Toowoomba to Perth: Section 4

A word to the wise courtesy of my experiences during my Cardwell layover – early to bed will increase the probability that you get a full night of rest; “working” backpackers are not necessarily so keen for their second-year visa that they will actually rise and shine as necessary to start their working day on time, or at all. Or bother to turn off their mobile phone alarms, presumably believing that excessive use of the “snooze” option is the equivalent to actually getting out of bed.

It was like a blimmin’ frog’s chorus, between 4.30am and 6.30am, when, I would say, their mobile phone batteries finally gave out.

Day Nine : Mission Beach to Ravenshoe via Daintree

After falling asleep to the lingering feeling of pitch and roll I woke early with the aim to get to Daintree or Cape Tribulation for a look see and maybe to hang around for the night. To make things more interesting, I went “the back way” through Atherton and Mareeba; this plan also let me fit in a walk on the Atherton Tablelands before chillin’ at the beach, mon.

Yeah, right. Somehow, before I left Toowoomba, I did a mischief to my right foot which has plagued me since. It is criminally painful when I walk on it for long distances and flares up something intolerable after a bushwalk (such as after Eungella). I haven’t had it seen to, in the hope that I will wake up one morning and it will magically be better. I also don’t think a Doc is going to tell me anything new “hmmm, looks like you’ve bruised something in there, try not to walk on it” – DUH! So I’ll save my $50 for something more exciting and just grit my teeth. But it does put the kibosh on anything really challenging in the way of a bushwalk so my trip to the Atherton Tablelands was disgracefully easy. A few happy snaps of some waterfalls and a few brief forays into the wilderness and that was it.

Mind, in some ways that was alright as I knew I had some land to cover and I was feeling a bit pressed for time as my favourite species of driver was out en force on this day; add to that population the Sunday Driver and I’m sure some of you can feel my heat from there!

So anyway, what I can tell you is Atherton is not especially interesting, the access roads to the Tablelands from Mission Beach are bland, over-farmed, rolling hills supporting the local dairy industry, and the “sites/sights” spring up out of nowhere via some obscure road through someone’s property. Very strange arrangement and nothing like the brochure.

So, that was the Tablelands through to Atherton and as I say, nothing exceptional. Atherton to Mareeba and onward to Port Douglas is quite striking in its variability. Around Mareeba it is dry inland scrub and salt lakes (a lot like the area around Norseman in WA) and allows access to Mossman Gorge; it is also home to … THE BIG MANGO!! Which is just like most of the other Big Whatever’s in that it is a very large fibreglass object stuck in the front of some dubious-looking establishment claiming to sell the only … (in this case mangos) in the country. Funny, I skipped it.

After that it was rainforest yadda, yadda, yadda, Daintree river (brown, sluggish, crocs, the usual), Cape Tribulation – just like Mission Beach only further north and if you can sense my less than captivated feeling you would be on the money.

What can I say? I was a bit over it. Felt like I wanted more than pretty, lush greenery and beaches. Felt an urge to stop sinking my hard-earned into The Smart State and to instead Go West (young man). Yes, I know I said I was going to take the Karunda Railway but honestly, by then I had seen so much rainforest I felt there wasn’t many surprises in store from that exercise except add-on costs that are never in the brochure. So I did. Go West that is, to the open air, where the skies are blue and the rain don’t fall.

But I did go through Karunda – up the hill, as I figured I had already paid for my petrol so why pay for the railway/cable car that would do the same thing? Well I’ll be damned if it wasn’t pretty, hilly, green, (blimmin convoluted roads) and very crowded.

Frankly I was so glad to be out and away from the North Coast I can’t tell you. Way too many people for my sanity. By the time I hit Mareeba again at 3.30pm I had shaken off most of the (always SO SLOW) traffic and could really hit the skids.

I had some thoughts about getting from Mareeba to Undara Station (for the lava tubes… patience, patience, I will explain) but after traversing the extra specially windy, sometimes scarily elevated roads through the real Atherton Tablelands (to the aft of Atherton and toward Ravenshoe – absolutely breathtakingly beautiful) I was pretty shattered and decided that a stop at the nearest place was in order. I should also add that I was about desperate for the loo which is very distracting when you are dead tired and trying to “push on”.

Undara would just have to hold its horses, off the road and into Ravenshoe. That is, Raven’s Hoe for the uneducated amongst you, not Raven Shoe, as I quickly discovered. Well Ravenshoe is the Land that Time Forgot. There is no caravan park (read: cheap accommodation), there is an expensive-for-where-you-are looking Motel and looming large at the end of the road (figurative and literal in my case) was the Tully Falls Hotel.

The sign said “Budget Accommodation”. With a sigh, I wondered whose version of budget I was going to encounter and pulled up.

This old girl was built in the 1870s and is slowly being resurrected by its new owners. The outside of the place has been re-painted in fetching cream with burgundy trims, the XXXX Gold signs are clearly new (no bullet holes) and there is no mis-spelling on the chalk boards telling you the daily specials which are either Roast Beef and Vegies (Monday, Wednesday and Friday) or Roast Lamb and Vegies (All other days). Gravy optional extra.

I love these kinda places.

I unbent my long-bent bits and staggered inside just as one of the bar patrons ejected himself through the same entryway, but in the opposite direction. He mumbled something about my car headlights which, upon turning, I discovered were still on. Country hospitality, even in the midst of a spew they’re happy to help.

Having rectified our mutual “issues”, we both re-entered the fire-place warmth of the sportsman’s bar where I was greeted by the barmaid who was clearly desperate for some interesting conversation that didn’t contain the phrase “another one thanks love”.

“Come a long way” she said.

“Yep”.

‘Where ya goin?”

“Perth”

“I been there, liked Fremantle but Perth, I could take it or leave it”.

“Yeah, it’s like that, you could bring up your kids or retire there but not so interesting for young people.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, credit?”

“Yep, on the plastic thanks”

This conversation from a girl behind a bar in Ravenshoe with four bedraggled, leathery, rusted-on biding-their-timers for company. Later I was to find out from one of the residents that at least two of them were called Jack and Jill, and “they’re an old couple that just like to have a good time”. So there ya go.

“Want to see my signature?”

“Oh, yeah, it’s credit isn’t it. Ok, well I trust ya. Here’s the key, I’ll show you the room.”

Up the creaking, well-polished, two flights of (caution, lowered clearance) staircase to the lodgings. A verandah all the way around for looking to the streets and a fine view of the mill, narrow dark-wood doorways with brass knobs, randomly numbered so don’t go thinking that in the Tully Falls Motel 12 is directly after 11, openings in the (caution, narrow clearance) washed-out green, enamel-based painted corridors. Well only on one side, the other side of the rooms leading to the verandah were mostly white (enamel-based) painted, (yellowing, fly-spotted) lace-curtained French Doors!!

Inside the room I was satisfied at the evident lean of the wardrobe toward the French Doors, while the floor insistently sloped to the contrary. The door needed a good shove to open and the French Doors didn’t close true enough for the sliding bolt to fit into its well-worn hole. There was as is always the case in such establishments a vanity basin stuck half-way up the wall at a height of no convenience to anyone. The concave mattress promised a night of suffocation if I rolled the wrong way.

Upstairs communal kitchenette and TV room – cosy enough and already occupied “G’day”, “Hi”, and the amenities were a dream. Swing doors on the toilets, industrial sized, green-concrete showers.

The residents stayed to one side of the upstairs lodgings (I was told) and as I walked with my guide past their doors I heard phlegmy harrumphs and coughs, shuffling, scratching and the crackle of wrappings and at the one door that was opened, three cartons of Woodstock and Cola.

Shivering (Ravenshoe is QLD’s highest town at an elevation of some 8900m) I said “um, are there heaters?”

“Nah, no heaters. Here’s the blankets and stuff, go for your life. I’ll leave you to it, ask me if you need anything” and thrusting at me the room key, dangling on a Carlton Draft lanyard, she was back downstairs to attend to the howls of the thirsty mob.

No worries, got my gear, sorted myself and off into the TV room, y’know, to be sociable. The bloke from before was still there, Gladiators yelling enthusiastically at him from the box.

“Hi” I said. “Do you live here?”

This second question came within the 10 seconds that I had looked at the bloke and realised he was lucky to be 20.

“Yeah”

“How long have you been here?”

“Three months”

“True? What brings you here?”

“Oh, I was working at the mill but I got a better job the other day. My second week this coming week. I’m a stumper – y’know, I put fence posts into the ground”

“So… why are you here? Not, at home or… something?”

“Oh, had a fight with my olds three weeks before my 17^th birthday so I left”.

“Musta been some kinda fight. You’re darn brave I reckon, I wouldn’t have just left at your age”

“Yeah well,” he shrugged.

‘So how did you get here then?, Ravenshoe…”

“My dad follows the mines, y’know. First we were in WA until I was 12, then we were in South Australia. Now we’re here. Where are you from?”

I told him I was from Perth and he said that his family used to own an Italian restaurant there. Then a Small World thing happened. Turns out the restaurant in question was in Maddington! He lived in Kelmscott though, he pointed out many times. He never wanted to work in the restaurant, and at one point he opened his own carwash down in Kelmscott. He said he didn’t charge a lot but because he got so much business he didn’t have to worry about not covering the costs.

Comes from a mixed family, “dad” is actually step-dad. I didn’t find out what happened to his real dad. He calls one of his brothers his “full-blood” brother, and the other, younger two are just his brothers.

He used to get really good marks at school, and this stayed the same when they went to SA. He was great at sports too, especially field events, and used to represent his school in the inter-school sports. Then, when they moved again, he decided he’d had enough of doing great things for some school that would get all the praise and leave him with nothing. He decided to aim for 4^th in all his events so there was no danger in accidentally getting a place on the inter-school team.

He also stopped trying to do well at school, and he couldn’t anyway because he had to look after his younger brothers while his mum and dad were at work. Because he was cooking their dinner and cleaning and stuff, he didn’t have time to do his school assignments and eventually he stopped trying.

Chris said he was always good at maths and could do it in his sleep, but his English was not so good. When he left home he tried to get into the Army, but his English scores in the screening test let him down. In the maths screening, he got all 75 questions right and they said that he would have walked into an Officer-class position if his English had been passable so in six months he was going to enrol to do Year 12 again.

I asked him if he ever saw his brothers and if they missed him. Chris said that his younger brothers come into town to go to school. The last time they saw him they gave him a huge bearhug and wanted him to come home with them. But his “full-blood” brother Andrew, well, he was just a dickhead. They had a fight the other day and “I pushed his head through the St Vinnie’s window”.

“Why?”

“Oh, he was saying stupid things, like ‘oh Chris, you think you’re so big and tough now that you’re not at home. Come on, I’m tougher than you’ and he tried to fight me. So I pushed him. The school teachers came and yelled at me but I didn’t care. He’s a dickhead.”

Chris also told me he’s got a computer in his room that he built himself from scraps. He couldn’t afford a new one so he made one. I told him I was impressed that he could do that, and it was a shame he was wasting his brain on stumping. He said he knew heaps of people in Ravenshoe that bought the flash new cases and then bought the bits they needed so it wasn’t really such a big deal.

I said it sounded like he had given up a lot of his talents but it was good that he was doing something positive, despite being out of home.

After a while our conversation petered out, but I kept thinking that this kid would have been one of them that goes under the radar – no-one notices that he’s not coping with all the changes of being in a blended family that moves with New Dad’s work and foists all the responsibilities on the oldest child. Then, before he’s even finished with school, he’s out on his own in the world.

Lucky in some ways that his world is still no bigger than Ravenshoe.

Eventually we said our goodnights, and upon retirement I discovered that the mattress held up to all my expectations.

Day Ten: Ravenshoe to Croydon

There is no morning in Ravenshoe, only a pinkish glow that turns into grey light. I saw Chris before I left, sitting on the fire escape stairs of the Hotel decked out in his Hi-Vis workwear, head lowered between his knees. Bit early for despondency I thought, but looking at the morning and thinking about our conversation last night… maybe not.

I saw him again as I was leaving, out the front of the bakery. I hope his job didn’t let him down.

Next stop took me further into the “real” bush, through Mt Garnatt and to Undara Station to view the lava tubes.

Another exciting thing happened pretty much right out of Mt Garnett…

There’s these signs from Ravenshoe onward informing you that road trains use the road and those universal yellow-and-black diamond street signs showing you who will win if you don’t shove over and let them pass, so there’s no excuses for the non-English speaking or illiterate road users.

Sure enough, rising through the morning sheen was the blurry shape of a roadtrain and me within 20m of a one way bridge. Decisions, decisions. Well shit I haven’t slowed down yet and if I do now I will end up with a new vent right down the front of my car, courtesy of the bridge rail, so I’ll take my luck with this one and let him pass.

We got through – just and I pulled right off the road when the truck got to me. Pah! It was just a baby! Only two trailers. But you know, that was enough for me to really switch on my careful driving brain, and it also gave me a good opportunity to check out the kerbsides.

You might laugh, but this is an important consideration for country driving. You need someplace to go when things get dicey on the road, say if someone coming in the other direction misjudges the length of the road train they’re overtaking and suddenly needs the bit of road you are using, and when the roads are not of any particular interest to a major business operation they are likely to only be 1 ½ cars wide so you are gonna end up in the dirt some time. Better to know what kind of dirt you’re hitting so you can work out how to get there and back on the road again in a controlled fashion, rather than Dukes of Hazard-style.

Good thing, the kerbsides pretty much all the way from Mt Garnatt to Cloncurry are hard-packed coffee rock or ochre-granite. Small, round rocks, bit of slippery dust, then low-cut grass. This is good kerbside for the on-again off-again high-speed driving that I was going to do for that entire stretch of the trip.

So onward to Undara and FINALLY I was on the kind of road that I so love to travel. Open bitumen, few cars, bush either side. A lot of it was ironbark and …? Of a greyish green persuasion, the dirt being a mixture of grey basalt bulldust and the aforedescribed pink granite.

Now, the other thing that really became prominent to my notice were animals of the domesticated and untamed versions. In particular, the driver West of the coastline should watch diligently for bovine obstructions. These supremely stupid moving mountains that blend perfectly with the roadside vegetation (not sure about the wisdom of Darwinism under these circumstances) will make tidy work of your front end should you happen to get in their way. Unfenced paddocks mean the unwary driver will be taking home their next T-bone on the radiator grill.

Otherwise, I should note in rapturous tones the eagles (someone told me they are the famed Wedge-tail and someone else said that wasn’t likely as they are only found in WA). My understanding is that these birds are endangered, but apparently no-one mentioned it to them. Thankfully less stupid than the cows but equally as single-minded when it comes to food, these Lords of the Sky swoop, swirl, perch, peck and prey wherever there is fresh roadkill. And out these ways, there is plenty. AND, they’re not shy at all to stare down any vehicle hurtling at them if moving means they might not get the best bits of whatever it is they’re ravenously engorging. Crazy.

The number of times I have had to actually stop or slow down to about 20km p/hour as I drive around a carcass with an eagle or two perched stubbornly atop. Then, when they deign at the 11^th hour to shift, they flap up and prematurely swoop around again with a single purpose in mind – to get back to dinner. So they basically give you at least two chances at the jackpot.

My concern is twofold – I don’t want to hit them because they are endangered and because I loathe killing anything but also because I would be in a fine jam with one of them stuck in my radiator. So it is mutually beneficial if they get out of the way so that I can get on my way. Try telling them that…

The other animal obstacle that I began to encounter with increasing frequency I have just mentioned. Roadkill is infinitely more dangerous than moving animalia because a 6-foot from tip to tail Boomer, on its side and inflated to 3 times its size thanks to the potent combination of decomposition processes and the blazing Outback sun is a rock that you are not gonna get over. When you are bearing down on one of these monoliths with a roadtrain or even a (bloody) Grey Nomad bearing down in the opposite direction, you don’t have many options.

A second problem with roadkill is that it attracts the predators as previously described, giving you several things to be considering when staring into the rippling glare at “that moving black thing” emerging in the middle distance that may or may not be a 53m long road train.

However, I am not truly complaining. Seeing these random obstacles told me truly that I was travelling as I love, into the space and nothing.

So back to Undara – the point of this place is that it is a station-turned-National Park due to the discovery of lava tubes formed when the Undara volcano erupted umpteen million years ago (they told me the specifics on the tour but I forget). The lava tubes are enormous basalt, granite, manganese and quartz caverns that stretch for 22 km (as far as they have discovered) from the original eruption site.

I only took a 2 hour tour but it was sufficient to impress me. Our guide was a cardboard cut-out Crocodile Dundee with the unlikely name of Levi (I asked him, he isn’t Jewish) who had the witty repartee down pat mixed with an exceptional knowledge of the local geology, biology and ecosystem.

All in all it was a really terrific way to kill several hours, and I recommend it to anyone.

Having done the tourist thing, I knew that I had to keep moving so I made a plan to get to Croyden by nightfall. This is a very ‘me’ plan – Normanton is the next big town from Undara which is precisely why I didn’t go there. I hate the big towns and so far they haven’t been kind to me (e.g., Mackay, Mt Isa).

I stopped at Mt Surprise to get fuel and asked the lady what the road out to Normanton was like.

“Fat and skinny, just like what you’ve been on. Watch for the road trains and you’ll be fine”.

Well it wasn’t the road trains that are the problem but the caravans!! Road hogs! I was off the road so many times, Ma and Pa Kettle coming the other way don’t seem to realise that their 4WD is quite sufficiently equipped to deal with the edges and it is not their supreme right to use the entire bitumenised section of the road when the road is too narrow for two cars.

Never mind, the drive to Croyden was, apart from close encounters with various fauna including wallabies and an Old Man Goanna strolling across the path, uneventful and relatively peaceful.

An indication of the contrariness and irony of these seemingly forever parched lands are the shallow undulations in the road prefixed with a warning “road subject to flooding, markers indicate depth” followed by a post marked with graduations every 10cm. A cursory glance at one’s surroundings would suggest water has long been a distant memory yet some of the posts topped out at an extraordinary 2m from ground level. I could not imagine that the water would not be absorbed readily into the cracked skin or sucked into the vast, thirsty throat of the dry earth surrounding me long enough to reach such a height!

Further, I crossed many bridges indicating a river flowed beneath, and was thrilled that these are as faithfully described in Australian legends, blinding-white sandy crevices improbably fringed and peopled by an array of native plants, resolutely sticking out the tough times, waiting patiently and verdantly(!) until the fabled flood blasts through from the North and sates their thirsty roots again.

So, Croyden. Is so small it’s entirety can be caught in a few words: houses x 10, pubs/restaurants x 3, general store, petrol station x 2, health-clinic cum daycare x 1. Peaceful, relaxed, red-earth and blue sky, any perambulation faster than a saunter will get you a sideways look.

Thoughtfully, there is an ample caravan and camping ground that amicably informs the visitor “If the office is unattended pick a site and come back later”. It is managed by a sole middle-aged woman who was not around when I arrived. When she returned she apologised profusely, saying she had been at the local CWA meeting that had dragged on and on. I paid for the night and let her get back to making bikkies for the music festival that was to happen at the coming weekend.

“Shame you’re not going to be around” she smiled at me.

“True,” I said, “I would have liked to see it. Seems to be the way, I’m too late or too early for everything going on around. Ah well, it can’t be helped.”

The absolute best thing about Croyden was the evening chorus. Galahs by the hundreds, like pink and grey clothes pegs swinging, hanging, flapping and carrying on about the powerlines. Shouting at the sun, daring it to go down, squawking, flustering and flying about whenever anything at all approached the powerlines.

Smaller groups of eagles, kites and ravens roosting in their own high places stared haughtily at the circus, with an occasional fluffing of the chests or a casual flap of powerful wings.

Night fell, and a full moon stared down on the also full campground. I met and spoke with many more fellow travellers, sharing information and places been. One of them was a retired miner from NSW heading (with special permission) into Arnhem Land for a spot of fishing. Only being charged $50 per night by his mate who runs a show in there. There was a couple from near Swan Hill in Victoria. We shared notes on the follies of caravanning, glancing at the ocean-liner sized examples surrounding us, and they pointed out a bowerbird bouncing near my tent.

Day Eleven: Croyden to Mt Isa

From Croyden the dirt is deep ochre, trees poke like the bristles of a brush from the dry soil, exclamation points surprised at their own survival.

Eagles and kites circle and soar, masticating cattle appear randomly at the edges of the road and everywhere there is land. A turn upward to Normanton and the old bloke at the servo was surprised I wasn’t going to Karumba like the hordes – it is the last bit of sealed road in the Gulf region and therefore the only place the caravan-driving beach- and deep-sea fishing enthusiasts can access their passion.

Nope, for me it was South, next likely stop being the Burke and Wills roadhouse. South of Normanton is yellowing, endless savannah, more fat-skinny road and a frustrating number of trailer- and caravan-hauling oncoming traffic with inevitable kerbside travelling (mostly on my part again!). Saltbush and gibber plain sections are a common sight for sore eyes; I shook my head and considered how stupid Burke had been to dump his supplies so early in his journey. I ruminated that Burke was gifted with equal measures of determination and foolhardiness to make it to the Gulf Country at all, and how remarkable it was that his group even considered returning the way they had come.

To prove a point to myself (and to keep me awake at the wheel – it’s pretty warm inside the car with no tint, no air con, the sun beating down from a clear sky and nothing alive or dead higher than your knee to provide shade) I started to count oncoming traffic. Ok only the Nomads. 11.30 I started and stopped when I got to the Burke & Wills Roadhouse at 2.30pm. Sixty nine (69) unique vehicles passed me during that period, and one madman doing about 130 clicks around the bends in a camper. Gawd knows where he was going, but I dunno about his hurry coz nothin’ moves fast in these parts… whatever it was, it probably wasn’t even there yet when he arrived.

That, dear friends, is one heck of a lot of traffic. The great part is that with so many people on the road, and so many of them armed to the back teeth to avoid or resolve any of the unexpected situations that Outback Oz could throw at them, I would have ample help should I run into any problems (good news Dad!).

Just before the Burke & Wills Roadhouse appeared like a blessing before my sun-strained eyes, I had a strange encounter. I could see something flashing up ahead, and it looked like white streamers tied to a pole, flapping in the wind. As I drew near, the pole transmogrified into a person! Yes, this was a Frenchman called Michel and he, kitted out as he was in painters coveralls rolled down to the waist, a peak-cap, wild hair and pulling a canvass trolley tethered to his waist, was walking around Australia.

We exchanged some words, I checked that he was sufficiently equipped with water and mentioned to him some of the terrain ahead of him, chastised him for not being covered over in the sun and heat (to which he replied, breathing deeply from his emaciated, Ambre-Solaire torso, “I am ok, it is ok”), and we parted ways.

The Burke & Wills is typical of a midpoint roadhouse, workman’s dongas painted out in leery colours to help you pretend they’re something comfortable, a clear space at the back somewhere for tents that, depending on when the last rain fell, may or may not have a few struggling blades of grass, ridiculous prices for everything, beer on tap for breakfast, sundry truckies, passers-through, Nomads, locals come in for a paper or a bottle of milk, and tired-looking backpackers (English and Irish girls this time) manning the counter services.

A brief stop and it was onwards to Mt Isa. From the Burke & Wills the terrain is much as before, however, leading into Cloncurry I was compelled to exclaim at the enormous cairns and piles of granite rock that are cast about the otherwise entirely flat landscape.

I should have stayed in Cloncurry, at first bite similar to Ayr. Leaving Cloncurry one may turn East toward Julia Creek/Hughenden/Emerald or West toward Mt Isa. Going West as I was, the rounded red-earth clusters of hillock, remnants of once mighty mountains of the Barkly Tablelands, bubble and rise around the driver winding her way towards Mt Isa and are an impressive sight.

Mt Isa though, is firmly fixed in my “Take It Or Leave It Basket” with a preference for the latter.

You can smell the place before you arrive and slipping through a gap in the ranges, it appears before you, filmed with fine grey dust. The most remarkable thing about Mt Isa, apart from the obvious smell and the sick feeling post-departure, is that the town was truly really built around the base of the Xtrata Mines!!. You may do your weekend grocery shopping at the major shopping hub located thoughtfully under the smoke stacks, and the haze will end any discussion about sunburn.

True to the genus “mining town”, accommodation is at a premium – space and cost. I jammed into the only caravan park (of four options) with camping space, along with at least the matched pair for each of the travellers that I had passed on the road earlier that day.

The fact that this joint was 5km from the town centre and close to my original entry point from Cloncurry was a positive twist of fortune given the controversially dubious air quality in Mt Isa proper. It was also yet another instance where I was the unwitting subject of the kindness of strangers.

Standard conversation with a trio who invited me to join them at Boule lead to an offer of a roast dinner that evening!! The cooks, Stan and Jude, put on a great spread. They were up from Adelaide and were heading North for marine adventures in the Gulf before heading East to the Cape (York).

That clear night, I joined a small contingent around a campfire to listen to the resident bush poet who paradoxically was English. She rolled out some old favourites like Clancy of the Overflow and the Man From Snowy River, as well as some modern and more irreverent rhymes, whose authors and titles I do not know to tell.

I retired that evening as an involuntary audience to the heady tones of Dark Side of the Moon being broadcast via some thoughtless person’s in-tent stereo system to the whole caravan park. Great album, nothing against it, but let’s just say I was exhausted and therefore was not in the right mindspace to appreciate this great work of musicianship.

My overnight in Mt Isa was also the only night so far where I was so cold I had my sleeping bag, a blanket and an extra sleeping bag to keep me warm and I was STILL cold!! My feet were like iceblocks all night, the upside being that there wasn’t much adjusting required when dawn finally broke and I had to get out of bed.

Toowoomba to Perth: Section 3

Day Six: Mackay to Cardwell

Started rather late in terms of travel as I was madly writing up my memoirs for my own peace of mind (don’t want to forget anything) and because it was the last time I would have “free” Internet for the trip. It dawned beautiful, brilliant searing sunshine in an azure sky, a little of that pregnant cumulus so common to the tropics that, if it joined with its mates would surely end in a downpour of titanic proportions.

Ultimately a joyful day for a drive. Dear Susie from the motel again told me to use the numbers I had – I must stay at her place when I was in Cairns. “Ok” I promised, got myself together and headed off.

The drive to Airlie Beach was typical to the area and you’ve heard me wax lyrical about it before… sugarcane fields as far as you bother to look, now interspersed with prospects focused on the banana palm; row upon row, falsely bejewelled by plastic bags in traffic-stopping blues, reds, greens, yellows, wrapped hopefully around gigantic unripe hands of fruit.

In the background however was now the endless majestic unfolding rainforest ranges and mountains of this part of the country. Words simply do no justice to the deep grey-asparagus (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Category:Shades_of_green) green monolithic backdrop transposing a sharp, irregular silhouette against the blue azimuth. It is just extraordinary. The words I do not possess to explain the Hawkesbury river region or the northern NSW hinterland would also suffice here. Breathtaking, orgasmic (thanks Lonely Planet for this fine descriptor).

This is also true of the drive into Airlie Beach. Now I’d heard about this place from my backpacker conversations in years gone by so I felt compelled to take this 50km detour from my original destination to satisfy my curiousity. Is it, I wondered, like Byron Bay? All talk and hype, absolute cheese-fest in reality.

Yep.

Nice countryside surrounding, as already explained, and Shute Harbour is lovely but Airlie Beach itself is typically over-populated with tourist-focused enterprises and neon signs. And tourists. More “Wicked” campers, “Hippie Camper”s, Grey Nomads, Wealthy Wanker Boat Owners and sunburnt backpackers than you could poke a stick at. While very pretty, given the vast stretches of coastline fore and aft that would do just the same job, I asked myself “Why would ya?”. And I mean, why would so many people all go to the one place to “get away from it all?”. All of the travellers you basically try to avoid flock to a place like Airlie Beach.

Nuff said, I’m outy. Next stop was Cardwell, me with no mobile coverage praying like hell that it didn’t turn out like Mackay – no room for no apparent reason. But, I thought, Cardwell is about 5 minutes (ok more like 1 hour with no Nomads) from Mission Beach which was my next scheduled destination, and my tent was dry so I had some choices, unlike when I was in Mackay.

So out of Airlie Beach in high spirits, through a few little nothingsvilles and swinging West a little way into the drier bits of the countryside I bent through Bowen – funny little place with tidal flows of the impressive kilometric variety. When I went through it was low tide so I can tell ya, it’s true. Nothin but claypan stretching for ages, signs pointing improbably to boat ramps and fishing spots, and the elevated highway running right through it.

After Bowen the next Worth-a-Mention is Ayr and I could hang up my hat in that little joint. Really pretty, flame trees festooned with flowers, diffienbachia, spathyphillum, cordyline, elephant ears and staghorns growing in every opportunity, palm trees of a hundred differentiations, blooming waterlilies in the dams and waterways, rich, dark, damp soil, impossibly green buffalo grass, typical tropicalia. People are happy to pass the time of day, wide streets, little traffic, beautiful beach within spitting distance, really terrific. Probably too slow for some, but I knew I would like it.

Shame in some ways that I wasn’t staying, but not so bad in others. After a fuel stop in Ayr my journey would take me through Ingham and the nearby state forest mountain passes and into Cardwell which, by the way, is the gateway town to Hinchinbrook Island.

I can see why they make chickens in Ingham, there ain’t a thing else to talk about. Between Ayr and Ingham, though, I saw some of the most beautiful late afternoon weather phenomena I have ever witnessed.

I didn’t mention previously that when I was coming back from Eungella it was spitting a little and the end of a rainbow appeared in the fields just in front of me. That is the closest I remember ever being to a rainbow and it made that day give me a warm glow. This was similar, only more so due to the spectacular vista. It was raining sunshine.

Picture: the Herbert River Gorge section of the Girringun National Park rising up and winding around me in stark contrast to the flat land, bright green sugar-cane fields through which I was actually passing, purple-grey cloud misting the mountain-tops and darkening the sky behind, sun hidden behind early banks of cloud prefixed to the fore of the mountains then bursting, not in the rays that are often seen, but a sheet of light painting its glow onto the sun-side of the Ranges.

This amazing sight happened twice that afternoon, due to the ever-shifting flow of the cloud, sun and geography. This was a good cap to a bad even-later afternoon event, a tired personage (me) stuck behind some really annoying drivers, then hitting the Townsville traffic.

I hardly saw any of Townsville and if that is the way it is when I die I’ll be ok with it. Just didn’t like it at all so I breathed a great sigh of relief when I finally left it behind. After that was just more driving through Significant Environmental Areas (they are thoughtfully signed by the EPA so you know just what your car exhaust fumes are destroying) until reaching Cardwell.

Gateway to Hinchinbrook yes, individual claim to fame – nil. Cardwell is just nowhere. Has a couple of restaurants, a Caltex, some houses, the railway line to Cairns cutting the town into two halves that is the only reason for more than one road (apart from the Bruce Highway), the Reef to Rainforest Information and Education centre, couple of backpackers and Port Hinchinbrook so the Rich Wankers can park their sea-faring Symbols of Decadence somewhere when they aren’t swanning around Hinchinbrook itself.

Needing company I decided to stay at a backpacker and got the last bed in the place. Lucky me, this was a 16-bed unisex dorm and the majority of the stayers were working-visa backpackers. But the people that ran it were the nicest you could imagine and Narine (the owner) said that I was lucky because I was an Australian girl. If I was an Australian boy she would have turned me down.

“Girls,” she said “are touring. Boys are running away from something. Debt, bad relationship, crime, whatever. They’re bad news. They’re really rude to the other guests and they often have a drinking problem. If I get them work, they end up losing job after job because their attitude is bad.”

“Well, I’m really glad I’m a girl today.” I smiled as she gave me a sheet and pillow (yes friends, that’s all we need to sleep in comfort in the tropics IN JUNE!!). Sorted, showered, got a beer and sat down to read my book (Carpentaria by Alexis Wright – excellent yarn a propos when travelling in steamier (not kinky) parts of the globe).

Ended up, as you do, talking to some English and a Danish girl. The Danish girl was doing her gap year and there was no telling her anything. She knew it all, except whether it was really safe to travel in Malaysia. She was believing the LP telling her that because it was a Muslim country and she was a lone female traveller she would run into trouble. I said to her “If you go looking for trouble you will find it. A bit of respect for customs, such as not wearing very revealing clothing, covering your shoulders and wearing say, knee length clothes, and you will be alright. And stay away from protests and political gatherings”.

“Oh, I will find that sort of thing by accident” she said. “Sure, and if you do you probably want to unfind it as soon as possible, that’s all” I said. She smiled and then started talking about the CIA having a secret base in Alice Springs à anyone can jump in here and correct this fantasy?

The English had scored themselves *cough* plum jobs in the prawn factory. The bloke was just making sure enough prawns went into X bin, then hauling X bin off to Y sorting machine 100 times a day. His need to handle or be in any way involved with the prawns was minimal. Alternatively she had the super task of sorting. As the prawns came down the shute in loads that went “splat” (so she said) and on to the conveyor belt, she had to remove ones with black patches, blood spots and rottenness. Obviously the former could be achieved with a visual check alone, but the latter required one to push into the prawn with a finger. When a prawn was proper rotten, not just a bit rotten, you knew about it because it would explode into your face, she said.

I had stopped drinking my beer by now. “How much do they pay you?” I asked, thinking this was a rort of criminal proportions.

“Good money, $17 per hour regular, $20 on weekends and public holidays and $33 overtime. But the job is dead boring, and when you actually talk about it, it’s pretty fucked up. My brain goes numb with the repetition and you know, you can’t even talk to the regular workers there because all they talk about is prawns!! Some of them have been working there for 25 years!”

“How do you stay sane?”

“I’m not sure that I have a particularly strong grasp on reality these days” said the bloke and she nodded. “I’m already dreaming prawns and I’ve only been doing it two weeks” she said.

What these people will do for their second year visa is terrible. I later talked to a guy from Korea who was doing banana harvesting and he said that his problem was the baskets were too heavy for him to carry, which is understandable because they can weigh 60 - 80kg per bunch. Another English girl said that she liked working in the banana fields but they had put her in the factory so now she didn’t see the sunlight all day and all she did was sort bananas into sizes, put them in bunches and put the bunches in boxes.

A hundred times better than the prawn factory, I pointed out and she didn’t disagree.

The main problems are these workers/travellers are 1) pretty green, mostly gap year students and such with 2) no knowledge of what working conditions to expect in Australia 3) little knowledge of minimum working conditions in their own country 4) desperate to stay in Australia for longer 5) fairly wide-eyed to life experience and therefore capacity to sniff out danger or dodginess, 6) forced, by the stipulations for a second visa, to work in the primary industries.

Anyway this sobering conversation then turned, as happens when a gaggle of English find themselves travelling in Australia, to Neighbours and I vacated for some shut-eye.

Day Seven: Cardwell to Mission Beach/Dunk Island

Next day I headed out of Cardwell to Mission Beach, home of the Cassowary and you will, while you are in Mission Beach, never forget it. The signs telling you not to run them over are every couple of hundred metres on the roadside and (because this is Queensland) there is a very Big Cassowary at the entrance to the town. I was talking to a tour guide (native) who advised that there are only 55 – 60 Cassowary in the entire Mission Beach/Tully area, yet it has the highest population of the birds per square kilometre of any place on Earth. Correct! for your green Trivial Pursuit slice, they are endangered therefore not hitting them with your car is good for non-travel-delay-related, tree-hugging, ecosensitive reasons.

At this stage I have not even seen a Cassowary and no that doesn’t mean I didn’t see the one that made an imprint in my bumper. Apparently, they are also on par with Emus in terms of road sense so with that piece of knowledge, the road signs and my eco-friendly leanings I’ll expect the unexpected and be really really careful if one appears.

Anyway, back to Mission Beach because the in-between doesn’t have much to say that hasn’t been written before. Only thing that I haven’t talked about is the sugar factories.

These examples of functional, to-hell-with-aesthetics architecture belch their steamy, brown-sugar/burning grass/molasses fumes over anything downwind for miles. Their invariably rusted, corrugated iron exteriors are an eyesore and a blight on the landscape, not to mention the assault on the nose. But, they are the backbone of the towns in these areas, and the amenities that also support the towns to function (e.g., supermarkets, petrol stations, banks) do not and would not exist only for the whimsy and convenience of the fickle tourist. So this tourist is not actually complaining, rather, reporting.

Again, promises, back to the beach. You must come here. Fantastic little hideaway hamlet, proximal to Dunk Island (yeah, yeah, it’s a tropical island. Nice beaches, nice rainforested mountains, completely monopolised by the Voyages Dunk Island Resort). Mission Beach has the most kick-ass Great Barrier Reef snorkelling/diving you can get if you don’t live in FNQ and own a boat.

Day Eight: Mission Beach and Great Barrier Reef

And speaking of such things, that’s what I did today. What a great gig, easily one of the most satisfying and interesting things I have ever done. I love snorkelling and the range of fish, coral, starfish, sea slugs, cephalapods and other marine life is incredible.

It is quite evident that there are large patches of dead and dying coral, the colours are also nothing to talk about, mostly brown and grey. Nothing like the iridescent pink, peacock blue, radiating green and vibrant yellow of the reef I saw in Thailand.

But the captain of our boat was adamant that he has seen tracts of the Reef die and regenerate over the 25 years he has been living and working the area, and that if the coral just kept growing we would be sailing through it instead of swimming to see it. He also said that the water temperature (mean) two years ago was 32°C and last year it was 28°C but you never heard anyone talking about the water getting cooler instead of warmer, so he thinks the whole coral bleaching, global warming conversation is a load of horseapples.

*Sigh* probably still gets all his shopping in plastic bags too….

Well whatever the argument, I was really excited by the numbers and variety of things that you could swim with, around, under and through, but the coral itself looked a bit sad.

And that, other than many random conversations with backpackers and other travellers (who are impressively more up to speed with the whole environmental debate than I had ever imagined could be possible for people from all walks of life and corners of the globe), is it for now.

Next stops are the Atherton Tablelands and Daintree, so stay tuned!!

Toowoomba to Perth: Section 2

Day Four: Bundaberg to Mackay

As mentioned elsewhere in this blog, the day dawned to drizzle, rain and rain. Notwithstanding, the only real dampener to my spirits was the nuisance of having to deal with a wet tent. Hand wipe down first to get most of the water off, then a beach towel to dry the exterior sufficiently to fold it and drape it over all my other gear jammed in the back of the car. No worries, done and dusted.

Unfortunately, the skeeters got very busy while I was doing this. Man I am EATEN. I was doin' a fine Irish jig slapping at my legs while trying to organise my stuff in the back of the car but they were too keen for me.

Finally I headed off for a shower to cool my itching-burning legs and to slap on the insect-repellant moisturiser combination I have created for the trip. But first, I waged my own revenge. The little bastards had managed to find their way into the nooks and crannies of the car interior, where they could lurk, awaiting that perfect moment to launch at the unsuspecting driver, already busy waving a fist and shouting Old Skool Hip Hop lyrics at Oldies in Winnebago's not Keeping Left. Said driver, suddenly assailed with an itch to make a tart blush, loses concentration on lyrics, travelling vehicles of all persuasions and the basic brain functions associated with steering. Outcome: Not cool, and likely to cause no end of delay to my schedule. So, "right , you little buggers, chemical warfare it is" I asseverated, and whipped out the can of Pea Beau.

Anyway on with the show. Bug problem sorted, I rolled away from my temporary beach frontage and into the rain. Oh yeah RAIN. Not the shy stuff I was treated to earlier, this was the Real McCoy. Can't See Your Hand In Front Of You, Why Are We Bothering To Use Wipers, Someone Go Get The Tinny type rain.

All good sez I, we'll be right. I'm going North. This is Coastal Showers. Humbug. This is across the region and following me apace. But enough! with the weather - any news? Scenery?

Yes. My very first heart-stopping road travel moment happened out of Bundy about 80 clicks. Silly bugger in a clapped out Toyota van - you know the ones with the side windows painted over with leftover fence paint? Yeah, well he and his trailer were in my way from just out of Bundy and his speed was worrying me - no chance to get to Mackay by sundown at the rate he was holding. What is a girl in a 1.3 with less guts than Kevin Rudd at a Carbon Trading Scheme Forum to do? Squint through the driving rain, grit teeth, push the pedal to the floor and hope there are no hills or other cars coming. Bad luck, both. I rarely do this sort of driving - that of the Hope To Hell This Works variety - and I really was just lucky that there wasn't any carnage.

I didn't make a move until I had a downhill run so I could gain speed without having to rely on the engine to provide it and sure enough just as I was alongside him, the stupid mongrel also gained speed. What is it with those morons that you have been tailing for 25km waiting for a break, you finally get it and they suddenly discover the accelerator when you're overtaking them! No common sense or courtesy.

You may notice I spend a bit of time griping about fellow roadusers. I think I have latitude to make these assertions, given the amount of driving I have done. My main issue is the lack of understanding about driving safely for ALL road users, not just the Royal You. This bothers me because I want to stay alive, strangely enough!

Anyway, after overtaking your man there, it was flat stick through to Mackay. Ok not true, I stopped in Rockhampton - clearly arranged for the tourists resting before and after their Whitsunday adventures - for a very short break and then on. So what else to tell? Sugarcane, sugarcane, sugarcane. And rain. All day. Not a lick of beautiful blue for encouragement. But you know, the best thing about this part of Oz is that even precipitation is not miserable Stay Inside Cold and Horrible rain, it is Let's Jump In Puddles, Catch In Your Mouth, Chase the Cane Toads kind of rain. Warm and happy.

Entering Marlborough country, the scenery changed a little as befits its nomenclature, swinging inland for a glimpse of typical agricultural Australia - gum trees, eroding soil, grey, harvested fields of dust. A stop at the Marlborough BP for fuel and water got me to wondering about the truth of possums and their effect when choosing to be dead inside a watertank. Lesson: for a new taste sensation, source your water from Marlborough BP.

I also had a yarn to some Fifty-somethings decked in leathers of stud and tassle, and sporting mean Harleys. They just came from Airlie Beach and promised skies of cerulean blue. I had to return favour with ill tidings of more drizzle and cloud. They were ok with that, the main issue being whether to bother getting into their wet-weather gear or not. They decided "for".

On again, leaving behind a trio of hapless Japanese backpacker lads aimlessly wandering around the servo-cum-roadhouse, oily rags stuffed into oh-so-cool backpacking couture, evidently trying to work out between themselves how the hell they managed to end up working for stuff all in this arse end of no place when Everyman's Tropical Dream was a lazy 100km eastward to the coast.

Finally, after MUCH more rain and MUCH less traffic thank the Lord, I hit Mackay. 5.30pm. No worries, I'll find a place. Call the backpackers (all two) listed in the LP and whaddaya know - full. Call RACQ, gulping back the likelihood of much more expensive arrangements, call the numbers provided - full. Hm, wet tent in the back, no chance of tenting it. Bloody hell. I considered sleeping in the car for a while, and wondered if the cops would pick me up.

Finally, decided to head into town to try my luck. Coasting along the main drag, every single place is full, full, full. Exactly as the very nice but equally unhelpful people from the backpackers had told me. What is it about Mackay? I wondered. Not like it is really "somewhere" when considering the other options up and down the coast. Finally, a sign saying "vacancy". Sigh, well, it's gonna be lean pickings from now on as this will be where the fair share of my hard earned will end up.

As such things seem to go, this was an excellent choice after all. WiFi in the room and just the absolute most helpful desk staff you could imagine. After a chat about "where to from here?" and "why ARE you here?" I asked "well, what the heck is it about Mackay?". Susie put me straight - mining. Apparently there are mines by the fistful around here and all the mining companies put their fly-in, fly-out workers into the motels. So too bad for anyone else looking to stay the night. Not sure about the wisdom of that arrangement if they're also after a tourist dollar but the hospitality industry doesn't give a fig as you might imagine, as long as the room is full.

Anyway, after talking with Susie about wanting to see Eungella (YUN-g'lla) National Park they rang me a few places that do tours. I was worried that my car wouldn't make it into (or perhaps out of) the Gorge. "No interest tomorrow love, no tour sorry". But they did tell me my car would make it so ok, I can live with that and give it a shot.

Next day, I came in to Susie and paid for the second night, telling her that my next plan was to find somewhere to do some snorkelling of the Reef before it all goes white and dies. Susie gives me her HOME NUMBER, tells me she is going to call her housekeeper and tell her that I'm coming and to give me someplace to stay until I'm done with Cairns. She tells me her 15 year old son is also there and he gets home from school about 4.30pm so call after that to sort yourself out.

I'm stunned. She also gives me the name of some bloke who used to work for her at her backpacker up the coast. He knows the people and the discounts. "Go get 'em tiger," she says. Still stunned, I stammer out "thanks, gee, thanks". "Don't be shy, you make sure you call" she says. "ok" I smile.

So I wobble off to my room and hit the Net with gusto (you may have noticed...).

Day Five: Mackay and Eungella National Park

Dawn clear and steamy. Happy dance. Off to the NP singing my heart out. Cruisin' baby and in for a good day.

Sign right before the road says "Cars, buses, trucks, vans, caravans, campers beware: Hairpin bends, very steep incline, road subject to slippage. Be aware of school bus".

First thought - every road using vehicle listed to be worried about this road... hmmm...

Second thought - if the school bus can make it, I can

"Mind," said pregnant Stacey at the motel "the road into the park is uphill and pretty winding". Heartstopping is probably closer to the truth. 15% gradient, hairpin bends, cattle grids, smooth blacktop, minimal railing that gives confidence that you will pause long enough to see your life flash before your eyes as you slide right off the precipitous side of the hill, and a 1.3 engine.

Now I'm really sure that the scenery is very pretty. There's plenty of lush rainforest and the view from the road takes in the entire Gorge valley. My brain registered about 1/10000 of this information, the rest of me was gritted teeth, pumping heart and prayers to whatever was listening, slowly working my way round the slippery, un-railed, cattle-grated, 15% hairpin bends.

Thank heavens the road up is only 4.5km and when I got to the top, having heaved an ENORMOUS sigh of relief, I surveyed the town of Eungella. Typical top-of-the-hill, Touristy Thing Near Us But That's The Only Reason To Live Here place. And, no film. No place along the way from Mackay or at Eungella sells film. After all, film is SO Last Century darling.

NB: I can't find the power cable for the digital camera so the long and short of it was, I had three shots left on the camera to expend on the Gorge and NP, and, you're all gonna have to wait until I get to Dad's and scan my prints.

Breaking out the hiking boots finally and with great enthusiasm, I kitted up and took myself down through the Park to Broken River. Stunning, just like in all the photos, iridescent, emeraldine rainforest.

Fakt 1: If it is raining, head into a rainforest and you will stay dry.

This learning hit me as the rain cascaded down in dribs, drabs and sheets. Wet? Not me. The rainforest wanted it all, and I was happy for it to take it.

Fakt 2: Every place takes its dues in flesh. In Bundy it's mozzies, in Mackay it's leeches.

Feisty little buggers were doing their very level best to crawl up my boots, over my socks and on to my legs. The little wrigglers are only the size of a worm until they hook into the good stuff so you really don't know you have visitors until they're well and truly settled.

Just like the mozzies though, I was ready. After knocking a great many from my boots when I finally remembered that Stinging Trees and Nettles were not going to be the only things to worry about Up Here, I whipped out my chemical for this occasion. Salt. See who gets a bit of my ruby fluid without a How's Your Father!

Anyway, the track itself was pretty much unpopulated. Until I got about 300m from Broken Creek, when I happened upon my first Tourist Cluster. Luckily only a group of two, probably early to mid twenties girls. They were neck to knees wrapped up, socks over trousers, the whole deal. Here's me come along in a singlet, shorts and boots and startled the life out of them.

Brief "hello, how ya doin?" (from me) and they, in their usual "I've met a local" way, scuttled off up the track, in search of more rainforest no doubt. Anyway, I stopped at Broken Creek to knock out my boots and check my socks for leeches when they returned. Naturally we had a yarn. They're just starting out and were mortally disappointed by the "cold" weather in Bundaberg (it was between 24 and 19 when I was there) and so had legged it apace up to Mackay in search of the sun. Good ole Oz, gave them more of the same for their haste. They couldn't believe it was raining.

I pointed out to them that it was actually quite warm and the rain shouldn't stop them, as people up here were used to it raining all the time so they did things with it or without. Then I asked them whether they had any leeches.

Suprised looks all round.

Pointing to their shoes, I said "them". Shrieks of suprise in native language, much frantic stomping and waving of arms, flicking with recoiling fingers and they were leech free. "Just what you come to Australia for huh?" I said. Questioning look. "All our most dangerous animals" says I.

"Oh, are they dangerous? Do they really..."

"Well they suck your blood"

"Can they really kill you? Are they poisonous?"

"Aw well I guess if you had enough of them, then you would want to get rid of them fairly quick smart"

Horrified faces. I couldn't go on.

"No, no. Just get em off, you'll be fine. They're not poisonous, and if you get one really stuck into ya, get some salt onto it. Gets rid of them no worries".

Looks of great relief.

Man, foreigners are pretty gullible huh? I was way suprised that they believed me and kept that thought under my hat for future fun times. Anyway, a further bit of chat about good places to go and we parted ways. Them 100m up the hill to the safety of their "Hippy Camper" and me back through the Leech Infested Eungella National Park, chuckling.

Back into town and I decided to take a little driving tour of Mackay. Odd place, it's like they decided to make a town centre some place and then changed their minds, starting again somewhere else. So there's a lot of quite heavily trafficked major roads with strips of broken or breaking down strip shopping, row of houses, repeat.

Really quite forgettable.

After getting a bit lost in the peak hour traffic, getting down to the beach for a bit to watch the kite surfers do their thing, getting lost again, and getting inside, that was it for Day Five.