|
 Surfers Paradise: No Tourist Toasting. |
Unattached, I continued to frolic about in the waves. I felt the evidence of the lifeguard's warning more than once, however, as the undercurrent tugged heavily at my ankles and swept the sand away beneath my feet, trying its utmost to carry me out beyond my depth. The power of the current surprised me, but I was more excited than threatened. I was only a few metres out from shore and aware of the danger, and Denise and (hopefully) the lifeguard were watching me. Perhaps I should have been a little more wary, but in truth, I was quite enjoying my minor struggle with nature - it generated the same novel thrill as fighting to walk against strong wind, dashing through pouring rain, or wandering through a thick fog. Afterwards, I thought about the unwitting tourists who inevitably dash eagerly into the water outside lifeguard-patrolled areas throughout the year - a surefire recipe for a tragic holiday. Perhaps a more suitable name for Surfers Paradise would be "Bather's Gamble," or "Lifeguard's Despair."
Late in the afternoon, as the skies darkened to introduce a thunder and lightning rainstorm, Denise and I boarded McCafferty's and headed about two hours south to Byron Bay, just inside the northern border of New South Wales, the state from which we began our travels. The charming town is centred just behind Cape Byron, Australia's most easterly point, whose rocky cliffs sweep down on either side to endless beaches that stretch to the north and south of the town. For most of its history, Byron Bay prospered under both tourism and industry, hosting meatworks, a whaling station, a timber industry, sandmining, and an award-winning creamery while simultaneously accommodating seaside holidaymakers from places like Brisbane and Sydney. The tourists came to relax, surf and swim in the sea, but found that the area was not as idyllic and innocent as they might have hoped - discharges of blood and offal from the meatworks and whaling station made the bay a happy haunting ground for sharks. More recently, Byron Bay has adjusted to accommodate the influx of surfers, hippies and backpackers who have visited or moved in over the years (a transformation embodied by the conversion of the old abattoir into a New Age hostel), but the town has still managed to retain a genuine community feel and a relaxed, friendly atmosphere.
We checked into a nice hostel near the centre of town, and took a stroll around in the dark to get oriented. After grabbing something to eat, we ended up in the Great Northern Hotel, historically the social centre of the town because of its prized electricity generator. A big boxing match on the telly kept us and the regulars captivated. Before beating the crap out of each other, the boxers growled at each other, and afterwards they embraced each other. It reminded me of scraps at my primary school, except for the growling, the hugging, the padded gloves, and the referee.
Alternative Attractions, Mighty Mindgames, Monstrous Munchies
Monday, August 24; Byron Bay
Jim of Jim's Alternative Tours collected us after breakfast to take us on an day-long alternative tour, recommended as a must-do by our friends on Magnetic Island. After doing the hostel rounds, the bus held about 20 of us, some more alternative than others. Those in the mainstream were an older couple in their 50s, who began to look increasing concerned as they were gradually surrounded by backpackers. Contrasting with them were a couple of guys we picked up from the Arts Factory hostel who looked as if they had shared a joint for breakfast. Jim's tour was labelled "alternative" because that is the kind of atmosphere that pervades the hinterland of Byron Bay. Drugs and hippies are still part of life in the area, and Jim claimed that he was going to give us a whistle-stop tour of the interesting bits. By his own admission, Jim had been a happy smoking hippie himself for many years, before managing the Arts Factory for a while, where he saved enough to buy a minibus. I was rather disappointed to find that he looked clean, tidy, and not at all alternative, but as the day progressed it became clear that he was genuinely introducing us to his own environment and culture, and not plagiarising anybody else's.
Driving west out of Byron Bay, Jim informed us that about 17,000 people live a back-to-the-land or alternative lifestyle in the 300 communes scattered around the northern New South Wales countryside. He told us that he used to run occasional evening tours to one of the more extreme communes, but that things tended to get out of hand when people on the tour smoked a little too much of whatever was being passed around. Rumours of naked dancing around the campfire, and refusals by individuals to board the bus home drifted back to the Byron Bay authorities, and a word in Jim's ear convinced him that such tours weren't worth the potential strife that they could generate. I immediately thought of the older couple on the tour - I became convinced that they had come to Byron Bay looking for their nomadic son or daughter who had fled the city to join a commune. Alternatively, perhaps they had taken early retirement, and wanted to window-shop the hippy lifestyle before plunging into it themselves.
One of the places on the tour's itinerary was Nimbin, an notorious haven for hippies and drugs, and our proposed lunch stop. I think that several people on the bus would have been happy to take the 75km of main road straight there, buy what they needed, and get back to Byron Bay as soon they could to roll, smoke, chew or otherwise ingest their purchases. However, because we were on an alternative tour, we took the alternative roads, which happened to be narrow, steep, winding and bumpy.
 Whian Whian. |
 Minyon Falls. |
The bag was long empty by the time we made it to Nimbin at around lunchtime. Nimbin used to be a quiet dairy township but in the 1973 the locals hosted an Aquarius festival to re-inject some life into the dying community. Some of the festival's attendees liked the place so much that they never left. The proximity of Nimbin to the Queensland border combined with the more liberal drug laws of New South Wales attracted additional New Age visitors to take up residence in the town or in the surrounding hills.
 Street sign near Nimbin. |
Shady-looking characters were scattered on each side of the street. Young men loitered idly, both alone and in groups. Long scraggly beards, rasta hats, woollen trousers and dirty trenchcoats were everywhere. Many of the shop facades were brightly hand-painted with rainbows and cosmic motifs. Marijuana can be bought easily on the streets in Nimbin, and within seconds of our arrival Denise and I were offered our first "buds." In any other town or city such approaches are far more selective and discreet, but the police in Nimbin rarely arrest anybody, even though possession of illicit drugs is an arrestable offence in New South Wales. According to Jim, in a festival parade several years earlier, about 50 whacked-out hippies smoking grass and carrying a giant 40-foot joint walked up to the police station and demanded to be arrested. The two bewildered policemen initially locked themselves into the station, before emerging and refusing to arrest anybody. With this degree of enforcement of the law, the complacency with which drugs are openly offered by dealers in Nimbin can be imagined. In walking 150 metres to the bakery for some lunch, I must have been offered some "buds" half a dozen times. What made the situation even more unusual is that the town was clean, attractive and prosperous-looking, the sort of place that could win a tidy-towns competition. The setting made the obvious dealers look far less threatening, and the fact that it was lunchtime on a Monday and there were mothers walking around with their children reinforced our confidence that we wouldn't encounter any trouble.
 Nimbin Museum exhibit. |
 Nimbin Museum exhibit. |
 Nimbin Museum back-room exhibit. |
In order to fully appreciate the area and its culture, Denise and I went about obtaining some merchandise from one of the eager vendors. We approached one of the guys loitering near the museum, where Jim had told us that the most legitimate dealers could be found. I think that the term "legitimate dealer" contradicts itself more than a little, but the stocky chap we dealt with didn't seem to notice. We were looking for cookies. He didn't have any himself, but that wasn't a problem. A quick nod at a handful of teenage lads lingering nearby drew one of them into our transaction. Our request was quietly and promptly relayed to the new entrant, and he made off down the footpath on a BMX bike. Denise and I shuffled uneasily while we waited for him to return. Making smalltalk with our agent didn't seem to be necessary or appropriate, so I concentrated on trying to look innocent and relaxed, as if I was just hanging out enjoying the sunshine and not breaking the law at all. Denise made no such efforts at pretension - her urgent glances up and down the street betrayed her anxiousness.
Within a couple of minutes, the teenager appeared from the vacant site behind us, and produced a small cellophane bag containing our order, six magic cookies. They were small and looked roughly made, but the tiny brown specks dotting the surface of the cookies promised more than a chocolate high. We paid him, I pocketed the cookies and we hurried away. We still had fifteen minutes before Jim's tour was leaving, so we went across the road to the pub for a quick drink. In the otherwise empty beer garden at the rear, we came across two guys from our bus inhaling deeply from a fat joint and obviously thoroughly enjoying the experience. In such company, our cookies seemed quite innocent, so Denise and I munched on one each with our beer.
Back on the bus, an excited new mood was evident among those who had done some special shopping or who had enjoyed an "extended lunch" in Nimbin.
 Protestor's Falls. |
 Protestor's Falls. |
We each had our third and final cookie. From then on, the afternoon flowed out into a vivid and smooth dream. I began to have difficulty in maintaining a single train of thought for more than a few moments. I felt like a goldfish looking out at the world through the distorted glass of my bowl, and like a goldfish, I had an attention span of about three seconds. My eyes darted from one thing to another under their own control, and my focus of attention shifted just as rapidly. I seemed to be able to concentrate exclusively on an object, idea, or theme, and devote all of my mental effort towards thinking deeply about it in a way I had never done before. Almost instantly, I would develop fresh new insight on the topic, and I would be baffled as to why I had never come to such a conclusion before. The realisation generated an excited, triumphant feeling, like the feeling you get when you finally discover a simple and elegant solution to a tremendously difficult problem. Before I knew it though, I would be distracted by another thought which would monopolise my attention, I would completely forget what I had deduced only moments before, and I'd be left with only the recollection that it had been incredibly interesting and profound. I tried several times to voice my conclusions to Denise, in order that she could share in my discoveries, and perhaps recount them to me later, for I was conscious of the unusual activity in my mind, and aware that I was losing all of my wonderful thoughts. Every few minutes, after bouncing along in the bus in deep thought, I would turn to Denise and come out with a completely bizarre and nonsensical statement which meant absolutely nothing to her. It was as if I had been thinking aloud and expecting her to follow my train of thought. I couldn't explain what my outbursts meant either. By announcing my thoughts, I lost them completely.
By determined concentration, I did manage to hold onto one idea from the afternoon which, at the time, I held as being among the best of them. It was a design for a stainless steel device to scoop cutlery from the murky water at the bottom of a kitchen sink after all of the other washing up has been done. It was a broad scissors-like design, with jaws instead of blades, like the bucket jaws of an earth excavator. The D-grip handles mandated two-handed operation, and when I envisioned the device in operation, I could clearly hear the sound of scraping and clanking cutlery as it gathered together the knives, forks and spoons hidden under the tepid water and shrinking suds. I remember feeling absolutely exhilarated when I came up with the concept. It still baffles me when I see the device in my mind's eye, for I cannot think of any seed in my memories of life or my conscious thoughts from which such a bizarre idea could have germinated.
Mentally, as you may have gathered, I was all over the place, but geographically, Jim took us to see his eccentric friend Paul. Paul is a New Age hermit and genius, originally from California, who lives on his own organic farm in northern New South Wales. He shuns modern devices and conveniences and concentrates on growing many different types of trees and fruits - from the regular apple to the sweet tropical lime, all of which thrive in the local climate. His marijuana plants must do well too, for according to Jim, Paul is rarely on the same planet as everybody else. We drove up along an overgrown driveway until it disappeared completely under weeds, low branches, and thick foliage. We emptied out of the bus into a small clearing, and Jim yelled for Paul. While we waited for Paul to arrive, Jim pointed out a heap of decaying junk accumulated a short distance away - a rusting metal bed railing, an old fridge, the shell of a car - apparently items that Paul inherited when he bought the property, and piled together as a symbolic sculpture of man's unnecessary conveniences that he would never use again.
Paul emerged from between some trees, and approached us determinedly. He looked to be in early middle age, although his long and unkempt hair was completely grey. He wore large glasses, a sports jacket, and a short pair of rubber boots. He spoke very quickly, and with a strong American accent. He greeted Jim before taking over as our host and leading us on a tour of his property. This was the point from which places and events became a little jumbled for me.
We all rambled after Paul as he guided us through his enormous garden, which seemed to be a haphazard jumble of trees, bushes, crops, shrubs, flowers and weeds. It was impossible to tell what was planted and what had just sprung up of its own accord. I saw several unusual flowers and fruits, and even some bananas growing on a tree. The vegetation was very mature and closely packed, extending above head height in most directions, so I found it difficult to maintain my bearings. Paul would scurry on ahead, stop at a tree, and pick off several fruits. He would segment the fruits with a penknife, and then toss them in our general direction, sometimes over his shoulder, while babbling randomly to whoever chose to listen. I tried his oranges, sweet limes, and mandarin oranges, all of which were deliciously sweet and juicy. The mandarin orange was by far the best I had ever tasted.
I was so enjoying the party in my own head that I was oblivious to the others from the bus, but I am sure that many of them were as zoned out as I was. I don't remember being with Denise in the garden at all. She was off having her own mental party. At one point, I remember losing sight of everybody. They had all somehow disappeared, and I realised that I had no idea where I was in relation to the bus or to anything familiar. I was more amused than concerned, unable to comprehend how I had suddenly lost everybody, but it was beginning to get dark. I could hear some voices but couldn't tell from what direction they were coming. Fortunately, Jim must have been used to his patrons getting lost in the garden, for he arrived shortly thereafter, driving a couple of other dreamy stragglers ahead of him. We passed a small lake, on the far side of which stood Paul's modest wooden house. A small white hut set away from the house is his toilet. A cross on top reads "Holy Shit." According to Jim, Paul keeps all of his holy shit in the toilet - pictures, statues, candles, and whatever else he holds sacred.
 Paul's House: I only vaguely remember taking this... |
When we got back to Byron Bay, both Denise and I were still away with the fairies a bit. We had had an attack of the giggles on the bus earlier, but now that the tour was over, we were suffering from a serious attack of the munchies. In our hostel room, which we shared with two others, we found a family-size carton of chocolate chip cookies. Without any concern about where they might have come from (and our roommates denied any claim to them the following day), we dug into the cookies murderously. After eating most of the large carton, we headed down to the takeaway to get some real food. Two giant kebabs later, we were still hungry. We went next door and ate double-scoops of ice-cream. On the way home, Denise stopped in at the bakery and bought a large cinnamon swirl, which was gobbled up without pause. Serious munchies. Having my brain on turbo used up more calories than I thought.
Eastern Extreme, Sensory Shutout, Closing Chapter
Tuesday, August 25; Byron Bay - Sydney
We dressed quietly in the near-darkness of our hostel room, trying not to wake our roommates, and slipped outside. The sky was still dark and the air was crisp. I peeled back the cuff of my fleece and looked at my watch - just after 5:30am. We walked out under the arch of the hostel gate and turned left, heading through the silent town towards the beach. Our destination was Cape Byron, and our goal was to be the first souls in Australia to see the sun come up on the final day of our travels in the country.
 Cape Byron. |
 Early morning view from Cape Byron. |
We spent most of the day relaxing and wandering around the town, meeting up with friends made earlier on our travels, and taking care of errands. In the afternoon, I followed up on a leaflet I had picked up at our hostel for a reasonably-priced float bath and massage treatment at a local establishment called "Osho's House." I made an appointment and followed the directions to an ordinary detached house on the outskirts of town. I was greeted by a tall middle-aged lady (Osho, presumably) who had me leave my shoes at the front door before showing me into the float-tank room. The contraption sat alone alongside the far wall, a broad white spacepod far from home. It looked like one boxy bath inverted on top of another, with a sliding panel door high up on one side through which an alien (or a prospective bather like myself) could enter and leave. At one end of the tank was a spaghetti heap of pipes, pumps, tubes, valves and nozzles. The heap was whirring noisily, and I could hear water churning inside the tank. After a brief introduction to the vessel by Osho, I stripped, showered, and clambered aboard. The pumps had stopped by this stage, and the water inside was calm. It was about a foot deep, warm, and very salty. Epsom salts are added to the bath so that the occupant can float without effort. As recommended, I slid the plastic panel shut, leaving myself in complete darkness. Lying back, I eased my neck and head into the floating pillow and allowed myself to be buoyed up by the solution. Habit closed my eyes, even though there was no light to block out. Soothing music played somewhere, everywhere. The water, disturbed upon my entry, regained its calm composure after I had remained still for several minutes. Although I had no sense of motion, my head or one of my limbs would occasionally bump gently against the side of the tank. I tried to "feel" the water movement, and estimate to which side of the tank I was drifting, but just as I was anticipating a bump on my arm or hand, I would feel the tank brushing my opposite leg. The gentle movement of my body on the water left my inner ears without a clue, and the relatively still water around me effectively robbed my brain of the sensation of touch. I experimented with having my ears above and below the water. With water in my ears, the music was no longer audible. Deprived of the principal senses of sight, hearing and touch, I seemed to exist only in my mind, free of the burden and distraction of a body and an environment. My thoughts were louder, clearer, and more cohesive. If only I had saved a magic cookie, my thoughts could have been unlimited. The world could have been mine, Mine, ALL MINE...!
Osho's tapping on the side of the tank after my allotted half-hour tore me from my reverie. I showered again to rinse the crystallizing salts from my skin (I missed my ears, which mixed with Fraser Island sand and discharged a collective salt/sand mixture for a week afterwards) and went across the hall to the massage room, with only a towel around my waist. More relaxing music greeted me here, and soft shades of pink in the décor added to the room's soft and comforting feel. A massage table wrapped in crisp white linen stood in the middle of the room, and a tidy arrangement of colourful massage oil bottles covered an adjacent dresser. I lay face down on the table and Osho worked a half-hour massage into my neck, shoulders, back, hands, legs and feet. I am by nature a very ticklish person, and Osho's kneading, unrelenting hands made me smile and occasionally grimace to myself as I tried not to laugh out loud. It was great. My shoulders were still tingling as I left - I felt incredibly clean and relaxed and remained so for the remainder of the afternoon.
 The last roadhouse-topping creature of our Australian travels. |
Fighting harried commuters, first on the rush-hour roads and then in the train stations, I felt tired and irritable, but also immensely satisfied. My battered backpack marked me as a veteran traveller among the well-groomed suits. All of the people walking against me with schedules, briefcases, morning papers, and mobile phones didn't know or care where I had been or what I had experienced and seemed unaware of what they were missing. Trapped by the self-imposed barriers of established habits and treadmill goals, they had been following the same routines since I had left. I had missed nothing, nothing at all, and I had seen so much.
So much seen, but so much left to see, and I wasn't done yet.
Stuff your mantle of responsibility for another while, I'm off
to New Zealand.
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