STID: The Sunshine Coast

As you turn left, away from squat prefab horror of the Overlander roadhouse, and pull towards the west, towards the coast, the landscape changes. The ground-hugging spinifex and scraggly trees of the coastal plains give way to more windblown and resilient species. The red ochre dirt begins a slow transition to crushed shells and vibrant white sand. The land feels old. Looks old. Twenty kilometers away, in a shallow and salty bay, the world’s oldest living organisms, identical after three and half billion years, sit motionless. The road pushes upwards, along the jagged bluffs and away from the desert. Surrounded on both sides by ocean, the peninsular that leads to Denham is a vivid reminder of just how breathtaking Western Australia can be.

It’s May and I’ve escaped from Japan for 13 glorious days. I’m currently crouched in the back seat of a rented Tarago, muscles tensed involuntarily and lent forward in my seat to better see out the front window. I’m far more tense than I should be. Our van sits metres from the rear bumper of a beaten up tour bus (no doubt returning from mittagspause an einem der zahlreichen Strände) the driver of which has now indicated that he would like us to go past him for the third time, the cigarette bearing arm waved angrily from the driver’s window the only indication he’s getting frustrated. Malaysians make the transition from the chaos of KL traffic to the vastness of WA spectacularly poorly.

It’s been two days since I met T at the airport, her entire family in tow, and I’m already stressed and frustrated.

There is nothing worse than being put in a position of responsibility when it is neither expected or desired. This was my holiday from the suffocating clutches of mother nippon. It was my two weeks of getting drunk with friends, backyard cricket, trips to the beach and sitting around the house. No agenda other than seeing the folks, hanging out and eating far too much. Then again, two weeks for that did seem like a bit of overkill, my second option, hooking up with T on her father’s scuba diving extravaganza was seeming more and more like a great idea. I’d show people around a little, do some driving, and get free accommodation out the deal. It was the difference between seeing T for an rushed evening or a week up north. Deal-sealer.

“If it can go wrong, it will go wrong” is the mantra of travellers everywhere. Prepare for the worst and hope for the best. It shouldn’t work like that in your home city though. You should be insulated. Know the tricks of the trade. Who to call when it all falls down. It shouldn’t work like that but sometimes it does.

I pull the car into a bay opposite the hotel that Trace has booked. It’s one of those serviced apartment type deals near the city centre. Keyed entry, automatic safes, passcodes and itemised instructions. All this reduces the need for staff – the reception area is conspicuously locked, shuttered and deserted. Well, it looks like it is, we can’t get in off the street without a key. The number on the security door at the rear is 9 – 5pm, the internet firm T has booked through is closed and the 11 people T’s father has organised to go diving at Ningaloo stand on the street looking increasingly jumpy. My mobile’s battery dies. It’s getting dark. People look at me expectantly. Did I book this? Was I even in the country last week?

I grab a handful of coins from the Camry and stomp off to a payphone. Through directory services I’m able to get in touch with the parent company who own the complex, they have an after hours operator who grudgingly gives me the mobile number of the on duty (ie. at home twenty minutes drive away) staff member. She turns up with her kid twenty five minutes later, opens the office and turns on the computer. “I’m sorry, no record of yas. Didya book through the tourist centre? Yeah? Fuckwits. This is the third booking they’ve fucked up this month. You’ve paid already yeah? Let me try our other property up the road. 11 yeah? Neil, shut up for a second.” She organises two rooms in another building 100 metres up the road. I could kiss her.

Half an hour more faffing, more keys, more passcodes and a security elevator ride later they have rooms. Now they want food. Half want Chinese, the other half don’t care. As long as it’s Halal. In Perth. Near the city centre. At 9pm on a Sunday night. I’m coming to understand why tour operators have that fake plastic smile permanently fixed to their faces. It’s because they’re gritting their teeth and it’s either smile or bite you directly in the face.

After an excruciating dinner, T and I manage to escape. We’re due to meet back tomorrow morning, outside the apartments at 6:30am. If we want to make Monkey Mia comfortably in the afternoon we need to be well on the road by 9:00. At 7:30, no one’s showed outside the apartments. We call the room and everyone’s still asleep. No stress, we’ll go pick up the hire cars first.

“Thank you sir, yes, we do have that booking. Yes, it’s all paid for. The vans are ready to go, just out the back there. Can I just grab your license and take down some details. Oh. Oh dear.” Apparently the 22 year old with over 5000km of country driving and a perfect record is quite simply uninsurable. I cannot legally drive these cars. I just look at the overly made-up sixty year old behind the desk in disbelief. She half-smiles and then breaks eye contact and shuffles some paper. Her roots are black in dirty blonde hair. You fucking bitch. An hour later, as we break the city limits and head for the Swan Valley the group decide it’s time for a breakfast stop.

I step out of the back seat and glance at my mobile. Frown. Katy leans across and smiles. Flashes perfect teeth. “You’re looking a little stressed.”

Katy is one of those people who you have a sneaking suspicion are actually mocking you with every word. That friendly teacher in primary school who gave you sweets, patted you on the hand and treated you like you were five years old. The religious-ed teacher who spoke slowly, surely and with infinite condescension. The one you really, really, wanted to hate but just couldn’t. They were too nice. Just a little too much like one of your grandparents. So instead you settled on pegging erasers across the classroom while they stood at the front of the class, eyes closed and bow furrowed as they recited the Lord’s prayer.

I never did manage to hate Katy, but at times I got close.

...

To be continued in Part 4: Crossing rooms. Thinking holy.
Previously: 1 | 2

Posted in Mwah on Thursday October 27, 2005.