, idyllic haven with a modest sized swimming pool the epicentre of an area surrounded by palm trees, where people were lazing about chatting, reading or listening to music. The rest were either eating food or making it in the sheltered outside kitchen. Things were very chilled; the mood no doubt enhanced by the overbearing humidity.
I made my way to the room where I started unpacking when Mark suddenly appeared from behind the door. It had been a while since I last saw him in Sydney, but inevitably the banter started immediately. “Well done special Steve, you found your way here all by yourself,” he laughed.
I looked over my shoulder and smiled on seeing my old friend from the Sydney hostel. “Oh sorry, I didn’t recognise you there underneath all that fur,” I replied, taking the opportunity to highlight his gorilla-like appearance, which I did whenever possible.
That evening, as guest of honour, I let Mark cook me a sumptuous feast of meat before we ventured out for a beer. We had only just made it to the nearest bar when the heavens opened as missiles of water pounded against the street so hard I was struggling to hear Mark, though that was never a bad thing. For two hours we were hellishly forced to drink beer, as buckets of rain flooded the street, making it impossible for us to go outside in fear of impersonating drowned rats. That was until we were finally turfed out when the bar shut, leaving us with little choice but to sprint back to the hostel, leaving my shirt feeling as though I had just been for a swim in the sea. Once back inside I cautiously changed into some dry shorts, ensuring no one in the room could get a cheeky peak of my flesh, before climbing into my bunk to get some sleep.
With the rain having subsided by the following morning we had a leisurely breakfast outside by the pool. With substantial cloud cover the heat was just about bearable, though I had been hoping the sun would be out so I could work on my tan such was my relative paleness, especially in comparison to Mark who looked like he had been living in Ethiopia for several years.
After washing up our cups and plates we made our way into the city centre, which, essentially, was a single strip of bars, restaurants and shops. I was surprised by how small the place was, after all it was seen as the capital city in Australia’s Northern Territory. But, in reality, it was nothing more than the size of a small English town. Despite this, though, I was surprised to learn from the tourism board that it actually had a population of around 128,000, highlighting the sparse nature of the region.
Although I had been in Australia for many months I had rarely seen the much talked about Aboriginals, but in Darwin I had been told quite a few lived there. In fact, to be more precise, according to a local census it was around 10 per cent of the population and was the most populous for Aborigines of all of Australia’s cities, which explained the vast numbers I saw almost everywhere I looked. As I scoured the streets they would be beating drums, smoking never ending amounts of roll-up cigarettes, or just be blind drunk – and it wasn’t even midday. The authorities clearly had a big job on their hands with solving this conundrum.
Even as I walked along the central Mitchell Street I saw several collapsed in a heap, face down on the burning hot floor. Another was zig-zagging his way across the road shouting indiscriminately at anyone he fancied before stopping traffic to stumble across the road. Another old fella, with a beard that would put Father Christmas to shame, came and stood the other side of a railing, separating the road from a bar where people were sat outside, and unnervingly just stared at the customers with a kind of serious yet dormant expression that quite a few of them seemed to have. After some time putting his fingers to his mouth in a smoking motion, which unless I was very mistaken was an indication he would like a cigarette, he finally got lucky when someone eventually handed him one. The Aboriginal barely acknowledged receipt of the gift before going on his way, continuing his full-blown conversation with his imaginary accomplice. I found significant irony that the place was named after Charles Darwin, the naturalist who formed the theory on “survival of the fittest”, especially as it was all too clear that the indigenous people of the area were struggling to cope with modern life here.
Continuing my wander down the main street I suddenly heard a boisterous shout. “Oi mate,” came the cry from someone sat outside a bar. I looked over and realised it was intended for me. Bizarrely it was a Scottish lad I had randomly got chatting to and put the world-to-rights with a few times in Sydney when both significantly refreshed. “What a coincidence,” I thought, which to some degree it was, before reminding myself that people travelling in Australia ritually do the same things and go to the same places, therefore the chances aren’t really that remote you will see people you’ve already met.
I walked over to his table where he virtually had a full pint (not scooner) and within a matter of seconds it was clear he was already half-cut – this being his third jug of the day, and it was only just gone midday. We had a good catch up; with him filling me in on what he’d been up to, which pretty much revolved around all the fights he had been in recently and the growing number of places he was banned from in Darwin, as well as those in Sydney where he couldn’t step foot. “You’ll have nowhere left to drink in Australia at this rate,” I joked.
“I noooo mate, they’re all f’kin coonts,” he replied, gesticulating wildly.
“Ummm the army’s finest,” I thought, remembering he was a soldier.
Before long he was recounting last night’s episode where he had exchanged blows with a bouncer after claiming he was the victim in a case of mistaken identity, in which, he was accused of being Irish. “I had ma Scootlond foootbol shirt on tooo like,” he bellowed stutteringly, saliva spraying out of his mouth like water from a hose pipe, while shaking his head angrily, before taking another gulp of beer and pointing at his Scotland tattoo, just to reinforce the doorman’s stupidity. “Soo he got a wee slaap in the face.”
By now I was half way through a pint of beer myself that had kindly been poured from one of the large jugs on the table. I knew it would be difficult to stay for just one, especially when I had nothing else to do and Mark was off doing various jobs. “Aye…there’s fock-all to doo apar from ge pissed,” he added, encouraging me to stay and drink wi
th his group. And so I gave in to peer pressure fully in the knowledge that I would be embarking on a boozy afternoon session with a bunch of drunk reprobates from the north of England, Scotland and Northern Ireland.
Talking with them I found out that Darwin was an area of rich natural resource where people were handsomely paid. The Scot said he worked in mining and was earning $50 an hour, as well as getting some of his food paid for. He revealed there was a high turnover of staff because people “can’t handle” the heat, and as they desperately need individuals to do the jobs they pay top dollar.
Spirits were getting increasingly high as the beers flowed. “Oii love…let’s have a lick of ya nipples,” one of the Northern Irish guys shouted at a blond woman with sizeable cleavage bulging over her bikini, as she walked down the street to howls of animalistic laughter and intense ogling by the pack. After a period it was noticeable just how many women were crossing the road on approaching the bar we were in – perhaps by the length of a football pitch in some cases – to avoid the inevitable depravity they would be met with by the various maniacs I was hanging out with.
When no women were about the conversation quickly turned to recent conquests. “Remember last week when I was doing her from behind and then you took over?” one said, his face lighting up at the memory.
“Yeah and she didn’t even realise…great night that one,” the other one added, with obvious delight.
The session lasted until the early evening by which time some of the rowdy crowd had predictably been asked to leave. And then asked to leave again after sneaking back in, before finally being told they would receive a life ban if they ignored the request a final time. Agonising to stay out drinking with the substantial congregation that had amassed, the banished members hovered on the road side of the railings, knocking back a few cheeky swigs here and there of other people’s beer whenever the bar staff weren’t looking. But inevitably things were starting to wind down, as attention started to turn to the evening piss-up session.
It was the right time to leave and I gladly made my way back to the lodge before sitting on the main table near the swimming pool and joining in a sophisticated conversation with a random bunch of Germans and Swedes. The contrast could not have been bigger with the company I had been sharing during the afternoon, as the studious backpackers got worked up into a frenzy of excitement at discussing the world economic crisis.
Chapter 18 – Chasing crocodiles
I woke up the following morning full of anticipation at the events in front of me that day. For once on my birthday, the day itself would be the least of my worries, as today I was embarking on a crocodile tour. It wasn’t the usual way I’d celebrate the day of my birth but I vowed to do my best to embrace it nonetheless.
Mark and I were picked up outside the lodge at 7am by a mini bus, before irritatingly spending the next hour collecting other people from nearby hostels after which time we finally set off on our merry way. As we bounced our way through the deadly quiet bush roads, we started to get to know our entertaining tour guide for the day: a small, hairy man, who, it quickly became apparent, had a Steve Irwin like passion for Australian wildlife. “Who’s ready to go see some lovely crocs today?” Mick announced with genuine excitement on the microphone to the subdued bus, many of whom were no doubt feeling the same way I did; wondering if they would make it back on the return journey.
As well as having an encyclopaedic knowledge of the area and the deadly creatures that inhabited the region, Mick was a bit of a jester and played the quintessential Aussie role to perfection. “Come on liven up all you lovely Sheila’s…look at the guys we’ve got on board for you today,” he said with a cheeky smile, looking in his rear view mirror at Mark and myself, who apart from an old man – who looked absolutely terrified, like he was being driven to his execution – were the only men on board out of the 15 or so people going on the adventure. “Not bad odds,” Mark whispered.
“She’s got your name written all over her,” I replied, pointing at a wrinkly pensioner sitting a few seats away.
We briefly stopped off to check out an Aboriginal museum where we looked at all the amazing artwork before Mick picked me out and insisted I have a go on a didgeridoo in front of the whole group. I’ve once tried playing a foghorn and this instrument had the same affect on me: I was useless. I attempted to blow a nice little tune while puffing my cheeks as hard as I could, but only managed to expel a sound reminiscent of a loud arse release: the type where you lift a leg to one side like a dog and squeeze out for maximum force. I also managed to leave a large dollop of saliva where I had been blowing, so essentially came away looking like a bit of a jerk, with my status as a failed musician once again confirmed (having been given the boot from violin classes when I was just nine).
About an hour and a half after setting off we arrived in Kakadu, where first of all we got to watch a giant python wrap itself around any forthcoming volunteers. Mark – not blessed with thinking things through at the best of times – shoved his hand up to go first. Seconds later he found himself with a giant reptile, which we were told could comfortably eat a small child, worming its way around his body and then, most worryingly of all, started veering up his inner thigh dangerously close to his crown jewels, before the supervisor finally had to step in. I made sure I was a good way back, behind some women and pensioners, so at least they would be crushed first if the snake happened to lash out.
After the show we had some breakfast in a hut adjacent to the Alligator Rivers – a misleading name, as we would be floating above the larger member of the family, the crocodile (Explorer Lieutenant Phillip Parker King gave the name in 1820 in the mistaken belief it was alligators in the river and not crocodiles, and for some reason no one has thought to change it since to avoid confusion). Once everyone had munched down toast and slurped their coffee we all had to sign a document kindly informing us that should we be savagely killed by a crocodile on safari then the operators could not be held responsible.
Having cheerfully signed my life away, my anxiety went up a notch or two when I noticed newspaper cut-outs plastered across the hut like wallpaper. Judging from the headlines there seemed to be a common theme: death and severe injury. “Giant Croc Kills Unsuspecting girl,” read the first one I saw; “Swimmer Pulled Under by 12ft Croc Still Missing”. I loved the optimism of this one, with there being the suggestion the person might somehow have escaped after being dragged under the murky water by the ferocious beast. “Man Loses Arm in Boat Attack,” was one that particularly worried me, as I would be in a vessel myself shortly, though I hoped it would be something far more substantial than the one in that incident. “Croc Hunts Family,” another read. At least this one had a happy ending, though, with no one eaten for a change. “Swimmers Presumed Dead After Croc Pounces,” a more chilling one said. Somehow I didn’t think I would be going for a dip in a river while in Darwin, even with sweat pouring off me like I’d been in the shower.
As far as I was concerned anyone who went swimming or remotely near the water in the Darwin region needed to be taken away by men in white jackets, with there a very real possibility you would become lunch. How anyone could joyfully splash about in the water when there’s every chance a 14ft predator might be eyeing you up was beyond me. While I sympathised with those who had been eaten by crocodiles, I did think they were slightly naïve for going for a paddle in one of the rivers.
I turned to the man in the hut, who I’d just signed my life away to. “You sure know how to get us in the mood for the boat tour,” I joked, still taking in the various headlines.
He smiled devilishly. “Yes we do mate…some big, big crocs out there,” he replied, as if to reinforce the point, in case I wasn’t yet fully aware of what I was getting myself in to. “Was even chased by one myself a few years back,” he added, his grin now widening like it was all just a big game. I couldn’t help but admire the nonchalant way these people integrated with their highly volatile environment like it was nothing more than h
aving a few rabbits and foxes around, all while dismissing their terrifying ordeals like they were just mosquito bites.
Suddenly the trip was upon us, as we were all rounded up before being told to make our way down from the hut to the boat. We walked along a narrow wooded path that, as we got near the river, bridged above the crocodile lurking waters onto the pontoon. I half expected the bridge to collapse, causing me to fall into the river and be savagely eaten. But thankfully it held firm as I carefully placed one foot in front of the other, ensuring I held on to the railing while cautiously ambling across. After climbing aboard I went downstairs and braced myself for the journey. I felt more secure about my chances of surviving now, as the vessel was bigger than I’d imagined with an inside downstairs area and less secure open top section.
Finally we were off heading down the swampy waters. With Mark having the window seat I looked out over the river from the safety of my vantage point next to him, with the odd feeling that comes with knowing that the water you are floating on is awash with crocodiles, and should you so happen to fall in you know you won’t be getting out again.
